The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery

by Rosie Genova

  Tim hadn’t yet changed into his kitchen clothes, and, I had to admit, he looked a treat in a blue button-down shirt and snug-fitting jeans. Without his bandanna, his newly cropped curls only set off his gray eyes. Do not release that sigh, Victoria, I told myself, and lifted my chin in an attempt to convey indifference. Not that it mattered, as neither one of them was paying attention to me. Lacey was seated like a queen at the center table; Tim was leaning over her and whispering something into her golden red hair. She giggled, and I cleared my throat. Or perhaps gagged.

  “Oh, hey, Victoria!” Lacey waved to me. “Tim’s cooking for me—isn’t that cool?”

  “You bet,” I said, and glanced at my watch. “But lunch is over, Tim.”

  “I know what time it is, Vic. I’m making Lacey a special meal.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t you supposed to be helping Massi with dinner prep?”

  As if on cue, Chef Massimo appeared in the dining room bearing a plate of bruschetta.

  “Welcome, signorina,” he said, setting the plate down on the table with a flourish. “A little taste for you of what is to come. It is like toast with a fresh tomato mixture on top—a little onion, some basil. Is verrrry nice.”

  Okay, who needs bruschetta explained to them? I raised an eyebrow at Massi, but he was too busy admiring the lovely Lacey. “Oh, thank you, Chef Fabri,” she said. “It looks delicious.”

  Massi nodded regally and started back to the kitchen, but paused to inform me to learn the specials for dinner. “And when you taste them, Victoria, be sure to appreciate the full complexity of my flavors.”

  “Uh, chef,” I said, “I’m not on for dinner tonight, so—”

  “So you think you do not need to learn the specials, is that it?” Massi brought his palms together, not in prayer but in an Italian gesture that can mean anything from please to I can’t believe you’re so stupido. I was pretty sure which one he was going for. “If you wish to learn the cuisine, Victoria, you must apply yourself to the task.” Lifting his chin, he walked back to the kitchen.

  “Yes, chef,” I said to his retreating back. And thanks for reminding me that I am an underling in front of Tim and the babe. Though since I was once again wearing server clothes—black slacks, white blouse—my role was quite obvious. Might as well play it to the hilt, Vic.

  “May I get you anything to drink, Lacey?” I asked, in a tone so cheery that Tim shot me a look.

  “Just some water, thanks. Gosh, these smell good,” she said, picking up her knife and fork. She then proceeded to cut her bruschetta into dainty quarters.

  I shook my head at such foolishness, and Tim frowned at me. “I’ll just go get that water,” I said, deciding to treat her to a San Pellegrino, our imported Italian brand. On my way back to the table, I noticed Cal coming in the front door, and I cheered up immediately.

  “Hey, Cal.” I lifted the water bottle in greeting.

  “Afternoon, Victoria,” he said. “Your dad here yet, by any chance? I got something I need to ask him about that stain for the bar.”

  “Nope. But Tim is.” I gestured to the center table, where Tim was still whispering sweet nothings into Lacey’s ear. “And so is his new squeeze.”

  Cal’s eyebrows rose under the brim of his Saints cap. “Now, ain’t that interesting?”

  Not too interesting, I hope. “C’mon,” I said, “I’ll introduce you.”

  I set the water down in front of Lacey and made the introductions. Cal’s response was only one word, but it made my heart sing: He lifted the brim of his cap, smiled, and said, “Ma’am.”

  She smiled prettily back at him, but even that was even too much for Tim, who hovered around her like a protective knight-errant. He scowled at Cal, who grinned even wider and clapped Tim on the shoulder. “Where ya at, brother?”

  It was hard to contain my amusement as I watched Cal toy with Tim. The two had set themselves up as rivals for my affection a couple months back and, despite Tim’s new relationship, his antipathy for Cal was still evident. Was it shallow of me to enjoy the moment?

  Tim lifted Cal’s hand from his shoulder and proceeded to ignore him. Instead, he gave Lacey’s hand a quick squeeze and promised her, in a suggestive tone, “the meal of her life.” Lacey responded with a playful swat on the arm, while I strained my ocular muscles to keep my eyeballs from rolling back in my head. Tim breezed past me with a “Later, Vic,” as he returned to the kitchen.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Lacey,” I said, and turned to follow him.

  “You can’t stay away from me, can you, Vic?” In the kitchen, Tim was buttoning his chef’s coat, a particularly smarmy look on his face.

  “You’re irresistible, Tim. What can I say?”

  “Children,” Chef Massimo warned, “play nicely. There is a dinner service to prepare, and there is no time for this nonsense.”

  Oh, but there’s time to make Lacey a special meal. But that was a thought to keep to myself if I wanted to learn anything about Italian cooking. As usual, I was consigned to the vegetable station, prepping the sweet little Sicilian eggplants now in season. If I were lucky, I might even get to grill them out in the July heat. But as ordered, I watched and listened as Tim and Massimo prepared the veal special for tasting, with an extra serving for the special guest in the dining room. After I dutifully tasted the sauce and submitted to questioning by both guys, I readied a plate for Cal.

  “Where’re you going with that?” Tim called over his shoulder.

  “Just bringing Cal a taste,” I said as I pushed through the kitchen door. Behind me, Tim had a few choice words to say about that, including a few of the four-letter variety.

  “Yours is coming,” I said to Lacey as I hurried past her. And I’m sure Tim will stand over you, cutting your veal into delicate pieces and waiting for you to swoon over his cooking. But these thoughts weren’t worthy of me and probably unfair to Lacey. Grateful for Cal’s presence, I headed to the bar, wearing a smile that wasn’t forced.

  “Here you go,” I said. “A sample of tonight’s veal special and your favorite San Pellegrino water.”

  “Well, thanks, Victoria.” He uncapped the bottle and took a long swig.

  “I figure it’s the least I can do,” I said, taking a moment to appreciate his well-muscled arms.

  “For what?”

  “For calling that sweet young thing ‘ma’am.’ It made my day.”

  “If that’s what makes your day, cher, you needa get out more.”

  “True that, as my sister-in-law, Sofia, would say. You’re late today, by the way.”

  “I know. Got another project I’m working on at the moment.” But he didn’t elaborate. “This smells great.” Cal took a healthy bite of the veal and nodded in approval. “So, how long’s the Iron Chef been dating Miss Lacey?”

  “Like, two days. He just met her.”

  “Well,” Cal said, shaking his head, “no accountin’ for taste, is there?”

  “Nope.” I glanced back at the dining room, where Tim and Lacey were sitting, their heads close together.

  Cal jerked a thumb in their direction. “That bother ya any?”

  “Nah,” I lied. “Tim and I were done a long time ago.”

  “So you’ve told me.” Cal finished the veal and nodded again. “The guy can cook—that’s for sure. But I can’t hardly say a word to the man without he gets in my face.”

  “You know you mess with his head.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, but he lets me.”

  “I know. Tim’s got some growing up to do.” I pulled out a stool and took a seat at the bar.

  “Took the words outta my mouth.” He leaned both arms on the bar, staring me down with those distracting green eyes. “So, are you gonna wait for that to happen? Or move on?”

  I dropped my eyes and folded a bar napkin into tiny pleats. “I wish I had an answer,” I finally said.

  He pulled the napkin from my hand. “You’re a smart, beautiful woman. There’s no end of men out there who’d appreci
ate you.” One side of his mouth curved in a half grin. “Me included.”

  “Is that so?” I said, meeting his eyes again and feeling a flush of warmth at the compliment.

  “That’s so. Now, no doubt but we got off to kind of a rocky start back in May. What with you playing Nancy Drew and all.”

  “Hardly Nancy Drew,” I said. “Maybe a much younger Miss Marple.”

  He flashed me a grin, the effect of which disconcerted me. “In any case,” he asked, “what do you say to trying again?”

  Cal had asked me on a date before, one which ended up an uneasy mix of socializing and interrogating. I hadn’t been completely fair to him then. But I liked him. He was different from the guys I’d dated back in New York—an interesting, seasoned man. And damned attractive. A burst of feminine laughter came from the dining room, but I kept my attention on Cal. “I’d like that,” I said.

  “Good, then. No time like the present. How ’bout having dinner with me tonight?”

  Tonight? Tonight I had plans with Sofia to stake out an AA meeting in the hopes of identifying William Fox. Tonight I was hoping to get one step closer to figuring out who killed Elizabeth Merriman. I couldn’t go tonight, and I couldn’t tell him why.

  “Oh, Cal, I’m sorry. I can’t tonight.” I dropped my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

  “Are you on dinner shift?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not. But I am tied up tonight. Can we make it another time?”

  His smile faded. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe some other time.” And he turned back to his work without another word.

  Chapter Eleven

  “This better be worth it,” I muttered. In a far corner of the parking lot of St. Theresa’s Church in Bayview Township, Sofia and I sat in her car, watching people enter through a side door. We were in stakeout clothes—at least our idea of such: dark clothes, hair in a ponytail tucked into a ball cap, and sunglasses.

  “Hey, coming here was your idea.” Sofia adjusted her glasses and settled her cap firmly over her hair. “You upset because you sacrificed a date with Mr. Down on the Bayou? He gave up kinda easy—don’t you think? Is his ego that delicate?”

  “I don’t know, Sofe. I guess after last time—”

  “You mean when you implied he was a murderer?”

  “Don’t remind me.” I looked in her rearview mirror for anyone coming in from the sidewalk.

  “Do you recognize anybody?” Sofia asked.

  “Not yet. It’s getting too dark anyway,” I complained.

  “I think we should go in.”

  “No way! If you think I’m going in there—” I jumped at the sound of a light rap on Sofia’s window.

  Sofia already had the window down and had whipped off her sunglasses. Standing outside the car was a sweet-faced nun bearing a smile that could only be described as angelic.

  “Are you here for the meeting, girls?” she asked.

  “Uh . . .” I began, but, as always, Sofia jumped in.

  “We are, sister. Thank you,” she said.

  “Well, you’re in the right place. They’re held in the church basement, right through that door. I’m Sister Elizabeth. Of course, I’m not part of the organization, but I like to provide support to those who are struggling.”

  “Thank you, sister, but—” I said.

  Sofia interrupted, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. “My friend here is trying to decide whether or not to go in.”

  I shot Sofia a murderous glance, but Sister Elizabeth gave me such a sympathetic look that I nearly launched into an Act of Contrition right there. “I know it’s hard, my child,” she said. “But the Lord will see you through. And so will I.” Then she opened the driver’s side door, which Sofia had so helpfully unlocked. She held out her hand to us. “Come, girls. I’ll walk you both inside.” Then she pointed to my hat and glasses. “But you’ll have to take those off.”

  “Sure,” I said, slowly removing the ball cap.

  Sister Elizabeth smiled brightly. “The glasses, too, dear.”

  Once the glasses were off, I felt as naked as the day I was born. As I trailed behind Sofia and Sister Elizabeth, I wondered how I’d be able to explain my presence at an AA meeting if I were recognized. The old I’m doing research for a book story was growing mighty thin.

  We took the last two seats in the last row, and I scanned the room quickly. I didn’t recognize anybody, and I had to hope like mad no one recognized me.

  “So?” Sofia asked. “Any wedding guests or staff from the Belmont here?”

  “No,” I said. “So you can just stop asking me.”

  “Oooh, someone’s grumpy.” She shifted in her folding chair, which squeaked loudly; I fought the urge to hide under my own.

  “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I said out of the side of my mouth.

  “You’re the one who came up with the idea of the AA meeting.”

  A middle-aged man in front of us turned around and smiled. “Recognizing the problem is the first step.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it weakly. “I’m Rick,” he said. “You won’t be sorry you came. Can I get either of you a coffee?”

  I shook my head, and Sofia said, “No, thanks.” But she rewarded him with a classic Sofia smile, and his cheeks actually got pink.

  “You let me know if there’s anything I can get you girls,” he said, and turned back in his chair.

  “Nice way not to call attention to yourself there, Sofe,” I whispered. “And it might have been my idea to come here, but I didn’t mean we should attend the meeting. I figured we’d sit outside and watch people go in.”

  “Better this way.” She pointed to a podium at the front of the room. “When they go up there to talk, they give their names. Then we’ll know for sure.”

  “Yes, but how many of these will we have to sit through? And what if somebody sees us?” I had a sudden image of Nina LaGuardia at the anchor desk at News Ten, detailing the story of the famous mystery writer spotted at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. I hunched down in the rickety chair.

  “For God’s sake, Vic, it’s anonymous. Hence the name. The idea is that you protect the identities of the people in here.” She shook her head. “So just chill out.”

  “Sure,” I said, “and let’s see how chill you’ll be if the mommy or daddy of one of your dance students shows up—”

  “Excuse me, ladies.” A slender African-American woman in a maxi skirt stood at the end of our aisle. “I see that you’re new, and I just wanted to welcome you,” she said softly. “I’m Leticia, the group leader. I hope you’ll consider sharing your stories with us today.” She nodded, her feather earrings swaying. “I know it takes courage just to show up.”

  Oh, Leticia, you have no idea. Will I have to stand up there and give a fake name and tell a fake story in front of people who have overcome so much? The panic made its way up my spine, manifesting itself in beads of sweat on my forehead.

  As though Sofia could read my mind, she gave my arm a less than gentle squeeze. Then her face took on an expression of modest shyness. “I think we’ll just listen today, Leticia. Thank you.”

  “Whatever you feel comfortable with, ladies. If anyone asks you to speak, just say ‘I pass.’” She handed Sofia a small card. “In the meantime, you may want to take a look at this.” Leticia turned and moved gracefully through the room, greeting some with a handshake and others with a kiss.

  “Why is everybody so damn helpful?” I hissed.

  “Temper, temper,” Sofia said. “Remember why we’re here, SIL.” She passed me the card.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the twelve steps. I figure you ought to learn them.”

  I snatched the card from her hand and stuck it in my jeans pocket. After an introductory prayer (to which I added a couple of my own: Please, Lord, don’t let this be a mistake. Please, Lord, don’t let anyone see me) the meeting got started. Leticia read from some AA literature, made a few announcements, and explained how the
meetings worked. Then a basket was passed around for donations.

  “This is like sitting through Mass,” I whispered to Sofie, who shushed me and frowned. I put a five in the basket and looked around for a small man with crazy white hair. What if he wasn’t here? We’d be losing valuable time. But my own worry faded in the face of those who stood up, identified themselves, and talked about their struggles. I was so lost in people’s confessions that I almost didn’t notice the person making his way up the main aisle.

  A small man with stooped shoulders, a resigned air, and wild white hair like Albert Einstein took his place behind the podium. “My name is William,” he said, as he looked out at the audience. “And I’m an alcoholic.”

  • • •

  “Oh my God,” I said, as I got into Sofia’s car. “Sally was right. She called him a twelve-stepper. He was with Toscano that night in the club bar, and it wasn’t the first time. Sally said she’d seen them there together before.”

  I braced myself against the dashboard as Sofia pulled out of the parking lot. I was always nervous when my sister-in-law drove the getaway car, but tonight she was moving at a relative crawl—only two miles over the speed limit, as opposed to ten.

  “What connection could there be between Fox and Toscano?” she asked.

  “As Sally would say, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question. But let’s back up here. Toscano comes to Belmont Beach about six months ago. How does he meet Elizabeth Merriman?”

  “He joins the club?” Sofia said, turning off the GPS.

  “Possibly. Or he’s a former Merriman employee, too.” I took out my pad. “Would you check with your uncle on that?”

  Sofia nodded. “If he used to work for them that would explain how he knows Fox.”

  “That’s assuming this William Fox is the same one who worked for Merriman. So far, we’re going on a hunch here.”

  “True. For now let’s assume he is, so we can think this through.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You know, I hadn’t thought about Toscano as somebody from Elizabeth’s past, only her present. But if Toscano didn’t work for Merriman, how does he know Fox?”