by Rosie Genova
She swatted my arm. “It’s not funny, Vic! I like our investigations.”
“You say that like they’re a weekly occurrence. I’m hoping this is the last one.”
“That’s what you said in May.”
“True,” I said with a sigh. “Anyway, I’ll e-mail you my notes tonight. I have a few more ideas about Dennis Doyle.” I stood up and walked over to her chair. “Stay right where you are,” I said, giving her a hug. “Go home and take care of yourself. And try to eat something.”
I stopped at the door of her office. “I’m so happy about this, SIL.”
“Me too,” she said, and I could tell that she meant it.
I headed down the hall toward the front of Sofia’s studio, the murder all but forgotten. Instead my head was full of plans to a buy full set of Nancy Drew books and a baby-sized Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. So lost in thought as I headed out the door, I nearly collided with a tall, handsome cop—my brother, Danny.
“Hey,” he said with a grin. “Watch where you’re going there, ace.”
“Oh. Hey.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I was just . . . leaving. See ya later!” I tried to pass him, but he grabbed my arm.
“Whoa, Vic, slow down. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Um, sure,” I said, staring at the shiny badge on my brother’s blue shirt.
He tapped my head. “I’m up here, sis.”
“Sorry.” I threw him a bright smile. “My head’s in a million places.”
“Obviously. Listen, I want to talk to you about Sofia.”
Nooooh. Oh no, no, no. “What about her?” I asked cautiously.
“She hasn’t been herself. She’s too skinny, for one thing. And kinda quiet. And that’s not Sofia.”
“She said the heat’s been getting to her.”
“She told me the same thing, but I don’t believe her.” He crossed his arms, looked past me down the hall. “She’s done for the day, right?”
“Oh yeah. We were just hanging out.”
His eyes narrowed. “Hanging out or trying to solve a murder? You tellin’ me Sofia doesn’t have that red folder out and ready?”
Ready? It’s already full. “No. I mean, not really. We’re just tossing ideas around.”
“Right. So you two haven’t been going on any of your little recon missions?”
This probably wasn’t the time to mention snooping around the Belmont Club. Or crossing a police line. Or attending an AA meeting under false pretenses, and rifling through a suspect’s open garage. Some things were just better left unsaid. “Recon missions, ha ha!” I slapped his arm. “You’re so funny, Danny.”
“You may not have noticed, sis, but I’m not laughing.” He crossed his arms more tightly and spread his feet apart, a clear demonstration of Tough Cop Swagger.
Which was just fine with me. I’d much rather field questions about our investigation than why his wife was sick. “Don’t worry. Okay, Detective? It’s an academic exercise.”
“Sure it is.” My brother leaned close, his hazel eyes boring into my own. “You may be considered the smart one in the family, but I’m not stupid, Vic. You stay out of this, or Sutton will be all over you.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “And maybe me, too.”
“I will. Scout’s honor.” I held up the fingers of one hand and crossed them on the other. And made a mental note to go to confession for all the lying.
His face relaxed, but he didn’t quite smile. “Okay. Is Sofia in her office?”
“Yup. She’s . . . doing some paperwork.” I stepped out on one foot, poised for a quick getaway.
“Uh-huh. Would there be a red folder involved?”
I spread out my palms in a beats me pose and shrugged. My brother rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Remember what I said, Vic .”
As I watched him walk down the hall, I thought about how glad I was to have my big brother around. And how I hated having to lie to him.
Chapter Fifteen
That evening, after a dinner of fresh pasta (courtesy of Tim, who makes it by hand in the restaurant) and fresh marinara sauce (courtesy of myself, as it’s the first sauce I’ve perfected), I took my glass of Orvieto out to my deck. The sky was clouding up, turning from a dusky blue to a threatening gray; the ocean slapped the shore in fierce, foamy bursts, and the wind blew sharply across the dunes. I shivered a bit and tucked my knees inside my comfy old Rutgers sweatshirt. Storms at the shore filled me with a strange combination of unease and anticipation. We all live in fear of hurricanes, but who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned thunderstorm on a summer night?
It’s too bad I had no one to share it with at the moment, particularly on a Saturday night. I imagined that Tim and Lacey were together, but tried not to think about them cuddling in Tim’s cottage on a rainy night. And what was Cal up to? Besides not asking me for another date? I’d seen him only once since Thursday, and while polite and friendly, there was none of his usual flirtatiousness.
I’d met Cal in May, and I knew little about him except what he’d told me. He was born in Baton Rouge, but lived most of his life in New Orleans. (He’d gotten a hearty laugh out of me saying New Or-LEENS rather than New OR-lins.) He’d had a furniture-restoration business that he lost in Hurricane Katrina; soon after, he was divorced and came up north. When Sofia and I had considered him a suspect, we’d done some digging, but didn’t turn up much more than he’d told me. Maybe he was simply a private person, and I’d been too long around Italians who spilled every detail of their personal lives with little prompting. But I was convinced there was more to Calvin Lockhart than appearances. Though I did find that appearance attractive. Let’s face the unpleasant truth, Vic. A couple of months ago, you were enjoying the attentions of two men. Now they’re both ignoring you.
Well, if I couldn’t have a man, I’d at least have a different kind of sugar; it was time for dessert. But I was dismayed to find there were neither cookies in the cupboard nor ice cream in the freezer. No way was I going out in a thunderstorm, despite my sweet cravings. Desperate times called for desperate measures: I would bake. When I’d rented the cottage from Sofia back in May, my mom, ever hopeful, had stocked me up on staples, including a full spice cabinet and some baking pans.
I preheated the oven and proceeded to open cabinets. Flour, check. Butter, sugar, and eggs—check, check, and check. As I reached into the fridge, I spied a container of ricotta cheese. Yess! I would make my grandmother’s ricotta cookies, and eat as many as I damn well pleased. Okay, I had baking powder and salt, but no anise extract. Not even anise seeds. But as I was fond of an after-dinner digestive on occasion, there was anisette. I opened the bottle, taking a deep whiff of the licorice aroma. I poured myself a taste, then another (for inspiration, of course). Without a recipe, I was working from memory, but a quick look on my phone gave me the basics.
I sifted the dry ingredients first and then pulled out a hand mixer that hailed from Betty Crocker’s early days. In a separate bowl I creamed the butter and sugar, which took forever, as I was too impatient to let everything come to room temperature. I finished with the ricotta cheese and a big splash of anisette, and tried a fingerful of dough. More anisette, I thought, and gave it another dash to bring it to yum.
I readied the first baking pan, and as I dropped spoonfuls of dough, spaced carefully apart, as Nonna had taught me, I pushed away thoughts of my nonexistent love life. Instead, I pondered Elizabeth Merriman’s murder and what we knew so far. Elizabeth was not a popular woman, but a micromanager who bullied her staff at the Belmont Club. At Merriman Industries, she made enemies of her husband’s loyal employees and had to pay out on an asbestos lawsuit. But that was two decades earlier. On the night of her death, she has conflicts with Kate and Dr. Natale. William Fox and Toscano are also both present; both may have motives. We know that William Fox worked for Merriman, and he might want revenge for getting pushed out of the company. Toscano could gain financially. I finished the first tray and slid it into the oven, po
ured myself more anisette, and sipped it while I mulled things over.
Okay, Elizabeth dies from a fall over the seawall, probably between twelve and one. According to Sally, Dr. C is still around at eleven forty-five that night, and Kate leaves at eleven thirty. Can we assume Sally is telling the truth? I cut a piece of baking paper for the second pan and started the next tray. Dennis Doyle claims Elizabeth is still alive at eleven thirty; he also claims the Natale clan left at that time, but Sally says she saw Dr. C. later. Who’s lying? And why?
Startled by the oven timer, I dropped my spoon, sending a plop of dough across the table. I grabbed my oven mitt and took out the first tray, and the small kitchen was filled with the smell of licorice. Dr. C. comes to see me and all but confesses to the embezzlement. After I find out Nonna attends Elizabeth’s wake, she tells me the story of Elisabetta and Tommy Romano, and the birth of their blue-eyed baby. So is Toscano Elizabeth’s son? What color are his eyes? Kate Bridges has blue eyes; could she be the lost child? Is a sense of abandonment the reason for her antipathy toward Elizabeth, or is there something else at work?
I set the cookies on a cooling rack and examined my flat, misshapen results—not a final product I would show my grandmother, but one I would happily eat. As the first warm cookie melted in my mouth, I lost my train of thought. Where was I? That’s right, blue eyes. Dennis Doyle has blue eyes and an arrest record for assault. Could he be Elizabeth’s grandson? Or might he have a different motive for murder, such as protecting his new in-laws?
I ate three more cookies and slid the last tray into the oven, telling myself I would freeze the rest. As I washed the bowls and pans, my mind circled around the two possible motives in Elizabeth’s death: revenge and gain. Unless she died in an accidental fall from that stairway. I shook my head. Why would an elderly, half-blind woman walk out toward the beach so late at night? It didn’t make sense. And Sofia and I were so focused on Elizabeth’s past. Were we missing something—or someone—with a more recent connection to her?
I scrubbed and rinsed, hoping to sharpen my focus. But I was startled by a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. The bowl slipped from my hands, clattering into the sink. As the rain pounded the roof, the kitchen lights flickered, died, and came back on. My heart thumping, I grabbed two things I wanted at hand: a flashlight and the bottle of anisette. And prayed the lights would stay on.
I worked quickly, taking the last batch from the oven and wrapping the cooled cookies. Though the thunder had subsided, the rain was steady. Despite the warmth in the kitchen, I shivered in my sweatshirt. Just nerves, Vic. Are you scared of a little thunderstorm? I finished in the kitchen and headed out to the living room to close the windows. I shut and latched them, and looked out onto the dark street. The other houses were mostly dark, but here and there were signs of life. It was the height of the season; every cottage would have residents or renters. Why was I feeling isolated and a little scared? My attention was caught by a quick flash of light from a car across the street, as though someone had turned on an interior light. It was a beat-up sedan, but I couldn’t tell its make. There was another brief flash from the car, and I pulled back from the window, my heart pounding again.
Okay, so somebody is sitting in his car. Maybe he’s trying to read directions. Maybe he’s lost or he’s waiting for the rain to stop. So why wouldn’t my heart calm down? Why did I have those warning prickles up and down my arms, the kind that tell you to listen to your instincts? So I did. Scooping up the flashlight and the anisette, I turned off the downstairs lights and scurried up the steps to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed with my phone next to me, I opened my e-reader and scanned the titles. Too many Gothics; this was not a night for the Brontës or Wilkie Collins. I was two pages into my favorite Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night, when I noticed the rain had stopped, replaced by a different sound. It was rough, rhythmic, like that of sandpaper against wood. Once, twice, and it stopped. I listened again and then I recognized it. That sandpaper sound was actually the muffled crunch of stones in my driveway. Someone was outside the cottage.
I shut off the light in my bedroom and sat on the floor. He’s not in the house, I told myself. He’s outside, and you’re locked in tight. Just wait. But I had my phone ready. The sound faded, then stopped. Still clutching my phone, I unlocked my door and scrambled down the steps to the living room. I lifted one slat of the metal blinds. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I watched a small, bent figure open his car door, the interior light shining off his shock of wild white hair. He drove away slowly, giving me enough time to see the letters and numbers I had written down on Thursday night. YRB-763.
I dropped into one of the mismatched chairs, exhaling in relief. I knew I wasn’t in any danger now. But why the hell was William Fox lurking around my cottage?
Chapter Sixteen
Isabella stood at the door of the factory; through the window she could see the women at the machines, bent over their work, lines and lines of them filling the large room. Even standing outside, she could hear their unending noise . . .
As much as I wanted Isabella to make her way in America, I was having trouble concentrating on the story. I was hazy from a fitful night’s sleep, and I kept stopping to look out the window for a return visit from William Fox. Which reminded me that I needed to call Sofia.
“Hey,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Better today. Thanks. I heard you ran into your brother yesterday when you were leaving.”
“I did indeed. He noticed that you’re thinner, Sofe. He’s worried about you.”
“I know. I’ll tell him soon.” I could hear the resignation in her tone.
“Unless he figures it out first. He’s not stupid, as he’s fond of reminding me.”
“Okay, is this why you called me?” she asked. “To nag me about your brother?”
“Nope. Not today anyway. I had a kind of a visitor last night.” I closed my bedroom door behind me and headed down the stairs.
“A visitor?”
I stood at the front windows; the morning was sunny and clear, and last night seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. “Well, more like an intruder.”
“Vic, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. The closest he got to me was the driveway. But get this: It was William Fox.”
“William Fox? Maybe he figured out who you were from the meeting and wanted to be your sponsor or something.”
“I don’t think he came out at ten o’clock at night in the middle of a thunderstorm to offer me AA sponsorship. But he might know who I really am,” I said, opening the front door but locking the screen. “Think about it. Toscano caught me at the club. Fox caught us at his house. If they’re working together, it wouldn’t take much for them to connect the dots, would it?”
She let out a long breath. “I don’t like this. Maybe you should tell Danny.”
“Not yet. And I’m not afraid of William Fox. Toscano, however, is another story. He gives me the creeps.”
“Maybe you should stay with your parents for a while.”
“God, no. I’ll take my chances with either of those guys, thank you. But I’m not sure where to go with any of this right now. Back to Elizabeth’s long-lost child? It would help if we knew whether Toscano, Kate Bridges, or one of the Doyles was adopted. It’s not a thing you can come right out and ask people.” I wandered out to the deck and watched the beach as it began to fill up with crowds of day-trippers. I normally avoided the beach on weekends, but today I was happy to have the company.
“I think you should go see Mrs. Natale,” Sofia said. “She might tell you something about the Doyles.”
“So what do you suggest? Do I ask straight-out whether one of Dennis’s parents was adopted?”
“Maybe. But you never know what might come up in conversation. She was ready to blab about his arrest when she saw you at the wedding, right? Maybe you can find out more about that.”
I took a seat in the sun and stretched out my legs, grateful for the sunshine after the storm. “So he was arrested for assault, but I’m having a hard time believing Dennis Doyle committed murder at his own wedding.”
“It happened after the wedding, Vic. Which reminds me—we need to pin down the timing. When they left the club. The last time they saw Elizabeth. You’ve got Dennis saying one thing and that bartender saying another.”
“Yes, assuming Sally the Bartender is not mistaken, or lying for some reason, Dr. Chickie was still there at eleven forty-five. So is Dennis lying to protect him?”
“Or himself. So, you’ll go see Brenda Natale?”
“Yes, Sofia, I will go see Brenda. Listen, in the meantime, would you look into the adoption angle? Like which records would be open and which wouldn’t?”
“I’ll give it a shot. But see what you can find out from the Natales. Because despite what your father thinks, and whether you like it or not, Vic, there’s something we have to consider: Maybe Dr. Chickie really was the one who pushed Elizabeth over that seawall.”
• • •
I didn’t have to work that afternoon, and after getting Brenda’s number and an admonition (“Don’t upset her, honey”) from my mother, I gave Mrs. Natale a call. She was home, and since Dr. Chickie was taking “his health walk,” this would be a good time to come. The Natales lived on the bay side of town in a modern monstrosity of stucco and stone. It was a lot of house for two people, and I wondered if the Natales would be able to keep it.
I rang the front doorbell, and Brenda appeared immediately. “Hello, darling,” she croaked. “Come in, please.” She led me through the house to their back deck. “I thought we’d sit outside; it’s restful out by the water—don’t you think?”
“It’s beautiful out here,” I said, taking in an impressive view of the bay.
We sat at a large patio table, already set with a pitcher of iced tea, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a plate of Italian cookies. Brenda poured me some tea and slid plate in front of me. “Eat, Victoria, please.”
