by Rosie Genova
“I didn’t mind that he was late. And I didn’t mind that he was helping an old friend.”
An old friend. Ouch. I looked into her sweet face and saw that she was telling the truth. “But you do mind something, don’t you?” I asked her.
She nodded. “He spent a good part of the evening talking about how worried he was about you. He was clearly preoccupied.” She looked away from me and back again. “I know you guys were involved a long time ago. I know you’re still close. And I’m okay with that. I really am. But my gut is telling me there’s a deeper connection between the two of you—maybe deeper than you both realize.”
I nodded in agreement with her words. And in the hope it would prompt her to say more.
“And I can imagine how this sounds,” she continued. “I mean, I’ve known the guy for what, ten days?” She smiled for the first time. “It’s a little early in the game for confronting the old girlfriend, right?”
Ouch again, I thought, but smiled back. “Could we make that former girlfriend, please?”
“Sure,” she said, and laughed. The sound was deep and pleasing, not the giggle of a vapid girl. And not for the first time, I thought, I really like her. I don’t want to, but I do. Then her face grew serious again. “As I said, Victoria, I just met Tim. But I like him. A lot. And if there’s still something between the two of you, I want to back away now, before I get any more involved.”
“I understand, Lacey. Tim and I have a history, it’s true. And that history has deep roots. But when I came back to Oceanside, I made it clear to Tim that both of us needed to move on.” Which is not the same as saying we don’t have feelings for each other.
“Okay.” She nodded, still clutching her purse. “As I said, it’s early days yet for Tim and me. But . . .” She paused, as though deciding what to say, then took a breath before she spoke. “Look, I have a broken engagement behind me, and I’m still feeling bruised. I don’t want to get hurt again.”
“Of course.” And then I did something that surprised us both. I gave her an impulsive hug, my second of the day and a record for me. “I’m sorry about the engagement,” I said. “I’ve been there, sort of.” I wondered how much Tim had confided in Lacey about our past. I couldn’t imagine him telling her that eight years ago, he’d dumped me for somebody else. Not in the first week, anyhow. “Listen, Lacey, I think you’d like a chance with Tim, right? And maybe you feel like I’m standing in the way of that?”
Two pink spots appeared on her cheeks, but she looked me in the eye. “In a sense, yes.”
I shook my head. “You don’t have to worry about that, okay? I have no designs on Tim. We are old friends, and we do work together, but that’s as far as it goes.” You’re lying, Vic, said a voice in my head, but I ignored it.
“Thanks, Victoria. I really appreciate you talking to me about this.” She smiled. “I know it’s a little awkward. And you won’t say anything to Tim, right?”
“I won’t tell him.”
“You’re the best,” she said, and I could hear the relief in her voice.
I watched her go, lean and lithe in her white T-shirt and skinny jeans. She was a woman with a lot to offer a man, and she’d been hurt badly once before. We had more in common than I cared to admit, and I wished her the best. But a dark little part of me hoped she wouldn’t find that best with Tim.
I was still staring after her when I heard Cal’s voice. “How you doin’ on this fine morning, Victoria?”
I turned, smiled, and took a good, long look. Eyes that were a warm, woodsy green. A face that was browned by the sun and lined by experience. A grin that was two parts wicked and one part kind. Not to mention a bod that wouldn’t quit.
“I am very well this fine morning, sir,” I said. “And I was hoping you’d answer a question for me.”
“Ask away, cher.” He set his toolbox on the floor and crossed his arms. “You have my full attention.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I intend to keep it.” I took a breath and looked straight into those sleepy green eyes. “Will you go out with me?”
Chapter Nineteen
That afternoon I stood outside Sofia’s studio, watching through the window while she took a group of ten-year-olds through the five ballet positions. Though my own career in dance had been mercifully short-lived, I found myself shifting my feet into first, second, and third along with the kids. But I did manage to get my sister-in-law’s attention before I executed a plié out on the sidewalk. She motioned me inside, and I waited while she said good-bye to her small charges, most of whom stopped for hugs at the door.
“You’ll make a great mom, SIL,” I said as we walked back to her office. “You have so much patience. With the kids, that is.”
She grinned. “With you and your brother, not so much, right?” She took two water bottles from a small refrigerator and handed me one. “I got your e-mail about Kate. Is there more since then? Sit down and fill me in.”
“Well, I have had quite the morning.” I started with the phone call from Nina and the news of Dr. C.’s arrest, moved on to the mysterious phone message, Toscano’s visit, and my chat with Lacey. “Oh, and then I finished by asking Cal to go out with me.”
She raised one eyebrow. “You have been busy. Save the Lacey and Cal stuff for later, though. It’s Kate and Toscano I’m interested in at the moment. So, you and Tim went to see Kate at the club yesterday.”
“Right. And it wasn’t very pretty. Our pretext for being there was flimsy, and she’s not a stupid woman. I think she let us stay to figure out why we were there in the first place.”
“And she freaked out when you mentioned her parents?”
I nodded. “It was strange. But, then again, she’s strange. Now that we know Toscano is Elizabeth’s son—”
“According to him, Vic.”
“And according to DNA proof he gave Elizabeth and the cops. I think we should operate under that assumption.”
“If you say so. So, if he’s Elizabeth’s son, Kate had another reason for her reaction to your question about her parents.”
“Which could be anything. She might be estranged from her parents. She might have been abused. Or maybe she’s just a private person.” I shook my head.
“Or she’s a little unbalanced. Could she have been the one who left the message, Vic? Think about the timing of the call. Maybe she disguised her voice?”
“Hmm. It’s possible, but I was sure it was a man. Also, there was a slight hiss to this voice. And I wouldn’t imagine Kate saying ‘please’ to anybody.” I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her.”
Sofia took a pad from the red folder. “Putting the phone call aside for a minute, I’d like to know what Crazy Kate and Elizabeth were fighting about the night of the murder. You heard something like ‘Out, do you hear me?’ Which still sounds to me like somebody getting fired.”
“So, do you murder someone for firing you?”
“Maybe. You said yourself that she loves what she does. And she still has her job at a fancy club, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, but she’s talented enough to get a job anywhere. It doesn’t make sense as a motive. I keep coming back to Toscano,” I said, shuddering at the memory of his veiled threat.
“Except that he already had her money. If what he says is true, he had no reason to kill her.”
“So you think Kate and Toscano are both dead ends?” I pulled some notes from Sofia’s folder and looked again at the information about Merriman Industries.
“I’m not sure. Neither seems to have a clear motive. Somebody had to have a damn good reason to push an old woman over that wall. Think about how cold-blooded that is.”
“‘Cold-blooded’ describes Jack Toscano to a T.”
“True, but right now he doesn’t fit.” She looked up from her notes. “Are we back at William Fox? Did he wait twenty years to take revenge on the woman who ruined his career? And he was there that night.”
Then I heard the voice. Are you ladie
s looking for me? A male voice with a dragged-out hiss on the end of “ladies.” I met Sofia’s eyes. “Oh my God, that was his voice on the phone. I’m sure now it was Fox.”
“How do you know?”
“The way he pronounced the ‘s’ on ‘message.’ The night we were at his house and he asked if we were looking for him—do you remember the way he said ‘ladies’?”
“You’re right. I noticed it when he was speaking at the meeting.” Sofia shook her head. “I don’t like this, Vic. He was also sneaking around your house in the dark. Now he’s leaving anonymous messages to warn you off.”
“He just doesn’t strike me as dangerous, Sofe. He said ‘please’ on the message, as though he was concerned. I think the phone call might have been a genuine warning.”
“You don’t know that. And he’s tied up in some way with Toscano.” She scribbled on the pad as she spoke. “Are they working together, maybe? Did Jack hire William Fox to knock her off?”
“For what reason? She’d handed over her assets to Jack already. She was an old lady. Why take that kind of risk if you don’t have to?”
Sofia shook her head. “Unless there’s another reason he wanted her dead that we’re not seeing.”
“It’s possible. The question is: What else are we not seeing?” I pictured Elizabeth in her beaded gown, chatting with guests, chiding the kitchen staff, waving her cane around with that one-carat emerald sparkling on her hand. Was it simple robbery, after all? “I wonder,” I said. “Was that ring still on her hand when the body was found?”
“You think somebody killed her for it?”
“I think it’s a long shot, but possible. The only thing is, her hands were arthritic. I remember wondering how she took that ring on and off with swollen knuckles.”
“Sounds like another dead end to me,” Sofia said, but wrote it down anyway.
I spread out the papers from the red folder and studied them. My gut was telling me the answer was here, but I was missing it. “Sofe, you said you thought this case had deep roots. And I agree that Elizabeth’s murder is somehow tied to the past. But how far back do we go?”
“Well, maybe we work chronologically.” She pulled a sheet from the pile. “Here are the notes from your conversation with Nonna.” She scanned the page, frowning.
“Are you feeling okay, by the way? You look a little funny.”
“I’m actually better.” She pointed to her face. “This is me thinking, not me feeling nauseous.”
“The expressions are similar.”
“Funny. Hey, Vic? Maybe we need to approach things a different way.” She tapped the sheet in front of her. “Tommy’s younger sister would be around seventy. I think we should try to track her down. If Toscano spent time looking for his mother, wouldn’t it follow that he’d look for his father’s family, too? He might have found his aunt; if he’s been in touch with her, she might have important information for us.”
“It’s a thought.” I turned the sheet to look back at the notes. “Though she could be anywhere,” I said. “And Romano is a common name. She could also be married. If that’s the case, where do we even start?”
But Sofia was already at her computer. “We take a chance and look up Romano. Do we have a first name?” she asked from behind the screen.
“No,” I said. “But I can check with Nonna.”
I heard Sofia’s nails clicking on the keys. “I figure we’ll start right here at home,” she said. “How many seventy-year-old females named Romano can there be in the state?”
“In Jersey?” I said as I got to my feet. “Thousands. Listen, Sofe, I’ll leave you to it, okay? Text me if you find anything.”
She stuck her head out from behind the computer. “Where do you think you’re going? We’ve got work to do.”
“You have work to do,” I said. “I have a date.”
• • •
It was a relief to take a break from investigating for a while to concentrate on getting pretty for my date. But the harder I tried to dismiss thoughts of long-lost children, mysterious phone warnings, and emerald rings, the more forcefully they returned. Had Toscano known about his father? Had Elizabeth spoken to him about Tommy? And had he tracked down Tommy’s sister? If so, would she be able to shed more light on this man? I stopped primping long enough to write down a reminder: Ask Nonna for Romano sister’s first name!
Back at my mirror, I gave myself a critical once-over. I’d treated myself to a little black dress at our local boutique, a V-necked sleeveless number that revealed my tan and hinted at a few other things. My hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the band wrapped in gold mesh. I had darkened my brows and used a smoky eye shadow and liner that Victoria the Waitress wouldn’t dream of wearing during the day. But Victoria Who Finally Had a Date was pulling out all the stops, including a final touch of lip gloss in a flattering shade of plum.
I put on my great-grandmother’s gold earrings, and rummaged in my jewelry box for a vintage cocktail ring I’d bought in the city. As I slipped it on my finger, the question revealed itself to me, appearing hazily in my mind like the answer at the bottom of a Magic 8 Ball. A question that grew until it blocked out all thoughts of prepping for my date. A question that could rule out a possible motive, and one to which my grandmother might have the answer. But it would have to be asked in person, as Nonna hated telephones, including landlines.
I glanced at my phone. I had less than an hour before I was supposed to meet Cal for our date. I could probably squeeze in a visit to my grandmother and still get to the restaurant on time. Maybe. I slipped off my heels, slid into flip-flops, and grabbed my purse. If there was traffic, I might not make the restaurant for seven. But it was a chance I had to take.
• • •
“So, why are you so dressed up?” The question was laden with suspicion. “And that makeup is too dark.”
I ignored the dig as we each took a seat at the kitchen table. “I have a date with Cal.”
Her face cracked into a rare smile. “Calvino. How nice. Better than that Tim.”
Since the spring, my grandmother had been on an Anti-Tim Campaign, which provided a nice counterpoint to my mother’s Anti-Cal Campaign. “I’m glad you think so. But before I go, I need to talk to you a minute. Would you mind telling me Tommy Romano’s sister’s name?”
“What for?”
“Well, I got so interested in the story of Tommy and Elisabetta that they inspired me to do some research about them. For my book.”
Her eyes narrowed behind her bifocals. “I told you that in confidence.”
“I know,” I said. What I didn’t say was that the story might well come out, anyway, during the investigation. “I’ll be changing names and details. You don’t have to worry about that. I just thought that if I could talk to Tommy’s sister, I’d have more, uh, insight.”
“Is that so?” She tilted her head. “And by ‘insight’ do you mean ‘information’? So you can find out more about how Elisabetta died?”
I slipped both hands into my lap and crossed all available fingers. Then I lied straight to my grandmother’s suspicious face. “No.”
She only grunted in reply, but then switched tactics. “How ’bout a nice peach?”
“Thanks, Nonna, but I’m about to go to dinner. And you know me—I’ll end up dripping juice all over my dress.”
“That’s true.” She pointed to my ears. “You’re wearing my mama’s earrings.”
“I wear these a lot when I get dressed up. Which reminds me. I have something else to ask you.”
“What now?” Her frown said a multitude of things, none of them encouraging.
I would have to put this delicately, but how? “Um, at wakes when there’s an open casket”—Lord, this was a grim subject—“do people normally have their jewelry on?”
She pinched her thumb and fingers together in Italian code for What, are you crazy? “Why would you ask me such a thing, Victoria?”
“It’s just that when Grand
pa died, I remember seeing his wedding ring on his hand. But you didn’t actually, uh, bury him in it. Because Danny wears it now.”
She let out a huff. “How disrespectful are you to speak of your own grandfather in this way? What does your grandfather’s ring have to do with anything?”
So, this is going well. “It doesn’t, actually. I guess what I’m asking is: Is that a typical practice?”
She narrowed her eyes at me again and then crossed herself, just in case what she was about to say was sacrilege. “Yes, I suppose.” She held out her left hand. “When it’s time to lay me out, you leave these rings on my hand. They can be yours afterward. And make sure your mother finds me a nice dress. On second thought, I’ll buy it myself ahead of time.”
“Nonna! I don’t want to think about that, please. I’m not asking about you. Actually, I’m asking about Elizabeth Merriman. At her wake, was she wearing a ring? A big emerald?”
She shook her head. “No. No jewelry.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” she said. “An emerald, I would remember. I have some nice emerald earrings your grandfather gave me. You’ll get those when I die, too.”
I clapped my hands over my ears. “Stop it, please. Enough about this.” I grabbed my keys and stood up. “I have to run. But thank you for the information.” I sneaked a kiss, which she didn’t wipe off. Progress anyway.
I scarpered down the steps as fast as my flip-flops would carry me, my head reeling with this new information. If that ring wasn’t on Elizabeth’s finger, where was it? And was the person who now possessed it a murderer?
• • •
I had made reservations for us at the Shelter Cove Inn, a tiny place along the bay. Getting a table there was no small feat in July, and I was nearly thirty minutes late. Had they given up our reservation? More importantly, would Cal be angry at having to wait for me? Before leaving the car, I slipped on my gold sling-backs and did a last touch-up on my face, firm in the belief that the better I looked, the less angry he would be. As I hurried into the restaurant, I nearly collided with a maître d’ whose icy expression froze my heels to the floor. With his slicked-back hair and practiced sneer, he exuded the air of a snooty gatekeeper. As one who was used to Frank Rienzi’s swingin’ charm as restaurant host, I was taken aback by the chill.
