And Miss Van Der Hooven was nothing if not meticulous. She was always prepared, cold and calculating, very shrewd—hardly the type who would throw up her hands, chuck it all in, and just hope for the best.
A quick Google search confirmed that Al Scalzo was indeed Sean’s father and Teri’s ex-husband. But, other than that, all that Rita could discern was that he owned a landscaping company. So he might—with or without the benefit of Rita’s article—know something about poisonous plants. But it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for Al to have slipped into Jay’s room and forced the poison down his throat without leaving evidence of a struggle.
Then there was Craig. He certainly had a strong motive. But again, it was hard to see how he could have forced Jay to consume the poison.
Finally, as much as she hated to even entertain the idea, there was her own son. Her fingers shook as she licked chocolate frosting off her fork. He was there, in Jay’s ward, just before Susan found Jay convulsing. He had a motive. And, if Gina could be believed, he had long known of the poisonous properties of Miss Simms’s garden.
Rita could feel her heart beat faster. Her palms were sweaty, and the room began to spin.
But Vinnie wasn’t at the Athletic Boosters party, she reminded herself, taking a deep breath. And, as far as she could recall, he didn’t know any large animal vets and had no way to get his hands on ketamine.
Then again, Al and Craig hadn’t been at the party either.
Rita took a big bite of chocolate cake. Yes, she thought, it had to be Miss Van Der Hooven, and the strange mix of poisons wasn’t a mark of an amateur, but of a true professional: it was the perfect way to throw everyone off track.
The problem was proving it—and proving it was more important than ever, now that she knew Vinnie had been at the hospital. If Detective Benedetto didn’t already know that, he certainly would soon.
She looked again at the death certificate. She had expected it to offer more answers, but all it really did was confirm what she already knew.
Rita dialed the medical examiner’s office and was pleasantly surprised to discover that the receptionist was Rocco’s sister, Pia.
“Oh, Pia, I didn’t know you worked there.”
“It’s my second month on the job.”
“Good for you, cara. It’s a real step up from the nail salon.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I think the fumes must have been going to my head. You know I almost got back together with Lorenzo?”
Rita lent a sympathetic ear to Pia’s tale of woe. Everyone in Acorn Hollow knew that Lorenzo was bad news; all of Pia’s mysterious falls from hammocks, trees, swings—you name it—had stopped the minute she broke it off with Lorenzo.
But when Rita tried to pry further information out of the girl, Pia’s chatty informality suddenly vanished. “The only information we release to the public is the death certificate,” she said without any inflection, as if reading directly from the training manual.
“Oh, but I’m not the public. I’m a journalist now.”
“We only release the autopsy report and tox screen results to next of kin.”
“Who’s the next of kin?”
“In this case? His brother.”
Rita scowled at the phone. What was the point of having connections if they couldn’t—or wouldn’t—help you?
“Thank you, dear,” Rita said in the most pleasant voice she could muster. With a final admonition not to get back together with Lorenzo, she hung up.
Rita frowned. The only time she had met the coach’s brother was at the funeral. Since she doubted that he’d be willing to divulge the autopsy results to a reporter, Rita decided to call Angelica instead.
“Hello, Rita. What can I do for you?”
Angelica sounded remarkably cheerful under the circumstances.
“I was wondering if Jay’s brother shared the autopsy results with you.”
There was a long pause. Finally, Angelica said, “Yes, he did.”
“Could you read me the contents of his stomach?”
Rita heard Angelica pad off down the hall. When she came back on the line, there was a rustle of paper in the background. Angelica cleared her throat and began reading. “Atropa belladonna, Ricinus communis, Convallaria majalis, Datura stramonium, bread, orange juice, chicken, rice, broccoli, strawberries, cherries, yogurt. Does that mean anything to you?”
Rita thought back to her conversation with Ellen. “Yes,” she said. “That the poison was administered in a smoothie.”
“Huh.” Angelica was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Well, he did love his smoothies. It’s not a bad theory. And it’s a lot more than Detective Benedetto has come up with.”
“What has he been telling you?”
“Nothing. He’s zitto zitto, as my mother would say.”
“Maybe he’s just trying to be careful not to compromise the investigation.”
“You mean he thinks I’m a suspect?” There was a touch of belligerence in Angelica’s voice.
“I wouldn’t worry, cara. I’m sure he’s just taking every precaution so this doesn’t blow up in his face at trial. You know how defense attorneys are.”
“I hope you’re right,” Angelica said. “And I hope he solves this case soon. It’s scary thinking that there’s a murderer loose in Acorn Hollow.”
“If he doesn’t solve it, I will.”
Angelica laughed. “Now that I believe.”
“Ciao, bella.”
“Ciao, Rita.”
Sliding two crisp dollar bills under her water glass, Rita picked up the check and headed to the front register. It seemed as though all of Acorn Hollow were at the café. Courtney D’Agostino was in a booth along the wall, wiping ketchup off one toddler’s hands and mouth. Rita gave her a curt nod of acknowledgement and moved on quickly.
In the next booth, Phil Baldassaro was plowing his way through a fat, juicy burger. “Rita,” he called out, beaming and clasping her hand in his. Rita smiled in the direction of his shoulder, trying to avoid gazing directly into those bewitching blue eyes. “How can I ever thank you enough? I snapped Emily up over the weekend, and good thing I did! Do you know she got nine offers?”
“Yes, that’s what Sal tells me.”
He squeezed her hand, and Rita felt her pulse start to race. “You don’t think he’s mad, do you?”
“Oh, no,” Rita reassured him. “Sal’s pleased as punch.”
“What a relief.” Standing up, he kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got to go meet with Angelica to go over the details of Jay’s estate. Thanks again, Rita. I think Emily’s going to be a great addition to the office.”
Her heart racing, Rita rubbed her cheek, which felt as if it had been scorched by Phil’s lips. She tried to remind herself that she hadn’t done anything wrong. He had kissed her, not the other way around and, in any case, in a town full of Italians, kisses on the cheek were not exactly rare. It meant absolutely nothing to Phil. Still, she felt a pang of guilt.
Shake it off, she scolded herself, and—whatever you do—avoid the eyes. But Rita needn’t have worried. By the time she lifted her head with a businesslike, matronly little shake, she was just in time to see Phil’s broad-shouldered frame stride out the door.
She also spotted Marion Von Beek, who was waving to her wildly from the other side of the room. “Rita! Oh, Rita!”
Marion’s distinct mezzo soprano voice floated across the room, cutting right through the pleasant rumble of conversation. Marion could be heard over a freight train, in a tornado, in a raging flood. Marion thought that her husband refused to get hearing aids because he was too proud, but Rita suspected that Fred had found a silver lining in his deafness: peace and quiet for the first time in fifty years.
Rita ambled over to her friend, who clapped one ring-laden hand on Rita’s back and winked at her. “He could be your son, you know. Even looks a bit like Marco.”
Blushing, Rita stammered, “Just a little friendly chat with a neighbor.�
��
“Oh, I know,” Marion said with a twinkle in her eye. She sighed. “Phil Baldassaro. I wonder what lucky girl will end up with him. He’s what? Thirty-five?”
“Thirty-six. He was in Marco’s class. He just hired Emily Bachman. Who knows? Maybe they’ll be a match.”
Marion looked both intrigued and disappointed. If Acorn Hollow lost its most eligible bachelor, it would leave quite a void in the local gossip circles.
“How’s the quilt coming?” Rita asked.
“Oh, splendid! We’re going to assemble it this afternoon so it will be ready for St. Vincent’s raffle on Sunday.”
“Sunday?” Rita blinked. “This Sunday?”
Marion gave her an odd look. “Yes, this Sunday is the eleventh.”
Panic welled up in Rita’s chest. She had been so consumed by investigating Jay’s murder, protecting Vinnie, and finding Emily new employment that she had forgotten all about the Columbus Day festa. What was it that she had promised to do? With a sinking heart, she recalled offering to man the silent auction booth. And enter the bake-off. And the pasta-making competition.
She was so distracted that she failed to follow Marion’s meandering monologue, which was delivered very loudly and with a lot of hand waving.
“Well?” Marion suddenly boomed, looking at Rita expectantly. “Are you coming?”
“To what?”
Marion shot her an exasperated look. “To the quilting circle this afternoon.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Marion, but I just don’t think I can squeeze it in. I have to write an article about the coach’s death being ruled a homicide—”
Marion sat bolt upright in her booth. “It is?”
“The medical examiner ruled it a homicide. He was poisoned.”
Marion regarded her with a gimlet eye. “By something in Miss Simms’s garden?”
Rita nodded.
“I thought as much,” Marion said, lowering her voice. Marion had perfected the art of sounding very “in the know” even when she wasn’t. It was not for nothing that she was the town’s most avid gossip. Although, to Marion’s credit, she was also among the least malicious and most reliable gossips.
Marion took a last bite of cake and very deliberately put her fork down on her plate and pushed it away. She winked at Rita. “Well, here’s a reason to come to quilting circle that will appeal to you. Tricia Benedetto will be there. You might get something useful out of her.”
Rita mulled it over for a moment. Detective Benedetto was unlikely to tell her anything directly, but his wife, well, his wife was a different story.
“I’m in.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rita raced home to walk Luciano and Cesare and then—fingers flying, cake flour falling like snow—hurled herself into making her signature chocolate almond mousse cake in record time.
Chocolate almond mousse cake was Tricia Benedetto’s weakness.
While the cake was in the oven, Rita put the baking chocolate in a double-broiler on the stove and, as the chocolate started to slowly melt into a brown sludge, added whip cream to a bowl of Sicilian almond paste and mascarpone cheese.
As she whipped the almond mixture into stiff peaks, she gave Al Scalzo a call. On the second ring, she set the phone down, pressed the “speaker” button, and stirred the chocolate. Not even a Millennial, she thought with a ripple of satisfaction, could multi-task like this.
“This is Al.”
“Al! Rita Calabrese, Morris County Gazette.”
“Yes?” His voice was gruff, suspicious.
“Are you Sean Scalzo’s father?”
“Yes, but I don’t see—”
“I’m writing an article,” Rita went on breezily, “about local reaction to the news that Jay Stiglitz was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“The M.E.’s report was released today. The manner of death was ruled homicide. By poison.” Rita flipped through her papers noisily for his benefit. She had the time of death memorized, but she wanted to let him sweat for a moment. “Pronounced dead at 4:07 p.m. last Monday. Probably poisoned shortly before that. The amazing thing is, this happened in the cardiac wing of the hospital. Can you imagine? Murdered in a hospital.”
To her surprise, he laughed. It was a deep, booming laugh, throaty and full. When he finally spoke, his voice dripped with scorn. “So I take it you’re calling because my son Sean was coached by Jay—and blew his brains out after one too many concussions. Have you talked to my ex yet?”
“Just for a minute—”
He snorted. “You don’t have to tell me what she said. I already know. I’m sure she played the martyred mother perfectly. ‘I don’t ask why’—all that bull. Well, I don’t ask why either, because I know—Jay Stiglitz killed my son. You can put that in the paper.”
He laughed again. “You want to know something funny? I was at the hospital right around that time. Visiting my aunt Betty. I had no idea he was on that wing. But if I had,” he growled, “I would have probably tried to kill him myself. But someone saved me the trouble.”
“But surely,” Rita said, “you can’t mean that. After all, Sean’s been dead for what? Two years now? You didn’t kill Jay during all of that time—”
“Out of cowardice.”
They were silent for a moment.
“If I include what you just said as a quote,” Rita finally said, “you may end up with the police on your doorstep.”
“Fine by me. It’s not like my life isn’t already ruined. I’m divorced, alone, living in a house that’s rotting around me, collecting disability checks, eating ramen noodles. My kids are dead.”
“How about we leave it at you’re ‘not sorry he’s dead’?”
“Have it your way,” he barked and abruptly hung up.
Rita exhaled sharply. The little hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end; there were goosebumps on her arm. Al wore his son’s death like a festering, open wound. His pain was so raw, so searing that Rita had held her breath during their last exchange. Unwittingly, her hand had taken on a life of its own, and she was now stirring the chocolate at a manic pace. Spotting the tiny bubbles that told her the ganache was done, she forced herself to still her hand.
She turned the dial, and the blue flame was immediately extinguished. She thought of Sean, how his brilliant young life had been suddenly snuffed out. What if that had been Marco? He’d had a concussion once. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time. He’d rested in bed, she’d brought him milk and cookies; Sal had been so proud that he’d “taken it like a man.”
The buzzer sounded. Rita took the two cake pans out of the oven and brushed her thumb against the hot surface. It was springy to the touch—perfect. Laying them on the stovetop to cool, she drifted back to the kitchen table and began to type up the article.
She struggled to push Al’s angry words out of her mind, to force herself to focus on the facts. Al had practically begged Rita to put the police on his tail, but something told her that he hadn’t killed Jay, and that printing his comments would only add to his woes.
Al Scalzo was one of those people who needed to be protected from himself.
By the time she had the facts down, the cakes had cooled. She inverted each pan onto a plate, gently pried the moist cake layer loose, and then peeled the parchment paper off. She set the bottom layer on a plate, covered it in a thick layer of almond mousse, slathered it with ganache, balanced the second layer on top, then repeated the process. Finally, she spread the remaining ganache along the sides and sprinkled slivered almonds on top like confetti.
Rita glanced at the clock. She had twenty minutes to spare. The phone rang.
“The eagle’s left her nest,” her twin said. “She headed off with the kids in the direction of the park.”
Rita hurried to place her cake in a carrier and screwed the top carefully shut. Then she rushed around the kitchen, throwing apples and leftover eggplant parm and pumpkin ravioli in a bag for the Galloways. For good mea
sure, she threw in some cantucci, a pound of sliced mortadella, and a wedge of parmesan cheese.
Rita rushed out of the house, into the gloomy weather. The sky was wet and heavy, pressing down on her. Rounding the corner, she peered into the Galloways’ house and was surprised by what she didn’t see. The television was turned off; Mr. Galloway’s blond head was nowhere to be seen. Rita looked around. The coast seemed to be clear. The stroller was gone; the house was quiet, shut up tight. Maybe he was taking a nap.
Tiptoeing up the walk, she placed the paper bag gently on the porch, just underneath the mailbox. Then she headed back down the walkway, cake carrier in hand, and was dismayed to come face to face with Fay Galloway, who was strolling up the walkway with her two children in tow.
“Uh,” Rita stammered, “I was just putting a wayward letter in your mailbox. The new postman is so careless. I’m always getting someone else’s mail.”
Fay just stood still. Her hazel eyes were clouded with tears. “Thank you for everything, Rita. Your food has been delicious.”
Fay’s older child nodded enthusiastically and piped up. “I like the biscuits.”
“Biscotti,” Fay corrected him gently.
With a nervous little laugh, Rita said, “I don’t know what you mean. I was just dropping off the mail.”
“Rita, I’ve been pretending not to notice you dropping off food for the past two years. Now I am literally running into you. I can’t pretend anymore.”
Rita found herself nearly speechless. All this time, she had thought she had been so stealthy. She had always waited until Rose told her the coast was clear, and she was quite sure that Ted Galloway had never spotted her. “You…knew?” she finally gasped.
“Of course I knew. But I didn’t want to ruin your fun. Plus, I didn’t really know how to thank you, or what to tell you. I had no idea how long this would go on.”
Fay leaned forward and wrapped Rita in a tight embrace. Fay smelled of damp wool and freshly-mown grass, as if she had just rolled down a hill with the children. Her bony shoulder blades dug into Rita’s flesh and then began to quake. She was sobbing now, great, heaving sobs, as if the world was ending—or perhaps just beginning. “Thank you,” she breathed into Rita’s ear. “Thank you.”
The Secret Poison Garden (Rita Calabrese Book 1) Page 14
