“I started reading and I didn’t want to stop.”
—Livia J. Washburn, author of the Fresh Baked Mysteries
LIFE IMITATES ART.
The scene that followed was surreal, mostly because I had written it so many times. In some ways, it felt as though I were still writing it. We were herded into the restaurant so it could be closed off; an Oceanside officer stood guard in the parking lot, carrying out the first rule at the scene of a suspicious death: nobody in, nobody out. Every vehicle in the lot, including Parisi’s new Escalade and my old Schwinn, had to be accounted for. All our statements had to be taken. And, of course, the press had to be kept at bay.
In the dining room, my family and I, Lori, Cal, and Tim were all crowded around one table. “Why? Why,” Nonna asked, wringing her hands, “did he have to pick here to die?”
“Tuesdays are slow anyway, Ma,” my dad said, in a masterpiece of understatement. “Thank God nobody was in the dining room.”
Murder and Marinara
An Italian Kitchen Mystery
Rosie Genova
OBSIDIAN
Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © Rosemary DiBattista, 2013
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ISBN 978-1-10162709-9
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Contents
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Author’s Note
Recipes from the Italian Kitchen
Excerpt from The Wedding Soup Murder
For Anthony Paul, the hero of his own life, with love and pride
Acknowledgments
Like a good meal, this book had many helping hands behind it. It wouldn’t have happened at all without a suggestion (and a nudge followed by a push) from my agent, Kim Lionetti, aka K-Lion. Her guidance and advice always serve me well. Ditto to Sandra Harding at New American Library, who took a chance on Victoria and the gang and who has been the best of editors—honest, supportive, and kind. I’d be remiss if I didn’t send shout-outs to Jackie Cantor of Berkley Books and to Michael Neff of the New York Pitch and Shop, who both have my undying gratitude for jump-starting my writing career. And Assistant Art Director Maryellen O’Boyle and cover artist Ben Perini gifted me with a fun, beautiful cover that tells a story all its own.
My critique partners and bosom buddies Loretta Marion and Sarah Pinneo provided thoughtful feedback, comic relief, and shoulders when I needed them. My neighbor, retired Fanwood police Sergeant Brian L. Bantz, and e-mail pal, retired detective Mike Marsillo, answered my often obtuse questions about police procedure with patience, humor, and more gory detail than I really needed. I am grateful to them both and must add the disclaimer that any errors are all my own. Former student and valued friend Nick Pisa read early drafts and gave me the benefits of his mystery expertise. My brother, Joseph Genova, and his buddy Donato Basso, Italian cooks extraordinaire, helped me with details of harvesting and canning tomatoes. My colleague Bailey Verdone read pages and shared her experiences of waitressing in an Italian restaurant. Fellow New Jersey author and sensei K. M. Fawcett explained how to bring someone to the ground with an elbow jab. The town of Ocean Grove, the Asbury Park boardwalk, and the wonderful library in Spring Lake gave me exactly the Jersey Shore inspiration I needed to write. And former student Benji Schwartz provided a great idea in the nick of time.
On the home front, I am indebted to my fabulous sister, Terri Harms, and my special SIL, Teresa Genova, who both provided the inspiration for Vic and Sofia’s special bond. They’ve cheered me on throughout the journey, as have my beloved parents, Sam and Maryann Genova. (Mom also serves as my first-draft reader, as she can spot a plot hole from a mile away.) My sons, Anthony, Adam, and John, have been staunch supporters of my writing, even when it meant a fast-food dinner or an empty sock drawer. Special thanks to Adam for providing tech support, as well as listening to my plot ideas and supplying a few of his own. Finally, to Anthony, who once told me he liked my poetry and who has been with me from the beginning—grazie mille, caro.
Chapter One
“Vic,” Josh said, “I don’t think you have any choice. You have to get rid of him.”
I stared at the phone in disbelief. “Absolutely not,” I said. “It’s too drastic. I won’t even consider it.”
“Why not? You complain about him enough. And think about what you could do with him out of the way. You could start over—a new name, a new guy. Maybe even a younger guy.”
“Look, I know what you’re suggesting. You’re asking me to”—I dropped my voice to a whisper—“to kill Bernardo.”
“Don’t you get it, Vic? It’s the easiest way out. The only question is how.” He paused. “I mean, a bullet’s kind of mundane, don’t you think? And a knife’s out of the question. I do hate a messy crime scene,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“Do you hear yourself?” I gasped. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Ooh, I know.” His volume got louder with each word. “You could do a Rear Window kind of thing and really send him out with a bang. It has a nice retro appeal, too.”
“Why don’t I just shove him over a waterfall and be done with it?”
�
��Too obvious.” Apparently my sarcasm was lost on him.
“Listen, Josh,” I said. “You can just forget this, okay? Because I don’t intend to harm one slicked-down hair on Bernardo’s head.”
“But Vic, aren’t you tired of him? His annoying little gestures and that stupid accent—”
“Hang on a minute,” I interrupted. “This is Bernardo you’re talking about. He and I—” Have been together for almost eight years. We have a routine, a formula for our relationship. And truth be told, wasn’t I getting a little tired of him? Of his constant pronouncements? His shiny shoes and perfectly pressed pants? And, yes, the accent was kind of silly.
“And he’s right all the time,” Josh continued. “He’s never been tripped up, not once.”
“He’s not supposed to be tripped up,” I said. “That’s the way I made him. And I’m not killing him off; that’s final. Anyway, what would Sylvie say? She loves Bernardo.” Sylvie Banks was my editor, my hero, and she had come to be a dear friend. She’d fished me out of the slush pile, and I owed my career to her.
“Vic,” Josh said quietly, “it was Sylvie’s idea that you consider a new series.”
“It was?” My heart tightened in my chest. “But my sales have been steady.”
“Steady, yes, but nothing special. And the last one didn’t hit any of the lists.”
“So the new one will.” But even as I said it, I could feel the uncertainty creeping over me like a chill.
“We hope.” I could imagine him shaking his head, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. “Listen, maybe we don’t have to kill him,” he said. “Maybe he can go on a long trip. Like the time you sent him to Venice, remember?” I could hear the sound of Josh’s agent wheels grind-ing away.
“I guess I could do that. But what about that guy you were talking to at HBO? We can’t end the series now.”
“Okay, yes, if HBO picks it up, Bernardo can have a nice long life. But that’s a big if. At the very least, I think you should take a break, maybe try something else.”
Try something else. As Josh talked, a memory stirred. Fresh out of college with a business degree, I’d dreamed of writing a novel. Not a mystery, but a historical work based on my family. I’d jotted down a few notes and even had a name for my main character—Isabella—but that was as far as I’d gotten. Maybe the time had come to tell her story.
I looked out the window to the park below, watching the kids jump from monkey bars to swings while their parents chatted on benches. Across the street, the wine bar was getting ready to open as the café next to it was closing its doors. As I took in the bustle of the East Village, I thought about how much I loved this neighborhood. Yet a part of me knew it would never be home. “You know what, Josh?” I said slowly. “You might be right. Maybe a hiatus for the series is not such a bad idea.”
“That’s my girl! So listen, maybe you go with a woman detective this time. I’ve got an idea—”
“So do I. I know the story I want to tell.” And suddenly, it all came back to me. The young Italian couple arriving on these shores with nothing but their few possessions and a dream. The first wooden stand on a nineteenth-century boardwalk. An old-fashioned Ferris wheel. It was all there—the smell of the food, the sounds of the ocean: a perfect backdrop for the book I’d dreamed about all those years ago. “Josh,” I said, “I want to write a historical based on my family.”
The silence that followed was so complete that I couldn’t even hear breathing. “Hel-lo!” I called. “Paging Josh Silverman.”
“I’m here, Vic. I just can’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“You just told me you wanted me to try something new.”
“But not this! This is crazy. You’re a great mystery writer—why mess with that?”
“I’ve been Vick Reed for seven years. We’ve released one Vitali mystery every year, and number eight’s ready to go. But maybe the series is losing steam. You said it yourself.”
He groaned. “I should have kept my big mouth shut. So instead of playing to your strengths and coming up with a new series—for which you have a built-in audience, I might add—you’re gonna write the Great Immigration Novel.”
“I know how it sounds. But why not?”
“I’ll tell you why not: Vick Reed is a known quantity.”
“Yes, but Victoria Rienzi has a different story to tell. This project has always been in the back of my mind—the setting, the characters, all of it.” As I spoke, I could feel the excitement that comes with a new story. And every instinct was telling me this was a good one. “Don’t you see, Josh?” I said. “This could be such a cool book. And it will give me a chance to learn about my roots.”
“You hate your roots! You yanked them out of the ground when you left Jersey.”
“Maybe that was a mistake.” I hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Listen, to do this right, I need to go back to Oceanside Park. Back to the Casa Lido.”
“Back to the restaurant?” He spoke in a whisper, as though I had shared some terrible secret with him. “To get bossed around by the granny in the black dress?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Shows how much you know. Nonna wears print blouses and polyester pants.” But he had a point. My grandmother was bossy, and our relationship was as rocky as an Italian hillside. And I would need her for this project. I braced myself for his reaction to my next statement. “Maybe I’ll ask her to teach me to cook. You know, real Italian cooking.”
Josh’s loud bray of laughter assaulted my ear. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“No, what’s rich is Nonna’s red sauce. And I’m determined to learn how to make it.”
He sighed loudly. “How much time are we talking about?”
“Give me a year,” I said. “To immerse myself in the family business, learn the family history.”
“You’ll be back in Manhattan in a week.”
I looked back out the window at the familiar city streets. “Maybe. But I need to do this, and not just for the book.” I wasn’t ready to think about the other reason. Not yet.
Josh sighed again; he was starting to sound like my mother. “Look,” he said, “if you really want to do this, I’ll work to get it out there, but I’m not making any promises.”
Thank you, I mouthed silently to the Fates, and added one to the Holy Mother for good measure. “You’re the best little agent a girl could have—you know that? And if you can’t sell it, I promise I’ll work on a new mystery for you. In the meantime, have a little faith, okay?”
“I have faith in you. It’s that crazy family of yours I’m not so sure of,” he said as we hung up.
And with that, Josh voiced my first dark doubt. Going back to Oceanside meant going back to being a daughter and granddaughter, a kid sister and a hometown girl. Falling back into a role I’d shrugged off like an old coat and with nearly as little thought. Was I ready for that? And what of that second dark doubt, the one that loomed over me like a shadow? Wasn’t it time to dispel it, once and for all?
I stood at my desk and picked up my latest mystery from the Agatha Press and smiled at the cartoon image of my moderately famous detective. “I’m gonna miss you, Bernardo. But I’m certain this is the right thing to do.”
His eyes seemed to mock me from under his trademark Panama hat, as though any moment he would stroke his neatly trimmed beard and make one of his Vitali-esque predictions: Fate has plans for those who are sure. . . .
• • •
A couple of months later, I headed south on the Garden State Parkway, the backseat of my newly purchased used Honda stuffed to its windows with boxes, clothes, and books. I had sublet my New York apartment for a year, and as I approached the Driscoll Bridge, I imagined myself as an epic hero on a quest. Because once I crossed this mighty river, there was no going back. But below me wasn’t the Rubicon, only the Raritan, and beyond that, the bay, and finally the ocean. I opened my window and inhaled the mingled perfumes of seawater and industrial pollution. From the car’s fuzzy speakers, S
pringsteen’s voice was a plaintive wail on “Meeting Across the River,” and I couldn’t help but see it as a sign.
It won’t be long now, I thought. A tiny frisson of apprehension traveled up my spine, and despite the warm May morning, I hit my window button to close it. Out of habit, or maybe for luck, I touched my necklace, a silver choker with a pendant made of green sea glass. Please don’t let this be a mistake. As the words formed in my brain, I flashed on his changeable eyes and the swift bright grin that reduced me to the consistency of mascarpone cheese. My other dark doubt. You are a big girl, Victoria, I told myself. Do not let this—do not let him—get in the way of your plans.
From Route 35 I turned onto the jug handle that would take me into town, down Ocean Avenue toward the boardwalk and the Casa Lido. It was still early in the season, and the same street that would be crawling with cars on a Saturday in July was nearly empty now. But here were the old landmarks of my childhood: the Carvel stand with its giant aluminum ice-cream cone, Mrs. Parker’s Fudge Shoppe (note to self: stop in for a pound this week), and Harrison’s Department Store, which sold everything from sunscreen to hardware to hermit crabs. I let out a small sigh, startled at the thought that I had actually missed this—the boardwalk, the ocean, sand between my toes. Even the restaurant. All the things I had left behind eight years before.
We’ll see how sentimental you feel as you face down Nonna, I told myself. We’ll see how warm and fuzzy this homecoming will be when you’re trying to write your magnum opus during the day after waiting on hungry tourists all night. As I passed each of the alphabetized beach blocks—Absecon, Barnegat, Cape May, Deal—the flutters in my stomach grew to an insistent thudding. The restaurant was on the corner of Ocean Avenue and Seaside Street, and I was already past the Ms.
Without thinking, I pulled over, got out of the car, and crossed the wide, quiet street. As I made my way up the ramp, I relished the echo of the wooden boards under my feet. Most of the stands were still closed, but the smell of popcorn drifted in the wind, and behind that, the unmistakable smell of the sea. I stood at the railing looking out over the ocean, feeling my shoulders slacken and the tension in my body ease. I was home. And starting tomorrow, I would write the story that was already forming in my heart and brain. But that meant facing all the things I had run from, starting now. I got back in the car.
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 1
