• • •
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.”
My mom frowned. “No matter how we may have felt about him, or how this affects our business, a man is dead out there.”
He certainly was. I took a huge gulp of the wine in front of me, catching Cal’s eye over the top of my glass. When I was outside with Tim in a crumpled heap next to me, I finally found my voice. Cal was the one who came running. He got Tim back on his feet and put a strong arm around each of us to get us back inside. He called 911 and then Danny, who materialized in what seemed like seconds.
Cal’s expression now was warm and concerned; he slid his whiskey glass toward me. “Try a sip of this, cher. Good for what ails ya.”
I held up my hand. “That’s okay, but thanks. For everything, by the way.” I smiled, and caught Tim scowling at us. “Are you feeling any better?” I asked him.
“I’m fine.” Tim looked down at his glass; he was the only one drinking water. “It was just the shock of seeing him out there like that.” He ran his hands through his thick curls, unwilling to meet our eyes.
Lori reached over and patted his arm. “Don’t you worry, hon. We understand.”
“Yeah, man. No worries,” Cal said in a hearty just-us-buddies tone. “Coulda happened to anybody.” Except me, of course, said the look on his face.
We all jumped at the sound of the door opening, and I was relieved to see my brother. He sat down, covering my hand with his. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Don’t they need you out there?”
“I can’t be part of this investigation—conflict of interest. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t even be here.” He smiled faintly, but I knew my brother. He wasn’t happy. “Anyway, I think this might be one for the county prosecutor.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s going on out there?”
“The county coroner’s office just picked him up.”
My grandmother was the only one honest enough—or cold-blooded enough—to voice what all of us were thinking. “Good,” she said. “The sooner he’s off this property, the better.”
“Listen, guys.” Dan looked around the table. “We need to be prepared for the possibility this wasn’t a simple heart attack.”
“Danny, lots of people having heart attacks vomit, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. “I’ve researched it. And he was definitely sweaty and clammy looking before he left.”
“But, Vic,” Lori said, “he didn’t look like he had chest pain or anything. I mean, he didn’t mention it.”
I shrugged. “Why would he? He probably just thought it was indigestion or something.”
My mother’s eyes widened. “You don’t think it was a food allergy?”
“I don’t think so, Mom.” I shook my head. “He was so particular about what he ordered. If he had a food allergy, I think he would have made that loud and clear.”
“Was the chicken fresh?” Cal asked, looking straight at Tim.
“What the hell?” Tim said. “Of course it was fresh. And that produce was clean.” He glared at Cal. “Anyway, people don’t drop dead of salmonella in minutes, Lockhart.”
“Easy there, guys,” Danny said. “I’m only saying that we don’t know what killed him. And if it wasn’t a heart attack, this could have some real repercussions for the restaurant.”
My mother closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, as though her head hurt. “The season’s about to start. If people think he died because of something he ate here—”
“Don’t think that way, babe.” My father picked up her hand and kissed it. “We’ll be fine.”
I glanced over at Danny, and I knew we were thinking the same thing: Our gambler father was a big believer in long shots. “Hey, Dan? Is the press out there yet?”
He shook his head. “But it’s only a matter of time. The guy’s high profile.”
“Oh God.” My mother held her head and moaned. “I didn’t even think about reporters.”
But I had. Including all that lovely footage they already had of the rally, in which both my parents and several townsfolk had publicly excoriated the dead man. My mother wasn’t the only one with a headache. This could become a circus, with the Rienzi family in the center ring.
Nonna rapped on the table. “Nicolina! Get hold of yourself. Daniele will keep the reporters away. We will ride this out like a storm. In the meantime, we do what we always do—prepare for the season ahead.”
I wondered, absurdly, if that included planting the rest of the tomatoes. I wasn’t sure I could face that back garden again.
My head jerked up at the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. My brother stood with his hands on the back of the chair, his face serious. “I’m gonna head out there and see how long it will be before you can all go home. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
When we were finally allowed to leave, I declined all offers of rides. Instead, I biked along the empty boardwalk, breathing in the cool sea air and listening to the sound of the waves. The same words played over and over in my head: It had to be a heart attack. It had to be a heart attack.
By the time I reached the cottage, I had myself convinced. Gio Parisi had died of natural causes. Of that, I was certain. But as my own detective might have reminded me, fate usually had plans for those who were sure.
Chapter Five
Isabella clutched pulled her tattered shawl closely around—
No.
Isabella clutched at the corners of her shabby wool shawl—
God, no.
Isabella pulled the frayed wool shawl closely around herself. Chilled by the November wind, she—
She . . . she what? I took another slug of my coffee—like most of my old boyfriends, it was strong, dark, Italian, and slightly bitter—and stared at the blinking cursor on my screen. Who was I kidding? After yesterday’s drama, did I really think I’d get any work done today? I put my head down on the desk, trying to ignore the slide show in my head that kept showing the same nightmarish image, Parisi facedown in my grandmother’s tomato garden. When my cell phone vibrated, I grabbed it like a lifeline.
“Vic, what the hell’s going on down there?” Behind the concern in Josh’s voice, a different emotion was hiding, one that sounded suspiciously like excitement.
“Listen, it’s not that big a deal, really,” I lied. “Some guy had a heart attack out behind the restaurant.”
“‘Some guy’? You’re kidding me, right? Gio Parisi is one of the biggest producers in reality show television. Mindy’s been glued to the TV since last night.”
Josh’s wife was a big fan of RealTV. “Wait—it hit the networks?”
“Where’ve you been?”
Right in the middle of this nightmare. Thank you. “There’s no TV in the cottage.”
“But it’s all over the net.”
“I’m trying to stay off the Internet. I’m here to work, remember?” I didn’t mention that the last thing I wanted to do was see my family all over the news. I sighed. “Not that I’m getting anything done.”
Ignoring my last remark, Josh went on. “They’re calling it foul play, you know.” His voice dropped. “And they’re saying you found him.”
I stared at the phone in my hand, th
en at my coffee cup, then at my screen, then out my window at the ocean. Remember this moment, Vic, I told myself, because this is when it all goes south. “Yes, Josh, I found him. But there hasn’t even been an autopsy yet.”
“There’s a lotta chatter on the Net about it.”
“I’m sure there is, but . . .”
“So I guess you haven’t seen your sales numbers.” Josh’s jump to this particular topic left me confused. In a mental scurry to keep up, I took another swig of coffee.
“What are you talking about?” I glanced out the side window of the cottage, where a large white shape caught the corner of my eye. Plastering the phone to my ear, I hurried down the narrow stairs to the first floor, the coffee in my empty stomach rolling like a wave.
“Don’t you get it, Vic? You’re a mystery author, in the middle of a real-life mystery. Check out Amazon. Molto Murder’s on a steep climb, with Ciao, My Darling not far behind it. And the preorders for Murder Della Casa are through the roof. Bernardo just got a new lease on life!”
“Wow. I mean, that’s great and all, but . . .” Now at the front window, I peeked through the old-fashioned metal blinds. The white shape had strange equipment attached to the top of it, and a big blue number 10 painted on its side. I turned quickly, flattening my back against my door.
“Listen,” I said in a whisper, “much as I’d like to discuss my book sales with you right now, I have a little issue that needs my attention. The Channel Ten news van is parked in front of my house.”
“That’s awesome!” His voice was so loud, I was convinced he could be heard outside.
“Josh, you’re a ghoul. You know that?” Still whispering, I made a dash for the staircase at the moment the first knock sounded. “I need to go. And please—if anyone calls you for a comment, you have none. Okay?”
“Okay,” he said. “But you’d better keep me in the loop.”
“I will, but I’ve gotta go.”
The knocking was growing louder and more persistent, accompanied by calls of “Ms. Reed! Ms. Reed!”
I stood in the middle of my small bedroom, still clutching the phone, wondering if I had enough food in the house to last me through the media onslaught. I was suddenly in the middle of a horror movie, the last human alive, with bloodthirsty zombies circling my door.
Just then a shrill voice cut through the muffled tones of the gathering hordes. “Ya got nothin’ better to do than hang around here? Ms. Reed has no comment, and neither do I. So why don’t you just take your nosy butts off this property before I call my highly placed contact in the police department?”
I couldn’t help grinning as my hero arrived—Sofia Delmonico, who also happened to be my landlord and erstwhile sister-in-law. I pulled my bedroom door closed and sat on the bed, waiting until I heard the front door slam.
“You can come out, Vic,” she called. “It’s only me.”
I stuck my head out the bedroom door, and a welcome sight met my eyes—Sofia at the bottom of the stairs holding two coffees and a white bakery bag marked in familiar red letters. “Oh my God,” I said. “Are they doughnuts from the Snack Shack?”
“Yes, but you don’t get any until you tell me what happened in that restaurant.” She shook the bag. “Are you coming down or am I coming up?”
“I’ll come down.” It was no surprise that Sofia was here for every detail, gory or otherwise, of yesterday’s incident. And any information I didn’t offer willingly, she’d worm out of me anyway. She beckoned again from the bottom of the stairs, this time using the coffee as bait. No match for her or the cinnamon doughnuts, I crept down the stairs.
“It is so good to see you.” I threw my arms around her skinny-but-curvy five-foot-two frame. “And you look awesome, as usual.” Sofia was a classic Italian girl, olive-skinned and dark-eyed with a shiny waterfall of black hair. “I can’t believe you got through that mess out there,” I said.
“Please,” she said. “How long have you known me?”
“Since you used to climb trees to sneak peeks at my brother. Sit.” In the kitchen, I grabbed napkins and two mismatching plates from the cabinet. Once I took a bite of warm cinnamon-sugar doughnut, I nearly forgot about the media zombies lying in wait outside. “I’m gonna be two hundred pounds before I leave here.”
“Quit moaning and talk to me, SIL,” Sofia said, using our shorthand for “sister-in-law.” She cut her doughnut into quarters, of which she would allow herself exactly one, having already eaten her high-protein, high-fiber breakfast. As a dance teacher, she took great care of herself, and it showed. She took a sip of her unsweetened black coffee and raised her eyes expectantly. “Tell me.”
“I assume you’re talking about the dead guy in the tomato garden?” I tried to sound flip but didn’t quite carry it off.
“He’s not just any dead guy—he’s Gio Parisi.” She paused. “Well, he was, anyway.” She pointed to the front door of the cottage. “He’s the reason that van’s out there.”
I dropped my head in my hand. “Don’t remind me.”
Sofia leaned forward in her chair. “Is it true you found him?”
“Unfortunately.” I described the scene as though it came from a book, and not my recent memory, but I couldn’t help a little shudder as I remembered wrapping my fingers around his cold wrist.
“That sounds awful,” Sofia said. “So what’s next?”
“They’re doing an autopsy and probably a tox screen. They took a whole bunch of food and trash from the kitchen. It looks like a heart attack. And that’s the result we’re all praying for.”
“You don’t think—” Sofia began.
“I don’t know what to think. All I know is that he had lunch at the restaurant and died about an hour later.”
She shook her head. “Not good.”
“That’s putting it mildly. Especially since there’s a well-documented protest that happened outside the Casa Lido this afternoon.”
“I forgot about that.” Her face brightened. “Guess that solves the problem of them filming here.”
“Don’t even say it!” I gestured toward the windows. “They’d have a field day with that. And at some point, I’m gonna have to deal with them.” I looked around the cozy cottage, with its musty seashore smell and mismatching furniture, and sighed. “This was such a perfect place for me to work, too.”
“What do you mean ‘was’? You’re here for a year. I’ve got your name on a lease.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. This will all blow over and you’ll write your book. What’s it about, anyway?”
As I told her, I watched her bright eyes grow dim. “That sounds really . . . interesting.”
“Ah, the adjective every writer wants to hear. Thanks, Sofe.”
“I’m sorry, but I think you should write a romance. A really hot one, like Nora Roberts.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “I’m no Nora Roberts.”
“At least give Bernardo a girlfriend.” She paused. “Or a boyfriend, I don’t care. Give him somethin’, will ya?”
“It’s hard for me to imagine Bernardo with a sex life.” I wrinkled my nose. “Come to think of it, I don’t want to imagine Bernardo with a sex life.”
She looked at me sideways and lifted one eyebrow. “Speaking of romance—how’s Not So Tiny Tim?”
“Funny. Did you think that one up yourself?” I wiped the sugar from my fingers and contemplated another doughnut.
“Actually, you came up with it.”
“I guess I did. It all feels like a million years ago now. And yesterday.” I pushed the plate of doughnuts away and concentrated on the coffee instead. I would need lots of caffeine to get through today.
“I know what you mean. Was it hard to see him again?”
“I’m over Tim, Sofia.”
She pointed to my neck. “Right. And that’s why you’re still wearing the necklace he had made for you.”
“I like it, okay?” I looked into her dark eyes. “Yes, it’s hard to be around him. But I don’
t have to tell you. When is the last time you talked to your ‘highly placed contact in the police department’?”
“Please.” She waved her hand. “Your brother’s a pain in my ass.”
“But you love him, right?”
“Somethin’ awful.” she said with a sigh. “Hey, does he know I’m renting you the cottage?”
“I haven’t mentioned it, but I know he wouldn’t care. He knows we’re close.”
At this, Sofia broke into a passable imitation of my brother and jabbed her finger at me for emphasis. “‘You two, you’re thick as thieves.’” She broke off abruptly, her grin fading. “God, I miss him.”
“He misses you.”
She pressed her hand against her chest. “It feels like my heart is bruised.”
“Because it is. And it’s the same for him,” I said quietly. “Don’t you want to work things out?”
“You know I do!” She shook her head. “He’s so stubborn. He won’t give an inch.”
“Is it so important to you to enter the police academy? To give up the dance studio and everything you’ve worked for? To put this kind of a strain on your marriage?”
Her lips tightened. “I guess it’s natural that you’d be on his side.”
“C’mon, Sofia, be fair. Yes, he’s my brother, but I love both of you. And I want the best for both of you.” I shook my head. “It’s hard for me to understand.”
“What’s so hard? I want a career in law enforcement, and your brother won’t accept my choice.”
“You know why. It’s not just Danny being macho—”
“Of course it is.”
“He’s worried about you. He knows the risks that cops take, even in small towns. He doesn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Don’t you think I worry about him on the job? But I’ve been training on my own, going to karate class every week. And I’m smart; I can take care of myself.”
“I’m not diminishing that. But there’s more to it. You’ve got a nice little business in town. Do you really want to risk that for this dream of being a cop?”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a nice little mystery series going that sells lots of books. But you’re taking a risk for a dream. Why shouldn’t I?”
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 5
