Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries)

by Genova, Rosie

  “Aha!” She shook her finger at me. “You just said it. He was murdered; I knew it.”

  I sat forward in my chair. “This is crazy and you know it.”

  “I’m already on it.” She had turned back to her screen and hit the print key again. “I’ve begun compiling a dossier on Parisi. Business contacts, investments, people in his life. And everything I can dig up about those idiot kids on the show.” The sound of the printer was accompanied by her nails tapping on the keyboard.

  “I don’t care what my grandmother says; I’m not doing this.” I pointed to the growing stack of pages emerging from the printer. “I don’t need a ‘dossier,’ and I don’t need a list of suspects.”

  “Oh, yes, we do.”

  “And what is with this ‘we’? You’re not getting involved, so you can just forget it, Watson.”

  She waved her hand, and I caught a glimpse of her new French manicure. “Please. As if I would ever be a Watson.” She frowned at the screen. “Ya know, I can’t seem to find a thing on Parisi’s wife.”

  “Get away from that screen.” I grabbed Sofia’s rolling desk chair and pulled her around to face me. “You can just stop Google stalking or researching or whatever it is you’re doing. We are not investigating this death. Just because Nonna has the crazy idea that I should solve this so-called mystery doesn’t mean we need to buy into it.”

  She crossed her arms and pouted in a manner my brother could never resist, but it had little effect on me. “Why not, Vic? It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

  “Are you kidding me? I have a book to write.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Your great work about Isabella on the boat to America.” She made a show of yawning behind her hand.

  “Hey, this book means a lot to me. And I don’t have time to snoop around Parisi’s business. That’s for the cops to do, not me.” I had no choice but to play my ace card. “Danny would kill you if he found out you were involved in this.”

  “I can handle your brother.” She smiled slightly, her cheeks pink under her already tan face. “We’ve kind of been talking again.”

  “That’s great. But it’s all the more reason to stay out of this.”

  She wheeled her chair close to mine so that our knees were touching and gripped both my hands. “Tell me you haven’t wondered,” she said. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t already have a list of people in your head that matches the one I just gave you.”

  I sighed, letting out a great breath and my last bit of resistance. “Actually,” I said, “you’re missing somebody.”

  Sofia looked around the empty office and lowered her voice. “Who?”

  “Mr. Biaggio.”

  “The fat little produce guy?”

  I nodded. “He delivered the greens that day.” The greens that were in the salad that Tim made. “But the police confiscated them, with all the other food. They even took the trash.”

  Sofia’s eyes were gleaming as she scribbled Mr. B’s name on the printed sheet. “What about Parisi’s plate? Did they take that, too?”

  “Uh, no.” I hesitated. “Tim had already run the dishwasher.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “Did he, now? That was clever of him.”

  “Oh, c’mon. What motive would Tim have for putting something in Parisi’s food?” It was a question I’d already asked myself several times, along with why Tim had fainted at the sight of Parisi’s corpse.

  Sofia shrugged. “What motive do any of you have? That’s what we need to find out. Danny told me they already did the autopsy, so it should be easy to figure out what killed him.”

  “Not necessarily.” I knew there was no way Danny had told her about the broken blood vessels in Parisi’s eyes, but she was already off and running. I tried desperately to slow her down. “Look, the autopsy tells us some things, but not everything. They take fluid samples from the scene and—”

  Sofia held up her hand. “Spare me the ick, please, and cut to the chase. When will we know what really killed him?”

  “When the results of the tox screen come in. And that’s the problem. Those results take a while, and until we know the cause of his death, people are going to assume he died because of something he ate at the Casa Lido.”

  “That’s all the more reason to get started, Vic.” She took the papers from the printer and placed them neatly in a bloodred folder marked “Parisi” in black uppercase letters. I was surprised there wasn’t a skull and crossbones drawn on it. My sister-in-law is not known for her subtlety.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. We need the cause of death. To paraphrase Lord Peter Wimsey, until we know how, we won’t know who.”

  “The hell with Lord What’s-His-Name.” In one wave of her manicured hand, Sofia dismissed Dorothy Sayers, along with all logic and reason. “There’s a lot we can do in the meantime. We can find out if he owed anybody money, who he had fights with, particularly his wife. I hear she’s a lot younger than he is.”

  I grinned. “That makes her guilty for sure.”

  “Too bad she wasn’t there. Not that I’m counting anybody out at this stage of the investigation.”

  “Hey, don’t you have classes to teach or something?”

  Sofia glanced at the corner of her computer screen. “Not for another hour.” She looked up at me and smiled. “You’d be amazed at what I can find out in sixty minutes. And don’t try to act like you’re not interested—because you are.”

  She was right; I was interested, but more than that, I was worried about protecting the Casa Lido. I stood up and pushed in the chair. “Okay, I give. We can do some research. But that’s all.”

  She jumped from her seat and high-fived me, nearly knocking me off my feet. (For a little girl, she packs a punch.) “You go, SIL,” she sang out. “And keep me posted.” She settled back in her chair, her eyes glued to the screen. “In the meantime, I’m gonna dig up all I can on the widow.”

  • • •

  I had just pulled into the restaurant parking lot when my phone buzzed, but I didn’t recognize the number. “Good morning, Victoria,” purred a female voice in my ear. “This is Nina LaGuardia from News Ten.”

  I muttered a forbidden word and sighed. “How did you get my number, Ms. LaGuardia?”

  The lovely Nina chose not to answer and instead fired a few questions of her own. “How are you and your family holding up? Is it true that your brother used his position on the police force to keep them from closing the Casa Lido? And could you tell me a bit about the protest that was held the morning of Gio Parisi’s death?”

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” I bolted upright in the seat. “I did not agree to an interview, Nina. And I’m not answering any of these questions.”

  “That’s a shame, Victoria. It’s such a fascinating story. And what a great hook: mystery writer finds herself in the middle of real-life murder.” She sighed. “Well, I understand if you’d prefer not to answer any questions at the moment. We can just keep replaying your ‘no comment’ video.”

  “That’s big of you.”

  “However,” she continued, “other journalists might not be as sympathetic as I am. In fact, I imagine that cute little cottage of yours might just be surrounded again today. Now, if you were to promise me an exclusive—”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I might be able to call them off, at least temporarily.”

  What sort of Mephistophelian deal was this? “Are you telling me you have the juice to keep other journalists away from me?”

  “What a quaint way of putting it. And, of course, I couldn’t promise that no one would bother you, but I could put it out there that you were giving me an exclusive.”

  “Assuming I say yes.” I leaned back against the seat in resignation. Did I really have a choice?

  “Assuming you say yes. Do we have a deal?”

  “Maybe.” My mind whirled with possibilities. If the press were kept away, I’d be left in pea
ce to get some work done. But an interview with Nina might bring more attention to the restaurant and not the kind likely to bring in customers. If only I knew how Parisi really died, but that information wasn’t coming anytime soon. It always came back to time, didn’t it?

  “Victoria?”

  “I’m here. Listen, how soon would you want to do this interview? Would you be willing to wait awhile? Say a week or ten days?”

  She laughed. “My dear, this will be old news in a week.”

  “Not if I solve the . . . mystery of how he died.” I had nearly said murder.

  “Tell me more.” Nina was clearly interested in the bait, and it was time to reel her in.

  “What if I’m able to figure out exactly what happened to him? Wouldn’t that make a better story?” I offered up a small prayer to St. Jude, patron of lost causes.

  “Hmm,” she said. “That could work. Mystery author solves real-life murder.”

  “Who said anything about murder?”

  She laughed again. “Only everybody, darling. All right, Victoria. We have a deal. But one week—no more. And you’ll be hearing from me,” she said before hanging up.

  “I just bet I will,” I said into the dead phone. And now I had an even more compelling reason to unravel the mystery behind Parisi’s death, and the clock was ticking. It was time to plunge in; I would start with a search of the kitchen and pantry, in case the cops had overlooked something. I could always act as though I was cleaning—an act my grandmother would heartily approve and one that nobody else would question.

  I didn’t see Cal’s truck in the employee lot when I arrived, and once again I wondered about his hours, not to mention his background. Who was this guy, anyway? How much had my dad known about him when he hired him for the restoration? Had he gotten references? I fished in my purse for a pad; it was time to start keeping track of things. I scribbled a note to talk to my dad and to do a little Google stalking of my own.

  Tim was alone in the kitchen when I walked in. He turned to look at me, and I felt the familiar catch in my chest. I truly believed I was over Tim Trouvare; I certainly wanted to be. But my feelings for Tim had deep roots, a childhood crush that had grown into something much more. And in the years we’d been apart, I’d had only one serious relationship. That had ended a year ago, and more with a whimper than a bang. I had to face it: There was a part of me that would always love Tim.

  “Hey, Vic.” He held my eyes a bit longer than necessary, and the catch in my chest turned into a flutter.

  I tried to keep my voice neutral. “You on your own this morning?”

  He nodded. “They figured I could handle things alone, at least for lunch. Lori’s coming in, though; your mom wanted to give her the tables, if that’s okay.”

  It was more than okay, as it freed me up for some snooping. “Of course. I know she needs the money, and I’ll get enough practice later in the season.”

  “We hope.” He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, and I wondered if he’d had trouble sleeping. “I keep getting phone calls from reporters.”

  I nodded. “I think my parents have, too. And, of course, you’ve seen my fifteen seconds of fame.”

  He smiled briefly, but seemed distracted. “I just want us to stay open. I grew up in this place. And now that you’re back—”

  I jumped in before he could go any further. “Listen,” I said, “the Casa Lido has weathered wars, economic downturns, hurricanes, and the odd mobster or two.” I pointed outside. “That boardwalk gives Seaside and Wildwood a run for their money and still manages to stay family friendly. It’s gonna take more than one dead body to change that.”

  Tim’s eyes strayed to the back door of the restaurant, and I knew we were both remembering the sight of Parisi’s corpse out there. He shook his head. “I don’t see them filming that show here now, do you?”

  “I doubt it.” I started to ask Tim about the salad, but then closed my mouth abruptly. As much as I hated to admit it, he could be a suspect. I couldn’t tip my hand.

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Nothing.” I turned to hang my purse on a hook behind me, but not before I slipped my pad and pen into my pants pocket. “Hey, Tim,” I said over my shoulder. “Does Massimo still keep that box of gloves in here?”

  “Hang on.” Tim reached under the sink and tossed me a balled-up pair of latex gloves. “What do you want them for?”

  “I’m planning to do some cleanup in the pantry.” I slipped the gloves on and wiggled my fingers. “Gotta protect the manicure.”

  I left the kitchen hurriedly, realizing my mistake too late. Tim was no fool. Aside from prepping messy food, there were few uses for gloves around here—unless someone didn’t want to contaminate evidence, for example. Gotta brazen it out, now, Vic. Get moving. I took the key to the pantry from its usual place on the row of hooks along the kitchen wall.

  Opening the pantry door was like entering a portal into my childhood. The shelves of Mason jars holding bright orange tomatoes from the last harvest. The herbs hanging to dry from the open rafter beams, and the dusty bottles of my father’s homemade wine. As my eyes got accustomed to the dimness, I took in the shelves of staples and canned goods and an old dresser that held our linens. It was all as I’d remembered it; more important, nothing looked disturbed. I made a note on my pad to ask Danny if the cops had been in here at all.

  I started with the dresser, but the drawers yielded only my carefully pressed napkins and an old flashlight. The shelves held nothing more than restaurant supplies, with no bottles marked “poison” hidden behind the bags of semolina flour. Feeling ridiculous in my latex gloves, I turned to go but stopped at the sight of the dried herbs. There were some I recognized easily by sight or scent: rosemary, basil, and parsley. But there were others whose green leaves were blackened and, to my suspicious eyes, noxious looking. Nonna was big on herbal tisanes, and some of the stuff she used might have toxic properties. We used our herbs in the house dressing, and one dried-up leaf looks just like another.

  I closed my eyes briefly and tried to summon my memories of Parisi’s lunch order. He had asked for dressing on the side, and he had used some, because I remembered it dripping from his mouth. I was about to pinch off some leaves when I realized I had nothing to put them in. Some detective, Vic. You don’t even bring an evidence bag with you. Bernardo would not approve. I grabbed a roll of plastic wrap from the shelves and tore off several pieces, then made three small packages of herb samples and tucked them into my pockets. I wasn’t sure who I could get to identify them, but I would worry about that later.

  I locked the pantry behind me, as my grandmother was convinced that strangers would come in and steal her tomatoes, and my father was certain that all of Oceanside coveted his spurious Chianti. I stuck the keys in my pocket and headed down the hallway for the most distasteful task ahead of me—searching the bathroom.

  The last time I saw Parisi, he was heading to this room. But did he ever reach it? He had vomited outside before he died. If those broken blood vessels were indicators of poisoning, he would have been feeling really sick—likely nausea and stomach cramps. I felt a flicker of pity for the guy. Even jerks don’t deserve to die like that. I looked around our cozy little unisex restroom, complete with Italian tile and prints of the Amalfi Coast. It was as spotless and sanitary as usual, smelling of the lavender my grandmother grew outside. The police had been over this room, and I wondered if Danny knew what they might have found. In the meantime, the cleaning service had been in here, followed by Nonna, who always cleaned again after they left. But even my eagle-eyed grandmother might have missed something against these patterned floor tiles. I stood staring at the toilet, my gloved hands on my hips, knowing there was only one thing to do: I dropped to my knees in front of that bowl. Like Bernardo would ever do this. I had to smile as I thought of my elegant detective with his face inches from a toilet, scrabbling around a bathroom floor, looking for God knows what.

  I turned my head
sideways and squinted at a tiny white triangle sticking out from the back of the porcelain base. Reaching around, I tugged it out and scrambled to my feet. The paper curled in my hand, and I held the edges open carefully. A register receipt from the Tiffany store in Red Bank, it showed a $250 purchase for a silver necklace, paid by a credit card, the number x-ed out but for the last four digits. It also had Monday’s date on it. Now, this was interesting, particularly if those last four numbers matched Parisi’s credit card receipt from his lunch.

  I slipped the paper into my pocket and washed my hands, gloves and all, and wiped up the sink with paper towels. I crumpled up a few more to take outside with me for the sake of appearances and sailed out of the bathroom exhilarated by my little search.

  But what have you really got, Vic? my rational mind asked. A pocketful of herbs that are probably harmless and proof that someone—not necessarily Parisi—bought a necklace the day before he died.

  “You done in there?” Tim popped his head around the kitchen door, and I jumped.

  “Yeah,” I squeaked out. Sleuthing was a distinctly unnerving experience. How did Bernardo stand it?

  Tim frowned. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.” I heard a muffled buzz from the kitchen and pointed. “Isn’t that your phone?”

  Without answering, he pulled his head back inside the doors, and some instinct told me not to follow. I stood on tiptoe to peek at him through the thick glass window. His phone was on the counter, still vibrating, but he only stared at it. I pushed through the door, and he turned to me, his cheeks pink. He swept the phone off the counter. “Gotta take this. Sorry.” His head down, he put the phone to his ear and hurried out the back door.

  I replaced the pantry key and positioned myself at a window with a full view of the back lot and garden. Tim walked to a spot a few feet from the shed, realized where he stood, and suddenly wheeled around so that his back was to it. He spoke closely into the phone, his free hand cupped around it as though he were whispering. But there was no one to hear him. At this hour of the morning, the restaurant was—you should pardon the expression—dead. And much as I wanted to trail him out there, I couldn’t risk it. Now he was agitated, stalking back and forth and shaking his head. What’s going on, Tim? I thought. Why are you acting so guilty? More to the point, who the heck are you talking to?