• • •
When I got there, Massimo, Tim, and Nando were already seated at the family table, espresso cups in front of each of them. A platter of pastries occupied the center of the table; I could smell the almond paste from fifty paces. On the plate were macaroon cookies studded with pignoli nuts, several kinds of biscotti, and shell-shaped sfogliatelle filled with sweetened ricotta and dusted with sugar.
Mouth watering, I sat down across from the men; Massimo poured me a coffee and handed me a plate. I took a sfogliatelle and bit into it with a satisfying crunch and a puff of powdered sugar.
“Umm. My first taste of pastry from Roberto’s. Now I know I’m home.”
Massimo lifted his cup. “And welcome you are, cara. Especially now.”
I nodded my head toward the kitchen. “They here yet?”
Tim grinned. “What’s the matter, Vic? Can’t face Nonna?”
“Very funny. Like you aren’t afraid of her, too.” I took a sip of the hot, strong espresso, savoring the bitter aftertaste.
“Don’t matter to me.” He shrugged. “I’ve been on her S-list for months.” His mouth lifted in a sneer. “Right now her boy is Calvino.”
“Jealous, Tim?” I slid my eyes toward his, but he just scowled.
Nando, on the other hand, was enjoying himself immensely. He shot me a toothy smile. “Tim and Cal, Miss Victor—they are aceite and agua.”
“Yeah, and I know who the oily one is.” Tim leaned across the table and spoke in a low tone. “I don’t trust the guy, Vic. We don’t know a thing about him. And he was here that day.”
Massimo and Nando exchanged a look; I shook my head at Tim, but he refused to get the message. “He’s as phony as that bayou accent he lays on so thick, and for all we know, he had a connection to Parisi—”
“Who had connections to Parisi?”
I jumped at the sound of my grandmother’s voice. She sure had a way of sneaking up on people. “Another producer on the show, Nonna,” I said, avoiding her eyes and marveling at what an adept liar I’d become.
She snorted in my general direction, which was probably the best I would get until she got over finding me and Tim in the pantry. And it was better than calling me a puttana. She came into the dining room followed by Danny and my parents—and one other person. “I’ve asked Calvino to join us,” Nonna announced. “He is on staff here now, and what we decide affects him as well.”
From Cal’s impassive expression, it was difficult to tell how much he had overheard. But he did make a point of sitting next to me at the table. He looked across at Tim and nodded. “Where ya at, brother?”
Tim’s face tightened. “I’m not your brother, dude.”
Cal held up his palms and grinned. “Just tryin’ to be polite . . . dude.”
While he and Tim threw each other dark looks, I got to enjoy an entirely new sensation—two men fighting for my attention. My mom kissed Tim on the cheek and made a point of ignoring Cal, probably because Cal was now in my grandmother’s favor. Danny lifted an eyebrow and shook his head, and my dad seemed blissfully unaware of the family undercurrents flowing around him. I wondered if he knew about the broken wine bottle left in the pantry.
My grandmother folded her hands on the table and looked around at the rest of us, her eyes hard behind her glasses. I took another gulp of coffee, wishing it was Frank’s Chianti instead. “I have called you here, today,” she began, “because the Casa Lido is in trouble. Our receipts are pitiful. Even our regulars have stopped coming.” She waited to let the words sink in. “And this will continue”—she slowly turned her gaze upon me—“until we know who killed that cafone.”
“But, Nonna, I—” I began.
“You what?” My mother frowned. “You’re not getting mixed up in this, are you?”
“She is merely gathering information, Nicolina,” Nonna said.
“You will do no such thing, young lady.” My mother’s curls shook in indignation as she spoke.
“For one thing, Mom, I’m thirty-three years old, and I’m not—”
“I don’t care how old you are.” How often had my mother spoken these words? I stifled a sigh as she went on, her volume increasing with every word. “There was an intruder here the other night. You could have been injured. Or worse.”
“Ma, calm down,” Danny broke in. I winced, because I knew exactly what was coming. Did men never learn?
“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, Daniel. I am still your mother.” She pointed a bright pink fingernail in his face for emphasis. “You are not to drag your sister into this investigation. Do you understand me?” As she went on lecturing him, I caught a sly glance from Cal and fought the urge to smile. Instead, I stuffed a chocolate biscotti in my mouth.
When my mother finally finished, Danny sighed. “Ma, you know I wouldn’t compromise the investigation, and I’d never put Vic in danger.”
“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to her, Mrs. R,” Tim said.
My mother rewarded him with a bright smile. “I know that, Tim. But the fact remains that someone was in this restaurant. Someone rifled through the kitchen.”
And someone stole the garbage. I didn’t feel the need to share that with the family, though I had told Danny.
My dad patted my mother’s hand. “Baby, you worry too much.” He picked up a pastry and waved it around. “You all worry too much.” He turned to Danny. “Those results will be in soon, right? They’ll prove that nothing he ate killed him, and we can all go back to normal.”
“In a perfect world, Dad,” I said. “Look, this has hurt us; there’s no denying it.”
Massimo crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “I cannot have my reputation sullied.”
Tim groaned. “You weren’t even here, Massi. Anyway, it’s my reputation on the line, isn’t it? I’m the one who served him. I’m—”
“Basta!” my grandmother shouted, startling all of us except Cal, who had the same bemused look on his face. “Quiet, all of you!” She held up one knobby finger. “Our season begins in a week. One week.” She looked around the table at each of us. “I don’t care what those test results are—the Casa Lido will be keeping its doors open.” She shifted a beady glance in my direction. “Now, if someone was to find out what really happened to Mr. Big Shot Television Producer in the meantime—”
“Mama,” my mom interrupted, “I will not have Victoria mixed up in this.”
“Was I speaking to you, Nicolina? No. I was speaking with my granddaughter; was I not?”
“But she’s my daughter!”
As the two women went back and forth, I watched Cal’s eyes slide from one to the other and then back to me. Was he checking out my gene pool? If so, he was probably finding some pretty murky water that would douse any spark of interest he might have for me. While I tried to figure out whether I cared or not, the front door swung open.
“Vic,” Sofia called, “you have to see what I found! Oh my God. It’s—”
Danny got to his feet and looked his wife straight in the eye. “It’s what, Sofia?”
She skidded to a halt about halfway across the dining room, and her eyes locked with his. “Oh . . . hey, Danny.”
Though my brother’s expression was stern, I knew he was fighting the impulse to head straight across the room to his wife. Instead, he jammed his hands into his pockets and spoke softly. “Was there something you needed to talk to Vic about?”
Sofia never even looked my way. I watched in admiration as she lifted one eyebrow in my brother’s direction, her mouth curling into a slight smile. She dropped her voice to a caressing tone. “Just girl talk, baby. You know.”
The air between them was charged. Sofia stepped toward him, and Danny took a quick breath. Any moment now, he would take her into his arms and they’d get back together, just as we all wanted. I caught a look at my mother’s frowning face. Well, maybe not all of us.
But instead of pulling her into a clinch, he held his hand to stop the oncoming Sofia traff
ic. “Don’t even try it, sweetheart,” he said. “You wouldn’t be playing detective, by any chance, would you?”
Sofia lifted her chin and gave a little sniff. “What I do is no longer your business.”
My grandmother stood up. “Sofia, mia, would you like to join us?”
“No, thank you, Nonna.” She came over to the table and raised her hand in a little wave. “Hi, everyone.” I saw her steal a look at my mother, whose grim expression said it all. Then her eyes landed on Cal. As his amused glance met hers, I found myself making a silent wish: Please don’t find my sister-in-law attractive. “You must be Cal,” Sofia said.
He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Pleasure, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Now, that was encouraging.
Sofia grinned and nodded her head in my direction. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Have ya now?” He sat back down and shot me a sly look.
Good going, SIL. Remind me to kill you later.
Danny took the long way back to his seat, pointedly avoiding Sofia. My mother smiled in approval and then sent Sofia a silent message—Time to go.
I caught Cal’s eye across the table and he winked. “You have quite an interesting family, Victoria.”
“You have no idea,” I whispered back.
• • •
By the time I could extricate myself from the family meeting, Sofia was already finishing her second class of the day. After bidding her young charges good-bye, she threw a towel around her neck and motioned me to her office.
“So what happened there, Mata Hari?” I said. “I thought you’d have my brother eating out of your hand.”
“I will—just give me time. Anyway, it’s your mother I’m worried about.”
“She’ll come around. She’s protective of Danny, and she doesn’t like that Nonna’s taking your side. They’re doing the same thing with Tim and Cal at the moment.”
“Let me guess—your mom’s on Team Cal and Nonna’s backing Tim.”
I shook my head and circled my finger in the air. “Other way around. Don’t forget, Tim besmirched my honor in the pantry.”
“Oh my God,” she said. “You need a freakin’ scorecard with that crazy family of yours.”
“You married in.”
“I know.” She sighed. “And I’d like it to stay that way.”
I patted her arm. “Be patient. You guys will work it out.”
“I hope so.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “By the way, your Cal is kinda hot, in a ‘Down on the Bayou’ sorta way.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too old, though.”
Why was I relieved? “He’s not ‘my Cal.’ And he’s not that old.”
“Pushin’ forty.” She waved her hand. “Anyway, never mind that stuff now. There’s something you have to see.” Sofia called me over to her desk. “Pull up that chair.” The RealTV Web site was open on her screen, and I watched her type “Jersey Side, cow” into the search bar.
“‘Cow’?” I asked.
She turned serious eyes on me. “Just wait till it loads.”
As the pumping theme music rolled, we watched a montage of three girls and two guys that included Fifi and Mikey G in various activities that were dominated by dancing, drinking, and brawling. “I’ve never really watched this,” I said, “but even the opening credits offend me.”
“Oh, it gets better,” Sofia said.
The episode began with the group rolling out of bed at two in the afternoon and feasting on a breakfast of cold pizza. This riveting scene was followed by one at the beach, during which the kids compared the merits of tanning oil versus tanning lotion in an eye-glazing discussion that went on forever. By the time Mikey G was making his pecs dance, I’d had enough. “Please, Sofe, make it stop. Can’t you just fast-forward?”
“There’s not much more of it.” She put the volume up. “Okay, listen to this part. They’re talking about their plans for that night.”
“I can hardly wait.” She shushed me again, and I concentrated on listening to Mikey and his sidekick, the quaintly named Jimmy Juice, aka JJ, as they debated about which night spot offered the most “cows.”
“So that’s how they talk about women?” I asked, but already knew the answer.
Sofia’s expression was tight and angry. “Yup. But this is only part of that episode. The network doesn’t air the rest of it anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too awful, even by reality TV standards.” She pointed to the computer screen. “But I can give you the gist of it: Good ol’ Mikey and his buddy pick up a not very pretty overweight girl at the bar who recognizes them from the show and is thrilled with their attention. Cut to commercial break, after which the guys and about half the bar are screaming names at her and pouring drinks over her head.”
“Oh my God. That’s awful.”
“It sure is,” Sofia said. “And here’s what’s worse: Before the network pulled it, clips from that episode had gone viral, so that girl’s humiliation had nearly a million views.”
I gasped. “That poor girl.”
“‘That poor girl’ is right,” Sofia said. She closed the page and opened a new tab, then logged into Facebook. “And here she is.” She turned her screen so I could see it clearly: There was a picture of a young woman with a cheerful, round face holding a small dog. She had a long list of friends and a number of recent messages on her page. It appeared she had survived her public humiliation. But when I saw her name, I inhaled sharply: Tina Biaggio, of Oceanside Park, New Jersey.
My eyes met Sofia’s, and she nodded. I pointed to the screen. “That’s not . . .”
“It sure is,” she said. “That’s Mr. Biaggio’s daughter. Your grocery guy. The one who was part of the protest that day.” She paused. “And the one who delivered the produce for Gio Parisi’s salad.”
Chapter Twelve
“So we’ve got opportunity and motive,” I said.
Sofia nodded. “I’d wanna kill somebody who did that to my daughter. Wouldn’t you?”
“But Parisi didn’t actually do it. Those disgusting kids did.”
She shrugged. “He aired it. And don’t forget that Mr. Biaggio was opposed to the show filming here; in a way, that gives him two motives.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “I’d like to know if he tried to take any action against the network.” She clicked open a blank document. “Let’s get some notes down on this.”
“But even if he complained to the network, he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.” I said. “Tina probably signed a release.”
“Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to take revenge on him?” Sofia tapped quickly on her keyboard.
“Maybe.” As I watched Sofie’s notes appear on the screen, I tried to picture Mr. B as a viable suspect. I’d known him for years, but only as our produce man. What did we really know about him? Was he violent? Did he have a temper? I had a sudden image of his reddened, furious face when he realized who was sitting in the dining room that day. And with Tim so busy and me in and out, he could have had time to put something in Parisi’s food.
“There’s something else, SIL.” Sofia stopped typing and looked over at me. “Your intruder was somebody who knows the restaurant and who would know where to find the breaker box and the pantry key.”
I shivered at the memory of that dark hallway and the pantry door closing behind us, but another thought swiftly overtook that one. “If he’s the intruder, he also took the trash.” I shook my head. “I’m having trouble buying it. I mean, is Mr. B smart enough to work that all out? To trap us that way and then take away the trash in case of food evidence?”
“That’s what we’ve got to find out. We need to talk to him.” Sofia saved her notes and turned toward me in her chair. “And by ‘we,’ I mean you.”
“Why me?”
“You know him. He’s comfortable with you. He might let something slip.”
“Great. First, I have to deal with Mikey G’s scary father and have his damn kid sneer
at me. Now you want me to face down a possible murderer.”
“All in a day’s work, Bernardo. Look, we have to do this. For one thing, you have exactly five days before Nina LaGuardia pounces for an interview.”
“I was trying not to think about that.”
“You don’t have a choice. You’ve got to clear the restaurant and everybody connected with it.” She cast me an innocent look. “Think of Isabella.”
“What about her?”
“Well, a murder at the Casa Lido might sell some mysteries, but I don’t see it doing much for your literary work-in-progress.”
Now there was a troubling thought. I had dreamed of publishing this book under my own name, but if that name were tainted, how many editors would be willing to take a chance on me? Now I had one more reason to clear up Parisi’s death. “You don’t play fair, SIL.”
“That’s why I usually win.” She handed me a sheet of paper. “Here. While you’ve been whining, I made a list of questions for Mr. B.”
I looked down at the paper and back at Sofie. “‘Where were you on the afternoon of the murder?’ Really, Sofe?”
“So edit them. But the important thing is to talk to him.”
“I’ll talk to him, but only in the restaurant, preferably with somebody else on the premises. And it has to be a conversation. If he thinks I’m interrogating him, he’ll clam up.” I paused. “And if he did it, he could be dangerous.”
“Focus on his daughter, then. Start by asking about her; people love talking about their kids. Then you can lead up to the television show.”
I rested my head in my hands, trying to gather thoughts that were too slippery to hold.
“What’s the matter?” Sofia asked.
I looked up at her. “It’s just that none of this fits together.”
“That’s ’cause you’re used to writing the plot.” She grinned. “This one’s writing you.”
“C’mon, Sofe. Look at what we’ve got. A jewelry receipt, some dried-up herbs, and an Internet video. Aside from the fact that it’s all circumstantial, there’s nothing cohesive here. Certainly not enough to build a case on.”
But Sofia talked right over me, ticking off her points on her fingers. “We’ve also got a mysterious break-in and some missing garbage. Right there, that’s suspicious. Now throw in a protective father, a sketchy wife, a chef who has a history with said sketchy wife and who faints when he sees the body—”
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 12
