by Rosie Genova
“Pete’s death was officially declared an accident. Danny found out this morning. And after he told me, he sweetly reminded me that you and I should stop ‘digging around,’ as he put it.”
“But Danny doesn’t have all the information we do,” I insisted. “He doesn’t know Pete was probably a blackmailer. He doesn’t know about Iris or Tattoo Guy and the Alyssa connection or that Jason Connors and his mother had something big to hide that Pete probably knew about.”
“Hey, you don’t have to convince me,” Sofia said. “But you know your brother.”
I did know my brother, and it was time to have a conversation with him. “Is he working today?” I asked.
“No, he’s down at the marina. But you better hurry if you want to catch him. Once he’s out on the boat, he’s gone for hours.”
“I’ll try. What about you? Anything new on the Zio Roberto side of things?”
“I did find something promising, but I’m still looking into it. I’ll tell you when I know more. Good luck in talking to Danny, by the way.”
“Right,” I said. “I’m gonna need it.”
* * *
Despite having grown up around water, I wasn’t too fond of boats. I stepped gingerly onto the deck of Danny’s boat, the Bella Napoli, feeling queasy the moment it shifted under my feet. I found my brother out on deck, inspecting his cooler full of smelly bait. He was in his fishing uniform—tattered shorts and T-shirt, ball cap, and wraparound sunglasses.
I wrinkled my nose at the smell. “I don’t know how you can handle that stuff,” I said with a shudder. “It’s gross.”
“Can’t catch fish without it, sis.” He crossed his arms and assumed a wide-legged cop stance. Not a good sign. “What are you doing here? I know it’s not to go fishing.” He cocked his head. “Or maybe it is.”
“Believe it or not, I’m not here to get information. I’m here to give it. I heard that Pete’s death was ruled an accident and I’m not so sure that’s the case.”
“You’re not so sure? And what makes you an expert in law enforcement? I would think you’d be relieved after the wine bottle incident.”
“Lose the attitude, would you, Danny? There are things you don’t know—things the county prosecutor might find relevant. Will you hear me out or not?”
He sighed. “I won’t be able to leave dock until I do. What have you got?”
I filled him in on Barone and Iris, Florence and Jason, and Alyssa and her tattooed boyfriend. I reminded him of the Leo Barone and Zio Roberto connection, and also of Pete’s boast of knowing things.
Danny pushed his ball cap to the back of his head and took off his sunglasses, a sign he was taking seriously what I had to say. “I’m listening, Vic,” he said. “But I’m not convinced. What makes you so sure Pete was blackmailing anybody?”
Here was the tricky part. Did I admit to my brother that I’d talked myself into Mrs. Ferraro’s house and snooped around Pete’s room? That I’d found his bankbook? I hadn’t involved Sofia, but what I’d done, while legal, wasn’t exactly ethical. I took a deep breath, hating myself. “Let’s call it a gut instinct, Dan.”
My brother settled his cap on his head and squinted at me from under the brim. “Is that so? Your gut’s telling you that Stinky Pete was blackmailing people with information he’d overheard?”
I nodded, and grasped at one last straw. “There’s also my conversation with Father Tom. Obviously, Father Tom had to keep some things confidential, but he implied—strongly—that Pete had put himself in danger in some way.”
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got me thinking.” He pointed at me in warning. “But just thinking, you hear me? Don’t get carried away, Vic.”
“I’ll try not to. In the meantime, Dan, can I ask a favor? Do you think you can use your contacts in law enforcement to find out what happened to Robert Riese, aka Zio Roberto? I’m thinking he probably died in prison, but I’d like some proof.”
“Sofia already asked me, but I didn’t follow up on it because we still don’t know for sure that Riese was Pop’s uncle.” He shook his head and put his sunglasses back on, probably in the hopes that I would get the hint and go. But as stubbornness runs in the Rienzi family, I didn’t move.
“Okay,” he said with a huff. “I’ll do it. I’ll check the state databases and use my contacts in corrections to ask about this Riese character. If only to get you two broads off my back.”
“Thanks, Danny. Oh, and one last thing—do you know if your brothers in blue were able to lift any prints from that wine bottle?”
“If you are asking me can prints be lifted from the bottle, yes, they can.”
“You know what I was asking you, but let’s keep it theoretical. How do they do it?”
He grinned. “With glue, believe it or not. They put the wine bottle in a water tank, open a glue packet, and drop it in. The fumes from the glue react with the acids in the prints and harden them in place.”
“That’s so cool,” I said. “I totally need to use that in the next Bernardo mystery.”
“Cool or not, sis, that bottle—the one you’re concerned with—is a no go.”
Did my brother mean that no prints were found or that an empty wine bottle did not constitute evidence of murder? But even if he was drunk when he arrived at the party, there had to have been at least one other bottle for Pete’s blood alcohol to have been that high. Was that what he was carrying in the bag Nando had seen him holding? I would probably not get an answer, but I had to ask.
“But what about another bottle, Dan? Like perhaps one that might have been found in the carousel house?”
My brother rested two heavy hands on my shoulders and lowered his head so that it was level with my own. “There is no other bottle. Or anything else that suggests foul play. That carousel house was swept clean. And except for your ‘gut instinct’ about Pete being a blackmailer and some ancient mob history, there’s nothing there, Vic. Nothing.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.” I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Listen, I’ll keep you posted.” I stepped back onto the dock, relieved to have something firm under my cowardly feet.
“Wait . . . posted about what?” he called as I hurried away. “You leave this alone, Vic—do you hear me?”
Oh, I heard him all right. Whether I was listening was, well, another kettle of fish.
* * *
After a quick stop for lunch, I headed back to my cottage, where I was greeted by a strange sound from my basement—the steady chugging of my new sump pump. Could it be? I reached for the light switch, and lo, the basement was flooded with light. (And still some water, but the smell was improving.) When I got downstairs, there was another scrawled note from my dad:
Hey, sweetheart, your new pump is up and running. Also, I did some cleanup down here with bleach. Don’t think you’ll have trouble with mold.
Your Pop
You had to love the guy, though I did wonder how he’d gotten into my house both times. I wouldn’t put it past my parents to have a duplicate key to the cottage. Note to self—have locks changed, subito.
Up in my bedroom, I plugged in my computer, charged my shaver, and ran my blow dryer just because I could. Still reveling in my restored power, I was about to charge my phone when I noticed the voice mail icon. My mother’s cheerful tones rang out across the room:
“Hi, darling! In case you’re not aware, the power is back on. Plan to come in early tomorrow morning for food prep so that we can open for Saturday lunch. See you bright and early!”
While I was glad the restaurant wouldn’t be losing any more business, my window of time to work on the Mystery of Stinky Pete was shrinking. I’d be tied up at the Casa Lido all weekend long, right through Labor Day. In the meantime, Jason would be on his way to school, with his mother probably right behind him. Alyssa was already gone, and who kne
w where Tattoo Guy might be? Barone would retreat behind his protective wall of money, and meanwhile, this trail was growing ever colder. I had a sense of urgency I couldn’t ignore, but did I have enough evidence to convince County Prosecutor Sutton to initiate a murder investigation? I’d barely convinced my brother that there was more to Pete’s death than it appeared. Once Pete’s body was released and the official cause of his death made public, it might be too late.
Or would it? I sat at my desk, gazing out my small bedroom window at the ocean in the late-afternoon sun. Maybe if the murderer—or murderers—thought they were safe, they—or he or she—might get careless and give something away. My thoughts were interrupted by a dinging sound from my phone. A text and a link from Sofia:
Have you seen this?
I followed the link to today’s Oceanside Chronicle, which bore this headline: “Richard Barone Pledges to Save Carousel, Financier/Philanthropist to Purchase Historic Ride.”
I scanned the article avidly, taking in the important details. In it, Barone offered to buy the carousel and provide funding for its yearly maintenance. The article included quotes from Barone, some boardwalk business owners, and Mayor McCrae, who could barely muster any gratitude. Guess you’ve been foiled again, Annie, I thought. But the most interesting part was the article update, posted only hours before:
With the restoration of power to the eastern end of town, there will be a ribbon-cutting ceremony tonight out on the pier at 8:00. The carousel house will be open and all rides functioning. The event is open to the public.
For the first time since Pete’s death, the carousel house would be opening its doors to the public. To the families who now had their weekend restored. And to the curious who wondered about the body that had been found inside. Would the guilty party be among them? This was exactly the kind of scene I would imagine for my fictional detective, Bernardo. He would show up in his linen suit and Panama hat, closely observe all the suspects, trap one of them into a confession, and have the mystery solved by the end of the chapter. If only.
I texted Sofia back:
I’m going. You?
What do you think? she replied. Dinner first? How about Louie’s at 7? I’m craving sausage sandwiches.
See you there, sister, I texted back.
Because come hell or high seawater, I would be out on that pier tonight. And I would finally get inside that carousel house—the scene of the crime.
Chapter Twenty-three
Sofia and I sat at our favorite table at Louie’s on the boardwalk, out on the upper deck facing the ocean. I looked at my sister-in-law’s plate, where she had carefully piled the onions from her sandwich.
“Since when don’t you like onions?” I asked.
“Since I got pregnant. I should clarify—I like them but they no longer like me.” She turned her plate in my direction. “Want them?”
“Sure.” I heaped more of the sweetened, caramelized onion on my sandwich. “It’s not like I have a date or anything.” I grinned. “I can just breathe all over you instead.”
“Thanks. So—wanna hear what I found out about Leo Barone’s cronies?”
“Mmmph,” I said through a mouthful of grilled sausage and sweet red pepper.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Sofia carefully cut into her sandwich, putting one small bite at a time in her mouth. “Okay, so the two guys in Barone’s inner circle were Louis Bellafante and Gerry Domenica. Bellafante was a dead end, but there’s a Gerald Domenica Jr. living in Somers Point.”
“Wait,” I said. “Somers Point is right near—”
“Atlantic City,” she said. “Within ten miles or so. I looked it up.”
“I wonder if it’s possible that he’s related somehow.”
Sofia nodded. “It definitely is. According to PeopleSearch, he’s around eighty. The age is right for him to be Domenica’s son. And he’s listed with a junior after his name. I think he’s our guy, Vic.”
“What do we do? Just show up in Somers Point and track him down?”
“Why not? We’ve done it before.”
“It’s not that. When do we get there? The Casa Lido reopens tomorrow. I’ll be tied up all day.” I took another bite of sandwich and wiped my dripping chin.
Sofia tapped her nails on the tabletop. “Let’s think about it for a minute.” Her eyes widened. “Wait, I totally got this. You know what a germophobe Tim is—what if you get ‘sick’ while you’re prepping? One good sneeze and he’ll kick your butt out the door.”
“I don’t know, Sofe. I would feel guilty faking sick when they need every hand there tomorrow. No, I’ll appeal to my mom with the truth. And I’ll offer to come back for dinner service.”
“You’re too conscientious,” she said, dismissing me with a wave. “They work you to death there anyway.” She leaned across the table, her eyes bright. “Don’t even try to tell me you’re not curious. This might be the one way to find out the truth about Zio Roberto.”
“Okay, you got me. Can you get away from the studio by two?”
She nodded and pointed to my empty plate. “I take it you’re finished. Because we have to get going.”
After a quick trip to the ladies’ room, Sofia and I headed down the boardwalk to the rides pier. It was dusk, and on the bay side, the sun was setting in a bright array of oranges and blues. I let out a happy sigh. “I love the beach at this time of day, don’t you?”
“Yup,” Sofia said. “And I like it even better after all the tourists are gone.”
“Hey, let’s be happy the boardwalk is crowded.” I looked around at the families, their arms full of stuffed animals and balloons, their kids eating custards and taffy. “It’s good for business and good for the town.”
“Anne McCrae must be in her glory,” Sofia said as we approached the rides pier. It was packed with people; clearly, they weren’t squeamish about the idea of a body being found here. Maybe they were curious. Or maybe the death of a homeless alcoholic a week ago was already old news. At one end of the pier, the Ferris wheel was in motion, its colorful lights twinkling with each turn. My stomach lurched as I looked up at the giant wheel, remembering a recent ride on it with Cal. The dome of the carousel house, decorated with strings of white lights, rose into view. As we got closer I admired the green patina of the oxidized copper and the building’s fanciful circular windows.
“I assume Her Honor will be here tonight, right?” I asked.
“Are you kidding me? Even though she wanted to sell off the carousel, she’d never miss a photo op. I bet you anything she tries to take credit for saving it, too.”
“Probably,” I said as we made our way through the crowd. “This is some turnout, huh? I hope we can get inside.”
“We will,” she said, “but first we have to get past that guy.”
I followed her gaze to the open door of the carousel house, where a familiar figure in a blue uniform stood guard. My heart sank. “I thought you said Danny had to work tonight.”
“Exactly. He’s working. Wonder how we’re gonna play this one off.”
“Geez,” I grumbled. “You’d think the Oceanside PD would have a better use for a skilled detective than assigning him to a ribbon-cutting ceremony. I wonder if there’s a back way into this place.”
“Too late, Vic,” she said out of the side of her mouth. “He’s seen us.” She broke into a blinding smile and lifted her arm in a wave. “Hey, babe,” she called. “Fancy meeting you here.”
My brother’s face was expressionless, though his eyes brightened at the sight of his wife. “Hi, honey,” he said in an overly sweet tone. “I don’t believe you mentioned you were coming to the festivities this evening.”
She linked her arm through his, still smiling up at him. “It was kind of a last-minute thing. Vic wanted some company.”
He turned to me and I shrugged. “C’mon, Dan. Did you think we�
��d really stay away?”
He shook his head without a word, but merely ushered us inside, with me trailing Sofia.
“Hurry up, would you?” she asked.
“Sorry. I’m busy extricating myself from the wheels of the bus under which you just threw me. Nice one, Sofe.”
“He won’t bother us. And anyway, aren’t you glad he’s here? Just in case the suspects start showing up.” She lifted her chin in the direction of the old pinball machines along the circular periphery of the building. “Speaking of which.”
“What do you know—Florence and Jason. I guess he hasn’t left for school yet. Wonder why he’s sticking around.”
Just then Sofia gripped my arm. “Look,” she whispered. “Behind the carousel.”
And there, arms crossed in a watchful pose, was a formidable figure with a closely shaved head and intense eyes—The Guy with the Animal Tattoos.
“What the heck is he doing here?” I hissed.
“He’s kinda creepy up close,” Sofia said. “What does little Alyssa see in him, I wonder.”
“Some girls just love those bad boys. Hopefully, she’ll meet some nice college boy to spend her time with at school.” I peered around the crowd to get a better look at him. “What do you think he’s doing behind the merry-go-round?”
“I don’t know,” Sofia said. “Lurking?”
“Clearly—but for what reason?”
Just then a low murmur went through the crowd and it parted behind us. “Excuse us, please,” said a familiar baritone voice, and I exchanged a look with Sofia.
“Barone,” she whispered. “With Iris right behind him and Mayor McCrae pulling up the rear.”
“Make sure you duck when Iris starts throwing daggers my way,” I said.
“She looks great, though,” Sofia noted. “At least she’ll kill you in style.”
“Funny. Hey, they’re starting.”
Richard Barone stood at the carousel’s entrance gate, now tied with a bright red ribbon. To his left was Iris, to his right Anne McCrae, who was holding the biggest pair of shears I’d ever seen. She stepped forward to speak.
