Chocolate Tiramisu Murder: A Donut Hole Cozy Mystery - Book 9

by Susan Gillard

  She pushed it forward, the wheels rattling along.

  Never mind whispering. They could yell and none of the other guests would hear them with those squeaking wheels on the move.

  “You come?” Mistico asked.

  “Yeah,” Heather said and hurried to catch up with the elderly cleaner.

  They walked in silence for a few moments, trudging past rooms, all locked up tight; some of their golden handles adorned by Do Not Disturb signs.

  “What did you want to tell me, Mistico?” Heather asked at last, and her voice sounded too soft.

  The cleaning lady didn’t answer for another few minutes but stopped outside a room with the number 201.

  “This is the room, pre – Heather,” Mistico said. “It is his room.” She jangled keys out of her pocket. “I can show you what it is that is inside.”

  Heather raised her palm. “Wait.” She’d had enough breaking and entering for one day, and the last time she’d crossed the line of a crime scene, she’d almost been arrested for it.

  It’d only been through the intervention of Amy’s new boyfriend that Heather and her bestie had been spared time in a French prison.

  “You do not want to see?” Mistico asked her wrinkled forehead wrinkling even more.

  “No, I’m not allowed to see, and neither are you. But you said you wanted to tell me something. I would love to hear it.” Heather tucked her broken phone into the back pocket of her jeans.

  Mistico’s jaw worked. She shuffled forwards, clutching the key ring. There were enough keys on it to hide the ring completely. “Gino always send his meals back to the kitchen. He hate the chef there, because the chef hate him.”

  “Chef Dante?” Heather licked her lips. “I know they didn’t like each other, but that doesn’t mean much, does it? A lot of people don’t get on, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It mean something now,” Mistico murmured. “It mean a lot, pre – Heather. I hear things, many things.”

  “Yes, I know, the walls, the ears. But what exactly did you hear?”

  Mistico pursed her prune-lips. Her eyes widened. She took three short gasps of breath, then uttered, “The chef poison the actor. He hate Gino too much. So he poison him.”

  Heather froze. She allowed her cog brain to click over a few times. She was tired, after all. It’d been a long day of sleuthin’ and exploring. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would Chef Dante poison Gino and then beat him over the head afterward?”

  “No, no, no,” Mistico said, clinking the keys around. “He not kill him with poison, he just make him sick. Give Gino an ache in the butt.”

  “I think you mean the belly,” Heather said.

  “Eh, same thing,” Mistico said and shrugged. Apparently, ears and walls weren’t the only things she got confused. Just how far could Heather trust this woman’s insights? Perhaps Ryan was right about her after all.

  “So, the Chef gave Gino a stomachache because he was angry with him,” she said, in summary.

  “Si,” Mistico replied, and wiggled her eyebrows. “Si, he poison him. He make him weak.”

  Heather sighed. “I see.”

  “Si?”

  “No, see.”

  “Si,” Mistico said.

  This could go on all night. Heather had to get to bed, she’d wasted far too much time strolling around the halls of the hotel, and the last thing she needed was to be caught outside the victim’s hotel room.

  “Thank you, Mistico. Now, I think I’d better get back to my husband. Have a good night,” Heather said. She patted the old woman on the shoulder, then turned and hurried off.

  “Be careful, Heather, be very careful. There is danger all around.” Mistico called after her.

  Heather couldn’t help but shiver. Mistico had the whole creepy vibe down.

  Chapter 10

  Heather stood on her side of the kitchen, stirring the cream for another batch of Coffee Glazed Tiramisu donuts. She didn’t have a hankering for them, though Ryan did, but she had to follow through on the lead Mistico had given her the night before.

  Ryan had rushed off to the mall to get her a new phone, and she had decided to stay behind. She hadn’t told him about Mistico’s interesting tidbit, however.

  Chef Dante had positioned himself close to her again, and read his usual tabloid.

  Every now and again he’d look up and shout at a few of his chefs to work faster, harder or neater.

  He was a hands-off chef.

  Except when it came to Gino Ginelli’s meals, apparently.

  Heather tasted her creamy topping and smiled. Perfection, if she did say so herself. The stuff melted in her mouth, and with a tiny dollop of coffee liqueur, it was flavorful and not boozy.

  “Is it good?” Chef Dante asked, without looking up from his magazine. Another image of Verdi Salsa was splashed across the front with a massive headline in bright yellow.

  It was all in Italian, but it was doubtlessly something scandalous about the Spanish actress’s personal life.

  “Here,” Heather said, raising the spoon, “why don’t you have a taste?”

  “I never say no to cream,” Dante replied. He tossed the magazine onto one of the counters and shuffled over to her. He accepted the spoon and gobbled down some mixture, his double chins wobbling.

  “Delizioso!” The chef cried, and clapped his hands.

  The chef closest to Heather’s side of the kitchen flinched, then let out a breath when he realized that Dante wasn’t after him to improve his cooking.

  “Thank you,” Heather said. “Now, I just have to put the topping on the donuts once they’re out of the oven. Oh, wait, I forgot to make the coffee syrup glaze.”

  “Let me help you,” Dante said and bustled to the coffee machine. He did his button pressing, then turned back to her. “See? I can do more than just read magazines.”

  “You do love the gossip,” Heather said and chuckled.

  “Guilty as charged.” Dante raised his hands into the air, then laughed as if it was the funniest joke in the world.

  “Speaking of gossip,” Heather said. She had to approach this carefully. She didn’t want to bring up the poisoning thing right away. Perhaps she could lead him up to him by sharing a snippet of information of her own first.

  Already, Dante was interested. He was like Dave in search of donuts in the kitchen of Donut Delights, all bright eyed and waggy-tailed.

  “Share your gossip, Heather, don’t torture me,” Dante said, pressing his fist to his heart.

  “Guess who I ran into in the lobby of the hotel?” Heather popped a hip and placed her hand on it. The gossiping pose.

  “Who?” Dante asked.

  “Gia Ginelli herself. She was incredibly rude. And she told me that her father had to be broke.”

  “Oh no, no, she’s lying. She’s lying,” Dante replied, his expression darkening.

  The oven timer dinged, and Heather hurried to get her donuts out of it. She glanced back at Dante and continued, “How do you know? It seems likely to me. No wonder he was so grumpy all the time.”

  “No, her father was well off. But Gia, oh she was broke and angry that he wouldn’t give her the inheritance. She wanted him to change his will, you see.”

  Heather allowed that particular snippet of information to sink in and placed the hot tray of donuts on the counter. She took off her oven mitt and gestured with it. “How do you know this?”

  Chef Dante licked his lips, glanced left and right, and then crooked a finger to her. “I don’t want to shout it across the room, come closer.”

  Heather strode up to him. This should be interesting. The evidence, in this case, was the opposite of the last she’d dealt with. In France, there’d been hardly anything to go on, and in Italy there was almost too much of the stuff.

  Too many players after their own end goals.

  “That Gino called me up to his room after the last time he sent back his food. I told you he kept complaining about the taste and sending it back half-e
aten, yes?”

  “Yes,” Heather replied. “What happened when you went to talk to him?”

  “Not what I expected. I thought I would end up in a fight with him, but no he was already fighting with someone else when I was there?”

  “Who?” Heather asked, patting her cheek with the oven mitt.

  “Gia, of course. She had come to see her father about the will, and demanded he remake it.”

  “I wonder why she wasn’t in it,” Heather mused.

  “I don’t know,” Dante replied, “but I do know that her father took her out of it after he started dating Verdi Salsa. Gia was furious when she found out.”

  If Dante had just told the truth, that meant that both Verdi and Gia had ample excuses to do away with Gino Ginelli. And with Gia appearing at the hotel, trying to break into his room without police permission… it didn’t look good for the daughter of the victim.

  Heather sniffed. “That’s pretty shocking.”

  “There’s more,” Dante replied, flourishing his fingers. “She slapped him through the face.”

  “Wow,” Heather said.

  “Yes, but she saw me right afterward. I opened the door after I knocked, and saw the whole thing. She was furious. She ran out without another word and Gino just stared at me. Then he got angry too because I dared come up to talk to him after he had, in fact, summoned me.”

  “Go figure,” Heather said. She leaned her palm on the counter and digested this. There wasn’t a good way to transition from Gia’s slap fight and into possible poisoning.

  “I came back down and prepared another meal for him.”

  “He was mean, all right,” Heather said. “Weren’t you ever tempted to slip something into his food? Just a joke? A trick or something? I know I would be.”

  Dante stared at her hard for a long time. “Never. I think your donuts are ready to be iced, Mrs. Shepherd.”

  The Chef turned on his heel and wobbled off to shout at his employees.

  “That’s done it,” Heather whispered.

  Chapter 11

  Too much evidence had gathered for Heather to ignore Verdi Salsa completely.

  What with the insinuation of abuse and the rumors of affairs on Gino’s part, not to mention the whole Last Will and Testament thing. She’d gotten hold of Leo ‘The Gab’ Digabbrio and practically begged him for the information which had led her directly to the Belmond Hotel Cipriani.

  Verdi Salsa was in room 101. It seemed fitting.

  Heather harbored no illusions that she’d be let in without questions, so she’d donned her best scarf, a pair of shades and flat shoes, and had her fingers crossed in her pockets.

  Ryan had commented that she looked less conspicuous without the trappings of an old Italian woman, and she’d swatted him on the head to teach him a lesson.

  Heather entered the hotel and spared a smile for the doorman, who ignored her completely in turn.

  She strolled into the lobby and straight past reception, which was, luckily enough for her, swamped with tourists checking in. There were cameras in all the corners of the room, but it’d be a few minutes before anyone jogged out to cart her off to a small room somewhere.

  “This is a bad idea,” Heather mumbled to herself. But it was too late to turn back now. She was in it to win it.

  Room 101 was at the end of the ground floor hall, which was decorated in golds and greens. She stopped beside it and raised a fist to knock. Muffled shouts from within halted her.

  “How dare you!” The sound of a slap.

  Heather dropped her hand and pressed her ear to the door instead.

  Gia’s voice was unmistakable. The snobbish timbre with nasal overtones. “I knew you wanted nothing but father’s money. I can’t believe he fell for a floozy like you.”

  “I did nothing but love your father, and he pushed me over the edge and away. Is it my fault he didn’t change the will before he died? Huh? Have you lost your mind?” Verdi’s voice was smooth and attractive, a practiced clean accent which had to come from years in front of cameras and possibly on the stage as well.

  “Yes it’s your fault,” Gia yelled. “You killed him, I know you did. You killed him because you were angry and you wanted his money.”

  A long silence followed the accusation, followed by footsteps away from the door. The sound of a drawer opening and closing, the shuffling of papers. Footsteps back across the room.

  “Here,” Verdi said, “read this.”

  “What is this garbage?” Gia asked, the rustle of papers again, then more quiet.

  The stillness was eerie, particularly with the noise from the lobby for a backdrop. Two worlds separated by a door. Inside, there was agony and anger, and outside there were a bunch of tourists carrying on with their lives and looking forward to their respective vacations.

  And then there was Heather, of course. The sleuth in the scarf and glasses. She did feel a bit ridiculous now.

  “What is this?” Gia repeated. The crumple of paper.

  “That is the restraining order I took out against your father after he abused me,” Verdi said. “I am the victim in this, and I would never make a victim out of him because I know how it feels.”

  “Is that why you wanted his money?” Gia asked, still with the accusatory tone. She was relentless. “Because he hurt you?”

  “I didn’t want your father’s money, and I still don’t.”

  “Well, lucky for you that it’s all getting paid into your account, eh? You didn’t even attend his funeral. I had to organize it all myself, and they wouldn’t even let me into his room to get his cross.”

  “I’m sorry,” Verdi said, softly, then her voice hardened. “That’s not my problem, though. And I can choose when and where I go.”

  “You’re so smug,” Gia replied. “You love that he’s gone.” She sounded on the verge of tears.

  “I know you’re upset, Gia, I know you miss your father, but that’s no excuse to come to my hotel room and –”

  “Miss my father? Ha!” Gia snorted. “All I miss about him is his money. And the horrible things he had to say about you. And now, ironically enough, you’re getting all of it.”

  “I’m giving it to charity if that makes you feel any better.” Verdi sounded smug, this time. The pity had leaked from her voice over the course of the conversation.

  Enough time with Gia would make anyone a cynic. She was a truly horrible woman in Heather’s experience.

  “Charity? You’re making a joke.”

  “No, I’m donating it to the Catholic Charities,” Verdi replied, calmly.

  Gia let out a shriek to rival all others. Then her footsteps stormed towards the door. Heather backpedaled furiously and hit the door opposite. She turned and placed her hand on the knob.

  The door to room 101 swung open a second later, and Gia stormed out. Her stilettos clicked all the way down the hall.

  Heather watched her out of the corner of her eye and waited for Verdi to shut her own door.

  She let out a long sigh of relief, then whipped the scarf and glasses off her head.

  The entire encounter, though she hadn’t exactly witnessed it with her eyes, had left a sour taste on her tongue and a twisting in her belly.

  These were two women who had lost someone, and all Gia cared about was the money.

  Heather hurried towards the lobby, each step quicker than the last. She practically sprinted past reception.

  “Mi scusi, Signora?” A woman called out to her from behind the desk. “Signora!”

  She ignored the receptionist and darted out into the street, her heart pounding.

  Ryan would be interested to hear this. He was all for facts, rather than conjecture, and knowing that Verdi had received financial compensation after Gino’s death was the kind of evidence which would stick in the forefront of his mind.

  Heather hurried back to the Hotel Venezia, her stomach burning. She didn’t like this, no, she didn’t like it one bit, but each day brought her at least a step closer
to uncovering who’d truly done away with Gino Ginelli.

  Heather stopped in her tracks. This was silly.

  She had her lead and knew exactly who she needed to talk to. And that woman was in the building behind her.

  Chapter 12

  “You’re lucky I was on my way out of the building,” Verdi Salsa said, with a taut smile.

  She wore an elegant dress which swept her ankles and was made of layered chiffon. It reminded Heather of her own wedding dress, except this one was rose pink.

  “Yes, if you hadn’t come out just then, I’m afraid they would’ve stuck in a security room until the cops arrived,” Heather replied, with a sheepish grin. “I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to rescue me.”

  Heather had charged back into the hotel, her mind on interviewing Verdi, and had consequently been accosted by the pushy receptionist and a group of men in blue suits with red ties.

  They’d reminded Heather of Hollywood villains at the time, which had made her chuckle and hadn’t helped the situation an iota.

  Verdi had been in the lobby at the time, and Heather had called out to her. Shouted Gia and Gino’s names and a short explanation.

  She’d meant to say that she was an investigator, but all she’d managed was, “Private.” Somehow, that’d been enough to stop Verdi in her tracks.

  “Thank you, by the way,” Heather said. “I was in shock at the time.”

  “It’s only a pleasure,” Verdi replied. She was down to earth and had an easy smile.

  Heather instantly liked her. In any other circumstance, she might’ve befriended the woman.

  “You mentioned my ex-boyfriend and his daughter. I assume you have some connection to Gino or Gia.” That was Verdi’s tactful introduction to a tricky conversation, and it only made Heather like her more.

  No, she had to be impartial in this. Verdi could very easily be the murderer, friendly or not.

  “Yes, I had an argument with Gino the day of his murder. Just a minor incident but the police questioned me anyway. I, well, my husband I took it upon ourselves to check out the case. He’s in law enforcement,” Heather said, stumbling over her words a few times.