by Rosie Genova
I nodded. “I do know that.” My history with Tim was sometimes blissful, sometimes painful, and always complicated, most recently by the appearance and departure of a Southern charmer named Cal. So Tim and I were still finding our way. I smiled up at him. “And so far you’re doing a pretty good job of it. Now get in that kitchen before my grandmother comes looking for you.”
“Will do,” he said, dropping a kiss on my nose. “And make sure you put that knife in a safe place,” he called over his shoulder.
As it was getting close to time, I positioned myself behind the lighted podium near the front door. But I couldn’t resist opening the box to gaze at my present one more time. I lifted it from the box, holding it the way Tim had taught me—three fingers under the handle, thumb placed safely above the sharp edge of the blade. I did a little practice air-chopping before placing it back in the box, retying the ribbon and tucking it inside the podium. It was time to check our guest list.
Since this was a charity event, it was made up of primarily business owners here in Oceanside Park, as well as those holding town positions. And of course, presiding over them all would be our mayor, not exactly beloved by many of them. Our job would be to keep this crowd happy and fed until nine p.m., after which we’d have a quiet family celebration. It’s Christmas, Vic, I told myself. Everyone will be full of good cheer, on their best behavior—
“Well, if it isn’t the amateur sleuth. The Casa Lido’s very own Miss Marple.”
My head snapped up and I gazed into the overly made-up eyes of Nina LaGuardia, a local television personality who calls herself a reporter. And who was most definitely not on our guest list. “Hello, Nina,” I said. “Sorry, but we’re hosting a private party tonight.”
She flipped her blonde hair over one shoulder and glared at me. “I know that, Victoria. That’s why I’m here. I’m covering the mayor’s appearance at the dinner.” She made a face. “Her little bow-tied minion is already lurking around outside.”
I stiffened. “So you’ve been assigned here tonight?” The last time Nina was covering a story that featured the restaurant, I was smack in the middle of it. “You are not bringing cameras in here. So if that news van is parked outside, you can get out there right now and tell them to leave.”
She lifted her chin and assumed a bored expression. “For your information, I’m no longer in television news. I’m working on a print story. And the only camera I’ve got is for photographs.”
“Oh. Is it for the Asbury Park Press?”
“Not exactly.” She dug in her purse and produced a card. “Here’s my press pass.”
I squinted at the card and grinned. “You’re writing for the Oceanside Chronicle? The local rag?”
“Very funny,” she said, snatching the card back. “Yes, I’m working for the town newspaper. And lucky me, I get to cover Anne McCrae sticking a star on top of a freakin’ Christmas tree.” She dropped her voice. “The bitch,” she hissed.
I raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan, eh?”
“Are you kidding me? She cost me my job at Channel Ten. I did a series of features about one of her cronies in town—I uncovered a load of crap about him, let me tell you—and the next thing I knew, boom, I’m out of a job.” She shook her head. “Apparently she’s got pull at the station.”
Now this was interesting. And while I could have happily listened to more of the story, it was after six and guests were beginning to gather at the doors. “Listen, Nina,” I said, “my dad’s over at the bar. Tell him to pour you a nice glass of wine on the house, okay?”
“Thanks,” she muttered. “Let me know when the tree thing is happening, so I can get in position for some pictures.”
I dropped my eyes back down to the guest list and it struck me that there were at least five people on it who made no bones about their antipathy for Anne McCrae: Gale Spaulding, our town librarian. Jeannette Powers, the school superintendent. Robert Lonegan, her bitter enemy on the town council. Jeff Kuchinski, the local developer whose plans for a boardwalk arcade had been thwarted by the mayor. Our own Chef Massimo, who seemed to dislike her for reasons I didn’t understand. And now Nina made six.
This is not one of your murder mysteries, Vic, I told myself. They’re not suspects.
Of course they weren’t.
Chapter Two
Calamari Fritti
For the next twenty minutes I greeted guests, hanging up their coats and directing them to the Christmas tree to drop off their donated gifts. We had wine flowing and Christmas carols playing (Frank Sinatra, of course), and the mood was appropriately jolly. Until the doors opened, letting in a blast of cold—and with it, the mayor and her assistant, Brad Shultz. Conversations halted and even the music came to a stop. But my dad, ever the gracious host, stepped out from behind the bar to greet her.
“Here’s the lady of the hour,” he said. “Welcome, Your Honor.” He nodded to Brad, who scuttled away carrying a stack of gifts.
“Hello, Mr. Rienzi,” Anne boomed. “Thank you so much for hosting this event. Nice to see you all,” she said, her eyes scanning the crowd. Gale Spaulding, the librarian with a grudge, narrowed her eyes and sipped her wine. My dad’s buddy, Jeff Kuchinski, smirked over the top of his whiskey glass, and Jeannette Powers, the school superintendent, pointedly turned her back. Nina, standing near the Christmas tree, merely glowered. As Anne spotted each one, she seemed to grow paler, her smile getting stiffer.
“Let me get you a drink, Anne,” my dad said. “In the meantime, everyone, if you would find your seats, Chef Massimo himself will be out to serve our first course, calamari fritti.”
At the sound of Massi’s name, Anne grimaced. So their loathing must be mutual, I thought. I waited for Anne to get her drink before leading her to our table, where my mother and grandmother were already seated. Somehow, Anne ended up next to me, with Brad on her other side. Chef Massi came out of the kitchen with his usual flourish, holding a chafing dish high.
“Good evening, everyone,” he said. “This evening I have the pleasure of personally serving you our first of the seven fishes, calamari fritti.” He walked from table to table, chatting with guests, assuring them that the tentacles were not only edible but delicious. Our table was served last, and Massi was quiet as he spooned the fried squid and marinara into our dishes. Studiously avoiding Anne’s eye, he murmured buon appetito before disappearing into the kitchen. Anne, who normally had the appetite of a horse, picked at her food.
“Victoria,” she said quietly, “I know that you and I have not always seen eye to eye, particularly where your . . . involvement in certain situations was concerned. But—” She glanced at me sideways, revealing bloodshot blue eyes and a haggard face. Her year-round tan was faded, and her salt-and-pepper hair had been hastily styled. “I need to talk to you,” she said urgently. “Perhaps later in the evening?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m serving the third course. Maybe after that at some point?”
She nodded, wiped her mouth with the napkin, and then whispered something to Brad. Across the table, I caught my mother frowning briefly before she stood up to announce the tree ceremony. She tapped her glass with a fork until the crowd quieted.
“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the Casa Lido. We hope you’re enjoying the first of the seven fishes we’ll be serving this evening, as part of our traditional Christmas Eve menu. Through your good auspices, we will be able to restock the food pantry at St. Rose’s church and provide gifts for local women and children at the county shelter.” There was a smattering of polite applause. “But before we bring out the second course, I’d like to invite Mayor McCrae to officially kick off the evening by putting the final touch on our Christmas tree.”
Anne stood up to a more tepid round of applause and waved to the guests. Brad was right behind her and led her by the elbow to the tree, where Nando Ortiz, our line cook, was waiting with a step stool and the gold star. Nina was crouched with her camera, attempting to get a good shot without blocking the
view.
What happened next unfolded slowly, like a slide show of still photos. Anne climbed three steps on the stool; Nando handed her the star. She reached across the tree, straining to slide the star onto the top branch. Just as she released it from her fingers, she took a step back, losing her footing. One foot slipped, then the other, her legs bicycling backward for a split second before she fell. Suddenly, a pair of arms shot out, and Brad Schultz staggered under her weight, his knees crumpling before they both went down.
Through it all, Nina was snapping pictures, and the whole restaurant seemed frozen in a series of flashes. My grandmother moved first, and the crowd parted automatically as she strode toward the fallen figures. My dad and I followed. Anne got up shakily, Nonna supporting her at the elbow. Brad sat up and moaned, rubbing his lower back. My dad got to him and hauled him to his feet.
“How you doin’, Brad?” he asked.
“I’m okay, really,” he said, adjusting his eyeglasses. “It’s Anne I’m worried about.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Anne said in ringing tones. She pushed back her hair and straightened her skirt. “A little bruised dignity is all. Frank, if you will help Brad and me back to our seats.”
“A doctor should check you both out,” Nonna said. “There are at least three here tonight.”
“Absolutely not,” Anne snapped. She held out her arm. “Frank, if you please?” As my dad helped them back to their seats, the guests clapped loudly.
Nando, who’d been standing horror-struck, put his hand on my arm. “It happened so fast, Victoria. I could not stop her.”
“It’s not your fault, Nando. Luckily, Brad was right there. Do me a favor and take that stool back to the pantry. We don’t want anyone tripping over it.”
On the other side of the tree, Nina LaGuardia was scribbling on a small pad. “Talk about taking the fall for your boss,” she muttered. “Got some good pictures though. And a much better story than the one I thought I was going to have.”
“Don’t you think those pictures might embarrass her?” I asked quietly.
She shrugged. “Like I care, after what she did to me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get myself another glass of wine.” She leaned close and smirked. “Your dad invited me to stay for dinner.”
“How . . . accommodating of him.”
“Wasn’t it?” She flipped her hair before sashaying across the dining room, a pleased look on her face. And why not? Publishing those pictures of Anne would be a nice revenge for losing her job at the TV station.
Back at the table, Anne and Brad’s seats were empty. My grandmother was holding her forehead and praying. “Oh, Dio,” she said. “Do you think they will sue us?”
“I don’t think so, Ma. Don’t worry.”
So said my dad, backer of long shots and believer in lost causes. “Let’s hope,” I said. “Where are they, anyway?”
“Brad went into the kitchen for some ice,” my mom said, “and Anne went to the restroom.”
“Don’t sound so worried, Mom,” I said. “I’m sure they’re fine. I’ll go check on her.”
Inside the ladies’ room, Anne stood at the mirror combing her hair. She reached into her purse, her hand shaking, and fumbled with a lipstick.
“Are you okay, Anne? Can I help?” I asked.
“Yes.” She turned, holding the sink for support. “You can figure out who’s trying to kill me.” She pointed with an unsteady finger. “Does that door lock?”
“Um, yeah. I made sure when I came in. Now, would you mind explaining what you just said?”
She leaned back against the sink. “What happened out there—it wasn’t an accident. And it’s not the first one I’ve had.”
“So I guess this is what you wanted to talk to me about.” I took a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water. “Here. Look, I know that had to be scary tonight, but it could have happened to anyone. You just lost your footing.”
“Did I?” She downed the water. “That stool was slippery. Something was on it. It was like stepping on ice.” She shook her head. “If Brad hadn’t been there . . .”
“Well, it came from the kitchen. Something might have spilled on it. Nando could have had something on his hands when he picked it up.” I took a deep breath, hoping that what I was about to say wouldn’t get me in hot water with Nonna. “And we’ll make good on any of your bills. If you need to see a doctor. Or if you need to replace your clothes or shoes or—”
“You can calm down, Victoria. I don’t plan to sue the restaurant.” She grabbed a paper towel from the stack and blotted her lips. In the mirror, I could see her expression harden. “Unless, that is, you refuse to help me.”
“I . . . why me?”
“You know perfectly well why. Your track record. You solved—or helped solve—a couple of murders. You seem to have a knack for it. Let me make this easy for you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Either you help me figure out who’s out to get me or I go see a lawyer. What’s it to be?”
“You don’t give me any choice when you put it like that,” I said with a sigh. “Okay, what are these other suspicious accidents you’re talking about?”
“There have been three. I was out on my patio when one of my hanging planters came down, narrowly missing me. The hook looked as though it had been bent open. That was in late October.”
Metal rusts, I wanted to say. Or the plant was too heavy for it. “What else happened?” I asked.
“Someone tampered with my car. My driveway is very steep, so when I pull in, I put on the emergency brake without fail. About a month ago—it was the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week— I got into my car, and before I could even start it, it began rolling. It had been left in neutral and the brake was off.” Her voice shook. “Before I knew it, I had rolled into the street. I barely had time to pull up the brake.”
“Could you have done it yourself? I mean, without thinking?”
She glowered at me, nostrils flaring. “I just told you I engage that brake every time I park my car in my driveway. I wouldn’t have done such a careless thing. It was deliberate, don’t you see?”
Or you’re paranoid, Anne. “Was the car locked?”
“Yes. It’s an older car that takes a manual key, and I clearly remember turning it in the lock.”
“Okay. You said there were three. What’s the third one?”
She nodded. “I found broken glass in my salad at the last town council meeting in early December.” She rummaged in her purse for her phone. “Here. I’ll send you the minutes with the list of attendees. Who all happen to be here tonight, by the way.”
“Did you order the salad from somewhere?” And please, not the Casa Lido.
She shook her head. “No. I brought if from home and left it in the refrigerator in a conference room next to my office in town hall. Anyone who was in the building would have had access to it.”
“I get why you’re so disturbed about this,” I said. “But none of these things seem like attempts to kill you. They’re more like vicious pranks designed to scare you.” Or coincidences. Or accidents. Or, had Anne’s unpopularity morphed into a more dangerous emotion—one that had driven someone to harm her?
“Pranks or no,” she hissed, “somebody wants to hurt me, possibly kill me.” She jabbed a finger in my face. “And you’re going to find out who.” She slammed out of the bathroom, the sound of the door echoing behind her.
I dug my phone from my purse and opened Anne’s document, copied the list of names to the notes function and added two more: Nina LaGuardia and Chef Massimo. Both had a clear motive and opportunity. And it was possible one or both of them had been at the town council meeting. If Anne’s suspicions were correct, there were at least six people here tonight who wished her ill. Or wished her dead.
I was on my way out, and on her way in was my very pregnant sister-in-law, Sofia.
“Oh, you got here.” I kissed her on the cheek. “How’s my niece-nephew?”
“Good,” she answe
red. “Kicking up a storm. Hey, what’s with the mayor? She practically ran me over out there.”
“Ah, allow me to fill you in.” Sofia’s dark eyes grew wider, developing a pronounced glint as I described Anne’s accident and the conversation that followed.
“Wow,” she said. “This is like the best Christmas present—a job falling into our laps!”
My sister-in-law had been an enthusiastic participant in my previous (and reluctant) investigations. Too enthusiastic, in fact, and it had gotten us in trouble with my brother Danny, a by-the-book cop. “It’s not a job, Sofe,” I said. “We’re not professionals. Heck, if she hadn’t blackmailed me, I wouldn’t be touching this.”
“In any case, we’re back in business. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Yes, we are,” I sighed. “But we don’t have much time. We need to figure this out before the last course, while everyone is still here.”
“No problem.” Sofia grinned. “While Tim grills the octopus, we’ll grill the suspects.”
Back at the table, Anne gave me a meaningful look, which I chose to ignore. I greeted my brother, who was attempting, not very successfully, to draw Brad into conversation.
“So,” my mom said brightly, “is everyone ready for some fresh scungilli salad?” She glanced knowingly in my direction. “You know, Tim is serving that course.”
“Yes. I knew that,” I said, getting to my feet. “In fact, I’m just going to check and see if he needs help.”
“And I need to use the ladies’ room,” Sofia added.
Danny frowned. “Didn’t you just use it?”
She patted her belly. “This one just gave my bladder a little kick.”
“Got it, hon,” he said, his face taking on the gooey look he got at the mention of the baby.
“Okay,” I whispered as we walked away, “let’s hit the pantry first and check on the step stool.”
We let ourselves in quietly and found the stool closed up against the wall. “Look at the rubber treads,” Sofia said. “They’re shiny.”
