The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery

by Rosie Genova

  “I thought you said she was pushing eighty!”

  “She’s not allowed to have a boyfriend because she’s old? Not only that”—I leaned in closer for emphasis and to get a good look at Sofia’s face for this part—“he’s almost twenty years younger than she was.”

  “Get out.” She shook her head. “On second thought, good for her. Wait a minute,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Didn’t you say she was rich? I wonder if she left him anything.”

  “According to Mustang Sally, the club bartender, she’d paid for his bayside condo.”

  “Maybe he was in a hurry for the rest of it.” She leaned forward, her eyes interested. “So, who else we got?”

  “Not sure. It could be any one of a number of people who were at that wedding—guests, club staff. Or even somebody who wandered in off the street.” I had another thought. “She had a giant emerald ring on her finger. Maybe it was a robbery gone bad.”

  “But that doesn’t explain what she’d be doing out on that seawall.” She shook her head. “We’re flying blind without the time of death.”

  “True. And I don’t imagine Regina Sutton will be sharing that information with me.”

  “Danny might.” Sofia looked down at her plate and speared a bit of lettuce, but didn’t put it in her mouth.

  “I don’t know about that. He came to see me in the restaurant after the news broke, and he couldn’t tell me much. Don’t forget, it didn’t happen on his patch.”

  “He’s got friends on the Belmont force.”

  “True. But I think Danny will be careful about what he says and doesn’t say. He has to be.” I winked at her. “Maybe you can charm it out of him.”

  She shook her head. “He was not happy I got involved in that last one. Come to think of it, why are you so hot to get involved? You told me never again.”

  I sighed. “I know I did. But I’m a witness. And there’s Dr. Chickie to consider. My dad’s after me to try to help.”

  “And your mom wants you to stay out of it.” At the mention of my mother, her eyes looked sad again.

  “Mom will come around, Sofie.”

  “I hope so. I wish she were happier that we’re trying to work things out.”

  “She will be, once things are more settled. C’mon, she’s a protective Italian mama. You’ve got one of those. And someday you’ll be one yourself.”

  “Right.” She pushed her plate away and took another sip of water.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Dessert?”

  “I don’t think so, Vic.”

  I pointed to her nearly full plate. “You hardly ate anything.”

  “I know. I think it’s the heat.”

  I looked at her slender arms. “I mean, you’re not trying to lose weight or anything, are you? You teach dance all day. You must burn a million calories.”

  She raised one of her beautifully arched brows. “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have to try to lose weight.”

  “Show-off.” I patted her arm. “Okay, I’ll be virtuous and I won’t have any, either.”

  “Right. And then you’ll stop at the boardwalk for zeppole.”

  “Oooh, there’s an idea. Maybe food will take my mind off this case.”

  “I doubt it. In fact, when I go home, I’m taking out the red folder.”

  The infamous red folder had held all our notes and information for our first—and I had hoped last—investigation. “Didn’t the newspaper say she owned Merriman Industries? I think that’s a good place for me to start, don’t you?”

  “Given your formidable research skills, yes. I think my focus should be the club.”

  “Does this mean we’re on the case?” Sofia held out her hand.

  “Against my better judgment, but yes.” I took her hand and shook it. “God help us,” I added.

  We paid the check and said our good nights, and I headed out of town toward my cottage, determined I would not eat another thing. But as the smells of boardwalk food drifted my way, I walked up the nearest ramp. I’d landed close to the rides pier, with the carousel house at one end and the Ferris wheel at the other. Though not a rides person, I’d taken a spin on that wheel with Cal not so long ago. The lights of the rides streaked the darkness in lines of neon color, illuminating the faces of those strolling the pier. I had missed this in New York; this was home, my history. Even the summer crowds didn’t bother me. I walked past the game stands and the arcade, halfway tempted to stop in for a quick game of Skee-Ball. But the lure of fried dough won out.

  I bought a half-dozen zeppole and walked down the ramp to the street, shaking the bag to properly coat the little Italian doughnuts with several layers of powdered sugar. I will not open this bag, I thought. Not till I get home. At which point I would make myself a cup of decaf, put two (maybe three) fried treats in a napkin, and sit out on my deck to eat them. But my happy thoughts darkened considerably as I approached my cottage and saw that I had visitors. Standing in front of my door like two mismatched sentries was none other than the newly married happy couple, Dennis and Roberta Doyle.

  “We’ve been waiting for you. You weren’t at the restaurant,” Roberta said accusingly. “So your dad told us where you live.”

  Thank you, Frank. I gripped my bag of zeppole. In less than three minutes, these babies would be too cold to eat. I sighed. “Shouldn’t you guys be on your honeymoon?”

  Roberta, whose dark hair was styled in a complicated upsweep that mimicked her wedding look, narrowed her eyes at me. “We don’t have a honeymoon, thanks to that old bitch getting killed.”

  “Yeah, that was really thoughtless of her. Look, I’m sorry about what happened at your wedding. But why are you here?”

  “Your dad told my dad that the county prosecutor came to see you. I wanna know what you plan to tell her.”

  Frank strikes again. “I plan to tell her the truth, Roberta.”

  She pointed a French-manicured fingernail at me. “You mean you’re gonna tell her about what Elizabeth said to my dad and get him arrested for murder.”

  “Whoa,” I said, holding up my palm. “You’re getting way ahead of things here.”

  She put her tiny fists on her hips. “Am I really? Everybody in town knows he took money from the club, and then Elizabeth ends up dead. On the night of my wedding!” she wailed.

  “Okay, I know it doesn’t look good for him.” I thought about trying to comfort her, but realized she was in no mood for it.

  “It sure doesn’t.” Dennis, who until this moment had been silent, chimed in. “The guy’s got a motive.”

  “Shut up, Dennis,” Roberta snapped. “You’re not helping.” She pointed at me again; I wondered if her mother had ever taught her that it’s rude. “And neither are you. You don’t care if this whole town knows somebody died after my wedding reception or that people think my father did it!”

  Well, I did care about one of those things. “Roberta, people who know your father will know he’s not capable of such a thing, and— Hang on, did you say after your reception?”

  Her face grew wary. “I don’t know when she died, but I do know that old bag was still alive when we left the reception.”

  “Yup.” Big Dennis nodded in agreement, giving me a hopeful smile. I smiled back, thinking he was too nice for the bratty Roberta. “We left at eleven thirty,” he said. “And she was still in her office. I could see her through the window when we got in the car.”

  Still alive at eleven thirty. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Was anybody else around?”

  “How should I know?” She frowned deeply. “All I know is my wedding was ruined and my father might end up in jail.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry, but—”

  “But nothing. C’mon, Dennis. Let’s get out of here. We’re not gonna get anywhere with her.” She grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled him down the stone path to the street, looking like a Yorkie tugging on a compliant Labrador.

  I let myself into the front door of the cottage to
drop off my things (leave the purse, take the zeppole), and cupping the bag in two hands to keep it warm, I headed out to my tiny deck. I took a deep breath of the night air and closed my eyes to listen to the crash of the surf. So Elizabeth Merriman was still alive at a time when most of the guests would have already cleared out. Who would still be around? And among them, who would want Merriman dead?

  I decided I would think more clearly with a zeppola in my stomach. I opened the bag and was greeted with the sweet smell of deep-fried goodness. I took a bite—the first of the season—and, despite a mouthful of fried dough, smiled. Worth coming home for, I thought. After I’d polished off two more, I still hadn’t figured out how many people had access to Elizabeth Merriman or who they might be. But I was closing in on her time of death. And by the time I ate my fifth zeppola, a nice case of agita, as well.

  Chapter Eight

  As I emerged from my heavy, zeppole-induced sleep, I was conscious of bright slashes of morning sun piercing the slats of my window blinds. And “Glory Days” was playing somewhere in the vicinity of my ear. I squinted at my Bruce Springsteen 2008 tour poster. Bruce was leaning against an amp, looking wise and world-weary. He wasn’t singing to me, but apparently my phone was.

  “Hell-o, Victoria!” The bell-like tones of Nina LaGuardia’s television voice rang in my delicate ears. Not again, I thought in a panic. Please not again. Though not the sharpest knife in the journalism drawer, Nina was a local television news anchor. I’d managed to keep her at bay the last time I got sucked into a murder investigation, but I wasn’t sure I had the energy to do so a second time.

  “You must know why I’m calling,” she said gleefully.

  “Oh, I can guess,” I muttered. I rubbed my eyes and raked a hand through my bed-head of hair. “Must you always call so early in the morning?”

  “Journalism never sleeps.” I winced as she gave a tinkly laugh. “I’ve been up for hours. So, when do we conduct our interview?”

  I groaned. “Nina, I already gave you an exclusive.”

  “That was weeks ago. Old news, darling. This is a new story. A juicy one. And there you are, right in the middle of it. Again!”

  Nina’s italics were making my head hurt. I lowered my voice, hoping that she’d follow suit. “I am not in the middle of it. I was at the wedding reception, along with about two hundred fifty other people. Why don’t you go wake them up?”

  “My, aren’t we grumpy this morning? No, sweetheart, there’s no need for me get in touch with people who don’t have any relevant information for me.” She paused. “Or who weren’t on the premises when Elizabeth Merriman was killed.”

  I sat straight up in bed, my head suddenly clear. “And you know when that was?”

  “Oh, so now I’ve got your attention. Yes, I happen to have that information in my possession. Are we doing a little investigating, dear?”

  I answered her question with one of my own. “How do I know your information’s accurate?”

  “I have a number of reliable sources, Victoria. And if you’re willing to talk to me about what transpired at that wedding reception, I might just share what I know.”

  Hmm. Do I take this deal? I met Bruce’s eyes across the room. His expression seemed to say, Go with it, darlin’. You can handle her. I gave him a wink. “You got it, Boss.”

  “What’s that, Victoria?”

  “I said okay. You tell me the time of death and I give you a statement. But I have it on good authority that she was still alive at eleven thirty. So unless you have something different to offer me . . .” I crossed my fingers and waited.

  Nina’s voice dropped to a whisper. Finally. “It’s likely she died sometime between twelve and one, with cause of death severe head trauma.”

  She seemed talkative, so I pressed my advantage. And grabbed the pencil and pad I kept near the bed. “She went off the seawall, right?” I asked her.

  “That’s the scenario the police and Sutton are working from.”

  No surprise there, I thought. “Was she seen with anybody? Have they picked up any of the suspects for questioning yet?” But my questions were met with silence. “Nina? Hey, are you there?”

  “I’m here,” she sang out. “But I’m done talking until you schedule a time to talk to me. Today. Or tomorrow, at the very latest.”

  “Well, that’s a bit of a problem, Nina. You see, I have an appointment with Regina Sutton’s office to provide a statement. And I’m sure she won’t want me talking to the press until afterward.”

  “What?” she shrieked. “You think you’re smart, don’t you Victoria?” Nina’s melodic tones had grown shrill. “She won’t want you talking to the press at all, and you know it, you b—”

  I cut off the call before I could discover what Nina had called me, though I had a pretty good idea. I also had a good idea of where to start now—to find out who was still in that building at midnight.

  • • •

  That morning in the restaurant kitchen, I found Tim in a place he normally avoided like the plague: the vegetable station. But there he was, happily tearing lettuce. And singing a Sinatra song while he did it. This behavior could mean only one thing, and that thing had long legs and red hair.

  I set the tray down on the butcher block worktable. “Morning, Tim.”

  “Morning, sunshine,” he called over his shoulder, and resumed his off-key version of “Summer Wind.”

  “Could you bring the volume down there, Chef?”

  He turned and shot me a sideways grin. “You don’t like Sinatra?”

  “Please. In my house, there was a Chairman of the Board long before there was a Boss. I love Sinatra. Which is why I’d like you to shut up.”

  Strangely, Tim did not take offense at this comment, and, in fact, stopped singing. His smile just grew broader.

  “Someone is awfully chipper this morning,” I said.

  Instead of answering, he handed me a box of plastic wrap. “Wanna cover that fruit, babe?”

  “I have not been your babe for years.” But I bet you’ve got somebody else lined up for that position, Trouvare.

  “And a shame it ’tis, lass,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

  Was it a shame? Or a blessing? Watching—okay, admiring—his tall, lean figure at the sink, I had to stifle a sigh of my own. I’d missed Tim in the time I’d been gone. And when I first came back home, it looked as though we might get close again. But he’d hurt me badly all those years ago, and the incident at the restaurant in May served as a vivid reminder of that time. “I suppose it is a shame,” I said quietly.

  Tim turned from the sink, his gray eyes serious. “Vic, you made it clear there was no chance for us,” he said. “And I’m trying to respect that.”

  “And move on, no doubt.” I smiled to let him know I was fine. (Am I fine?) “Given your unusually sunny mood this morning—singing, prepping vegetables without a complaint, not yelling at me to get out of your way—I’m assuming that you’ve been in touch with the lovely Lacey.”

  “Yes, I have. I’m seeing her tonight.”

  “Oh.” There was a big difference between thinking about Tim dating Lacey and knowing it for sure. “Well, good for you.” And then, without my permission, the words left my mouth: “She’s a little young—don’t you think?”

  This time he turned completely around to face me, resting his back against the sink with crossed arms. Not a good sign. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she’s twenty-eight.”

  And you’re thirty-six. “That makes her a veritable grown-up. I hope you’ll have a good time,” I said, trying hard to mean it.

  “Thank you,” he said, inclining his head as though he were a king pardoning a wayward subject. “I’m sure I will.”

  I stood with my hand on the kitchen door. “So, anyway, if you don’t need me in here, I’ll go help Lori in the dining room.”

  “Thanks, Vic, but you can go. I don’t need you.” And I left the kitchen with his words echoing in my ears.


  • • •

  Because we were busy, the lunch service flew by. Once I had time to catch my breath, I took a seat at the back table, poured myself a coffee, and forced my thoughts away from Tim and in a more promising direction—Elizabeth Merriman’s time of death. If Nina’s information was accurate, the crucial window of time was likely between midnight and one o’clock Sunday morning. I took out my crumpled list from this morning:

  • How far is beach path from platform? How to access it from building?

  • Who or what got her out there?

  • Is suicide a possibility?

  • How high is railing on platform? Had it been tampered with?

  • WHO WAS IN BUILDING BETWEEN 12 AND 1??????

  This was only a start. There were dozens of other questions. Who had motive? Dr. Chickie, for sure. Maybe Kate Bridges, as well. Who stood to gain by her death? Possibly Jack Toscano. The article about her death indicated she had no known relatives, but it was early days yet. Who knew who might come out of the woodwork with a claim on Merriman’s will? For that matter, who else might have a grudge against her? I shook my head. The field was wide open on that one.

  “There she is!” Hearing my father’s voice behind me, I shoved the list back into my apron pocket. But when I turned around, I saw that my dad wasn’t alone. “Look who’s here, honey,” my dad said. Standing next to him, bleary-eyed and unshaven, was my former orthodontist.

  “Uh, hi, Dr. Chickie,” I said. “Are you here for lunch? The kitchen’s closed, but I’m sure we can get you something.” I stood up in the flimsy hope that he’d come in for the Casa Lido’s famous pasta special and not for the services of its resident sleuth.

  Dr. Chickie shook his bald head sorrowfully. “I’m not here to eat, Victoria.”

  Of course you’re not. “Listen,” I said, “I think I know why you’re here—”

  “Honey, hear him out.” My dad gently pushed me back down in my chair, took a seat, and motioned for Dr. Chickie to do the same.

  “Thank you, Frank,” Chickie said. “Victoria, I know that you have to give Sutton a statement. And I know that you have to tell her the truth.”