The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery

by Rosie Genova

  “Maybe he’s a twelve-stepper himself?”

  “He was drinking a beer in the club bar.” I shook my head. “You know, Sofe, as I watched them together, I got the sense that Fox was somehow submissive to Toscano.”

  “You mean like Jack’s the big dog and William is the little one?”

  “Exactly. My instinct tells me that Fox needs Toscano more than Toscano needs him. But for what?”

  “Money?” Sofie asked. “Information?”

  “Or an exchange of one for the other. You’ve got me thinking. What if Toscano set out to get into Elizabeth’s good graces? What if he knew she was a wealthy widow and found out Fox used to work for her?” I pointed to a green sign on our right. “Don’t miss the parkway entrance.”

  But for some reason, she sailed right past it. “I’m going a different way. Back to Toscano,” she said. “You think that he found Fox and was paying him for information about Elizabeth?”

  “It’s a reasonable theory, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s a lot to base on two guys having a drink in a bar.”

  “Maybe. But we have to start somewhere.”

  “And I know just where that is,” Sofia said. “We’re gonna confirm whether or not our William Fox is the same one who worked for Elizabeth’s husband.”

  I held up my hand. “Oh no, you don’t. If Sutton finds out, I’m dead. Not to mention what my brother will do to us both for getting involved in this mess. I’ve already trespassed at the club, crossed a police line, and pocketed evidence. And I’m tired of lying to people, Sofe—” At which point my sister-in-law let out a giant yawn. “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I boring you?”

  She grinned and shook her head. “Well, actually, you are, but I’m also tired. C’mon, Vic. What harm would it do to talk to William Fox?”

  “He’d probably run right to Toscano with it. You said yourself that we need to watch out for him.”

  “I said that you need to watch out for him. He doesn’t know who I am. But you have a point.” Sofia made a sudden turn onto an unfamiliar road, her eyes fixed straight ahead while she spoke.

  It wasn’t until we passed a sign for Dover that I finally caught on. We were stopped at a light, giving me a clear view of the driver in front of us, and my stomach sank. “Sofia Theresa Delmonico Rienzi, are you following that car?”

  Her thick-lashed brown eyes widened in a semblance of innocence. “What car?”

  I pointed. “You know what car. The one in front of us with the little old man driving.”

  “What little old man?”

  “Cut it out, Sofe. There’s only one car and one old man; he’s got crazy hair and he’s stopped at the same light we are. Really, what do you plan to do? Track him to his house and ambush as him as he gets out of the car?”

  “Hmmm.” She raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad idea.”

  “It’s a terrible idea! Turn around right now and get us back to the Garden State Parkway so we can go home.”

  “Look, now we know he’s the Dover Township William Fox, right? I just want to see where he lives. Maybe look around a bit.” She tugged on the brim of her cap. “After all, we’re dressed for it.”

  “And I suppose you’ve forgotten what happened to us last time?”

  “Oh, last time was no big deal,” Sofia said, dismissing me with a lazy wave of her hand.

  “No big deal? Do I have to remind you that we were almost killed?” I shivered at the memory of how my last “adventure” had ended. “I should never have gotten myself into this. I don’t care if Dr. Chickie spends the next twenty years in Rahway Prison.”

  “Yes, you do. And you can’t help yourself; you want to solve the puzzle.” She leaned close to the steering wheel and squinted through the front window. “YRB-763. Write it down.”

  Though I was skeptical, I wrote down the number anyway. The light changed, and we both moved through the intersection, Sofia keeping a respectable distance behind Fox’s car. “You really think Danny’s going to run a check on his license for you?”

  She grinned. “If I ask nicely enough. And I know lots of ways to ask nice.”

  At that moment, Fox put on his left signal, and Sofia increased her speed slightly. “This area’s more residential,” she said. “He’s gotta live around here somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “This is crazy. It’s a risk. What if he’s a nut job?”

  “He’s one little old guy. I can take him myself if I have to.” She hesitated. “Vic, I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought there was any real danger. Especially now.”

  “What do you mean, ‘especially now’?”

  She hesitated before she spoke. “Just that Danny and I are really working on things, and I don’t want to him mad at me.”

  We passed two residential blocks, but Fox’s signal still blinked. “I don’t want him mad at me, either—that’s why I think we should turn around and go home.”

  “We will, as soon as we get a look at Fox’s house. You can learn a lot about a person that way. That is, if he ever makes this turn.”

  When Fox finally turned, Sofia slowed down, putting an extra car length between our vehicles. He lived only a few houses in; we waited until he pulled into his driveway, and then drove past slowly. “Watch out the back window,” Sofia said. “Let me know when he goes in. Do you think he noticed us?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it. He just went inside,” I said. “And now the lights are going off.”

  “Great.” Sofia made a k-turn and we cruised past the house to get a better look. “He’s not exactly livin’ large, is he?” she said.

  “No.” I looked at the sad little house with its missing roof shingles and broken sidewalk, the plastic flowers stuck in a window box. There were old newspapers, still in their plastic bags, littering his front walk. “The poor guy,” I whispered. “If he’s the same William Fox who worked for Merriman, he sure has come down in the world.”

  “Well, that’s what we need to find out.”

  “Don’t you think we’ve found out enough for tonight? Let’s get out of here before anybody sees us.”

  But Sofia was already parking the car. Facing the intersection, I noted, no doubt for a clean getaway. “Just hang on a minute, okay?” she said. “There’s nothing illegal about sitting in a car on a quiet street on a summer evening.”

  “Yes, but you won’t leave it at that. In about thirty seconds you’re going to suggest that we get out of the car on this lovely summer evening and snoop around this poor guy’s house.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said, turning off the ignition.

  “Guess what, Sofe? Trespassing is a bad thing!”

  But as usual, Sofia wasn’t listening. “Look,” she said, “His garage door is open. And notice how far the garage is from the house.”

  “Not as far as we’re gonna be when you start that car back up. Let’s get out of here, please.”

  “All in good time, my pretty.” She handed me my ball cap. “Put this on.”

  I groaned. “What could possibly be in that old man’s garage that would help us with this case?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out. Would you mind getting the flashlight out of the glove box, please?”

  At the mention of the flashlight, I had a terrible sense of déjà vu. The last time we’d, um, explored, using Sofia’s flashlight, we’d ended up facing down an angry cop. “I will get the flashlight,” I said, “but I’m not leaving this car until we come up with a reasonably plausible story for why we’re here if we get caught.” I set the flashlight on the seat and turned to my sister-in-law. “Well, Watson?”

  “First, I’m not Watson. Second, I have a story all ready. Put your hat on and I’ll tell you.”

  I sighed and put the ball cap back on, tucking my ponytail inside. “Okay, boss. Disguise in place.”

  She nodded. “Very good. So here’s what we’ll say if William Fox or any of his neighbors sees us on the property: We’re lost.”
>
  “We’re lost? That’s it? And how do we explain the black ninja clothes and hats? The flashlight? Our presence in this old guy’s garage at ten thirty at night?” I pointed to her dashboard, my voice rising. “And look, a state-of-the-art navigation system. I’m pretty sure we’re lost isn’t going to cut it!”

  “Will you keep your voice down? Look, we can sit here all night and argue or we can learn something. I’m thinking William Fox is in a deep snooze by now. That garage is wide open; he parked in the driveway, so we can duck behind his car. We’ll do it fast—in, out, and back in the car. Five minutes, tops.” She held out her hand. “Are you in?”

  “I’m in, but I’m not shaking on it,” I said, slapping her hand away. I looked up and down the deserted street. There were few lights on around the neighboring houses, and no street lights. Maybe we could take a chance on a quick look in that garage.

  “C’mon,” she said. “And be quiet when you close the car door.”

  My stomach churned as we stepped out of the car. I wish I hadn’t sampled so much of that veal, I thought. Sofia led the way, staying to the sidewalk until we came to the apron of Fox’s driveway. The overhead garage door was stuck in place, and for a moment I indulged in frightening fantasies of us being trapped inside or, worse, getting whacked on the head with that door. Sofia, who knew me well, grabbed my arm. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We’ll go quick. I won’t turn the light on till we’re all the way inside.”

  Our sneakers crunched on the loose gravel, setting my heart pounding. We ducked behind his car and slipped inside the garage. I scurried behind Sofia, who trained her light inside. It was clear why Fox had parked in his driveway: there wasn’t an inch of room in the garage. Stacks of newspapers and magazines covered two of the walls. Open cardboard boxes of tools, chipped dishes, and all manner of junk lined the cement floor. There were old bicycles, garden tools, and a rusted red wagon. Had it belonged to one of his children? The sight of it filled me with sadness and not a little remorse. We were intruding, not only on his property, but into his personal life.

  “Holy crap,” Sophia whispered, running the light around the walls and floor. “This place is a hoarder’s paradise.”

  I grabbed her arm. “Clearly we’re not going to learn anything here, Sofe. Let’s just go.”

  “Not yet, Vic. Can’t you hang on a minute?” She aimed the light at the far wall, revealing several rectangular objects. “C’mon, let’s check these out.”

  As we got closer, the rectangles proved to be plaques, haphazardly tacked to the back wall. I squinted. Each one bore a logo with a stylized M. “They’re from Merriman,” I whispered. “Awards of some kind.”

  “So, he’s the right William Fox,” Sofia said. She shifted the light. “This one is for twenty-five years of service.”

  “He must have started there as a young man,” I said.

  “Think about it, Vic,” Sofia said. “You work at a place for all those years and suddenly somebody pushes you out. That’s gotta be tough. Then your whole personal life falls apart. You’d be mighty pissed—maybe even angry enough to kill somebody.”

  “But why wait twenty years?” I whispered.

  “What does it matter? He was there that night,” she insisted.

  “So were a whole lot of other people.” I looked around nervously. “Turn off the light so we can get out of here, please.”

  She linked her arm through mine and grinned. “C’mon, scaredy-cat. Sofia will take care of you.”

  I ducked under the lowered garage door with a hammering heart and a disturbed conscience. We sprinted for Sofia’s car. I had my door open, one foot already inside, when I heard his voice.

  “Are you ladies looking for me?” William Fox asked.

  Sofia and I turned slowly, simultaneously, just as though we’d choreographed the move. Fox stood on the sidewalk in his pajamas and bathrobe, his hair so wild I expected him to begin a lecture on relativity. I braced myself for the inquisition: Who were we? What were we doing here? Did we know trespassing was a crime? But instead, William Fox did a curious thing—he smiled.

  “Please excuse my attire,” he said. “I sometimes like a nice breath of air before I go to sleep.”

  And if he’d decided to take that breath about two minutes earlier, my sister-in-law and I might be occupying the back of a police car right now. But I was holding my breath too tightly to even exhale with relief.

  “So,” Fox said, “is there anything I can help you with?”

  Gee, I don’t know, William. Unless you’d like to confess to the murder of Elizabeth Merriman. “I—” I began to say, but Sofia pressed sharply on the toe of my sneaker with her dainty foot.

  “We’re so sorry to disturb you,” Sofia said. “But we heard you speak at the meeting tonight. And—you’ll forgive us if we don’t introduce ourselves?”

  At this, William Fox beamed. “Of course,” he said, nodding. “Are you looking for a sponsor; is that it?”

  “I’m not,” Sofia said, beaming back brightly, “but my friend here is.”

  I turned to Sofia indignantly, my mouth open wide enough for Dr. Chickie to do some follow-up work. Still smiling, she said, “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Mr.—er, William—understands.”

  “I certainly do,” he said. “But I’m already sponsoring a candidate.” He cocked his head and seemed to be studying my face. Oh, please don’t be a reader of mysteries, I thought. My photo was on the back of all my books. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle. “You know,” he said, “at the meeting, they did put out a call for those who need sponsors—”

  “She’s shy,” Sofia interrupted.

  “I understand,” William Fox said. “But it would probably be best for your friend to attend another meeting.”

  “No!” I said, my voice panicky. “I mean, thank you, really, you’ve been very kind about us showing up unannounced”—I shot Sofia a look—“but I think I’d like to go about this my own way.”

  He nodded. “Well, we all have to find our way, don’t we? And now I’ll bid you ladies good night.” He turned, lifted one hand, and shuffled back down the sidewalk.

  My hand shook as I reached for the car door. The minute I pulled it shut, I turned to Sofia. “Are you crazy?” I exploded. “You just identified me as an alcoholic!”

  “It’s anonymous, Vic. Calm down.” Sofia started the car and smoothly pulled away from the curb, her hands steady on the wheel.

  “You’re not even nervous,” I said. “It’s unnatural.”

  She shrugged. “I’d make a great cop. Wish your brother saw it that way.” She glanced in the mirror. “Is that Fox still outside?”

  “Who else with Albert Einstein hair would be standing outside in his bathrobe and pajamas?”

  “Ooh, sarcasm. Watch it there, SIL.”

  “Sorry,” I said with a sigh. “I just feel bad about doing this tonight. The meeting, snooping in his garage—all of it.”

  I dug the card from my pocket, my eye drawn to one of the twelve steps on the list: “We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.” Stung by the words, I wondered what I’d find in a moral inventory of my own. As I watched William Fox’s figure grow smaller in the distance, I regretted ever getting involved with the mystery of Elizabeth Merriman’s death.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Saturday, there was a small item in the paper about Merriman’s wake and funeral. I toyed briefly with the idea of going, but since my “moral inventory” was coming up short these days, I changed my mind. I’d have no reason to go there except my own curiosity. How might Toscano act, for example? Would he sit up front as “family,” meeting and greeting people who’d come to pay their respects? Or would some long-lost relative appear to fulfill that role? Would William Fox show up? Belmont Club employees? Dr. Chickie? In my books, Bernardo often attends the funerals of the victims, and usually learns something incriminating from one of the mourners. I thought about my worldly-wise detective in his linen
suits and trademark Panama hat; lately I’d begun to wish he were real, as I could use all the help I could get.

  I biked down to the restaurant along the boardwalk so I could lose myself in the sight and sounds of the ocean, because it often it helped me think. Elizabeth Merriman had been dead a week. I had a pretty good idea of when, how, and where she died. Dr. Chickie and William Fox each had motive and a history with the victim. Kate Bridges, while no fan of Elizabeth’s, didn’t appear to have a clear connection to her or an obvious motive. And Jack Toscano, who by all reports was close to the victim, may have gained by her death. All four were on the scene that evening. Had one of them killed her? Or was there someone else at the reception, a staffer or a guest still unknown to us, who took an opportunity to murder an old enemy? Because one thing was clear: Not one person surrounding this case had a good thing to say about Elizabeth Merriman. And that left the field wide open.

  I brought my bike around to the back of the restaurant, as Nonna had indicated that my battered old Schwinn was an eyesore and I shouldn’t leave it in front. I also wanted to see if Cal’s truck was in the parking lot, but the only vehicles were Lori’s minivan and Tim’s motorcycle. So Tim was riding it again, most likely as a way to show off for Lacey. I came in through the kitchen, where Tim was working on lunch prep.

  “Hey,” he said, without looking up from his work.

  I peeked over his shoulder to see him using a meat rub made with Nonna’s dried herbs. “Short ribs, right?”

  “Yup.”

  “Are you making them over orzo? With carrots? I love them that way.”

  “Right again.” He turned and gave me a grin. “You’re learning, Vic.”

  “I try,” I said, but my cheeks were warm from the compliment. “Maybe one of these days I can actually cook something.”

  “Maybe. But in the meantime, you mind heading to the pantry and getting me more dried thyme? You know what thyme looks like, right?”