by Rosie Genova
• • •
“Wow.” Sofia let out a long breath on that one syllable. “That is some story.”
We were sitting in Sofia’s office at the back of the dance studio; we’d each finished our workdays and had our sore feet propped on either side of her desk.
A water bottle and an open container of yogurt sat in front of her. “She must have been terrified.” Sofia said. “And desperate.”
“Those were exactly the words that came to my mind. But I’m still shocked that Nonna ended up with that responsibility.” I shook my head. “And it makes me furious at Merriman.”
“But to have to give up her baby, Vic,” she said softly. “How awful.”
“I know. But young Elisabetta and the adult Elizabeth Merriman seem to be two distinct people.”
Sofia pointed her yogurt spoon at me. “You see her that way, and that’s a mistake. She’s both the scared pregnant teenager and the miserable old lady. The question is: Which of them is the one this case turns on?”
“You’re right, and I think once we figure that out, we’ll have a better idea of who wanted her dead.”
“But do you really think that Elizabeth Merriman’s long-lost kid showed up and shoved her over that seawall to collect an inheritance?” She shook her head. “I’m having trouble wrapping my mind around that one.”
“C’mon, Sofe. You’re usually the skeptic.”
“I don’t know, Vic. To kill your own mother for money?”
“Okay, do you read the paper? It happens all the time. It’s horrible, but there it is. People might do anything where that much money’s involved. Danny even said that about Dr. Chickie.”
At the mention of my brother’s name, a pained look appeared on Sofia’s face. I held up my hand. “I’m not trying to introduce the subject of Danny. Really.”
“I know.” She looked sad for a moment, then straightened up in her chair and rapped on the folder. “Right now we have things other than my personal life to take care of.” She grabbed a pencil and a legal pad. “First,” she said, “we need to find out the name of that charity hospital. Was it in Atlantic City?”
“Nonna was a bit vague on that point. But what good would it do to find out about that hospital? It probably closed years ago, and will we be able get our hands on sixty-year-old medical records?”
“I was thinking there might be somebody who worked there who would remember Elizabeth.”
“They’d be over ninety. At the very least,” I said.
But Sofia was stubborn. “I still say it’s a place to start.” She thought for a moment. “I can’t shake the feeling that this case has deep roots. Even if I could imagine Dr. Chickie as a murderer, which I can’t, his involvement with Merriman is too recent. I think that the reason she was killed goes way back.”
“I agree. How far back? Back to Elisabetta Caprio, pregnant with Tommy Romano’s baby? Back to the widowed CEO who reinvents herself as a country-club matron? Or back six months, to the day Jack Toscano showed up in Belmont Beach?”
Sofia’s head snapped up. “He’s the right age, isn’t he? What color are his eyes?”
“I’ve never seen them.” My mouth opened ever so slowly as the light dawned. “The dark glasses. Oh my God, he said he’d had surgery, eye surgery. Merriman had bad eyes. Can you inherit eye conditions?”
Sofia was writing furiously. “I think so. Something else to look up.” She stopped writing, but still gripped her pencil. “Hey, how old did you say the crazy pastry chef was?”
“Kate Bridges? I don’t know exactly. She looked maybe late fifties or so. It was hard to tell with all the makeup.” I flashed on Kate’s painted face, remembered the dark brows and false eyelashes—and something else, as well. “Her eyes are blue, Sofe.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“But having the same eye color can be coincidental, and it doesn’t necessarily prove anything. The baby’s eye color might have changed, and, unfortunately, we can’t go around snipping people’s hair or swabbing their spit for DNA tests.”
“Too bad.”
I grinned at Sofia. “I could just see you with a pair of scissors and ziplock bags, sneaking up behind our suspects.”
She pointed her pencil at me. “Hey, don’t give me ideas.” She stopped to take a small spoonful of yogurt and a sip of water, but it was an effort for her. She seemed thinner to me, and she still lacked her usual healthy color.
“You still feeling crappy?” I asked.
She nodded. “The heat’s been messing with my appetite.” She looked away from me, her glance falling on the red folder. “Oh my gosh. I almost forgot this.” She pulled a sheet from the folder and handed it to me. “The story about Elizabeth knocked everything else out of my head. Do you recognize him?”
I was holding a mug shot of a long-haired bearded man of about thirty. It wasn’t a particularly intelligent face; he was sporting a purple shiner on one eye and an expression of hurt surprise. He’d been arrested for assault in 2010. I handed the paper back. “It’s none other than Dennis Doyle, the happy bridegroom. And it also explains something Brenda Natale said the night of the wedding—that Dennis had some trouble a couple of years ago.”
“So, what do you think?” Sofia asked.
“Are you asking if it’s important that he’s got a record? I’m not sure. He struck me as a great big teddy bear. Roberta leads him around by the nose.”
She tapped the mug shot. “But he was arrested for assault. That means he’s got a history of violence.”
“But I’d like to know if there was a conviction. What were the circumstances?” I made a note to ask Danny, but whether he would check on it for me was a crapshoot. “He’s got a black eye in the mug shot, so maybe he was defending himself.”
“Maybe. But we can’t ignore the simple fact that a guy with an assault record was on the scene of a murder.”
“True. And he did make a point to tell me that he and his in-laws left that reception at eleven thirty. He claimed that Elizabeth was still in her office when they pulled out of the parking lot. But Sally the bartender said she saw Dr. Chickie at eleven forty-five.”
“Now, that’s interesting. Did he lie? Or was he confused about the time?” She looked at the mug shot again. “Dennis has blue eyes, Vic.”
“Too young to be her son.”
Sofia threw me a do you really think I’m that stupid? look. “I was thinking grandson, Vic. What if he tracked her down and knew she was rich?”
“But that would mean that one of Dennis’s parents is the missing child.”
“Exactly,” Sofia said. “I wonder if one of them was adopted.”
Then I remembered something. “I don’t know about that, but Brenda did mention that the dad is dead. I’m not sure if that’s significant or not.”
“Hmm. It might be,” Sofia said. “Let’s say the Doyle father is Elizabeth’s kid. Maybe he never tried to find his birth mother. Or he knew about her but didn’t want to see her. But Dennis is curious, and once his dad passes, he does a little investigating himself. Don’t you see, Vic? Losing his father might have prompted him to find out more about his history.”
“Possibly. But this is all based on assumptions: The Doyle father is the missing child. Dennis Doyle is violent enough to kill an old lady. He has a wedding reception in the very club his biological grandmother presides over. He sees an opportunity to get rich and leads his own grandmother down the beach path to her death. Then he gives himself an alibi for eleven thirty.”
“But this could all be true!” Sofia insisted.
“Maybe.”
“Okay, how do you explain the blue eyes? I don’t know a whole lot about genetics, but I do know that blue eyes aren’t as common as brown. Yet we’ve got a blue-eyed victim, and at least two people—Kate Bridges and Doyle—both with blue eyes and both on the scene. If Toscano’s eyes are blue, he makes a third.”
I shook my head. “It’s still all supposition. And wild guesses.”<
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Sofia slapped her palm down on the desk. “And that’s how we’ll eventually get to the truth—by taking crazy guesses. Can we really ignore Dennis Doyle’s arrest or the color of his eyes?”
“No. But we need more information.”
“Exactly. So you’ll talk to Dennis?”
It’s not like I hadn’t seen this coming. “Oh, sure, Sofe. And I know just what I’ll ask him. ‘Hey, Dennis, can you fill me in on that assault arrest? Is one of your parents adopted? Oh, and did you shove Elizabeth Merriman off a two-story platform?’ That’ll be a fruitful interview.”
“So maybe you won’t talk to Dennis. But what about Mrs. Natale? You can go there with the excuse you’re helping Dr. Chickie.”
“By accusing her son-in-law of murder? How is that helping?”
She patted my hand. “I trust you to be subtle.”
“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt to talk to her. She might be disposed to talk about Dennis’s family. And his ‘trouble,’” I said. I also might learn about the relationship between Dennis and his new father-in-law. Was it possible that he could have killed Elizabeth to protect Dr. Chickie? Without a father himself, he might have grown close to his father-in-law. Or maybe his motives weren’t so pure. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of his name being linked to that of an accused embezzler, and decided to eliminate the accuser.
But before I could tell Sofia, she stood up abruptly, her face deathly pale. She swallowed hard and held up a finger. “Excuse me. Be right back,” she said, and hurried out of her office toward the bathroom. I gave her a minute and then followed. Outside the door, I heard retching sounds. Feeling sneaky and dishonest, I pressed my ear to it, heard the toilet flush, water running in the sink, then a soft sound that might have been crying. My own stomach lurched in sympathy.
“Sofie, you okay?” I finally called, but she didn’t answer. The hell with privacy, I thought, and pushed open the door. She was brushing her teeth gingerly, as though she didn’t want to gag. She rinsed her mouth and looked over at me. “Are you okay?” I asked again.
She nodded, but she was still pale. She straightened up, gripping the sides of the sink. “Just in case you’re wondering, I don’t have an eating disorder.”
“I know that.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “You look like crap. And you’re not the type. Are you sick?”
Sofia turned her face to me; there were circles under her eyes and her face was drawn. But there was a ghost of a grin on her face. “You’re a little slow on the uptake there, detective.”
“Oh my God!” My hand flew to my mouth. “You’re not—”
Sofia pushed a strand of hair off her sweaty forehead, looked me straight in the eye, and nodded slowly. “I am.”
Chapter Fourteen
At the news, a rush of feeling spread through my entire body. My cheeks got warm; my hands and feet tingled. A baby—there was going to be a baby, and I would be an aunt. But behind the joy was a whisper of loss: You wish it were you, it said, and then faded to silence.
I went straight to her, wrapping my arms around her thin frame. “I’m so glad,” I said, my throat tight. I stepped back and wiped my eyes. “Some solver of mysteries I am. I thought you had a stomach bug.”
She wet her face again, dried it with a towel, and shook her head. “Not me. I think I knew from the moment of conception.”
“How far are you?”
“About seven weeks.”
I counted backward and grinned. “So you and Danny did get close after our little adventure in May.” I grabbed both her hands. “Oh my God, what did Danny say? Is he over the moon? I’m so happy for you guys, I can’t stand it! Good Lord, can you imagine Nicolina and Frank as grandparents?” The longer I babbled, the stonier Sofia’s face grew. I dropped her hands, thinking I was squeezing them too hard. “Sofie? Are you okay? I mean, Danny’s happy about the baby, right?”
“Danny doesn’t know about the baby, Vic. My parents know. And now you, but that’s all.” She took one of my hands back and gripped it. “And you can’t tell him. You have to promise me.”
“Of course. It’s not my place to tell him, but—”
“But what?”
“He’s your husband.”
“We’re separated. We’re still trying to work things out. And this—” She pressed her hand to her abdomen. “This complicates things.”
“For God’s sake, Sofe, it’s not a complication, it’s a baby.” I studied her face. “Are you happy about it?”
She blinked, her dark eyes brimming with tears. “I’m thrilled about the baby,” she whispered. “But I’m worried. Danny and I aren’t even living together right now.”
“He’d be back in a heartbeat, and you know it.”
“I know. But I want us to reconcile for the right reasons.” She grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “He was just coming around to the idea of me applying for the police academy. Once he knows I’m pregnant, all bets will be off.”
I took both her hands. “I know this is important to you, but you have to shift your focus to the baby, at least for right now. The police academy is not going anywhere. You can always apply when the baby’s older.”
“Oh, really? How supportive do you think your brother will be once the baby comes? There is no way he’d go along with both of us on the job with a child in the picture. He’d never take that risk. And I don’t see Mr. Macho Man giving up his job. Do you?”
“No, I don’t. But he loves you, and he wants you to be happy. I’m sure the two of you can work out a compromise—”
“It’s easy for you to say, Vic,” Sofia snapped. “You’re single. You’re a writer with a cool New York apartment and you can come and go as you please. So you’re tired of writing mysteries, and boom”—she snapped her fingers—“you’re back in Oceanside, working on a history of the family. Everybody in town wants your autograph, and you have two guys chasing after you!” She plopped down on the closed lid of the toilet, still sniffling.
I grinned, even though she was in no mood to smile back. “You make it sound so glamorous.” I knelt in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “For one thing, no one has asked for my autograph except Gale the librarian. And, yes, I have a cool apartment, but it gets a little lonely sometimes. And as for the guys, Tim’s busy with the lovely Lacey, and I think Cal’s given up on me.” I pulled her gently to her feet. “You, on the other hand, have a man who’s crazy about you; more than that, he’s committed to you. And he’ll make an amazing father.”
She nodded, the tears spilling down her face. In all the years I’d known my sister-in-law, I’d rarely seen her cry. “I know he will. I just feel like I can’t tell him yet.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, SIL, but for you to be in this interesting condition, Danny had to have been there. Didn’t he know there was, shall we say, a malfunction?”
She sniffled and shook her head. “The ‘malfunction’ was on my end. And I only realized it afterward, and didn’t think to mention it to him.”
“Well, I think you’re gonna have to mention it to him soon.” I handed her a fresh tissue and tugged at her hand. “Now can we get out of this bathroom, please?”
“Yes,” she said, and blew her nose with a loud honk. “I spend way too much time in here as it is.”
Back in her office, Sofia wanted to get back to the case, but I put the red folder aside. “We’ll talk about this stuff later. How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She sipped her water slowly. “The doctor says this can go on for a while, though.” She took a packet of crackers from her desk and nibbled at one, taking careful bites.
“You’re not even two months along, right?” I asked.
“Right. That’s also why I don’t want to tell Danny just yet.” She rested her hand on her nonexistent belly. “It’s too early.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“No.” She let out a sigh. “While it’s still a secret, I feel like I have some control of the situation.”
“Control? Are you kidding? Your mother knows. Do you really think that Lucia Delmonico will allow you any say in this?” Sofia’s mother was a fifty-year-old version of my sister-in-law—sharp-witted, feisty, and strikingly attractive. And someone you didn’t want to cross.
“I had to tell her, Vic. I was so sick and I was scared. But she’s driving me crazy, calling me, texting me. Not only that, she’s threatening to move back to Oceanside!” Sofia shook her head. “And you know how well she and Nicolina get along.”
I winced as I imagined the two mothers-in-law occupying the same state, let alone the same town. My mom tended to blame Sofia for the couple’s troubles; Lucia was certain Danny was at fault. And once that baby came, all maternal hell would break loose with those two crazy women fighting over their grandchild. No wonder Sofia wanted to keep the news to herself for a while.
“What does your dad say?” I asked.
“Not much.” She smiled. “You know my dad.”
“Yes, I do.” I’d never heard Dave Delmonico string more than three words together in any conversation. My mom always said that Lucia and Sofie did enough talking for all of them.
“Listen, Sofe,” I said, “I understand this must be hard for you. But everything else aside, Danny is the baby’s father. He has a right to know.” I took her hand. “I will keep my promise to you, but once you pass the two-month mark, will you tell Danny?”
“Okay.” Her tone was resigned. “But you know that once I tell him, he’s gonna be giving me a really hard time about this.” She pointed to the red folder.
“I didn’t even think of that. He wouldn’t be too happy to know that my future niece or nephew had already accompanied us on our adventure the other night.” I grinned. “You know those baby books where you keep track of their first haircut, their first word, etc.? Yours will have a page for first stakeout.”