by Rosie Genova
Why was she willing to let us stay? She didn’t seem to need her ego stroked, despite Tim’s flattery. Chef Massimo had talked about her passion for her work; maybe she wanted to share it with an audience. As I watched her clownish face furrow in concentration, I had a different thought. Did she suspect we were here for a different reason? One that had to do with Merriman’s death? Maybe she was simply trying to figure out how much we knew. Whatever her reasons, I had one chance to move the conversation in one of two directions: the night of the murder and her fight with Elizabeth or her own past. Which would get us thrown out faster?
Kate worked on the pastry with mechanical precision, folding it and then smacking it down again with her hands. As she worked—fold, smack, fold, smack—the sweat beaded across her forehead and her breathing was labored. She was tiring quickly. I didn’t know much about puff pastry (except that it made a mess when I crunched down on it) but Kate was working up a sweat with it. I opened my mouth to ask her about it, but Tim shook his head.
“Have you always wanted to work in pastry, Chef?” he asked.
Kate grunted in assent, grabbed a towel, and swiped it across her forehead, leaving a streak of orange makeup behind. “I started out doing deliveries for a bakery. Then worked my way inside the kitchen.”
Thank you, Tim, for that opening. “Were you young? When you started, I mean?” Both heads swiveled in my direction; both faces bore the same expression: Who invited you?
But Kate answered me. “I was fifteen when I worked there.”
“I was about that age when I was bussing tables at the Casa Lido,” Tim said.
“I worked there every summer,” I piped up, but neither of them paid attention.
“Where were you trained, Chef?” Tim asked.
“Paris,” she said. “And New York,” she said breathlessly.
“Wow,” I said. “How does a kid who starts out working in a bakery end up in Paris?”
Kate looked up from her work, her arms rigid. “What do you mean?”
“Oh. Just that it’s sort of a huge leap. I mean, that was an amazing opportunity for you.”
Her eyes shifted to Tim, the dough, and back to me. “Yeah,” was all she said.
I had to push the conversation in a more personal direction; it would be a strain, but probably the only chance I’d have to learn anything about Kate’s past. Without looking at Tim, I took the plunge. “You must have gotten a lot of support from your parents.”
Her hands tightened on the wooden pin. Tim mouthed What the hell? over her head, and the silence that followed hung like dark cloud. When she spoke, her tone was deadly. “What do my parents have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Just . . .” My voice trailed off at the sight of her face. Her painted-on brows smudged from sweat. Her eyes darkened in fury. The orange make-up streaked, her face yellow pale in the places she’d wiped it clean, the lipstick that made her mouth look bruised. What had Sally said about Kate? That there was something off about her. And that was especially true at this moment.
“That’s right,” she said. “Nothing. And that’s what I have for the two of you. Nothing. Now get the hell out of my kitchen.”
“Sorry, Chef,” Tim started to say, but she stopped him with a warning hand. I backed away from the counter, spun around, and pushed through the kitchen doors into the hallway. The car was parked out back, but I took the long way around through the front of the building. There’d be hell to pay when Tim caught up with me. But I would happily deal with it.
While I hadn’t learned anything definite, one thing was clear: The mention of Kate’s parents had caused her to react with anger and possibly a hint of fear. Why? Was she adopted? Or had she been abandoned? Was she, in fact, Elizabeth Merriman’s biological child? If so, she stood to gain a fortune from her death.
Tim was waiting for me when I got to the car; I steeled myself for a lecture, but he was strangely quiet. He had pulled off his bandanna, leaving his curls askew. For just a second, he was my Tim again, and I had to sit on my hands not to touch him.
“Look,” I said, “I know you put yourself on the line for me today. But I did find out something that may be important.”
“Good for you.” His hands rested on the wheel, but he didn’t start the car. He sat unmoving, staring out the front window. Finally he turned to me, his expression dark. “You know that was stupid, right?” he said softly.
“I know, Tim. She might have been somebody who could help you in your career, and now we’ve alienated her—”
His hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes widened. “Is that what you think I’m upset about? Myself?” He shook his head. “You have some opinion of me, Vic.”
“Well, why are you upset? I don’t understand.”
He pointed to the building behind us. “In case you haven’t noticed, that woman in there is a psycho. I don’t know why you had to ask her about her parents. For all you know, she could have been the one who killed Merriman, and you just pissed her off big time.”
He was worried about me. A strange thrill took hold of me as the truth dawned: Tim was actually putting me ahead of himself. I rested my hand on his arm, and at least he didn’t shake me off. “I don’t intend to have anything else to do with her,” I said. “And I won’t come anywhere near the Belmont Club ever, ever again.” Unless I get married someday. But that was a thought best kept to myself.
He patted my hand and sighed. “You have to cut it out with this investigation BS. Stick to the books, okay? You can solve as many mysteries as you want in them.”
With that, the moment was broken, as Tim climbed back on his high horse of condescension and I bit back a retort: Thanks for your permission, boss. He started the car, and as we left the lot, a sleek black car was pulling in. A late-model Lincoln, it slowed as it passed us. The driver and I turned simultaneously, and I looked into the dark face of Jack Toscano.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, I woke to a vibrating phone and a voice mail. When I saw that it was my favorite reporter, I held it as far away from my ear as possible. “Hell-o, Victoria!” The trill of Nina LaGuardia’s not so dulcet tones cut through my quiet morning. “Just calling to let you know that late last evening, Dr. Charles Natale was arrested for embezzling funds from the Belmont Country Club. He should be released on bail later today. Be sure to call me back with a comment. Toodles!”
I erased the message, but this was one development that would not go away. Poor Dr. Chickie. So the wheels of justice had turned after all. But his arrest wasn’t a surprise—except perhaps to Brenda. I had to hope he’d pay back the money and get a lighter or suspended sentence. The real concern, however, was Dr. C.’s now-obvious motive for murder. He claimed that when he’d left Elizabeth at eleven forty-five, she was still alive in her office. Sally, at least, could corroborate the time. Was there someone else still in the club who’d seen Elizabeth alive after Dr. C. left? Assuming Dr. Natale had told me the truth yesterday. And what of Toscano and Kate? Sally saw Kate leave at eleven thirty, when Elizabeth was still alive. But where was Toscano between eleven and twelve that night? And how could I get that information without arousing his suspicions?
• • •
When I got to the Casa Lido later that morning, I started by checking the phone messages. There were two asking about reservations. But the third one had nothing to do with the restaurant.
“This is a message for Victoria Rienzi,” said a man’s voice in a deep whisper. “Be careful. Please.” And then silence.
The caller ID read “private number.” I played the message three times, and each time it unnerved me more than the last. I didn’t recognize the voice, but there was a slight sibilance on the “s” sounds in “message” and “please.” Had I heard that sound in a voice recently? I scribbled down the reservation information and erased the messages. I did not want Mama Nicolina hearing it; she worried enough as it was. Who was trying to warn me? The voice didn’t sound threatening, but t
hat didn’t mean the person wasn’t a threat. It was clearly a man, and the first man who came to mind was Toscano. He’d seen me at the club again yesterday. Had he left this warning in the guise of one who was concerned? Or was the person genuinely concerned about me? That “please” at the end of the message wasn’t Toscano’s style. Could it have been Dennis Doyle?
But my thoughts were interrupted by an entrance from my mother, this one more dramatic than usual. “Oh, honey,” she said breathlessly as she came in the door, “they’ve arrested Dr. Chickie.”
“I heard, Mom.” I gave her a quick kiss. “But he’ll be getting out on bail, right?”
She nodded, and I could see that she’d been crying. “Poor Brenda,” she said. “I can’t even imagine what this must be like for her.”
“I think she’s pretty tough. She seemed to be holding it together yesterday.”
“I don’t know why you had to go over there, hon.”
“I needed to clear up a few things.”
“You do not need to clear up anything,” she said, shaking her finger from side to side like a metronome. “That’s a job for the police and the prosecutor. I won’t have you involved in this, Victoria.”
Thank God I erased that message. “Mom, as I’ve noted a dozen times already, I am involved in it.”
“Not to this extent. Running around and asking questions that could get you in trouble, or worse. And I know Sofia is egging you on. What if you tipped off the real murderer?” She grabbed my upper arm in an Italian Death Grip.
I pried her fingers loose and patted her hand before giving it back to her. “Mom, Sofia and I are just gathering information.” If my mother only knew the information Sofia was sitting on. I felt a small rush of warmth at the thought of the new baby.
“What are you smiling at?” my mother asked. “This is not funny.”
“I’m not laughing, I promise. And I’m not doing anything dangerous.” I hope.
“I still don’t understand something, honey. I know you have to talk to Prosecutor Sutton, but in the meantime, why can’t you just leave it all alone?”
It was a good question, and one to which I hadn’t given much thought. Why couldn’t I leave it alone? Dr. Chickie was already in custody; he was likely to serve time. If he were innocent of murder, as I believed, Sutton’s team would find that out. And if Toscano, Kate, Dennis Doyle, or someone still unknown to us was guilty, they’d find that out, too. So what was I doing? More importantly, why was I doing it?
Oh, cara, said the voice of Bernardo Vitali, the truth is closer to you than you are aware. But which truth, Bernardo? The truth of the murder? Or my own motives for getting involved in it? Both were pretty murky right now. I looked at my mother’s worried face and gave her a quick hug.
“What was that for?” she asked, rearranging her mussed curls. But she was smiling and her cheeks were pink.
“Just because.”
“Victoria, promise me you’ll be careful. Please,” she said, using exactly the same words as the unknown caller.
“I promise, Mom.” It was one I prayed I could keep.
• • •
Today’s special was vegetable lasagna al forno, made with produce from the garden and thin sheets of Tim’s fresh pasta. As usual, much of the vegetable prep fell to me, but today’s dish required some skills I wasn’t sure I possessed. All the veggies had to be sliced one quarter inch in thickness, and in approximately the same-sized pieces so they would roast evenly. At least focusing on the vegetables helped me put that unnerving phone call to the back of my mind. I pulled the zucchini ribbon from the mandoline, wondering if it would pass muster with my grandmother. As I was studying it, Lori stuck her head inside the kitchen.
“Hey, Vic, there’s a guy out there asking for you.”
“I’m kinda backed up here, L.J., so unless Matt Damon’s looking for me—”
Lori made a sound between a snort and a laugh. “He’s no Matt Damon—that’s for sure. And he’s kinda creeping me out with these dark glasses he’s got on.”
I covered the vegetables with a towel and turned, my stomach thumping from nerves. “Actually, I think I should go talk to him.”
“Should I stick around?” Lori asked, as she walked me back to the dining room.
“Just do what you need to do out here. I’ll be fine.”
Toscano was waiting by the door. “Ms. Rienzi. I was hoping I might catch you here.” He held out a hand, which I took reluctantly.
“Mr. Toscano. This is a surprise.” Unless you’re the mystery caller. But my instincts were telling me he wasn’t.
He glanced at Lori, who’d stopped working to listen to every word. “Might we sit for a moment?” he asked.
“Yes. Would you mind following me to the bar? I think we won’t be disturbed there.” As long as Cal didn’t show up early. But there was a part of me that was hoping he would. I didn’t relish being alone with Toscano, even in my own restaurant.
We each took a seat, and I waited. The light in the bar was dim, and I was hoping Toscano would take off the glasses. But he merely smiled in a sharklike way that raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Why are you here?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“I’m here to set the record straight about Elizabeth Merriman’s death.”
Well, Jack, you sure get to the point. “But you don’t need to talk to me to do that,” I said. “I’m sure you had to make a statement with the prosecutor’s office, and—”
He held up his palm. “Miss Rienzi, I know that you’ve been asking questions about Elizabeth’s death. And doing a little investigating of your own out at the club. Twice now, if I’m not mistaken.” He crossed his arms and lowered his brows, his disapproval obvious. “Look, I know that you’re friendly with Dr. Natale’s family. And while I feel for him in this . . . predicament, it’s one of his own making.” He took off his dark glasses, and for the first time I could see that his eyes were the same cloudy blue as Elizabeth Merriman’s. “I didn’t kill my mother,” he said simply.
My heart beat with excitement. Here was a key mystery solved; we could now rule out Kate as Elizabeth’s lost child. I tried to feign surprise. “She was your mother?”
He nodded. “I had known about her for some time, before I served in Afghanistan, in fact. I did two tours of duty in the Sandbox. But you probably know that, don’t you?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know this, but it made sense. I’d pegged Toscano for a military man the minute I’d seen him. As I took in his fake smile and falsely polite manner, I tried to summon some admiration for a man who’d served his country. I had to give him at least that much. But I still found his presence disturbing.
“While I was overseas, I had time to take stock of my life,” he said. “After all, I was in danger every day. More than ever, I had to learn about my birth parents. When I came back, the first thing I did was track her down. At first, she was skeptical, as you can imagine.” His mouth twisted in a small smile. “But of course I was ready to do a DNA test.” He pointed to his eyes. “And like her, I’m troubled with cataracts. Once she realized I was telling the truth, we began to get to know each other. She told me a bit about my late father, how he served in Korea. I think it pleased her that we were both military men.” He shook his head. “Look, my mother was not an easy woman, but I think she cared for me in her way, and I for her.” He spread his palms out in front of him. “What possible reason would I have for killing her?”
“I would think that’s obvious.” I took a breath looked him straight in the eye. “She was a very wealthy woman, Mr. Toscano.”
“Yes, she was. But she settled most of her assets on me some months ago. The rest was going to her charities. And I have provided the police with all the official paperwork to prove it.” He smiled again, satisfied and triumphant. “So you see, Miss Rienzi, I had no motive for killing my mother.” He put his glasses back on and leaned toward me. “And I would appreciate it if you would stop your li
ttle investigation. You’re not helping Charles Natale.” He was close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “Being a mystery writer does not give you license to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. And while you’re a charming young woman, you’re trying my patience. Do you get what I’m saying?”
I nodded, unable to speak, rooted to my seat. This was the second warning I’d received in the space of an hour. You bet I was getting it.
“Good,” he said. “Just so we understand each other.” He stood up from the barstool, turned a sharp military left, and marched off. Despite the summer heat, I shivered in my shoes. Maybe Jack Toscano wasn’t a murderer. But I had no doubt he was a dangerous man.
• • •
I headed back through the dining room, but before I could make it to the kitchen, some fresh hell came through the door in the person of Lacey Harrison. Dressed casually, she made a T-shirt and jeans look chic.
“Hi, Lacey,” I said, trying hard to sound friendly. “Tim’s not here yet.”
She held her purse in front of her, as though she didn’t know what to do with her hands, and, unusual for her, she wasn’t smiling. “I know that, Victoria,” she said. “I came to talk to you.”
I was popular today. And not in a good way. “Okay,” I said. “Do you want to sit down for a minute?”
She shook her head. “This won’t take long, and I know you’re busy. I do have to ask, though: Would you please not mention to Tim that I was here?”
“Of course. But why do you want to talk to me?”
“I know that Tim helped you out with something yesterday; he wouldn’t say what, and it’s not really my business.”
So Tim had kept his word. Even though he hadn’t approved of our trip out to the Belmont Club, he hadn’t shared the information with his new girlfriend. It gave me a sense of relief, and though it was unbecoming, a touch of satisfaction, as well. “I’m sorry if I kept him,” I said. “I know you guys had plans.”