by Rosie Genova
Once I got her on the line, I filled Sofia in on what I remembered about Toscano and Elizabeth from the night of her death, what Nina had told me, and Danny’s text confirming Toscano’s innocence. I studied the pictures of the Ponte Vecchio in Florence and the Spanish Steps in Rome while Sofia talked.
“Natale must have done it, Vic,” she said. “He’s on the scene. He’s got a motive, and his only alibi is from his family.”
I leaned against the sink, making sure not to mess up the pristine state of the restroom. “But there’s no proof that the man seen with Elizabeth was Dr. C. Maybe it’s someone we don’t know about or haven’t considered.”
But Sofia was insistent. “C’mon, Vic. A short, stocky bald man in a dark suit is seen leading Elizabeth Merriman down that walkway to the platform. Where else is there to go with this? Especially since Toscano’s alibi checked out?”
I dropped my voice in case someone was outside the door—and by “someone,” I meant my grandmother. “Eyewitness accounts can be wrong. Think about all the people who are wrongly accused or convicted of crimes because witnesses were mistaken.”
But she wasn’t buying it. As Sofia continued to repeat the litany of evidence against Dr. Chickie, I focused on one question: Were we missing something or someone? And then I had a thought.
“Hey, Sofe,” I interrupted. “William Fox is a short man.”
“With a head full of hair!” She laughed. “Did he shave his head to commit the murder? I suppose he’s been wearing a wig this whole time.”
At Sofia’s words, the first moment of apprehension came as a tingling sensation, a tiny biological nudge to my system. Then I raised my eyes to the print on the bathroom wall, read the words across the bottom, and the tingle grew to a full-out shiver. “I have to go, Sofe,” I said, my voice echoing in the small space. I cut off the call before she had a chance to ask me anything else, tore off my apron, and ran like hell.
Chapter Twenty-four
I double-checked the address I’d written down as I pulled up to the house, a modern bi-level overlooking the sea, in a pale peach color that suggested the last rays of the sun at the end of the day. There was no doubt that its owner was a person of wealth. And now I had a pretty clear idea of where that wealth originated. I walked up the stone path to the door, thinking that I should have been nervous. Instead, a sense of sadness tugged at me.
She answered the door without her wig. She was completely bald. Her face was devoid of makeup. A few sparse hairs marked where her brows should have been, but her eyes were lashless and ringed in dark, purplish circles. Her skin had a yellow cast, her lips pale, her blue eyes faded. She didn’t seem surprised to see me; without a word, she motioned me inside.
She sat with a grimace, and I imagined that by now she was in a lot of pain. Next to her chair was a small table that held a glass of water, hand sanitizer, tissues, and several prescription bottles. This spacious, modern living room had become a sickroom.
I took a seat across from her and leaned forward in my chair. “You must know why I’m here, Kate.”
She nodded, took a tiny sip of water, and briefly closed her eyes. “You know,” she said in a raspy voice.
“I don’t know everything. But a couple of minutes ago some things finally fell into place. The scarf you always wore. The heavy makeup. Your weak grip when we shook hands. How you seemed to tire easily. And you wore black the night of the murder. And here’s something else I know: There are two men—both criminals, I’ll admit—who aren’t murderers.”
Kate looked me straight in the eye. “I’m the one who caused her death.”
“Because of your dad,” I said. I pointed to her table of medicines. “And because of you. Because you’ve got nothing to lose.”
One side of her mouth lifted in a strained attempt to smile. “You’re right on that score. I got nothing to lose. Except my life, of course.” She shifted in her chair and winced. “And that should be happening anytime now.”
“Kate, if you can’t do this, it’s okay. I shouldn’t even be here—”
She held up her hand. “Just let me tell it, okay? It will be a relief.” She took a sip of water, then a painful breath before she spoke. “My father worked for Merriman for more than thirty years before he died,” she said, “first for Mr. Merriman and then for her. Asbestos was in a lot of things they used all the time, like house siding and roofing, for example. Insulation for housing and pipes. It was in cement and joint compound—almost any building material you could think of. In the early days, they didn’t know how dangerous it was to handle the stuff. But by the time Elizabeth took over, there were clear guidelines. Ones she didn’t follow.” She shook her head slowly. “Not even something as simple as using face masks to protect them from breathing that crap in.”
She paused, and I spoke. “Your father was one of the plaintiffs in the suit—Lorenzo DePonti.”
She grinned again, a real one this time. “That was brilliant of me, huh, calling myself Bridges?” I couldn’t help smiling back at her, but there was a part of me that was screaming: You’re smiling at a murderer, Vic!
“Actually,” I said, “it took me longer than it should have. My family speaks Italian. I felt like an idiot when I finally made the connection.”
She shook her head. “What does it matter now? But, yes, I was born Catherine DePonti. And I invested my father’s settlement from Merriman and became a rich woman.” She lifted her arm and gestured at the paintings, the fireplace, and the expensive furniture. “For all the good it did me,” she said. She looked out a window toward the ocean and then turned back to me. “I don’t think I have to tell you that I’d trade it all to have my parents back. To buy myself even one more year.”
I was puzzled at her choice of words. “Did you lose your mother, too?”
“So that didn’t turn up in your research, Victoria?” Her mouth twisted. “Yes, I lost my mother, too. Elizabeth Merriman killed us all, just as if she’d used a gun. Except that bullets are quicker and the pain is short-lived.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Her eyes fluttered closed again, and I could see she was trying to conserve what was left of her energy. She opened her eyes, and when she spoke, her voice was strong. “I was an only child. Italian family—you know how that is. It’s not like I was spoiled, but I got lots of love and attention. We were close, all three of us. In fact, it was our closeness that killed us. Every day when my dad came home from work, my mom and I would wait by the door, and before he did anything else, he’d hug and kiss us both.” She took a sip of water and rested her head against the back of the chair. “My dad worked with that stuff for years. He’d come home with it in his hair, on his clothes. Clothes my mother would shake out and launder. And there was enough of it to make her sick. In fact, she got sick first. I don’t know if you found this out when you were digging, but family members of people exposed to asbestos can get sick, too, and it’s always fatal. It wasn’t long before she died that my father started developing tumors, too, and I watched it all again. You might even say I had a ringside seat to my own death.”
I blinked, feeling the tears start behind my eyes. But something told me that if I showed any emotion, I’d never get the full truth from her. I swallowed hard and took a breath. “When were you diagnosed?”
“A little over two years ago.”
“I’m confused about something,” I said. “Your parents died more than twenty years ago and—”
“Why did take so long for me to get sick?” she interrupted. “My doctors tell me the latency period for mesothelioma is long, decades sometimes. But once those tumors take hold, you’re done. All the chemo does is buy you time.” She pointed to her bald head. “This round was the last try. But I’m out of options.”
“So you knew when you came here a month ago . . .”
“I knew I was dying. Yes. In fact, I had hardly any time left. That’s what helped make up my mind to do it.”
“Kate,”
I said quietly, “can you answer some questions for me?”
“Okay.” She sighed, and even that seemed to cause her pain. “I’m gonna have to answer to the police soon enough, right?”
I nodded. “I’ll try not to tire you out, okay? I think I’ve pieced most of it together. When you came to work at the Belmont last month, you knew she was president of the club?”
“Yes. I worked my ass off to rise as a pastry chef, just so I could eventually get the chance to get close to her. And then I did,” she said simply. “If you’re asking did I come here to kill her, the answer is yes.”
Her words were chilling, but I couldn’t help being fascinated by them. “So you planned it all?”
She looked at me with sunken eyes. “Yes, I planned it. I’ve wanted revenge on her long before I got sick myself.”
“That night,” I said, “I overheard you both fighting. Was it anything specific?”
Kate gave a small, crooked smile. “That was just me pushing her buttons and her threatening to can me. We did that once a week.”
“When I saw you after that, you said—”
“That somebody should put her lights out. And you’re wondering why I’d say that when that was actually my plan.”
“Right. Why call attention to yourself in that way?”
She rubbed her eyes. “You know, I’m not sure myself. Maybe I was just that cocky that I wouldn’t be caught. Or maybe I didn’t care if I was caught.”
“Or maybe you wanted to be caught,” I said. “Like calling yourself Bridges, which is essentially your real name. And then giving yourself a really obvious alibi at eleven thirty when you left the bar in such a loud and public way.”
“I don’t have time for psychoanalysis,” she growled, and for a minute I saw a glimmer of the feisty Chef Kate.
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I think implicating Dr. Natale didn’t sit right with you.”
She sighed. “I didn’t like having to do that to him. But here was a short, stocky bald guy who’d just gotten caught taking money from the club. He was handed to me on a silver platter.”
“I’m not sure his family would see it that way. But you’re right—your builds are close. All you had to do was wear black that night, wash your face, and take off your scarf and wig. From a distance, it would look as though a short bald man in a dark suit was leading Elizabeth down that walkway.”
She nodded. “After I went out the front door at eleven thirty, I went only as far as my car, where I wiped off the makeup and took off my wig. I waited until I saw the Natales leave. I knew Elizabeth would go back to her office, as she did every night after an event. She’s often the last to go. Well, her and Toscano.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Wouldn’t Toscano have been the one to drive her home that night?”
“Usually. But I told him she’d called a cab. And I told her he’d left without her.”
“And you offered to drive her home?” My heart sank at the thought of the old woman accepting an offer of a ride from her killer.
“Yup,” Kate said. “And she wasn’t happy about it, believe me. But she had no choice.” Her voice hardened. “I didn’t give her one.”
“But once you left the club, she must have realized you weren’t going out to the parking lot. Her eyes weren’t that bad.”
“Oh, her eyes were pretty bad, believe me. But I wanted to make sure, so I cut the lights. I threw the breaker for the part of the kitchen that included that side-door light. She was standing in the dark kitchen, panicked. I took her arm and told her I’d lead her out.”
“But that cane was like an extension of her senses. Once her feet hit those wooden boards, she would have known where she was.”
Kate nodded. “Oh yeah. And of course she could hear the ocean, too. She knew just where I was taking her.”
I suppressed a small shiver, followed by a flicker of fear. No matter how sorry I felt for this dying woman, she was still a killer. And I was alone in a house with her. And then it hit me that Elizabeth Merriman would have fought for her life; she might well have used her cane. Kate was in a weakened condition, and a smaller woman than Elizabeth. Something still didn’t add up. “Once she knew that, Kate, did she fight you?”
“She started to, all right. Lifted that cane like a weapon. But I stopped her.” She took a sip of water, then a slow breath.
My hands tightened on the arms of my chair and I stared at the sick, exhausted woman across from me. “How?”
“I told her I had information for her.” She met my eyes, a small spark of defiance in her own. “Information about her son.” I gasped, and she cocked her head in my direction. “You think you’re the only one who can do research? I’ve spent my life studying Elizabeth Merriman. It was an obsession.” She probably knows more about Elizabeth than I do. “What did you tell her when you were out on that platform?” I asked.
She shrugged. “The truth. That Toscano was a liar. That he was not her long-lost son and that he’d been taking her for a ride.”
“How did you know that?”
“I didn’t. But I found out she’d had a baby sixty years ago, and he was the right age. I never believed the boyfriend rumors, anyway. So I took a chance, and I was right.”
“But did you tell her—?”
“The rest of it?” Kate dropped her head and rested her hands on her knees. “You mean did I tell her that her real son was dead? Yes,” she said. “I did.”
“That was cruel,” I said, my anger rising. “Maybe telling her that was revenge enough.”
“It should have been,” she said. “I watched her face crumple up like a piece of old newspaper.” When she raised her eyes, they were full of tears. “And that’s when I knew I couldn’t go through with it.”
“What do you mean you couldn’t go through with it?” My voice grew louder, echoing in the quiet room. “A woman is dead.”
“Victoria, I said I’d caused her death, not that I’d killed her.” She took a tissue, wiped her eyes, and then blew her nose. “I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me, but Elizabeth Merriman’s death was an accident.”
“An accident?”
Kate nodded. “She slipped off that platform.”
“How?” I whispered.
There was a pause while Kate took a breath and again rested her head on the back of the chair. “After I told her about her son, she asked why I was doing this. She actually said, ‘What have I ever done to you?’ That’s when the anger came back, so I told her the story of what happened to my father. What happened to our family. What happened to me.” She closed her eyes then, clearly exhausted.
“What did she do?”
“She started to cry. Loud, deep sobs. The kind of crying that comes from somebody who’s not used to it. She wasn’t a crier.” She paused. “Neither am I.” She wiped her mouth with a tissue and kept it clutched in her hand. “Then she started twisting her hands. It was dark and I couldn’t tell what she was doing. But she was struggling to take off that big ring. She held it out to me,” Kate said through her teeth, “like it was some kind of payment for what she did. She begged me to take it.”
“Did you?”
She opened her eyes then and looked at me. “Yeah, I took it from her. And then I chucked it across the beach. For all I know, the tide came in and got it.”
So the mystery of the missing ring, at least, was solved. “What did she do then?”
“She just cried harder. She was leaning over the side railing and dropped her cane. I tried to calm her down. Like I said, she was loud, and I figured someone might hear us. So I tried to take her arm, but she shook me off and moved closer to the stairway.” Kate swallowed audibly. I tried to hand her the water, but she shook her head. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “So I tried again, and she got mad. She jerked her arm back—she was pretty strong—and slipped. I was reaching my hand out to her when she went over. I can still see her falling.” She dropped her head in her hands. “I wasn’t gonna go through
with it,” she said through her fingers. “I really wasn’t.”
“I believe you.”
She lifted her head from her hands and looked at me. “What do you plan to do?”
“Well,” I said, “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do anything. That you’d go to the authorities yourself. Both Toscano and Dr. Natale broke the law. But they haven’t killed anybody. And you said it was an accident.”
She put her head back and closed her eyes. “Like the cops will believe that.”
“Listen, Kate, get a lawyer and tell your story the way you told it to me. You might even get a suspended sentence, considering your situation. . . .”
She opened one eye, grinning slightly. “My situation? You mean because I’m dying, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “And I’m so sorry. But doesn’t that make it even more imperative to tell the truth?”
She let out a long, exhausted sigh. “I’m so tired. I just want it all to be over.” Then she lifted her head and looked at me. “Will you give me a couple of hours? I promise I’ll square everything away, and I’ll text you afterward.” She held out shaking hand. “Do we have a deal?”
I took her hand and held it gently. “Okay, Kate.” I wrote down my cell number and left it on the table next to her medicines. “But I’m trusting you to do the right thing.”
“I will,” she said. “In fact, I’ll write it all down.”
And I left her sitting there in the darkening room, holding a pen over a sheet of white paper. A little more than an hour later, a text of only two words came through: It’s done.
Chapter Twenty-five
The next day, the atmosphere at the family table was subdued. My mother’s face was thoughtful, a little sad. Without his hat, my dad lost his carefree Rat Pack persona, and he read the paper in silence. I sat between them, my coffee and biscotti untouched. We all looked up when Danny came in the door. He sat down across from me and rested his hand over mine.