Because if he had even glanced at the page, Crane would have noticed that Rita had signed out forty minutes before the time shown on the clock on the wall.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rita sighed happily as she pushed her tray along the Columbus Day festa pasta buffet. Beside each platter was a label with the name of the dish, the Italian region where it originated, and the name of the woman who had prepared it. Enormous blue ribbons designated the winners of the hard-fought competition. Rita heaped Sandy Bosco’s third-place spaghetti alle vongole onto her plate, noting with approval that the clams were fresh, not canned, and the black pepper was freshly cracked. Then she piled on Maria Genovese’s second-place pansoti con le noci alle ligure. “Pansoti” literally meant “fatties,” and these lived up to their name, nearly bursting with cheese and fresh herbs, drenched in a walnut cream sauce. For good measure, Rita added a few Sardinian culigiones, a mess of golden spaghetti alla siracusana, and a dollop of tagliatelle alla bolognese. And then, feeling slightly blasphemous, she threw onto her plate a little spaghetti puttanesca (“whore’s spaghetti”) and fettucine alla papalina (apparently, Daniela Mariucci thought that a sauce fit for the Pope consisted of heavy cream and ribbons of prosciutto).
Finally, she stopped in front of her own sweet potato gnocchi with short rib ragú. Not a single gnocchi was left; the only evidence it had ever existed was the little notecard beside it—and the enormous first-place blue ribbon.
She felt a hearty clap on her shoulder.
“Congrats, Rita.”
Detective Benedetto was smiling at her, plate in hand, spearing the last of her gnocchi with his fork. “Delicious,” he said. “You deserved to win. What is this—your tenth consecutive win?”
“Thirteenth.”
“Sal’s a lucky man. He sure eats well.” He nodded at her plate. “Mind if I keep you company while you eat?”
“Not at all.”
Taking her arm, he led her to a table in the back. Rita slid into a seat beside him and began plowing through her pasta as he spoke in a low voice. The acoustics were terrible in the basement of St. Vincent’s, and she felt quite sure that no one could overhear their conversation.
“My wife tells me that you’ve been investigating Jay’s death and that you might be able to help us.”
Rita dredged a stray fettucine noodle through the cream sauce and twirled it around her fork. Pursing her lips, she pointed her fork at him. “Here are the three most important things to know. One, Angelica used to board a horse at a farm near Montpelier, Vermont.”
She took a bite and swallowed. She had his attention now, for sure. He was staring at her eagerly, listening to each word as if it were manna falling from heaven.
“Two,” she said, “there was someone wearing a pair of brown loafers in a locked stall of the women’s restroom closest to Jay’s room from at least 2:30 to 3:50. One shoe had a little piece of something green on it, like spinach.”
Detective Benedetto frowned. “Is that important?”
“The spinach? I’m not sure. It depends on whether this individual has thought to remove it. But the fact that someone was in the stall during that period is very significant.”
“And the third thing?”
“That old Crane is meticulous about checking I.D.’s and verifying sign-in times. But he does not bother to check whether visitors properly record their sign-out time.”
She saw the light beginning to dawn in Detective Benedetto’s eyes. “Ah.”
“Yes. Ah. Tell me,” Rita asked, “is there video surveillance of the reception desk and the ward Jay was on?”
“Of the reception area, unfortunately, no. Someone screwed up and taped over it before I could ask for it. I have the video tape of the ward, though. I’ve watched it over and over again, trust me, but I can’t I.D. the mystery woman walking into Jay’s room.”
“I bet I can tell you who it is.”
“Rita…”
She drew herself up to her full height. “What? You can’t share the details of a police investigation with a journalist? You don’t need to tell me anything. I will simply tell you what I observe, and then you can do as you wish with this information.”
He looked at her with a mix of gratitude and wariness. “Thanks, I think. You can come over to the station at seven.”
“Wonderful!” She clapped her hands. “Now there’s something I want you to do for me in return. You see, it’s about Vinnie—”
He groaned, “Not you, too!”
“What do you mean ‘too’?”
“I’m getting it from all sides,” he moaned. “First Marco goes to plead his case with Courtney, then Gina tries her luck. Pretty soon Courtney is pestering her father, the chief. And that was just the beginning. Then Marco and Gina start working on my wife and my mother, who apparently was Gina’s CCD teacher, and then—”
Rita shook her head in disbelief. “Did you just say Marco was talking to Courtney about Vinnie?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. It was like the ‘free Vinnie’ campaign. I half expected Amnesty International to swoop in.”
“So they…they knew that Vinnie…”
“Oh, your kids are smart. They never admitted that Vinnie was involved in the incident at the pool. It was all hypotheticals. They didn’t want to incriminate him.” He shot her an exasperated look. “Rita, I swear. The Acorn Hollow Police Department is not going to arrest Vinnie. Besides, what would we arrest him for? He borrowed a car, strung it up above the pool, and then it was returned to its rightful owner without so much as a scratch. Who then dropped dead, so he can’t exactly press charges.”
“But you could still…”
“Rita. We. Are. Not. Going. To. Arrest. Vinnie.”
Impulsively, she lunged forward, wrapped him in a bear hug, and kissed him on the cheek.
“You know,” he said into her ear, “you really shouldn’t do that to an armed police officer. We’re trained to shoot anyone who rushes us.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
Her cheeks were wet with tears. She felt delirious with pride and joy. Marco was not having an affair; Gina was not helping him cover his tracks. Vinnie was not going to jail.
And the murderer was about to fall into her trap.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The video showed exactly what Rita said it would. Detective Benedetto was ashen-faced as he clicked the “off” button on the remote control. “This is going to be ugly,” he said. “Such an upstanding community member.”
Rita nodded sympathetically and patted his arm. “It’s got to be done, though.”
“The county prosecutor’s going to want better proof than that.”
“So get a warrant and find those shoes.”
He grunted. “It rests on the testimony of one woman.”
“Who will be an excellent witness,” Rita assured him. “And besides, I think I can get a confession out of the murderer as well.”
His eyes narrowed into little slits. “How?”
“It’s very simple,” Rita said. “You just call up Angelica and tell her that, if she wants to solve her fiancée’s murder, she will invite the following people to her house for a supposed celebration of Jay’s life thirty days after his death.”
“Why thirty days?”
“Because it’s soon,” she said. “And it’s an old Italian custom that I just made up.” She took a folded sheet of paper out of her purse and handed it to him.
The detective unfolded it, scanned the list of names, and frowned. “What if she doesn’t agree?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m quite sure she will.”
By the time she got home from the station, Rita was exhausted, mentally and physically. She knew that after this arrest, Acorn Hollow would never be the same.
There was a note on the table from Sal. Tonight was the monthly Knights of Columbus meeting (or, more like, she thought cynically, the monthly excuse to gobble some member’s
wife’s home cooking and play cards until midnight), so he would not be home for dinner.
Which meant that, for a change, it would be just Rita and Vinnie.
Making lasagna went against Rita’s every instinct. She wanted to curl up with Luciano and Cesare, read a good book, drink endless mugs of hot chocolate, and then ask Vinnie to pick up a pizza on his way home.
But lasagna said love in a way that takeout pizza did not. And Rita had sent far too little love and encouragement the way of her youngest child—for years, if she was honest with herself.
And tonight that streak would end.
She made the sauce thick and meaty, just the way Vinnie liked it. Tonight, there would be no cutting corners. She wanted only the best for her Vinnie, and that meant using the last of her prized San Marzano tomatoes, basil just picked from her garden, full-fat ricotta, mozzarella di bufala, and homemade lasagna noodles.
When Vinnie came home from the nursery, the lasagna was in the oven, filling the entire house with the sweet smell of basil, and Rita had her feet propped up on the couch. She was so tired she could barely move.
“Smells great, ma,” Vinnie said, bending down and kissing her on the cheek. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, though. I coulda picked up a pizza.”
“I know, Vin.” She held him close and tousled his hair. “But I wanted to make you something special.”
To her surprise, Vinnie looked like he was about to cry. “Thanks, ma.”
Rita sat up and patted the spot on the sofa beside her. Vinnie obligingly sat down.
“Vinnie,” she said, “the secret ingredient in my sauce is anchovies.”
Vinnie drew back his lips in disgust. “But I don’t like anchovies, and I love your red sauce.”
“I know, Vin. That’s why it’s the secret ingredient. No one can taste the anchovies. But they’re there all the same. They make the sauce heartier and saltier. It really gives it that zest.”
Vinnie looked doubtful.
“You’re the only one who knows,” Rita said. “I haven’t told your siblings.”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because,” she said, “I’m tired of secrets.”
“Huh.” Vinnie jumped up from the sofa. “I’ll just go shower and change—”
“Sit down, mio figlio,” Rita said gently. “I told you a secret. Now you tell me one.”
As she had anticipated, Vinnie was not forthcoming. He just sat there, twiddling his thumbs, a crimson flush spreading over his face. “Uh, well, in third grade—” he began.
“Not in third grade, Vin. I want to know what’s going on with you now. Why have you kept me in the dark about going back to school? Why didn’t you come to me when Coach Stiglitz died after you and Rocco pulled that prank?”
“You—you knew?”
“Miss Van Der Hooven enlightened me.”
The oven beeped. Vinnie followed her, in a daze, to the kitchen, where Rita served the lasagna.
They sat at the dining room table, eating and talking for hours. Rita felt as though her prodigal son had returned; this lasagna was her fattened calf. Vinnie seemed older suddenly, much more mature. She noticed for the first time that the baby fat in his cheeks was starting to melt away. He was starting to resemble Marco and Sal.
Her baby cub was now a man.
When Vinnie had cleared their plates and scooped two heaping bowls of gelato, Rita asked, “Why didn’t you just tell me you were going back to school?”
“What if I dropped out again? I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Vinnie,” she said, reaching across the table and squeezing his hand, “you have not disappointed me. I’m very proud of you, in fact.”
He blushed. “Thanks, ma.”
Vinnie scraped the sides of his bowl with his spoon. “Do you think,” he asked, his spoon shaking slightly, “Miss Van Der Hooven told Chief D’Agostino that Rocco and I were behind the prank?”
“That depends,” Rita said. “Everything with Miss Van Der Hooven is about self-interest. So it all depends whether it is in her self-interest to do so.” She licked the last of her gelato off her spoon. “But it’s a distinct possibility, which is why we need to catch the real murderer.”
And then she proceeded to tell Vinnie her plan.
Chapter Thirty
Rita tried to look appropriately somber as she surveyed their little group. The guests at Jay’s “celebration of life” party were arranged much as they had been at the Athletic Boosters party. Miss Van Der Hooven was laying back in Jay’s old recliner, her fat polyester-encased legs propped up on the footrest. Wearing one of her trademark bearded dragon sweatshirts, she appeared self-possessed and serene—or at least as serene as she ever did. If she was the slightest bit uncomfortable about reminiscing about her dead lover with his fiancée, she didn’t show it. As if to underscore her zest for living, Miss Van Der Hooven gobbled up a slice of Rita’s chocolate almond mousse cake in record time. “Too bad Jay isn’t here to enjoy this,” she lamented, pointing her fork in Rita’s direction. “Really, it’s one of your best ever.”
Still smarting from Miss Van Der Hooven’s brutal assessment of her judgment, Rita acknowledged the compliment with a frigid little smile.
Miss Simms sat on her friend’s left, on the couch. In a less celebratory mood, she picked at the food on her plate, which consisted mainly of lettuce, and alternated between guzzling red wine and blinking away tears. At one point, she leaned over and whispered in Rita’s ear, “I feel so guilty. If I had known…”
“There, there,” Rita said, patting her hand, because it seemed like the thing to say.
Tonight, Rose was not sitting on the other side of Rita. Her place was occupied by Vinnie, who just sat there glumly, wringing his hands, as Miss Van Der Hooven interrogated him about his achievements in the welding program and implored, begged, and berated him to transfer to a four-year mechanical engineering program. Vinnie looked terribly uncomfortable.
“If you don’t, Vincent,” Miss Van Der Hooven said darkly, “I’m going to haunt you after I die. You must”—she stabbed her fork in the air for emphasis—“live up to your potential.”
For the first time, Rita found herself agreeing with Miss Van Der Hooven, but she wisely said nothing.
As instructed, Sal was keeping Dr. Walker occupied in the kitchen, making his head spin with endless trivia about the Acorn Hollow Squirrels.
Angelica was keeping up her end of the bargain by chatting with Mrs. Walker. They were standing behind the couch, wine goblets in hand, just over Vinnie’s left shoulder.
Marion Von Beek sat in the armchair on Vinnie’s left, which was set at a ninety-degree angle to the couch. She kept up an animated, one-sided conversation about all of Jay’s accomplishments. Rita and Miss Simms pretended to listen attentively.
The final guest was Detective Benedetto, who sat in the armchair directly opposite Marion, on Miss Van Der Hooven’s right. Dressed in his uniform, he appeared lost in thought. His legs were splayed out, and his fingers formed a little steeple under his chin. He did not appear to be listening to a word anyone said.
Rita overheard Dr. Walker growl, “What’s he doing here?”
Rita held her breath. Sal was one of the most transparent people she knew and one of the worst liars, but then again, she was his wife. Maybe another man wouldn’t be able to read him at all.
“Benedetto?” Sal kept it casual, as if he hadn’t given it a moment’s thought. “Oh, he and Jay must have been friends back in the day. They were teammates, you know.” He lowered his voice, man to man. Rita could picture how Sal would elbow Dr. Walker and shoot a pitying look in the detective’s direction. “Benedetto was mostly on the bench, though.”
Dr. Walker emitted a sound halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. “Figures. Funny, though, that I’ve never seen them together.”
“Death does funny things,” Sal mused. “Makes young bucks feel mortal. I guess Benedetto wanted to pay his respects.”
Dr. Walker grunted again, and then the conversation moved right back to football trivia.
Rita caught Angelica’s eye and gave her a little nod.
Angelica clapped her hands and announced in a loud voice, “If I could have your attention, please, everyone.”
The room fell silent.
“Thank you all for coming,” Angelica said. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks. “As I explained to you over the phone, there’s an old Italian custom to hold a ‘celebration of life’ party thirty days after a loved one’s death.”
When no one questioned this rather dubious claim, she said, “So I’d like to start by going around the room and having each person share an anecdote about Jay. Detective Benedetto, why don’t you start?”
The detective cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “Uh. Well, we were teammates. Back in ’96. He was one of the smartest quarterbacks I’ve ever seen. Really knew how to call a play. And, uh”—he was turning pink, and Rita suspected he was about to lie—“he was very encouraging to those of us who were not as talented. He was a good guy.”
Rita winced. That last bit was a lie, and it sounded like one.
“Thank you for sharing, Tony. That was lovely.” Angelica waved her hand in Miss Van Der Hooven’s direction. “Elizabeth?”
Miss Van Der Hooven opened her mouth and then abruptly closed it, as though she were weighing her options. She opened her mouth again, looked defiantly around the room, and said in a loud, clear voice, “I was his lover.”
There was a sharp gasp from everyone in the room—everyone, that was, except Rita and Angelica.
“How dare you!” Angelica thundered, her dark eyes flashing.
Miss Van Der Hooven nodded calmly. “So you knew.”
“I—I—suspected,” Angelica said. “But I didn’t know anything. Besides, it seemed rather impossible to believe.”
The Secret Poison Garden (Rita Calabrese Book 1) Page 18