Italian Iced

by Kylie Logan

  If only I could think what it wanted to tell me!

  “Diavolo!”

  The answer hit and I shoved off the stool so fast, it tipped and fell and the noise made George jump a foot.

  “I’ll pick it up!” I assured him. “As soon as I get back!”

  And I headed out into the restaurant.

  A quick scan of the patrons at the tables, and I found exactly what I was looking for.

  Or, I should say more precisely, exactly who I was looking for.

  “Good afternoon!” The blond reporter with the big yellow sunglasses was at her usual table near the back windows and I approached with a smile and this time, without a pitcher of water. “I hope you’re enjoying your lunch.”

  She poked her fork through the penne on her dish, her voice muffled and low. “It is . . . acceptable.”

  Though I hadn’t been invited, I slipped into the chair across from hers. “I didn’t really come over here to talk to you about the food. I was just thinking about the last time I saw you.”

  She obviously hadn’t forgotten, either. One corner of her mouth pulled tight. “It is best not to remind me of such an incident.”

  “Exactly.” I rested my chin in my hand, waiting for her to catch on. I’m not sure she ever did, so I explained. “You didn’t like getting water spilled on you, and who can blame you. And you say the food is acceptable, so that tells me you’re not crazy about it. But still, you keep coming back.” I held up one hand to stop what I was sure was going to be some half-baked protest about how she was a reporter and had to sacrifice herself—and her taste buds—for the sake of a story.

  “It was what happened last time you were here that got me thinking,” I told her.

  As if she could still feel the cold water on her back, she shivered. “Unprofessional.”

  “I absolutely agree. But then, you pretending to be a reporter isn’t exactly on the up-and-up, either.”

  She reared back and that phony-sounding British accent disappeared like a dish of gelato left in the Tuscan sun. Her voice dripped Italian ire. “How dare you question me? How can you think that I am not what I say I am?!”

  “Only if you say you’re the countess Adalina Crocetti.”

  Just like that, all that bluster was gone. Her mouth fell open and she plumped back in her chair. “How did you . . . ?”

  “It shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did,” I admitted. “You gave yourself away that day I dumped the water on you. When it happened, I thought you said ‘Key a Volvo’! But let’s face it, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I should have known you were speaking Italian. You said ‘Che diavolo,’ which is pretty much the Italian equivalent of ‘What the hell!’ Between that and all the questions you’ve been asking about Ben—”

  “Ben?” Her voice didn’t just drip sarcasm, it pretty much gushed. “You must know him well to use his name so freely. Are you the reason he is here in this silly little place? Has he fallen in love with you?”

  It was probably the wrong time to laugh, but I couldn’t help myself. When I was done, I wiped away tears and looked at her hard. “He’s here because Meghan Cohan got murdered. If you don’t know that, you’re the only one on the planet who missed the story.”

  “Meghan, Meghan. Yes. Of course.” She steadied herself, straightening and restraightening the silverware next to her plate. “But he did not love her. He loves me. He married me.”

  “And you showed up here in disguise to ask questions about your husband. Why?”

  She puckered. In a high-class sort of way, of course. “It is not wrong to be curious.”

  “It’s not wrong to wonder about the guy you’re married to, either, but I’d think if you had questions, you’d ask Ben directly. Except . . .” I scooted forward in my seat. “He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  She clicked her tongue. “Of course he knows.”

  “Then why are you hanging around waiting for him to show up here?”

  “It is because . . .”

  Maybe I looked too eager, like the paparazzi she was used to following in her wake.

  Maybe I looked too common and not worth confiding in.

  Whatever the reason, she gathered her patrician wits and pushed back her chair. “You are nervy. You have no business asking these questions.”

  “You’re right. Sort of. If I was just being nosy . . . well, that would be one thing. But, you see, I’m working with the police, looking into the murder.” Okay, so it wasn’t absolutely true, but it was sort of true. For now, I was willing to live with sort of. “And as far as I can tell, you have absolutely no reason to be in Hubbard. Unless it has something to do with Meghan’s murder.”

  Her shoulders went rigid. “Absolutely not!”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “My husband . . . my Ben, he is racing nearby and—”

  “And you thought you’d surprise him.”

  A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth, revealing teeth that were so pearly, they glistened. “Yes, that is it. I thought I would surprise him.”

  “Only you’ve had plenty of time. And yet, here you still are in that silly disguise.” As if sharing a confidence, I leaned nearer. “The wig’s got to go. But then . . .” As if I’d just thought of it, I allowed myself a moment of pretend surprise and looked all around the restaurant. “There are dozens of reporters around here all the time. Wouldn’t they love to interview you? You probably know more about what went on in Ben and Meghan’s marriage than just about anyone. He has talked to you about it, hasn’t he?”

  “We keep no secrets from each other.”

  “Except the fact that you followed him all the way to . . . what did you call it? . . . this silly little town. Except that you followed him all the way here and you’re lying low, watching and waiting. For what?”

  Her top lip curled. “My check.”

  “No worries.” When she rose to her feet, I did, too. “Lunch is on me.”

  She didn’t thank me. But then, she’d hardly touched her penne, so she probably didn’t know how really delicious it was. Instead, the countess, still hiding behind those big sunglasses, sailed out of the Terminal like an elegant Venetian gondola.

  “You didn’t dump water on her again, did you?”

  I could hardly blame Sophie for coming over and asking. We both watched the countess—her Italian pique like an aura around her—push out the front door and disappear down the street.

  “I don’t think she’ll be back,” I said.

  But that didn’t keep me from wondering what an Italian countess was doing in our town in the first place.

  The answer, of course, did not come that Friday, and it was just as well.

  Between Luigi, his amici, legions of patrons, and the Meghan fans who showed up outside to mark the one-week anniversary of her passing with bouquets of flowers, candles, and a prayer vigil, I was a tad busy.

  So busy, in fact, I never had a chance to tell Declan what I’d discovered until the last of the amici had put away his concertina and gone home.

  “It’s strange, don’t you think, the countess being here?”

  Declan might have agreed with me. Then again, since he was in the midst of shoving an entire slice of pepperoni pizza in his mouth when he mumbled an answer, maybe he didn’t.

  “Why is she wearing a disguise? What is she looking for? Do you think Ben even knows she’s here?”

  These were obviously legitimate questions and just as obviously, I knew Declan wouldn’t know the answers, but I asked them, anyway, by way of emphasizing what I saw as the strangeness of the whole thing. “Why would the countess kill Meghan?”

  Declan swallowed and grabbed a paper napkin from the counter to wipe pizza sauce off his chin. “Who says she did?”

  “Not me. But I wonder if she has motive. What else
would she be doing here?”

  “Spying on her husband?”

  My lips puckered. “Do you think wives need to spy on their husbands?”

  “Did I say that?”

  He didn’t, but I wasn’t going to let him off so easily. “If wives and husbands have secrets from each other, if they can’t trust each other, they shouldn’t be married in the first place.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me about that. And, by the way, you know you can trust me. Always.”

  Since I was sure he was grinning at me when he said this, and since his grin had a way of heating my insides and making me crazy in the head, I didn’t bother to glance his way. “I bet Ben has no idea she’s here.”

  “Maybe she wants to surprise him. And what’s he been up to, anyway? Why would a guy like that hang around a place like this?”

  “Like you don’t love Hubbard.”

  “Of course I do.” He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “I love Hubbard and I love you. Only if I had to choose, you would come first.” He brushed a kiss against my neck. “Only I’m pretty sure Ben doesn’t love Hubbard, and I know he doesn’t love you, although how anyone who knows you couldn’t love you is a mystery to me.”

  “Plenty of people know me and don’t love me.” I scooted out of his arms. It was that or lose myself in the prickles of awareness that danced up and down my spine anytime Declan was near. “They were already divorced by the time I met Ben.”

  “You mean Ben and Meghan.”

  “Well, I guess I really mean Ben and Tina Moretti. Because, remember what Dulcie Thoroughgood told us. Meghan was Tina back in those days. She only changed her name when she was set to star in None Are Waiting. So Tina, the kid from nowhere, married the daring young race car driver. And they both later became stars. That in itself sounds like something out of a movie.” I sighed. But then, thinking about it all made me feel . . . well, not hopeless, exactly. More like there was something out there that I should know, something I should have noticed, that just wasn’t making sense yet.

  “Hey, don’t get discouraged.” Declan looped an arm around my shoulders. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. For now, we’ll lock up and get home and—”

  “I’ve got penne for dinner.” I went to the fridge and pulled out the to-go dinners I’d packed for us. “And there’s some salad at home and—”

  “Oh no. Not tonight.”

  We stepped out of the kitchen and I flicked off the lights.

  “Tonight,” Declan informed me, “we’re going to switch things up a bit. You said it yourself this afternoon. You said you had to stop spending so much time thinking about the murder. And eating Italian food is bound to get you thinking about the murder.”

  “So what are we having for dinner?” I asked him.

  He grabbed a shopping bag from the front counter, where he’d obviously left it when he came in. “Corned beef sandwiches.” He joggled the bag at me. “Big, fat pickles. Sides of potato salad. Nothing Italian in this bag, I promise you.”

  It was a sweet gesture and when I pulled the front door closed and locked it behind me, I was smiling.

  At least until I heard a voice behind me.

  “Laurel!”

  I flinched, but not to worry. As promised, Declan was right at my side, his fists clenched, his feet apart, and that bag of sandwiches at his feet just in case the person standing in the shadows posed a threat.

  He eased up—at least a little—when Wilma stepped out from around the side of the building.

  “I thought you went back to California,” I told her.

  She pressed her lips together. “You were right. That detective Oberlin, he was not pleased with the idea of me being so far away. He asked us to stay on a few more days.”

  “And that’s what you came here to tell me?”

  In the faint light of the streetlamps, her smile looked like a slash across her chin.

  “No, no,” Wilma said. “You see, I spoke to Corrine. This afternoon. We ran into each other in the hotel lobby. She told me you asked her about the night of the murder. About me, about my . . .” As if it tasted bad, she swallowed around the word. “About my alibi.”

  “And she told me you didn’t have one. Not like you said you did.”

  “Well, she is wrong.” When Wilma reached into her purse, Declan tensed again, but only until she pulled out a piece of paper. She held it up for me to see. “This will prove I am telling the truth.”

  Actually, all it proved was that it’s impossible to read the printing on a piece of paper in lousy light.

  I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight app.

  “It’s a receipt,” I said. “From—”

  “From the all-night Denny’s, the place I agreed to meet Corrine on the night of the murder. You’ll see by the time stamp”—she pointed it out—“that I was there late into the night. Just like I said I was.”

  “But Corrine said—”

  “Corrine said she was there and I was not. She’s a foolish woman. She always has been. She should have known how easily I could prove her wrong. You see, I was there. But Corrine . . . Corrine was not.”

  Chapter 17

  “Thought you’d want to know.”

  Honest, those were the first words I heard when I answered my phone. I didn’t hold this lack of chitchat against the caller. After all, he wasn’t the good morning, how are you doing? type, and I knew it. Which is exactly why I couldn’t help but tease, just a little.

  “Good morning to you, Gus. And how are you this fine Saturday morning?”

  Why did I have the feeling he’d never been asked the question before?

  That would explain Gus’s hesitation.

  “I’m feeling a little . . .” He actually sounded like he was on the verge of being friendly, then snorted. “I’m working, that’s how I am. And I’m going to keep working until I can make sense of this mess we’re in. But I thought you’d want to know.”

  It was early and I was already at the Terminal. Since the Irish store didn’t open for another couple of hours, and since Declan still didn’t like the idea of me being alone in the restaurant, he was out by the register. The night before at Pacifique, he’d printed up the Today’s Specials menus on paper with wide bands of green, white, and red on it, the perfect mirror to the Italian flag that flapped from the flagpole out front. He was paper-clipping one sheet of our specials to each of our regular menus. (Just for the record, that day’s specials were pizza, vegetable lasagna, and Italian sausage and zucchini served over campanelle pasta, those two-inch-long noodles that look like ruffly edged bellflowers.)

  My phone to my ear, I took a cup of coffee out to Declan. He raised his eyebrows, the universal sign—Who are you talking to? What are you talking about?—that all phone-talkers recognize.

  I gave him the universal countersign, one index finger raised to say, Give me a sec and I’ll tell you when I’m done.

  “What is it you want me to know?” I asked Gus.

  He, apparently, had a cup of coffee, too. He slurped. “The coroner’s releasing the body. Ms. Cohan’s going to be shipped back to California on Tuesday.”

  By now, I was used to the thought of Meghan being dead. I wasn’t used to hearing her referred to as cargo.

  Before the heebie-jeebies had a chance to overwhelm me, Gus sailed right on. “They’ve got some big to-do funeral planned out in Hollywood next weekend.”

  “Who’s in charge?”

  “Of the funeral?” I heard the sound of shuffling papers. “Looks like that assistant, that Corrine Kellogg. And the ex-husband. He’s in Pittsburgh, you know. In some big race later today. I drove over there yesterday and talked to him again. Just routine, of course, and he’s the one who told me he’s involved in planning the funeral. Told me he owes it to their son to make sure his mother gets th
e kind of send-off a star like her deserves.”

  I had no doubt the funeral would be a production worthy of DeMille and surprisingly, I realized Ben was right—it was exactly what Meghan deserved. There was no one who loved more pomp and ceremony—not to mention the limelight—than Meghan. And this was her last chance to shine.

  “What does all this mean in terms of our . . .” I realized what I’d said and swallowed down my mortification. “In terms of your investigation?” I asked Gus.

  If he caught the gaffe, he didn’t point it out. Which was remarkably civilized—and thus, unexpected—on Gus’s part.

  “It means I’m going to be telling everyone from out of town that they can return to their homes.”

  A block of ice formed in my stomach. “All our . . .” Another hard swallow. If he missed it last time, he sure wouldn’t this time. “All your suspects?”

  “That’s right, all our suspects.”

  He might have been using the our to refer to the police department. But I didn’t think so. The realization did nothing to thaw the iceberg in my tummy, but it did make me bold enough to ask, “What are we going to do?”

  “Well, remember, there’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

  “Sure. Yes. Of course. I’m sure you’ll keep the case open, and if anything comes of it, you can always go out to California, or Italy, or wherever everyone’s gone off to, and talk to them. But it sure would be easier to solve this thing before everyone leaves town.”

  On the other end of the phone, I heard what I thought was paper being crumpled. It took me a moment to realize it was actually Gus laughing.

  “Yeah, we need to solve this before anyone leaves town.” He coughed to clear his throat. “So get to work.”

  “Before everyone leaves town.” Gus had already ended the call so when I looked at my phone and said this, I guess I was talking to myself.

  Only Declan was right there listening.

  “So what do we do?”

  “You mean after you finish with the Today’s Specials menus?”

  He got the not-so-subtle hint and went right back to work, and so did I while I thought about everything Gus had told me. By the time George arrived, I’d already browned the sausage for the campanelle pasta dish, and I’d chopped carrots and celery, too.