I used my shirt to wipe it out for good measure, then held it out toward the flashlight. “No drainage hole. Good work.”
Tim poured me a full pot of Chianti and lifted the bottle. “Salute.”
“Wait—you can’t drink from that bottle.”
“Damn right.” He pointed to my flowerpot. “We’re gonna share.”
“That’s kind of intimate, don’t you think?”
“Well, we’re in kind of intimate circumstances, aren’t we?”
“You could say that.” I took a deep swig of my father’s swill, and it rushed to my head like a freight train. The next swallow went down a bit easier, though my legs were shaky. I sat back down and Tim joined me on the floor. I took another quick sip for courage and wiped the rim of the pot before passing it to Tim.
“I don’t mind your germs, Vic.” He filled the little pot again and swirled the wine as though it were the finest Montepulciano instead of Frank’s Thursday Chianti. “Not a bad nose.” Then he took a sip and choked. “Geez, that’s got a kick.”
“It tastes better as it goes down,” I said, feeling warm and cozy as the Chianti coursed through my veins. “With each successive sip.”
Tim laughed. “You said ‘suh-cess-ive.’” He took a deeper swallow this time and pounded his chest as it went down.
I reached for the flowerpot. “Lessee how good you talk after another ounce of this crap.” I sipped again and then sniffed; the air was filled with the smell of old wine. “Nonna’s gonna kill you for making a mess in here.” I handed him back the pot. “She scrubs the cement.”
He drained what was left in the pot and grinned at me over the rim. “She ‘shrubs the cement,’ huh?”
“Oh, ha-ha.” I flapped my hand at him and he grabbed it, pulling me closer to him on the floor. I got to my feet as quickly as my rubbery legs and foggy head would allow. “Wait a minute, there, buddy. Whoa. Don’t get any crazy ideas.” I swayed a little. “That’s Rule Number One.” I frowned, trying to remember. “Or maybe it’s Rule Number Two. Anyway, it’s one of them.”
“You’re right, Vic, and I’m sorry.” But his expression was anything but sorry. He jumped to his feet pretty quickly, considering how much wine he’d put away. “But if we have to stay in here tonight, we might as well be comfortable.” He shined the flashlight onto the dresser and began opening the lower drawers; he threw us each a couple of tablecloths.
“Those are clean, Tim! And I just ironed all those!” I wailed, as several napkins sailed toward me.
“We need pillows, don’t we?”
I sighed. Even the image of all those crumpled linens that would need laundering wasn’t enough to keep me from creating a makeshift bed. Fear was exhausting. Tim’s “bed,” set suspiciously close to my own, resembled a pile of soon-to-be-dirty laundry.
As we struggled to get comfortable, I turned my back to Tim. Much safer. But the wine had loosened my untrustworthy tongue.
“Are you involved with her?” I asked over my shoulder. Despite my stupor, the words rang out clearly, as did the meaning of “involved.”
He didn’t have to ask whom I meant. We knew each other far too well for that. Instead, he just sighed. “No, Vic, I’m not. She got in touch with me about a week ago, out of the blue. She wanted to know how I was doing. I told her I was here, and she stopped in to see me.” He paused. “She thought Parisi was cheating on her.”
I had to stop myself from bolting upright in my pile of tablecloths. Another woman equaled another suspect and another motive for Miss Angie. I tried to keep my voice casual. “Is that so? What made her think that?”
“She didn’t really get into details. It’s not like she made a habit of confiding in me. Angie and I were over a long time ago.”
I shifted on my pile of damask cloth, feeling every bump in the cement. “Then why did she show up today?”
He lifted himself up on one elbow, treating me to the shadowy outline of his muscled arm. “I told you. I don’t know. She was hysterical. Maybe she had nowhere to turn.”
Men, I thought. She was hysterical, all right. Hysterical enough to come snooping around here and throw suspicion on her old boyfriend. “I wonder what he did die of,” I said.
Tim spoke through a long, loud yawn. “It was probably just a heart attack, Vic. And as soon as the police release those results, this will be old news.”
“I hope so,” I said. “The Casa Lido’s future depends on it.” And maybe yours as well. But if it was just a heart attack, why were there broken blood vessels in his eyes? Why was somebody ransacking the kitchen? And more to the point, why are we locked in this pantry?
“Hey, Vic?” Tim’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”
The sound of his voice—deep, warm, and familiar—coursed through me as thoroughly as my father’s homemade wine and with the same potency. A little light-headed, I tried to control my response, but my answer came out as a sigh. “I missed you, too,” I said, and tried to settle myself into my bed.
Whether it was the wine or utter exhaustion, I slept pretty well, considering we’d probably had a brush with a murderer and that my bed was a tablecloth and my pillow a pile of slippery napkins. When the dim light of morning broke through my consciousness, I groaned and put my hand over my gritty, foul-tasting mouth. Ugh. A toothbrush followed by about seven Tylenol was the first order of the day.
“Hey,” I croaked.
Tim turned to face me, rumpled in that morning sexy way that is usually only true on television. “’Morning, sunshine,” he said brightly.
I held my head and groaned. “Turn it down, will you? Frankie’s Chianti is having its terrible revenge.”
Just then came the scrape of the key in the pantry lock, and the door swung open to reveal my grandmother, fists on hips and thunder in her face. I listened in dazed, hungover horror as Italian invective rained down over us. The words dropped with painful thuds onto my aching head, and I could only imagine the scene as she saw it: spilled wine, broken glass, crumpled linens, and the two of us lying side by side on the pantry floor. I winced as she went on, ever louder, ever more virulent. Finally, after shaking her fist at the two of us, she turned with a jerk and stalked down the hallway into the kitchen. I took a breath and looked at Tim.
“You speak Italian—what’d she say?”
Tim stood up with a groan, stretching his stiff arms and legs. He rubbed his hand over his stubbly chin and grinned. “I didn’t get it all,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure we’re engaged.”
Chapter Ten
“Flirting with one suspect and sleeping with another. Tsk-tsk, Vic. Bernardo should have such an exciting life.”
“Cut it out, Sofie.” I rubbed the temples of my still-aching head, but I was glad to be in my cottage and far away from my irate grandmother. “And I didn’t sleep with him. I slept next to him. There’s a world of difference.” I got up from my kitchen table to pour myself another cup of coffee.
“If you say so,” she said.
I sat back down and sipped my coffee, willing the caffeine to do its work on the pulsing blood vessels in my brain. “Look, it’s not like I had a choice. Somebody was in that restaurant last night. Tim and I both heard him, and then he locked us in that pantry.”
“You think it was the murderer, don’t you?”
“Who else? Nothing was stolen. The kitchen was pretty messed up, but that was it. Clearly, somebody was looking for something.” I held the sides of my head and moaned. “I just went over all of this with the police.”
“What’d they say? Did they take you seriously?”
“I guess. I called Danny right away, and he sent me down there to file a report. As his sister, I have some cred.” I sighed. “They’re probably sending everything over to the county prosecutor anyway.”
“If it was the murderer,” Sofie pointed out, “this lets Tim off the hook.” She paused. “Unless he’s in cahoots w
ith the Widow Angie.”
“If he is, he’s a pretty damn good actor.” I shook my head. “I don’t buy it, SIL.”
“You’re not exactly unbiased where Tim is concerned.”
“I’ll give you that one.” I said.
“By the way,” Sofie said, “why are your teeth blue?”
“Ugh. I know.” I automatically put my hand to my mouth. “I brushed twice. Apparently, my father’s homemade swill pierces tooth enamel. The desk sergeant kept staring at my mouth.”
She pushed my plate of cold toast across the table. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”
I groaned. “If I had a dollar for every time somebody in my family said that to me.”
“We say it because it’s true. Now take a bite. You need your strength.” She slapped the red folder down on the table. “While you’ve been off having fun with the Macho Twins, I have been busy.”
“And you think I haven’t?” I said through a mouthful of toast. It was whole grain—Sofia’s idea, of course. I took another sip of black coffee to wash it down before I made my announcement. “Last night Tim told me something of great importance, missy. Angie—excuse me, Anjelica—suspected her hubby of having an affair.”
Sofia’s lower jaw dropped in slow motion. “GET. OUT.”
“No, thanks. I live here.” I pushed the plate of toast away and concentrated on the coffee. I was going to need it.
“We have to find out who she is,” Sofia said, scribbling furiously on her pad. “Then we have to find out if she was anywhere near Oceanside when Parisi started feeling sick. Ooh, can I have this one?”
I waved a hand at her. “Knock yourself out. Now what have you got, SIL?”
“I’ve got Mikey and Fifi—that’s who.”
“Who?” Mikey and Fifi sounded like names for a pair of Scottish terriers.
“Mike Gemelli, aka Mikey G, and Francesca Cavatoppi, affectionately called Fifi,” Sofia said, wrinkling her nose. She tapped her nail on the folder. “Both stars of The Jersey Side were with him that day. They both had access. And I wouldn’t put it past that little puttana to kill him just to get her raise.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“You don’t read at all, do you?” She shook her head in disgust. “Both those kids are in contract talks. They were asking for ridiculous amounts of money.”
“But then killing their producer doesn’t make sense.”
Sofia looked at me, her impatience tinged with pity. “Parisi wasn’t the only producer on the show. His partner, Harvey Rosen, was willing to meet the kids’ terms. Our victim wasn’t, and now he’s out of the way. Convenient, no?”
My blurry thoughts were starting to clear. “They were the two kids up on the boards with him, right?” I looked at Sofia. “If he had anything to eat or drink up there, it’s possible one of them could have given him something.”
“You bet, SIL.” She leaned across the table, her eyes shining. “And you’re the one who’s gonna find that out.”
“Me?” I sat back in my chair. “Why me?”
“You’re a writer,” she said, as if that explained it all.
“And?”
“Geez, you’re slow today.” My sister-in-law shook her head. “You’re going to approach them about your book.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do they have to do with Isabella?”
“Not that book. Your other book. The one you’re writing about reality show stars and their path to fame.”
I put my head in my hands. “How did I get into this?”
Sofia gathered her notes in the red folder. “That would be me. And your crazy nonna.” She stood up and pushed in her chair. “I’m headed up to the boardwalk to see which stands were open that day and if anyone noticed Parisi eating or drinking. Then I’m gonna find out who Parisi’s girlfriend was.” She paused. “I should probably talk to Anne McCrae, too. She comes in for yoga.”
“Oh, right! I forgot our redoubtable mayor was there that day.”
But McCrae was a big supporter of the show coming to town, much to the dismay of many of her constituents, my family included. Though she tolerated me because I was a writer, she was no fan of the Rienzi clan, as Nonna and my dad had a habit of showing up at town meetings to express their very decided opinions on town politics. Dealing with the mayor might be a bit tricky. “She wouldn’t have a motive, though, would she?”
Sofia shrugged. “Who knows? But she was stuck to him like glue that day, and maybe she knows something.” She pointed at me. “And you also have more than one job. You need to find out about those herbs.”
“Oh my God. I almost forgot.” Luckily, or grossly, I was still wearing last night’s jeans. I pulled the crumpled packets from my pockets, along with the Tiffany receipt.
“Give me that.” Sofia grabbed the receipt and tucked it into her red folder. “You cannot be trusted with important evidence. And get crackin’ on contacting those kids. They’re still down here; they’re staying at that fancy historic place in Bay Head.”
“They’re at the Villa Fortuna? C’mon. I need to put a dress on just to walk into that place, and all my good clothes are back in the city. You think I can just waltz in and ask to see them? They probably have handlers and security and entourages and—” But she was already out the door. And I had a choice: I could try to approach the Jersey Side kids to pump them for information, or I could go back to the restaurant and face Nonna. There was really no contest.
• • •
After showering and finding a passable skirt and blouse, I made the drive to Bay Head, with Bruce in the CD player for courage. I pulled up to the Villa Fortuna, my shabby Honda a standout among the BMWs and Land Rovers lining the sidewalk. Smoothing out my wrinkled skirt, I gazed up at the massive Italianate Victorian structure. It was a bit hard to imagine Mikey G and Fifi taking up residence in here. By some miracle, I had managed to get both kids on the phone; Fifi was amenable to a meeting, and as it turned out, Mikey’s father was a Bernardo Vitali fan, so I was in with him, too.
I started with Fifi, who occupied one of the more modest rooms on the second floor. As the cost of even a modest room at the Villa Fortuna was still about equal to a month’s rent on my cottage, her digs were impressive. The minute she greeted me at the door, I knew why Fifi had gotten her name; her curly mane and poufy bangs suggested a large-eyed, well-groomed poodle, but a miniature one. Fifi barely made five feet; when I reached down to shake her tiny hand, I felt downright willowy.
She took a seat on a velvet settee and blinked her thickly coated lashes at me. She was actually a pretty girl, under all the foundation, blush, bronzer, eyeliner, mascara, and lash extensions. Despite her plump proportions, her legs were shapely. She wore a thick silver ankle bracelet graced by a heart-shaped charm, which clanked every time she moved. On her slender ankle, it suggested a manacle. A slave to fame? I wondered. I sat down across from her to get a better look—was it from Tiffany? Or Canal Street? Sofia would have known in seconds. It wasn’t a necklace, but if Fifi were Parisi’s mysterious girlfriend, he may have bought more than one gift there.
I pointed to her ankle. “That’s a great piece.”
“Thanks.” She lifted her foot, revealing a pedicure that included tiny rhinestones. “I also have the bracelet, necklace, and ring that match it.” She wrinkled her pug nose. “But I think it’s tacky to wear them all at the same time.”
This from a girl with diamonds on her toenails. She grinned suddenly, and I got a look at the child she really was. Please, I thought, if he was cheating, don’t let her be Parisi’s girlfriend. He was old enough to be her father.
“So I hear you wanna write a book about me,” she said, studying her fingernails, which also sported gems. “There’s already a whaddayacallit—an unauthorized one—some bitch wrote and made a bundle off of.”
“Uh, well, this isn’t actually a biography.”
“It isn’t?” She sounded as though I had said no to buying her ice cream.
“Not
really, Francesca. I’m looking at young reality stars to see how they’re handling fame.”
She waved a glittery hand. “Geez, I could talk for hours on that one. And call me Fifi, ’kay? Everybody else does.” She frowned a little, and I wondered if she was sick of the nickname.
“But Francesca’s such a pretty name.”
She shrugged. “At home I was Frannie, which I hate.” She sat up to her full fifty-nine inches. “Do we start today?”
I was prepared for resistance, not enthusiasm. I scrabbled in my bag for a pen and notebook. Then I took the plunge. “So, Fifi, first I want to apologize for the timing.”
“Timing?” Her face was a bronzed blank.
“Well, after what happened to your producer,” I said, lowering my voice to convey some respect.
“Oh, right. I feel kinda bad about that. He had, like, a heart attack, right?” She picked at one of the rhinestones on her thumb. “God. Ya can’t get a decent mani around here.”
“I think so,” I said, as I wrote, Not too shaken up, on my pad. “Did you work very closely with him?”
“Not really. Harvey was on set more than he was.” At the mention of Rosen’s name, her face softened. “Harvey’s really cool. He’s young. And he’s nice to us.”
“And he’s supporting you in your contract talks?” Is she involved with Harvey? got added to my notes, along with Check out Rosen. When I looked up at her, she was no longer smiling. “Are you from the newspaper?” she asked, her voice shrill.
“Absolutely not, Fifi!” I was relieved to be telling the truth for once. “I just wanted to convey my condolences about Mr. Parisi.”
She sat up primly. “Well, I feel sad for his wife.”
My head jerked up from my pad. “Do you know her?”
“I only met her once.” Her large eyes grew wider. “She’s soooo pretty. I wish I looked like that.”
The subject of Angie/Anjelica’s looks grated on me like sand in the bedsheets. “Right, well—”
“And I know Harvey thought so, too,” Fifi continued. A sly note had crept into her voice. “I don’t think Gio liked that him and his wife were BFFs.”
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 10