While I would have loved nothing better than adding another motive to Anjelica’s growing list, kids Fifi’s age used “BFF” to describe a wide range of relationships. Still, I scribbled How close were A and Rosen????? as quickly as I could.
“Hey.” Fifi was now standing, her arms crossed over her unnaturally high bosom. “I thought we were talking about me.”
“Just getting some background notes.” I smiled up at her in what I hoped was a winning manner. “So you must do lots of promotional appearances. How did things go in Oceanside Park last week?”
Fifi plopped back down on the couch and made a face. “Ugh. That place is a dump. I can’t believe they want us to film there.”
“So, is that happening?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“I dunno. They don’t tell me shit.”
“Oh.” Bring it back to the boardwalk, Vic. “So did you have fun on the boardwalk?”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not like it’s Seaside.”
“No, it certainly isn’t,” I said heartily. “But we . . . uh, they have great homemade lemonade and amazing pizza. So I hear.”
“I guess. Mikey mostly ate. Me, I graze ’cause that’s healthier. So I just had the cheese fries.”
“So did you all get a chance to sample the food?” I wondered how much longer Fifi would stand for these questions. I sounded lame even to my own ears.
She shook her head. “Nah. Gio is on some natural diet. He just brings his special water.” Clearly, Fifi’s patience was at an end. “Are we gonna, like, talk about the book, or what?”
“Of course. If you’ll give me a few more minutes, I can outline the project for you and you can run it by your agent.”
I spent another fifteen minutes talking about my nonexistent nonfiction project, wondering how many purgatory hours I’d be logging for all the lies. But in talking to Fifi, I could sense a sadness and confusion under the bravado and the makeup. She was barely twenty and had quit college to be filmed drinking, screaming, and making a fool of herself on a weekly basis. As I closed the door behind me, I realized that Parisi—along with his buddy Rosen—had exploited this girl and made her a joke for posterity. For some of us, that would be a motive for murder. I left Fifi’s hotel room with a head full of questions about Anjelica, Rosen, and Parisi, but pretty sure of one thing: Fifi Cavatoppi was no killer.
Next up was Mikey G. I was unaccountably nervous as I made my way up the marble staircase to the penthouse suite that housed the Gemellis. The door was opened by a fiftyish man in a razor-sharp Italian suit. It was all I could do not to stroke his lapels.
“Ms. Reed?”
“Yes.” I held out my hand, praying he wouldn’t connect Vick Reed with Victoria Rienzi. “Mr. Gemelli?”
He covered my hand with his. “Call me Michael, please. It’s our pleasure to have you here.”
I fumbled in my bag for my ticket inside the penthouse—an advance copy of the latest Bernardo Vitali mystery, Murder Della Casa. “A small token of thanks,” I said, handing him the book.
“Wow,” he said. “It hasn’t even come out yet. Am I the first kid on the block to get one of these?”
“You bet,” I said. If you don’t count Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, and about a hundred book bloggers.
“Where are my manners? Please, come in.” Michael Gemelli ushered me into a sumptuously furnished apartment that looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel—all velvet drapes and plaster cherubs. In one corner of the room, lounging on a carved wood sofa, was Mikey G himself, texting madly and grinning to himself with each response. Michael Gemelli swept his arm across the room and held it out toward his pride and joy. “Ms. Reed, may I present the man of the hour, Michael Junior?”
The man of the hour didn’t look up from his phone. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey, yourself,” I responded. I held out my hand. “I’m Vick Reed.”
As Mikey halfway shook my hand, I noticed that there was a lacquered shine on his fingernails that matched the one on his hair. His face was already tanned, and when he smiled, I squinted at its brightness. “Nice to meetch ya. I hear you wanna write a book about me.”
“Well, about you and other young people who find sudden fame on reality shows.” Oy. I didn’t even believe myself. “I was hoping to do a nonfiction project, you know, to take a break from the mysteries.”
“Uh-huh.” Mikey looked back down at his phone.
His father frowned. “Michael Junior, please put that phone away and listen to Ms. Reed. She wants to write about you,” he said through his teeth. He shot me an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to excuse him. He hasn’t been the same since our producer passed away.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “God rest his soul.”
Mikey raised one dark eyebrow—waxed, I noted—and tried to look sad. “Yeah, I’m all broken up about it.”
I’ll just bet you are, I thought. You and Daddy. Parisi was the only thing standing between you and a big pile of cash. Gemelli Senior had used “our” when he spoke about the show; that career, not to mention that giant paycheck, belonged to both of them. But at least they’d given me an opening. I cleared my throat. “Yes, I heard about that on the news. It was fairly sudden, right?”
Michael Gemelli nodded. “A terrible thing.”
“It is,” I agreed. “Mikey, weren’t you with him at that appearance in Oceanside Park?”
Mikey’s lazy gaze moved from his phone to my face. When I caught the shrewd expression in his eyes, I knew this was no Fifi I was dealing with. “Yeah, me and Feef were there.” He lifted one broad shoulder, and as he moved, the muscles in his neck rippled; his pecs and arms were well-defined. This dude spent a lot of time at the gym. If he were going to kill somebody, it’s a safe bet he’d do it with his fists, or possibly a bullet. Slipping something into Parisi’s “special water,” just didn’t seem his style. I looked over at his father. While it was hard to imagine Gemelli Senior getting his hands dirty, he might just hire somebody else to do it. A ripple of anxiety echoed my fear from the previous night. What had I gotten myself into?
“So he seemed okay when you were with him?” I asked.
Mikey shrugged again, and his father frowned. “Miss Reed, aren’t you here to talk to Michael Junior about a book project? Why are you so interested in Gio Parisi?”
Uh-oh. “Well, I . . .”
Before I could finish, Mikey struck. “C’mon, Dad, don’t you know who she is?” He swept one manicured finger across the screen of his smartphone and then held it up for us to see. Captured in the window was a screen shot of my interview with Nina LaGuardia, just at my “no comment” moment. “She says she heard about it on the news.” Mikey sneered. “She was the news.”
Michael Gemelli slowly turned his head from the phone to my face. “Wait a minute. You’re connected to that restaurant where Gio died.”
“You could say that. My parents own it.” I tried to smile, which was hard to do with trembling lips. “Small world, huh?”
Gemelli Senior’s voice was as rough and gravelly as our unpaved parking lot. “What are you really here for, Ms. Reed?”
My mind racing to come up with some kind of explanation, I was (in a change for me) struck dumb. There was no good reason to be here. There was no book. There was just me playing amateur sleuth, and doing a bang-up job of it, apparently.
“Wait a minute—I know what this is about!” He shook his finger at me, and I winced, waiting for the inevitable. Did he think I suspected his precious son of murder? What might he do, or more likely, have done to me in response? My mouth went dry.
“You’re doing research. And not for a book about Mikey, but for one of your mysteries.” There was menace in his voice, enough to make me break a sweat in that air-conditioned room and to wonder where he was on the day Parisi died. “My son’s life is not fodder for one of your books. And now I’d like you to leave.”
He held the door open, and I couldn’t escape fast enough. Bett
er to have him think I was researching a mystery than searching for a murderer.
As Mikey G followed me to the hallway, he flashed me a wolfish grin and leaned close enough for me to smell his wintergreen Tic Tacs. “Whatever you might think, Miss Rienzi, I’m not some dumb guido,” he said. “I just play one on TV.”
• • •
As I drove home from Bay Head, I tried to process all I had learned, but it was all what my mother calls a giambotta, which is informal Italian for “great big mess.” Thinking I would do better to talk it through with Sofie, I turned my attention to my second job: identifying those herbs I’d taken from the pantry. And as I turned down Ocean Avenue and hit my hometown, I knew exactly who could help me.
“Victoria!” Iris Harrington greeted me at the door of her shop, the Seaside Apothecary, which contained all manner of things herbal and organic. It had been an old pharmacy and still had racks of wooden shelves that Cal would appreciate. The store smelled medicine-y and flowery at the same time, and Iris—with her peasant blouse, long skirt, and leather sandals—fit perfectly in her surroundings. She still wore her hair long, as she had in high school, only now it was streaked with gray. Fresh-faced and devoid of makeup, she was an attractive woman, though Sofie was itching to get her hands on her for a makeover. Iris gave me a quick hug, and I caught a whiff of her patchouli scent.
Her blue eyes were bright as she looked me over. “It’s so good to see you back. You look wonderful. So you’re here to work on a book?”
I grinned. “Gotta love the Oceanside grapevine. Yeah, I’m here to work on a book, do some research. You know.”
“So, is there something you need? Still getting those tension headaches of yours?”
“Yes, and yes, but this is actually part of my research.” I pulled the herbs from my bag and laid them out on the counter. “Do you think you can identify these for me?”
Iris took a small leaf from one of the packets and rubbed it between her fingers. “This one’s easy. It’s dried sage. A nice savory herb.” She grinned at me. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure that out for yourself,” she said.
I probably would have recognized the sage if I’d been willing to put it close to my nose. “My grandmother would be ashamed of me,” I said. “She makes a butter-and-sage sauce for her ravioli.”
She opened another packet and sniffed. “This one’s raspberry leaf. Some people make infusions from it or even mouth rinse. It has astringent properties.”
“Could somebody get sick from it?” I asked. “Or even die?”
Iris laughed. “No. Pregnant women drink it. I think it’s pretty safe.” She pointed to the third packet. “And that last one is lovely lemon verbena. It dries nicely and has a wonderful scent. In Europe they make tisanes with it to treat colds. Oh, and it’s a natural insect repellent.”
“Would somebody use these in something like, say, salad dressing?”
She frowned. “The sage, possibly. But it’s a pungent herb; it’s often used with meats or in stuffings.”
I wrapped the packets back up and slipped them into my bag. “So none of this stuff would kill anybody?”
“Goodness, no. I suppose in large amounts they might make someone a little sick, but I don’t think any of these are toxic unless someone had an allergy.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, actually, that’s what I thought.” Relief coursed through me; I could be fairly sure that nothing in that pantry killed Parisi. And while I never seriously considered her a suspect, it let my grandmother off the hook, too.
She cocked her head and grinned. “If you’re trying to kill somebody off with a plant, there are better ways to go.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Phytolacca, also known as pokeweed; the roots are toxic. And foxglove, of course, also known as Digitalis purpurea. Enough of that will stop your heart. Oh, and oleander; there’s a nasty one. In some places you’re not even allowed to plant it. Now, some people think holly berries can kill you, but they mostly just make you sick . . .”
I only half listened as Iris talked. While I was relieved the herbs were harmless, I was now left with more questions. If some toxic substance caused Parisi’s fatal heart attack, how was it delivered? Until those test results came in, we had only conjecture and supposition.
I left Iris’s shop feeling a bit better until my phone rang. I recognized the number, even though I’d deleted it from my contacts ages ago.
“Vic,” Tim said. “Can you stop by the restaurant for a minute?”
“I’d rather not; I’m trying to avoid my grandmother.”
“It’s important. It’s about last night.” At this moment, last night felt like an experience glimpsed through the mirrors at Tillie’s Funhouse: distant, distorted, and a little nightmarish. I didn’t particularly want to relive it. “What about last night?”
“I’d rather talk in person. Just get over here, okay? Come in through the back.”
It was good advice. I parked as far from the door as I could, hoping I wouldn’t see my grandmother—or anyone else in my family, for that matter. Tim was waiting outside for me.
He strode over and took my elbow. “C’mere. I want to show you something,” he said, and led me to the Dumpster at the corner of the lot.
“You want to show me the garbage?” I wrinkled my nose. Few odors were as pungent as restaurant refuse.
Tim lifted the top and pointed. “Look.”
I stood on tiptoe and leaned forward. “I don’t see anything.”
“That’s just it,” Tim said. “It’s empty. And we don’t have pickup until Monday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The garbage is gone. That means whoever was here last night took it.”
I shook my head. “That’s impossible. The police would have taken it on Tuesday.”
Tim looked around and lowered his voice. “They only took the kitchen trash.”
“How do you know that?”
“I talked to Danny, who probably shouldn’t have talked to me. The OPPD screwed up, plain and simple. I saw the bags myself; there’s been trash in there all week—until today.”
“Trash that might have held evidence,” I said.
“Maybe evidence that could have proved me innocent if this guy was murdered.” Tim sighed. “Too bad I didn’t think of it till now. Now that it’s gone.”
And probably destroyed, if that’s why the intruder was rummaging around the restaurant last night. I shivered at the memory. Looking at Tim’s worried face, I was fairly sure he wasn’t a murderer. But how would we ever prove it?
Chapter Eleven
Isabella stared at the young man’s open collar, the white fabric a stark contrast against the tanned skin of his neck and chest. Shyly, she lifted her eyes to his face—
I groaned. At what point had my book become a romance novel? The vibration of my cell phone was a welcome interruption. Until I saw who it was.
“Vic! How’s the sleuthing going down there? Guess you haven’t had much time to work on the new novel, huh?”
“Don’t sound so cheerful, Josh. I was working on it. Until you interrupted me, that is.”
“Oh, I’ll let you get back to it. But I thought you should know that I talked to Sylvie.”
I took a quick swig of cold coffee to fortify myself. Much as I adored my editor, I stood a little in awe of her. “And?”
“Well, she’s happy that you’re doing this book-of-the-heart project.” He paused. “But she’s also happy about Bernardo’s sales. She thinks the series still has traction, and she’s worried you won’t have time to promote the new release.”
“Josh, I haven’t forgotten my obligation to Agatha Press or to Sylvie. Or to you, for that matter. I’ll do as much promo as you need me to do on the new book.” Sure I will. In between solving a murder and getting my family’s business back on its feet, as well as dodging my old boyfriend and a guy who might be interested in becoming my new one.
<
br /> “You don’t have to convince me, Vic,” Josh said a shade too heartily. “I figure it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be back in New York. How’re things going with that grandmother of yours, by the way?”
“Peachy. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to work.”
“Sure, absolutely. So did ya figure out who killed Parisi yet?”
“No, Josh. I’m gonna let the police work on that one.”
“Ha! You won’t be able to help yourself. Listen, you know he wouldn’t budge on the contract talks, right? Think one of the kids from the show knocked him off?”
He had hit upon one of our theories, and it occurred to me that Josh might be a valuable source of information. “Hey, Josh? Do you still have that connection at ARC Entertainment?”
“You mean Chaz? The guy who handles TV talent?”
“Yes. Could you find out what he knows about Harvey Rosen?”
“Parisi’s partner?” Josh’s voice took on an excited tone. “You think he killed him, don’t you?”
“Hold your horses there, dude. I don’t think anything. I’m just looking for some information.”
“Sure you are. And if that information happens to give you the plot of the next Bernardo mystery—”
“Don’t get any ideas, okay? Yes, I’m looking into this Parisi thing. The restaurant is losing business, more every day. I’ve got to find out what happened to this guy. Could you please talk to Chaz? Find out whatever you can about Rosen’s relationship with Parisi and especially his relationship with Parisi’s wife.”
“You got it, Vic. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. Now I’ll let you get back to your writing.”
But as I ended the call, I realized there would be no more work on the book today. I had to get over to the restaurant. My mom and dad had called the staff in for a meeting this morning, and Nonna would certainly be there. It was time to face the Italian music. And if I knew my grandmother, I’d be hearing the entire opera.
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 11