Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries)

by Genova, Rosie

  The look of contempt in his dark eyes was replaced by wariness. “Sì. You know I was here for the protest. I already tell that to the police.” He lifted the empty crate and held it against his barrel chest.

  But he was also here much later delivering vegetables. Did the police know about that? Or about the Internet video and the Jersey Side connection? I made a mental note to ask Danny.

  “Right,” I said, “but you came back later with a delivery, remember?” An awfully late delivery, I thought, and one timed exactly when Parisi was eating his lunch. Could Mr. B have followed him here that day?

  “Victoria, why you asking me these questions?” Sweat broke out on his forehead, his large hands tightened on the wooden box, and I suddenly wondered whether Tim was within screaming distance. But I wasn’t the only one fearful. Mr. Biaggio blinked nervously, swallowed once, and hugged the crate to himself as though he needed protection.

  “Oh, no reason, Mr. B.” I forced a smile. “It’s the mystery writer in me, I guess. Just wondering what happened to the guy.”

  “It was a heart attack, no?” He nodded, his eyes still afraid.

  “Probably,” I said. From the corner of my eye I could see Tim approaching with the plastic bag. While I was glad I had a means to get rid of him, I’d be in hot pasta water with my grandmother if he’d stripped too many of those plants. “Oh, look, here’s Tim.” I pushed open the back door, glad to get out into the air.

  Mr. B followed. While he and Tim talked over the next delivery, I mentally replayed my conversation. Mr. B had a clear motive, two if you counted the fact he was one of the protesters. He was protective of his daughter and obviously hated the dead producer. He was here that day and got spooked when I reminded him of it. He was afraid of something; of that, I had no doubt.

  Tim went back to the kitchen and I turned to follow, but Mr. Biaggio laid a sweaty palm on my arm. “Victoria,” he whispered. “What happened to that Parisi, it was the hand of God, I think.”

  Not God’s hand, Mr. B, but quite possibly yours.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back in the kitchen, I prepped the asparagus and basil while Tim rolled out the thin sheets of pasta dough. Once they were the right consistency, they would still have to rest before cutting.

  “Tim, should we get that pesto started while the dough dries?” I shook the basil leaves over the sink and twisted off the stems.

  “We?” Tim cleared a spot on the island for the last batch of dough, and I found myself admiring his arms as he worked my grandmother’s giant rolling pin.

  “Yes, ‘we.’ Have you looked at the time?” I started tearing the basil leaves into a colander.

  “Just keep that basil comin’, okay?”

  He came up behind me and peered over my shoulder, his face close enough to mine that his morning stubble brushed my cheek. I turned to face him. “Are you checking out my basil leaves?”

  “Among other things.” His voice had a lazy quality that had always had a hypnotic effect on me. He rested his hands against the sink on either side of me, his arms brushing mine. I put my wet hands against his T-shirt, and he curled his own around them.

  “Oh, Tim.” I sighed. “This is such a bad idea.”

  He rested his forehead against mine. “Why?” he whispered, and letting go of my hands, he slid his arms around my waist.

  The sensations were sweetly familiar—how he smelled, how his palms felt pressed against my back, and how his eyes looked when they darkened with emotion. I wanted to give in to them because, more than anything, being with Tim felt like home. A home I’d missed keenly during my years in New York. I lifted my face and closed my eyes, but the moment I did I flashed upon a pale face with creamy skin and raspberry lips. And just as I dropped my arms to my sides, the kitchen door swung open.

  “What’s cookin’ in here, y’all?” Cal stood grinning, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, a mischievous look in his green eyes.

  Tim stepped back, and I turned to the sink, my heart thumping. “Not much, Cal,” I said, wondering if one of the conditions of being back in Jersey was lying my butt off all the time.

  “That so, Victoria? You couldn’t prove that by me. Not judging by what I see.”

  My face burning, I dropped my head over the sink, tearing basil leaves with frightening force.

  “What are you talking about, Lockhart?” Tim growled.

  Cal swept his hand across the kitchen. “Looks to me like you fixin’ to make some pasta fresca.”

  I turned quickly from the sink. “How do you know what it’s called?”

  “Well, cher, you’d have no way of knowing this, but my mama’s half Italian.”

  “You’re kidding me!” For some reason, I found this heartening news and flashed Cal an answering smile.

  He nodded. “We got Italians down Louisiana way; I’m one of ’em.” He grinned. “Well, a quarter anyway.”

  At this, Tim gave a snort of skepticism. I motioned to him with my thumb. “He’s half.”

  “That settles it then. You win, brother.” He walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of San Pellegrino.

  “Hey, easy on the stock,” Tim said. “Who said you could just come in here and take what you want?”

  If Tim’s question was laden with meaning, Cal either didn’t get it or chose to ignore it. “My boss, Giulietta, that’s who.” He pointed to the pasta dough on the counter. “And I’m looking forward to a nice plate of pasta for my lunch.”

  “Get out of my kitchen, Lockhart. I won’t say it again.”

  “I’m on my way.” He paused with his hand on the door to look back at me. “Catch ya later, Victoria,” he said, lifting the San Pellegrino bottle with a wink, and pushed back through the door.

  “What is it with that guy?” Tim exploded. “He thinks he can just come and go whenever and wherever he wants. This is our restaurant, damn it.”

  I frowned in Tim’s direction, but he didn’t pick up on it. “Oh, it’s ‘ours,’ is it?” I said. “Since when?” The edge in my voice finally got his attention.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. This restaurant belongs to the Rienzi family.” I paused for effect. “It’s not like you married into it or anything.”

  “C’mon, Vic. You know what I mean; I love this place. I grew up here.”

  “There’s growing up and there’s growing up, Tim.” I sighed. “And I’m not sure you’re grown-up enough for me. I must have been crazy to forget the rules, even for a minute.”

  “The hell with the rules!” He grabbed my hand. “Look at me. We still love each other, and you know it.”

  I gently pulled my hand from his and rested it against his cheek. “And I used to think that was enough. But now I know better.”

  • • •

  With only a few twinges of guilt, I left Tim to finish the lunch prep on his own. I couldn’t trust myself around him, plain and simple. According to my deal with Nina the TV reporter, I had less than two days to get to the bottom of Parisi’s death. I couldn’t afford any distractions. I stepped outside to call Sofia and fill her in on my conversation with Mr. B when I noticed a text from Josh:

  Chaz says Rosen and Parisi on good terms despite difs. Rosen close to P’s wife, but see pic he sent colleagues via e-mail.

  The photo was taken the day of the murder. It showed two handsome men, one dark and one fair, with the ocean in the background. The caption read: “On our honeymoon in Miami.”

  “Sofie,” I said into the phone, “looks like we can eliminate a suspect. Rosen was getting married around the time that Parisi was killed.”

  “Are we sure that rules him out? Just because he’s married doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved with Angie,” she said.

  I laughed. “Not an issue, Sofe. The bride’s name is Michael.”

  “Go, Harvey. Now I get to take my red pen and put a great big line through his name. Did you talk to Biaggio?”

  When I was finished summarizing t
he key points of that conversation, Sofia asked a question. “So you think he was being evasive about coming back to the restaurant that day?”

  “Sort of. I’m not sure he told the police he came back a second time.”

  “But they’d know based on your interview and Tim’s.”

  “True. But Mr. B clearly didn’t want to talk about the fact that he was here just before Parisi was digging into that salad. And he was afraid, Sofe. That’s for damn sure.”

  “Does afraid equal guilty?” she asked.

  “Maybe. But here’s the real question: What is he afraid of?”

  After finishing my call, I thought about where we were. Gio Parisi had been dead exactly one week. The autopsy results had yet to be made public. And while we had a list of names and lots of supposition, we still had no idea who had killed him. If Danny was correct, the county prosecutor’s office would be taking over the case, if they hadn’t already. And I was likely to be questioned again; I had found the body, after all. My stomach turned over at the thought, particularly as there were little matters of interest—such as the Tiffany receipt and a bag of stolen garbage—that I had neglected to share with the Oceanside PD.

  And my involvement in this case could well be compromising my brother’s career; even if Danny’s cop friends in town would protect him, I was pretty sure that blue wall of silence wouldn’t extend to the prosecutor’s office.

  I turned to look over at the boardwalk and beyond that to a blue-green strip of sea that glittered in the sunlight. The Ferris wheel was making its slow revolution, and the smells of pizza and cotton candy were wafting across the street. The season was starting, and it would pick up momentum as fast as those rides out on the pier. Would the Casa Lido be part of it, as we had every summer? Or would we have to close our doors for good?

  • • •

  Our two-for-one special helped us fill a few tables during lunch, though I noticed they all seemed to be visitors, rather than regulars—visitors who likely hadn’t heard that a man had dropped dead after eating at Table Five. Once Lori came in, I stopped to have a plate of tagliatelle with pesto; after one bite, I knew I could fault Tim for a number of things, but his cooking wasn’t one of them. The pasta was light and eggy, but it held up to the swirl of flavors coating it—sweet basil, rich walnuts, and the sharply nutty imported parmesan. After going back for seconds, I made a mental note to do some extra bicycling this week to work off all these luscious carbs.

  I stepped over to the bar to offer Cal a plate, but he’d already eaten.

  “I’ll say one thing for the Iron Chef in there,” he said, pointing to the kitchen. “Pleasant he ain’t, but the man can cook.”

  “Oh, he’s pleasant enough when he wants to be.” I narrowed my eyes at him but couldn’t help a smile. “You just like goading him.”

  “Ya got me there.” He cut a small piece of sandpaper, than wrapped it tightly around a pencil.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  He held it up. “This here’s for sanding those tiny places in the wood.” He pointed to a floral carving in the mantel over the bar. “See where I filled in with the new wood on that rosette? That’s gotta be smoothed fine before I can stain it.”

  I went behind the bar and squinted at the spot where he was pointing. There was only a fine line where Cal had replaced the cracked piece. “Did you hand carve that?”

  “Yup.” He took the dowel and lightly sanded the raw wood, blowing the dust away after each pass.

  “And do you think you can match that stain?”

  “Pretty near,” he said over his shoulder. “Might have to do some mixing to get it right.”

  “I had no idea this was such precise work.” I walked back to the front of the bar and perched on a stool. “God knows what we’re paying you.”

  He gave me a sideways grin, and my face grew warm.

  “No Saints cap today?” I asked.

  “Nope. Don’t need it at the moment.” He ran a hand through his hair, and it struck me that he was less shaggy than usual.

  “Calvin Lockhart, you’re sporting a new haircut.”

  “Guilty as charged, ma’am.” He turned to face me and cocked his head. “No reason a man has to go ’round looking like he just rolled out of bed, now, is there?”

  As he stood there in a snug black T-shirt with his arms crossed over a tightly muscled chest, it occurred to me that the sight of Cal rolling out of bed might not be such a bad thing. And despite the innocent tone in his voice, the look in his eyes suggested he was following the train of my impure thoughts. Come to think of it, he was more like the engineer.

  “Well,” I said primly, “you look very nice.”

  He nodded, but seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

  I jumped down from the stool in an attempt to derail the conversation. “I should be getting back.”

  “Hang on there, Victoria. Before you go runnin’ off—I got a question.”

  “Um, okay.”

  He set his hands down on the bar and leaned toward me. “I been hearing so much about this boardwalk of yours. I don’t suppose you’d like to take a turn with me up there later on?”

  “You mean like a date?” I blurted out.

  He grinned and shook his head. “You Northern girls aren’t exactly subtle, are ya? Yes, cher. I mean like a date. You’ve heard of ’em, I take it?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of them.” So the enigmatic Cal Lockhart was asking me out. An unforeseen development, surely, but one I could live with. He was fun, he was good-looking, and he had been here the day of the murder, possibly a suspect, and an evening together would afford me the opportunity to ask him some questions. At the very least, he might have seen something the rest of us had missed. And I would be safe; there were few places more public than the Oceanside boardwalk.

  I met his amused green stare. “But I won’t be taking a turn with you—you’ll be taking one with me. It’s my boardwalk, after all. And I know all the best spots.”

  He inclined his head and smiled. “I look forward to you showing them to me. How’s six?”

  “Six would be fine. We can meet outside the restaurant.”

  “Sounds good. I’m looking forward to learning all about your ‘best spots.’” He turned back to his work, leaving me zero words and two pink cheeks.

  As I walked back to the kitchen, I told myself that a date with Cal might help move the case forward. That a chance to talk to him alone might provide more information about his own background and explore the possibility that he knew Parisi. That it was all about the case.

  So why was I so worried about what to wear?

  Chapter Seventeen

  I arrived at a few minutes after six to find Cal waiting for me. Good start, dude. You don’t keep a girl waiting. But the Cal who stood outside the Casa Lido this evening was a far cry from the guy who worked on the bar during the day. His hair was combed back off his face and tucked behind his ears. He wore a crisp tailored shirt in a faded blue that set off his tanned skin, a pair of dark jeans, and black canvas shoes. As I got closer, I noticed he wasn’t wearing the earring, but instead sported a vintage wristwatch. His rolled-up sleeves were the only vestige of Cal-the-woodworker, and I couldn’t help noticing he had forearms to rival Tim’s.

  “’Evening, Victoria.” He held out his hand, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. His broad palm was warm, and my fingers slipped easily through his. When he leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek, he smelled so good, it disoriented me.

  “Good evening,” I said, struggling to get my equilibrium back.

  “You’re lookin’ lovely.”

  “Thanks. I figured it was warm enough for a dress.” Of course it was. And the fact that it showed off my legs was entirely coincidental. He was still holding my hand when Tim emerged from the restaurant sweaty, disheveled, and still wearing a bandanna on his head. The contrast between him and the neatly turned-out Cal was not lost on either man, as they eyed each oth
er up and down. And was it my imagination that Cal’s grip on my hand tightened just the tiniest bit?

  Tim planted himself in front of me. “Where the hell are you two going?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, brother, but Victoria and I were just headed up to the boardwalk there for a bite to eat, maybe even go on a couple of them rides.” His accent got thicker by the word, and I knew he was trying to get Tim’s goat.

  I turned to Tim, expecting to bask in his disapproval, but to my shock (and a bit of dismay), he just smiled. “Oh,” he said, “that sounds like fun. But you might want to go easy on the rides.” He pointed to me. “The last time I took Vic on the Tilt-A-Whirl, she threw up all over my pants.” His smile grew wider. “You two have fun now.”

  “We will,” I called out, trying to sound cheerful through gritted teeth.

  We crossed the street and walked up the ramp to the boardwalk. “Listen,” I said, “about the throwing-up thing—”

  “Hey, no worries about that, okay?” He pointed at his jeans. “They’re washable. For future reference though, there are easier ways of separatin’ a man from his pants.”

  I glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow. “Pleasanter ones, too.”

  He raised an eyebrow back. “Ms. Rienzi, I do b’lieve you’ve just said something naughty.”

  “Mr. Lockhart, it’s that mind of yours that’s naughty.”

  “I won’t deny it. But right now it’s my stomach that concerns me. What do you recommend?”

  We stood at the top of the ramp, and I pointed to the right. “That way lies the best pizza outside of north Jersey. To the left resides a sausage sandwich that rivals my nonna’s. They also make a nice fried calamari.”

  “Squid and sausage it is, cher. Lead the way.” As we walked, I pointed out my favorite spots for saltwater taffy and frozen custard.

  “I haven’t been up here in a long time,” I said, “but I would know this place with my eyes closed.”