She pressed her lips together and then blotted them on a napkin. I raised my eyes from that bright red imprint up to her face, which held an expression that was a toxic combination of sympathetic and sly.
“Oh, hon,” she said. She shook her head slowly from side to side. “Is that what he told you?”
• • •
Less than an hour later, I arrived at Sofia’s studio, tapping my foot in her office until she finished her last class. The espresso with a Martini chaser had left me jittery, and the implication that Tim had lied about when he’d last seen Angie left me pissed. I needed to take action.
“What’s up?” Sofia came in a little breathless, mopping her face with a towel. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the restaurant?”
“I took the day off. Listen, you up for a road trip, SIL?” I pulled a sheet from the office printer, a black-and-white image of the EC! screen shot of Anjelica, and tucked it into my purse.
“Where? Can I shower first?”
“Ocean Grove, and yes. But hurry up. And bring the red folder!” I called after her.
We took her car, as her air-conditioning was less temperamental than that in my Honda. Summer was still a month away, but the Jersey heat was already upon us as we headed north on the Garden State Parkway.
“So I did some research on Gemelli Senior,” Sofia said as she zipped into the left lane, heedless of the Range Rover barreling up behind us.
“Hey, take it easy.” I automatically pressed my right foot down on the floor. “I’d like to get there in one piece.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “he definitely has some sketchy connections.”
“What does he do?”
“Mostly he manages Mikey’s career, such as it is. But he owned a construction firm for a long time; that’s how he made his money.”
“And that’s where the sketchy stuff comes in?”
Sofia nodded. “I dug up some old newspaper articles online about possible kickbacks on bids, but nothing was ever proven. I don’t think he was even investigated.”
“Is that it?”
“Not quite.” She made a sudden lane change, and I gripped the armrest. “He’s built houses up in north Jersey for the Rossini family.”
“The Rossini family or the Rossini family?”
“Both.”
“Okay, just because he has some connected clients doesn’t mean—”
Sofia held up her hand. “Is this where I get a lecture about Italian-American stereotypes?”
“Keep both hands on the wheel, please. I just meant that building houses for an alleged mobster isn’t a crime.”
“You’re right,” Sofia said. “It’s not. But it puts him in close contact with people who kill for money.”
“And people who could slip in and out of places without being seen and who wouldn’t think twice about coming back to retrieve evidence.” I shuddered at the thought of a Rossini henchman sneaking around the restaurant at night and locking us in the pantry.
“And Gemelli had a motive, don’t forget. With Parisi out of the picture, those kids on Jersey Side will probably get the money they’re asking for.”
I nodded. “Cui bono.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Latin for ‘to whose benefit?’ It’s a question you ask when greed’s a motive.”
“So Gemelli Junior and Senior both benefit when Mikey G gets his raise,” Sofia said.
“And Angie benefits big-time,” I added. “And speaking of the Black Widow, let me tell you about my very interesting lunch with her.”
My sister-in-law was uncharacteristically silent as I recounted the salient points of my conversation with Angie/Anjelica, but the minute I paused for breath, she jumped in.
“You think she’s telling the truth about those letters?”
“Danny told me the cops knew about them, so I assume they exist.”
“If the murderer sent them, wouldn’t that give the cops a strong lead? I wish we could get a look at them.”
“Not that I’m not curious, SIL, but they wouldn’t tell us much.” From my own research I knew that people who sent anonymous letters usually knew enough to wear gloves, avoid licking the envelope, and post the letters far from where they lived.
I was about to explain that to her when she sailed through the EZPass toll at top speed, then changed the subject as quickly as she changed lanes. “So she claims she was in Ocean Grove taking a yoga class last Tuesday.” She tapped restlessly on the steering wheel. “I don’t get it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s in Ocean Grove to interest Angie?” she asked. “Antiques and little shops? She sure wasn’t there for a prayer meeting.” She shook her head. “It’s a weird choice. Now, if she’d said she was in Atlantic City or Wildwood—that I could believe.”
“Well, we’ll find out, won’t we? Exit’s coming up.”
As we entered the quaint confines of the little town, I couldn’t help but agree with Sofia’s assessment. Ocean Grove had been established as a Methodist community and still held prayer meetings every summer. Any nightlife was next door in Asbury Park. It was a dry town and home to an eclectic mix of people that didn’t normally include the glamorous wives of television producers.
Our first stop was the art center at the top of the main street in town. “I haven’t been here in a long time,” I told Sofia, “but I know there used to be a community bulletin board with events and stuff. Let’s see if there’s a yoga class.”
As we scanned the board, we saw flyers for a local theater production of Much Ado About Nothing and an upcoming appearance by the New Jersey Ballet. There was also a tour of historic houses planned for June. But no yoga.
“May I help you?” A middle-aged woman got up from behind a desk.
“Yes,” I said. “We were looking for a yoga class in town that a friend told us about.”
“Oh, that’s on Tuesdays in the studio upstairs,” she said. “You missed it by a day.”
Sofia dug her elbow into my side. “But are we sure this is the class Angie meant?” she asked, her brown eyes the picture of innocence. I gave her a quick elbow jab in return.
“We’re pretty sure our friend took last Tuesday’s class,” I said, “but maybe you remember her? People say she looks like Angelina Jolie.”
“Oh my goodness, yes,” the woman said. “Such a striking woman. She was here for the two o’clock class last week. I remember her clearly.” She smiled and handed us a brochure. “Just fill this out, and we can get you both in starting next week.”
Sofia tugged at my arm. “Oh, we’ll just take it with us. Thanks!”
As we walked toward the town center, we started to put a time frame together. “If she was here for a two o’clock class,” Sofia said, “that means the latest she could have left our area was one thirty.”
“And at one thirty Parisi was still up at the boardwalk; he didn’t come into the restaurant until two hours later.”
Sofia opened the brochure. “This says the class is forty-five minutes. If she didn’t stop for coffee like she said, she could have made it back to the restaurant.”
“On to the coffee shops, then.”
We walked the length of the main street in a matter of minutes and counted the cafés.
“Should we split up?” Sofie asked. “We’ll get done quicker, and then we can have lunch.”
“There’s only a few places,” I said. “And I think it’s better if we have two pairs of eyes and ears. And we can eat somewhere along the way.”
The first two shops yielded nothing more than blank looks and head shakes from the staff. We walked into the third one, Café au Lait, and were greeted by a bearded bear of a guy behind the counter.
“What can I get you ladies?” As the offerings included lunch, we decided to refuel first and ask questions later. Big Bear motioned us to a table and then brought our sandwiches out to us.
Sofia batted her eyes at him while I rolled my ow
n. “Can we ask you a question?”
He rested his hands across his generous belly. “Sure.”
“A friend of ours was in town last week and raved about an iced latte she had. Do you make those here?” Sofia asked.
“We do, indeed,” he said. “Can I get you one?”
“Not right now,” she said. “Thanks, but—”
“Actually,” I interrupted, “may we presume on your time just one more minute?” I dug into my bag and produced the picture. “This is our friend. Can you tell us if she came in last Tuesday?”
Big Bear chuckled and raised his thick eyebrows. “Oh yeah, she was here all right. Came in around three. Her and that other lady.”
That other lady? I glanced at Sofia, who looked up sharply. “Somebody was with her?” I asked, straining to keep the curiosity out of my voice.
“Yup. I’m not likely to forget either one of those two.” He glanced over at a customer at a nearby table and lowered his voice. “They had a screaming match, the two of ’em, right there at that table. I hadda ask them to leave.”
Sofia’s eyes were wide. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “It was pretty bad. I mean, in this economy, who kicks out paying customers?”
“This other lady,” I said slowly. “Do you remember what she looked like?”
“Hell, yeah. She was a tiny woman, especially next to the other one. I thought she was on the younger side until I got up close. She had blond hair.” He paused. “And a lotta makeup.”
Thank you, Big Bear, for being so observant. “Did she have long bangs?” I asked. “Blue eyes? They’re an unusual color—almost turquoise.”
“Yeah. Sounds like you know her.”
“Slightly,” I said.
“I don’t remember Angie telling us about a fight. Do you, Vic?” Sofia said with exaggerated emphasis. Real smooth, Sofe. “Could that have been her friend Susie?”
I opened my mouth, but Big Bear got there first. “Nah,” he said, “that wasn’t her name. Just before I threw them out, when they were getting really loud, the short one said something that really pissed the big one off. Then I hear the big one say—clear as day, mind you—‘You bitch, Emily. I’ll kill you for this.’”
Emily. There was only one Emily in this scenario. And my brother had been right: If they were in the Café au Lait at three o’clock, neither one of these women was anywhere near the restaurant the day Gio Parisi was killed.
Chapter Twenty
That evening I took a walk on the boardwalk to clear my head (and to grab some saltwater taffy). I passed the arcades and the rides pier, already lit up for the start of the season. I eventually made my way to the old movie theater, where I’d spent many a rainy Saturday afternoon. The Paramount didn’t show first-run films anymore, but it had a new life as an art house. I wandered over to look at the posters on each side of its massive doors. Next month was a French film retrospective, featuring Diabolique and Jules and Jim. That didn’t interest me much, but I looked with longing at tonight’s offering, an Astaire-Rogers double feature. But the sad truth was that I didn’t have time for Fred and Ginger or walks down memory lane. I sighed as I turned to go. I had work to do, and it was time to get started.
Back at the cottage, I settled down at my computer to break down this case, much in the same way I planned Bernardo’s mysteries—with a chart.
I stared at the screen, my heart sinking. Laid out like this, there were only two clear front-runners: Mr. B and Tim. Which brought us right back to where we had started a week ago. Unless you’re missing something, Vic. Think! I glanced at the chart again. Cal was also on the scene, but he had no motive—that we knew of, anyway. But I couldn’t rule him out.
“If you know how, you know who,” I said to myself. And it was time to find out more about how Parisi may have been murdered. Danny had said the medical examiner suspected a plant poison, but I didn’t know the first thing about them. (In my Bernardo series, I had yet to kill anybody with poison. They’re unpredictable, messy, and not always easy to get ahold of. Give me a nice clean shove off a cliff any day.) There had to be dozens of poisonous plants that grew in Jersey, so where to begin? It seemed logical to talk to Iris Harrington first, but the shop was closed, and Iris, who was not a believer in cell phones, had only a landline. Since she didn’t believe in answering machines, either, I was left with only my spotty memory of our conversation.
What had she said? I remembered something about holly berries—or was it juniper berries? But either way, there was nothing on Parisi’s salad that looked remotely like a berry. I struggled to remember the salad plate and the greens that were on it. Arugula, certainly, but nothing else—at least that I could remember—that looked leafy. But leaves could be chopped up, said a voice in my head. And the bitterness of the arugula might have disguised the taste of those leaves.
What other plants had Iris talked about? I closed my eyes to concentrate. There was a name I recognized because it had been in the title of a book I’d read whose cover had a white flower. White lily? White narcissus? No. Oleander. That was it.
I clicked open my browser to get started. A quick look on garden Web sites indicated that the flowers were definitely grown in Jersey. I also learned that the plant contained a substance that could cause heart failure. Ingesting it caused nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea, all signs consistent with Parisi’s symptoms. But the articles I read pointed out another fact: Oleander causes burning in the mouth. I watched Parisi shovel that salad down his throat in a matter of minutes; if his mouth burned, wouldn’t he have stopped eating it? I made a few more notes about the plant, but I doubted this was our candidate.
As I mentally replayed my conversation with Iris, I remembered the word “weed.” A poisonous weed? And for some reason I kept imagining a cowboy—maybe it grew out West? I scrolled down the poisonous plants page until I hit Phytolacca, commonly known as pokeweed. My eyes widened when I read what pokeweed leaves are used for—salad. “But leaves must be cooked twice in separate water,” the article read. “Roots and berries are poisonous. Improper cooking of leaves may result in serious poisoning.” I stared at the image of the plant; the long green leaves did indeed look like salad greens. And if those greens were uncooked, they might well have been responsible for killing Parisi.
I added pokeweed to my notes and strained to recall what else Iris had mentioned. The last thing I remembered from that conversation was a plant I thought she called “purple digit,” but a Google search brought up only a bunch of medical articles about circulatory diseases. I rubbed my tired eyes; I’d spent too much time in front of a screen and too many hours playing detective. I opened my e-mail, ignored the full in-box, and sent Sofia a copy of the chart I’d made and links to the articles about poisonous plants.
It was a relief to shut down the computer and put the day behind me. I took a hot bath, threw on my favorite sleep attire—an oversized T-shirt from the Boss’s last Meadowlands appearance—and slipped under the covers of my narrow bed. The cool night air, carrying the smell of the sea, washed over me from the open window. I had come here for a peaceful place to write my book, to learn about my family’s business and its roots in America. And here I was researching poisons and making lists of suspects. Beyond that, I had been pulled back into Tim’s orbit, yet found myself attracted to another man. Both of whom, I reminded myself, were on the premises when Parisi was killed.
I sighed and straightened the covers under my chin. Closing my eyes, I tried to let the sound of the sea lull me to sleep, but my mind fought back. I saw Parisi sitting at Table Five. Tina Biaggio’s horrified face on film. Tim’s dawning fear as Angie asked, What have you done? Emily Haverford’s grief. Cal’s stony expression of denial. Angie’s red-lipped, predatory smile. The images made a slow circle in my head, a mental Ferris wheel that wouldn’t stop turning. I lay awake another hour, until exhaustion finally won out. But when I did sleep, it was only to have uneasy dreams about white oleanders, purple fingers, an
d salads made of noxious weeds.
• • •
Too groggy to write, the next morning I made a mental promise to Isabella that I would spend more time with her once I figured out how to keep the restaurant open. Tomorrow was the kickoff of Memorial Day weekend; in fact, by dinner hour today, Oceanside would be getting the first wave of summer weekenders who had tomorrow off. As I biked down to the restaurant, I thought again about the list of suspects I’d made last evening and couldn’t shake the niggling worry that I’d forgotten something—or somebody. I wondered again about our mayor, Anne McCrae. But Parisi’s water bottle was clean. And even if we couldn’t take Anne’s word that he hadn’t eaten anything, Fifi had said the same thing. When would Anne have had the opportunity to poison him? And if the toxic substance came from plant matter, the most likely way Parisi would have ingested it was through his lunchtime salad. But Anne was a gardener, and she would have known plants.
I swerved quickly on the old Schwinn and doubled back a block to the Seaside Apothecary, where I hoped that Iris would translate her “purple digit” reference for me. But I got there to find a hand-scrawled note on the shop’s front door: Away until Monday. See you then!
“That’s great, Iris,” I muttered. “Let’s hope Monday’s not too late.”
I was surprised to find my parents and grandmother at the Casa Lido ahead of me. “What are you guys doing here?” I asked, after dutifully making the rounds to kiss them.
My dad rubbed his hands together. “Tim says we’re busy at lunch again, sweetheart. The Casa Lido’s coming back, just like I said.”
I looked from my mother to my grandmother, whose skeptical faces reflected my own, but not one of us opened our mouths. I patted my dad’s shoulder. “That’s the spirit, Daddy. We’ve got to be ready for tomorrow, right?”
“Never mind tomorrow, honey. By tonight all those vans will be driving into town, filled with people hungry for a plate of real Italian food.”
But will they be pulling into our parking lot, Dad? Not likely.
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 18