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

by Genova, Rosie

  How did she know my name? Worse yet, what did she want with me? My mind offered several terrible possibilities: She was arresting me for murder; she was arresting me for withholding evidence; she was arresting me for obstructing a police investigation. Or perhaps all three.

  I lurked behind the kitchen door while Nando prepared her order, watching with equal parts admiration and dismay as he swiftly arranged her salad on a platter. And because Tim’s pasta fresca cooked up quickly, her whole lunch was ready in less than ten minutes. I loaded a tray with the two plates and a container of dressing, took a deep breath, and stepped into the dining room to meet my fate.

  Sutton put an e-reader aside and watched in silence as I set her plates down in front of her. I looked down at her and attempted to smile brightly. “I’ll just go get you more water.”

  I looked down to find a restraining hand on my arm, a hand with five gorgeously decorated fingernails, and I wondered how she fired a gun with that manicure.

  “No need for that,” she said. “The other waitress already filled my glass, as you can see.” She tilted her head and bared two rows of very white teeth. “Please sit down, Ms. Rienzi.”

  I dropped into the chair across from hers. “You know who I am.”

  “Yes, I do.” She waited a beat and smiled again. “Ms. Reed.” She patted the cover of her device. “I was just reading your latest. It’s nicely written. Good solid prose.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” My smile, no longer forced, now spread across my face. Like all writers, I crave praise. I waited happily for her to go on.

  “For the most part, you do your homework,” she announced. She settled her napkin on her lap. “But while you’re careful with the crime scene details, you cut corners in other places. You skim over some things that might get in the way of your plot. Now and then your detective behaves in ways that would never fly in real life. But I imagine that’s all in service of the story, correct?”

  Always up for a discussion of my work, I sat up expectantly in my chair. “Yes. I guess you’d say it’s author license.”

  “Exactly: author license. In your books, you have built a world. And in that world, you have license.” She folded her hands and rested her chin on them, capturing my cowardly eyes with her own. “But in this world—in my world—you do not. Is that understood?”

  Brazen it out, Vic. I also folded my own hands in front of me—okay, it was to keep them from shaking—and forced myself to meet her eyes. “I’m not sure what you mean, Ms. Sutton.”

  One thin brow arched. “Given that you know who I am, I’m fairly certain that you do know what I mean.” She motioned to me with her fork. “But I will be happy to elucidate. Interviews with the cast of The Jersey Side. That little trip to Ocean Grove. And meetings with at least two other people whose actions have bearing on this case.” She tapped the tabletop with her fingernail for emphasis. “These actions could all be construed as obstruction.”

  “Or . . . research.” I gulped and eyed her glass of ice water. “Um, for a book,” I continued.

  “Perhaps.” But a small quirk of her lips conveyed skepticism. She speared some pasta, put it in her mouth, and her eyes widened. She chewed it slowly and then nodded. “This is delicious. It would certainly be a shame if this restaurant had to close.”

  In that moment, I felt as though my grandmother had suddenly taken possession of my body, and my fear dissipated. “That sounds like a threat,” I said quietly.

  “Not a threat, Ms. Rienzi. Just a possibility. You realize, don’t you, that this place could have been closed down days ago? And that it was only through the good auspices of local law enforcement—of which your brother is a part—that it has remained open this long.”

  What was Sutton suggesting? That Danny had used influence to keep the restaurant from closing? “As I’m sure you are aware,” I said, “my brother has no part in this investigation. It would be a clear conflict of interest.”

  “It would be indeed, Ms. Rienzi. Just as it would be a conflict of interest—and highly unethical—for your brother to share any information about this case with you. And such actions could cost him his position on the force.” She forked a few more pieces of fresh pasta into her mouth and briefly shut her eyes. “Truly wonderful food,” she murmured. “What kind of sauce is this?”

  I couldn’t keep up with this woman. One minute she’s threatening Danny’s job, and the next she’s waxing poetic over the sauce. “That’s our marinara sauce, made with fresh basil and tomatoes we harvest each August.” I leaned toward her, flattened my palms on the table, and uttered a statement that was mostly true. “Look, my brother hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  She smiled again, but her eyes were questioning. “Exactly what I would expect a loyal sister to say. And you Rienzis are a loyal bunch. I wonder if that loyalty extends to your employees as well.” Without waiting for an answer, she took a bite of greens and nodded again. “The salad is lovely.”

  Was it coincidence that she mentioned the salad, with unnecessary emphasis on the word, in the same breath as she referred to our “employees”? She had to be talking about Tim. In the space of three minutes, she had implied that my brother was corrupt and that my family was harboring a murderer. I had the distinct impression that Tiger Lady was batting me back and forth between her predatory paws. I stood up from my chair and met that golden gaze with my own. “Ms. Sutton, I’m not sure why you wanted to speak to me, but I don’t appreciate games and—”

  “Games?” she asked, her voice low and harsh. “I don’t play games, Ms. Rienzi. And certainly not where a man’s death is concerned.” She sipped her water, her eyes never leaving my face.

  Predictably, I blinked first. “Please,” I said. “I know you can’t talk about it, but if you’re planning to make an arrest, wouldn’t it be the kind thing to let us know?”

  And then Regina Sutton did a strange thing. She chuckled. And then the chuckle grew into a deep laugh that shook her shoulders. “Oh, Ms. Rienzi,” she said, still smiling. “Perhaps you should turn to humor writing.” She blotted her mouth with her napkin and shook her head. “In case you have missed my point here today, this is not one of your books.”

  Oh, how tired I was of that particular phrase. “I understand that.” I glanced around me and lowered my voice. “Look, my parents and grandmother are on the premises. They’re naturally upset by what happened here and its effect on our business. Our season is about to start.”

  “So you’re hoping we can wrap things up nicely for you in time for Memorial Day. Is that it? So long as we arrest someone with no ties to the Casa Lido?”

  I smiled weakly. “In a perfect world, yes.”

  “Or in a perfect story, perhaps?” She ate her last bite of salad, dabbed at her mouth, and reached into her jacket pocket.

  I gripped the side of the table, ready for her to train her gun on me. Instead, she handed me her business card. “In the event you come across any information that should be shared with my office.” As I stared at the raised gold letters and law enforcement seal, the reality hit me like a cold ocean wave: What I’d gotten myself into was no longer merely an intellectual exercise.

  “And in the interest of open communication,” she continued, “I will say this: The persons of interest in the case all seem to be tied to this restaurant, and we will be questioning them.” She pointed to me with her fork again. “Including you, Ms. Rienzi.” Her mouth curved in satisfaction. “After all, you were the one who discovered the body, were you not?”

  • • •

  After she left, I hightailed it back to the kitchen with the excuse that I wanted to watch Nando start the dinner prep. To my great relief, my parents and grandmother had missed the customer at Table Four. Luckily, Regina Sutton had paid in cash, so there would be no telltale receipt in the bottom of the register. (Strangely, however, she’d left me a generous tip.) And may my luck hold, I wished silently, glancing out the open back door toward the garden.

  Because Mas
simo had left for the afternoon, I could remain in the kitchen with impunity. I even talked Nando into showing me how to butterfly chicken breasts. As I pounded them flat between sheets of butcher paper, I obsessed about getting outside to look at that plant again. I jerked my head up as a hopeful thought occurred to me. Had the foxglove even been there the day I found Parisi? I remembered seeing a bunch of potted plants, but was that purple flower among them?

  “Hey, Nando,” I said, my head bent over the chicken, “when did your cousins come and plant the tomatoes?”

  “Monday, I think. I know, because we were closed.”

  “I must have left already, because I didn’t see them. Boy, was I glad to get out of that job.”

  Nando grinned. “Your abuela will come up with a new one.”

  “Probably. In fact, there’re still some plants out there in pots.” I looked up from the meat I was pounding into submission. “Do you know why your cousins didn’t plant those, too?”

  “Oh, sí, I do. Luis say one of the plants can make you sick.”

  A chill crept over me. “Is that so?”

  He nodded vigorously, his braid bouncing. “He say he and Miguel no mess with that flower.” He handed me a plate of neatly sliced cutlets. “And anyway, Miss Guilietta tell them only to do the tomatoes, and she will do the flowers.”

  They were innocuous words, but the creeping chill grew colder, and I looked down to see goose bumps forming on my arms.

  “Luis say they should go in the ground, though,” Nando continued. “They been sitting in the pots too long.”

  I tried to keep my tone casual, a little difficult with my heart pounding harder than my meat mallet. “Really? How long, Nando?”

  He paused, his chef’s knife poised over the cutting board. “Oh, I dunno, maybe coupla weeks.”

  A couple of weeks? Had the murder weapon been sitting out in that garden all along? Who would have known it was there? My grandmother, who wasn’t on the scene when Parisi was killed. And thank you, Lord, for that small mercy. That left two people—the same two people whose names were in bold on my handy chart: Tim and Mr. Biaggio. Tim, because he knew the Casa Lido as though it were his own home, and Mr. B, because he knew plants. I consoled myself with the thought that of the two, Mr. B was more likely to have known the flower was poisonous. But either way, both men had clear opportunity. But wasn’t there a third person? Would Cal have known about the plant? And if he knew, would he have used it to kill Parisi? For what possible reason? I stopped my work, holding the mallet like a judge’s gavel, feeling as though I were about to pass sentence upon the Casa Lido and my family’s whole future. If Digitalis purpurea was indeed the natural substance that killed Parisi, there was a lovely specimen of it not thirty yards from the kitchen door.

  Crash! Down came the mallet, loud enough and hard enough to bring Nando to my side. He peeled back the top sheet of paper to look over at my work and shook his head. “Miss Victor, you pound them too thin.” He pointed to a spot where the meat was in shreds. “See what happened there.”

  I saw what happened, all right. Only too clearly—and the thought was making me sick. I dropped the mallet with a clatter. “You’re right, Nando. I’m sorry.” I had to get out there and get a closer look at that plant. “Listen, I have to make a quick phone call. Do you mind if I take a little break?”

  “Go ’head. I’ll finish these.”

  I strode out to the garden blindly. My hands shook as I shot a couple of pictures of the foxglove, then made sure they were saved to the phone. As I stared at the pretty bell-shaped blooms, comprehension dawned: This plant might be the one thing standing between the Casa Lido and complete ruin.

  Without giving myself time to think, I slipped the white tag into my jeans pocket, grasped the heavy pot, and looked around wildly for somewhere to put it. A voice in my head—one that sounded strangely like Nonna’s—was saying, Get rid of it. Get rid of it. No one will know. But a second voice, the one imagined as I created him, came to me in heavily accented Italian. No, cara. That is not the way, Bernardo whispered. You know this will come to no good . . .

  And then another voice broke into my thoughts. One I’d heard quite recently in the dining room.

  “Going somewhere with that plant, Ms. Rienzi?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I dropped the plant, straightened up, and smiled into the face of Prosecutor Sutton. “Just moving it to a sunnier spot.” Maybe I had been possessed by the spirit of my grandmother; lying was coming much easier to me these days.

  “Is that so?” Sutton reached out to finger one of the leaves. “You have any idea what kind of flower this is?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. I leave the gardening to my grandmother.” It took all of my control not to slide my hand into my jeans pocket to make sure the tag was safely stowed away. I turned to look at her. “Is there anything I can help you with?” Because I couldn’t ask, Why are you snooping around the garden? Though the answer was obvious.

  “Not at the moment.” She tilted her head and looked from me back to the foxglove. “But I’ll certainly be calling upon you one of these days.” She turned to leave, stopped, and smiled slightly. “Just so you are aware, my team has been over this area. And we’ve taken a careful inventory.” Her smile widened. “Lunch was delicious, by the way. You have a nice day now,” she called out as she strode away.

  I was left staring at the foxglove. They already know it’s here. And if that’s what killed him . . .

  “No,” I said. “I can’t think this way. Not until I know more.” Unfortunately, the one person who could tell me more was Nonna.

  I found her back in the kitchen, inspecting Nando’s work. And my own as well, judging by the scowl on her face. She pointed to my handiwork on the counter. “Victoria, you made a mess of this chicken.”

  “Sorry, Nonna. I’ll do better next time.” I glanced over at Nando and then whispered to Nonna, “Could I show you something in the garden?”

  Her scowl deepened. “What do you need to show me in the garden? Those basil plants you stripped?”

  “Uh, no. Something else.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be serving?”

  “Lori’s up front, and this won’t take long.” I strained for a smile. “If I want to learn about the restaurant, I need to learn about the garden, too.”

  She made a humphing sound, but followed me out the door to the spot where the foxglove stood in all its deadly innocence.

  “This plant,” I said. “Isn’t it dangerous? Nando said his cousin wouldn’t even touch it.”

  “Victoria,” she snapped, “this is what you drag me out here for?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I have been planting foxglove for years. They’re safe if you know how to handle them. I even harvest the seeds.”

  All parts of the plant are poisonous, I had read, including the flowers, leaves, and seeds. Seeds could be well hidden in a salad dressing filled with dried herbs. I swallowed. “Did you say you harvest the seeds?”

  “Some years, yes. I put them with the herbs in the pantry.”

  I closed my eyes. Oh dear Lord, did I have to do a sweep of the pantry, too? Get a grip, Vic. As if you’d tamper with evidence, even to protect your family or Tim. That’s what I told myself, anyway. But out here earlier, I had acted on instinct, an instinct that fairly screamed at me to dump that plant.

  “Victoria, I don’t have all day to stand around here talking about the garden.”

  My grandmother’s sharp tones brought me out of my anxious reverie. “Sorry, Nonna.” Would that I had a buck for every time I uttered those words. “I was just a little worried about that plant.”

  The sun glinted off the lenses of my grandmother’s eyeglasses, making it impossible to see the light dawning in her eyes. “You think somebody used this to kill that cafone, don’t you?” she asked.

  Before I could answer, she had already heaved the pot into her arms, and her intention was clear. Hmm, I thought, the tomato doesn’
t fall too far from the vine. I put my hand on her scrawny but surprisingly strong arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

  She held the plant against her as though it were a precious commodity. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Victoria.”

  “Yes, you do,” I hissed. “You need to put that plant back right now.”

  “No, I do not. And anyway, it’s dying. I think I’ll go put it out in the compost.” She turned to walk away.

  “Nonna,” I called. “You can’t. The police know it’s here.”

  She shrugged and kept walking. “If you do that,” I called out, “Danny will lose his job.”

  She paused, but didn’t turn around. “You don’t want Danny to be kicked off the force, do you?”

  I watched her shoulders droop and felt a pang of pity for her. She was only following the same impulse I’d had earlier—to protect her family and the livelihood that meant so much to her. She turned back to me, and I took the heavy pot from her arms and set it back down.

  “Look,” I said, “there’s no proof this is what killed him. That’s the trouble; we don’t know what killed him.”

  She narrowed her eyes and pointed straight at my nose. “You promised me you’d find out!”

  I hadn’t exactly promised; in fact, I’d been strong-armed and guilted into this little investigation. But now that I was in it, there was no turning back. “I’ll try, okay?” I said with a sigh. “In the meantime, you leave that plant right where it is.” And then I did something I’d been afraid to do for months: I kissed my grandmother on her paper-thin cheek. She looked at me with an expression of suspicion and something that might have been pleasure. Or a touch of agita. Without saying another word, she walked back into the kitchen, leaving me in the garden to review.

  A poisonous plant discovered in the garden. A visit from the county prosecutor. And a small spot of evidence tampering.

  Just another day around the Casa Lido.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Sofia. Can you meet me at the cottage around 3? New developments!