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

by Genova, Rosie

  A bit shaky from the encounter, I locked the door behind my visitor and, still carrying the carafe, walked back to Table Five. I’d left off at pouring the hot water and noticed the sweetener. Something about it was important, but what? Poison in the saccharine was too far-fetched. Should I start over? But the more I tried to retrace my steps, the less I knew. So I would treat this just as I would a case of writer’s block—with a distraction. And I knew exactly what that distraction would be.

  Completely disregarding my grandmother’s orders, I headed back to the kitchen. If she wouldn’t teach me to cook, I’d have to teach myself. I would start with our fresh marinara sauce. At the salad prep station, I laid out garlic, basil, and parsley. I found a saucepan and drizzled in some olive oil. It was then I performed the most dangerous task of my mission—pilfering a jar of my grandmother’s tomatoes. I found an open one in the refrigerator, but didn’t dare risk grabbing another from the pantry. So it would have to be a small batch.

  I peeled two garlic cloves and starting chopping, hoping their pungency might unlock that secret in my brain. As I rinsed the herbs, I thought again about Parisi’s meal. Salad, chicken, water, tea. Which delivered the poison? Or was it the pills?

  I chopped the basil and parsley fine, started the flame under the pot, and got ready for my favorite part. It was time to stop and smell the garlic. While I was no culinary expert, I had learned at least one thing at my mother’s knee: Don’t burn the garlic. I threw in the chopped pieces, stirred them quickly in the pan, and turned off the heat. Then I inhaled the scent and concentrated. Who had access? Tim, Cal, Mr. B., if the food was poisoned. Sarah or Angie, if pills were used. Who would be likely to know that a foxglove plant was outside in the garden? Mr. B.

  I stirred the tomatoes into the oil, breaking them up with the back of my spoon, knowing I should have seeded them first. (Nonna would never serve a customer tomato seeds, but I didn’t mind.) Next came the fresh herbs, then a couple of twists of pepper and some salt; while I crushed the tomatoes, I thought some more. Who had motive? Tim, Mr. B, Sarah, Angie, Gemelli.

  I brought up the heat and waited for the tomatoes, and possibly my ideas, to come to a boil. Who knew the layout of the restaurant? Tim, Cal, Mr. B, Angie. Who would have reason to steal the trash? Tim, Cal, Mr. B, possibly Sarah. The tomato mixture bubbled to a foam, and I turned the heat to low.

  I pulled a stool over to the counter and sat down. As I listened to the soothing sound of the sauce, I mulled it over.

  Tim had motive and opportunity, but would he lock himself in the pantry? And if he’d stolen the trash, why tell me?

  Angie had motive and opportunity only if she switched his pills. If that were the case, why steal the trash?

  Sarah had motive and opportunity, and she might steal the trash if she thought the empty pill bottle was in it. But pills were the least likely means of poisoning.

  Mr. B had motive and opportunity; he would recognize a foxglove. But the footsteps in the pantry were too stealthy to be his.

  Cal had opportunity but no motive.

  Gemelli had motive but no opportunity.

  No single person fit the bill, and I was still left with the biggest question of all—how did that Digitalis get into Parisi’s system? Because if I only knew how, without a doubt I’d know who.

  • • •

  Once I had the sauce made, it was natural for me to cook up some pasta to give it a try. And while it wasn’t my grandmother’s, my marinara was at least edible. As I ate, I put all thoughts of the case from my mind, concentrating only on my food. By the time I’d finished the dishes and removed all evidence of my culinary crime, it was growing dark outside. I was putting the pots away when I heard a tentative rap on the back door and jumped. Had my pal Fredo returned?

  I crept to the door, my heart fluttery. “Who is it?”

  “Is that you, Victoria? It is Rocco Biaggio.”

  Rocco? All these years and I’d never known Mr. B’s first name. More important, what was he doing here? “Yes, Mr. B, but we’re closed. I’m just here . . . working.”

  “Please. I must speak to you.” His voice broke on the last word, and I heard a choking sound. Was he crying? Or was he faking? I pressed my ear against the door.

  “Please,” he said again, banging harder on the door. “It is time. I must confess.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Confess? I let out a long breath. Was Rocco Biaggio about to spill his guts and clear Tim’s name? Would this nightmare for the restaurant finally end tonight? I needed to hear what he had to say.

  But I’d had one run-in with a thug today, and it would be the height of foolishness to be alone with a possible murderer. But tomorrow was Sunday. If I could end this right now, the Casa Lido might recover in time, and I’d have some exclusive to offer Nina LaGuardia. I had to risk it, but not without calculation.

  I slipped a knife from the rack and laid it on the counter next to me. I also took out a heavy skillet, tested its heft, and put that on the counter, too. The banging on the door grew louder, and I faltered. Then an idea struck. Please be home, Sofe, I thought as I dug my phone from my pocket and crept to a far corner of the kitchen.

  “Sofie,” I whispered. “You have to do me a favor.”

  “Vic, are you okay? You sound funny.”

  “Biaggio’s at the door. He says he’s gonna confess. But I’m here alone.”

  “Victoria, please!” came the shout from the other side of the door, followed by more banging.

  “Holy crap,” Sofie said. “Don’t you dare let him in until I get there.”

  “No! Danny will kill us both.”

  “Unless Mr. B does it first.”

  “I don’t think he’s dangerous. But just in case, I’m leaving the phone open, on speaker. I’ll put it somewhere he won’t see it.”

  “I don’t like this, Vic. I’m calling Danny.”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to involve him unless we have to. Just listen carefully, okay? You hear anything at all that sounds off, you call the police.” The banging resumed. “Just a minute, Mr. B,” I called.

  “God, Vic. Be careful, will ya?”

  I set the phone down in a corner of the counter and hoped the speaker would pick up our conversation. Then I sent up a small prayer, took a deep breath, and opened the back door. At which point, Rocco Biaggio fell inside. I jumped out of the way to escape being crushed by a sweaty—and clearly drunken—250-pound man. He staggered to his feet, and I was treated to the sight of his bloodshot eyes and a blast of wine-soaked breath. I sneaked the knife from the counter and held it to my side, staying in range of my phone. I shoved a stool toward him with my foot.

  “Sit, please, Mr. B.” My voice was calm, though the hand holding the knife was trembling. If I were reading this scene in a book, I’d never be able to suspend my disbelief at a character doing something this stupid. I held the knife out where he could see it. “And don’t move from that stool. Say what you came to say.”

  He blinked in confusion at the sight of the blade. “Victoria, I didn’t come to hurt you. I told you; I came to confess my sins.” The last word was a wail of anguish. Sofie would hear that much, at least.

  “Why come to me?” I asked, still gripping the knife.

  He licked his lips and swallowed, clearly dried out from all the alcohol. I didn’t offer him water because I didn’t dare move, nor did I want him to. “I know you were asking questions,” he said. “I know you know about that show and what those animals do to my poor Tina.” He dropped his head in his hands and sobbed.

  Good grief. I’d never get anything out of him at his rate. “Mr. B, do you think you can calm down and tell me what you want to confess?”

  He swiped a large paw across his eyes and nodded. “You remember, Victoria, that my wife, she die about ten years ago.”

  I tightened my hold on the knife. What the hell? Had he killed his wife, too? “I remember, yes. I’m sorry.”

  “So I have to be mama an
d papa to Tina.” He spread his broad palms. “At first it was okay. But then she grows up, and what do I know about teenagers? And what do I know about the things they watch and the things they put on the computers for people to see?” He shook his head sorrowfully. “So she come to me and say, I’m gonna be on TV. I sign a paper and I’m gonna be on this show.”

  “I’m not sure what—” I began.

  He held up his hand. “Wait. I tell you. So they make a fool of her on the television, and I call and complain. And I get a lawyer to make them take it off the air so no one will ever see her shame again. But—”

  “But she signed the release,” I said quietly. “And there was nothing you could do.”

  He lifted his head, his eyes clearer now and his voice sober. “Oh, there was someting I could do. And I did it,” he said through his teeth. I glanced over at my phone. Are you there, Sofie? It’s me, Vic, and I’m getting a little scared here. I had to keep him talking.

  “But then Parisi wanted to film the show in our town,” I said.

  “Sì!” he shouted. “To add insult to the injury. So I take matters into my own hands.”

  Had he just admitted to murder? “Mr. B, why don’t you go to police with this?” And leave me alone, I did not add.

  “Because I am il vigliacco. A coward.” He put his hand to his barrel chest. “But this presses on me. Like a weight it press on me, and I must tell what I have done. I tell you, and if you want to tell your brother, I give you permission. And then he can take me to jail.” His voice cracked, but he kept speaking. “The first time I do it was maybe a couple of months ago. And after, I feel such power, such relief that I have avenged my little girl.”

  The first time? Was there a trail of bodies behind our produce man? Just whom had I let into this kitchen? My heart thumped wildly in my chest as I slowly lifted the knife.

  “And then I can’t stop,” he continued. “Three, four, five.” He held up stubby fingers. “I keep going until I no can stop.”

  I lifted the knife and held it right under his bulbous Italian nose. “Well, you’re stopping now,” I said loudly. “Do not move. You are not going to hurt anyone else. The police are on their way over.” Please God and Sofia.

  His red eyes grew wide. “Victoria, you think I am speaking of bodies—people?” His mouth opened in surprise. “You think I killed that cafone?”

  “Well, what the hell are you confessing to?” I waved the knife, and he jumped from the stool, holding up both his hands in surrender.

  “The letters,” he said. “The letters I write with—what do you call it?—the poison pen.”

  • • •

  “Do you think you should have let him go, Danny?” Still shaky, I sat at the Casa Lido bar swirling the Scotch in the bottom of my glass. Sofia sat at my right, drinking a seltzer.

  “I don’t think he’s a flight risk. Come Tuesday, Sutton’s office will be dragging him in, anyway.” He turned to me, his mouth tight. “But what you did was stupid, sis.”

  “He’s not a murderer.” After a fortifying sip, I closed my eyes, giving in to the warming effects of the drink.

  “You don’t know that,” Sofia said.

  My brother glanced over at his wife, his expression softening. “She’s right. And she was right to call me.”

  “C’mon, guys,” I said. “If he was so guilty about those letters, don’t you think he would have spilled his guts about murdering Parisi?”

  “Damn it, Vic. We can’t take anything for granted,” Dan said.

  Sofia put her hand on my arm. “At least this will take some of the focus off Tim, right?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But we still don’t have an answer. Danny, Anne McCrae told me the police believe Parisi was poisoned through his food, but isn’t it possible Angie or the girlfriend switched his pills?”

  Dan’s eyes met mine, and he slowly shook his head. “That’s a horse that won’t run, kid.”

  “So it is the food. Oh God.” I dropped my head in my hands, exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “I just want this to be over.”

  “We all do,” Sofia said. “And it will be, one way or another.”

  Dan got up from his stool. “Well, it’s over for tonight, anyway. I want you both to get out of here. I’ll wait in the car until you go.”

  I stood up, my legs leaden. “I’m not sure I can ride my bike after downing that Scotch.”

  “I’ll take you,” Sofia said. She turned to Dan. “Thank you for coming to the rescue.”

  My brother flashed her a smile. “Anytime, sweetheart.”

  Sofia watched him go and sighed. “I really need to get him back.”

  “Could we worry about your love life another time, please? I’ve got to clean these bar glasses and close up.”

  As we locked the doors behind us, Sofia asked, “What were you doing here anyway, Vic?”

  “Trying to retrace my actions from the day Parisi died. I thought I might remember something that was important.”

  “Well, did you?”

  “I think so, but I was interrupted.” I told her about my visit from Fredo Rossini and his lesson in serendipity.

  Sofia shook her head. “You do attract them, don’t you?”

  “Hey, we’re lucky we didn’t get arrested. And we can probably rule out Gemelli now.” We wheeled the bike over to her car and hoisted it into the trunk.

  “And if it wasn’t the pills, we lose Emily Slash Sarah and the widow.” Sofia paused. “You said you started to remember something, though.”

  “I did.” I slid into the passenger seat. “When I poured Parisi’s hot water, there was already a packet of sweetener in the bottom of the cup.”

  She glanced over at me. “Before he put the tea bag in?”

  I nodded. “Definitely. I remember the moment because he was deliberately nasty, calling me by my pen name and talking about the HBO deal.”

  “Okay, so then what?”

  “I went back to the kitchen. The salad was made, but I had to wait for the chicken, so I got the dressing ready.” I paused, remembering the smell from the grill and the salad out on the counter. “Then Tim brought in the meat and threw it on the salad.”

  “And you brought the salad to Parisi.”

  “Right. Then he started eating, and his table manners were disgusting.”

  “Don’t get off track,” she warned. “You were talking about the tea. Try to remember.”

  We were turning onto my block now. “Okay.” I closed my eyes and struggled to see Parisi at the table. He’s saying how the show could bring us business. Or hurt our business. He takes a sip of tea. He grimaces. And in unconscious imitation of Parisi, I did the same. And then my face froze that way, just as my mother once warned me it would.

  Sofia pulled into my driveway and cut the engine. “What is it, Vic? You have a really weird look on your face.”

  I let out a slow breath, my heart pounding from the sudden rush of clarity. “Oh my God, Sofe. I assumed the tea was too sweet. But what if it was too bitter?”

  “Vic,” she said slowly, “how long were you waiting for the chicken?”

  “I was in the kitchen at least five minutes, maybe more.”

  “While he was alone in the dining room, somebody spiked that tea with Digitalis. Between that and the beta blockers he was on—wham!” She slammed the steering wheel with her palm.

  “It does make the most sense. But we’re back to opportunity.”

  “And now we ruled out Mr. B after his ‘confession,’” Sofia said.

  “If the tea is the culprit, he would have been ruled out anyway. He wasn’t in the dining room. And neither was Tim.”

  Sofia’s eyes met mine. “And Lori came later, so—”

  “So that leaves Cal,” I said softly.

  Chapter Thirty

  The opening strains of “Thunder Road” sounded tinnily in my ear as I struggled awake. What was Bruce doing in my bedroom? Another second’s consciousness told me my phone was ringing. By t
he time I found it, the call had gone to voice mail.

  “I haven’t heard from you, Victoria!” Nina LaGuardia sang out in the message. “I believe you owe me an interview. I’ll be waiting for your call. And soon!”

  I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes, and it all came flooding back. The closed sign on the restaurant. My reenactment and my encounter with Fredo, the preppie mobster. Mr. B’s confession. The realization that something was wrong with Parisi’s tea. I shook my head to clear it.

  Today was Sunday, tomorrow Memorial Day. On Tuesday, Sutton would launch her formal investigation of Parisi’s murder. I could probably put off Nina LaGuardia, but the Tiger Lady was another story. I had work to do and only a matter of hours to do it in. And I would start with the one person with access to Parisi’s cup of tea: Calvin Lockhart.

  I hadn’t seen Cal since the night we’d gone up to the boardwalk. Since then, he had texted me once to say that he’d enjoyed himself and hoped we could do it again. But some instinct had told me not to respond, and I didn’t hear from him after that. But it was time for another conversation with the mysterious Mr. Lockhart. Was that garden bench in Gemelli’s yard a clue or just a stinky red herring? Had Cal been lying when he said he didn’t know Parisi? And why had our digging into his past turned up so little? I would get him to meet me in a public place, the more crowded the better. I found his last message in my phone and texted a reply:

  You up for a walk on the beach this morning? Meet me at the corner of Ocean and Seaside at 11.

  • • •

  Cal arrived at the appointed spot a few minutes before eleven. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a date, but he wasn’t wearing work clothes, either. I’d never seen him in shorts, and his tan, well-shaped legs were a pleasant surprise. But I couldn’t afford to be distracted by Cal’s physical charms.

  He greeted me with a grin. “You didn’t say anything about swimmin’, Victoria, so I left my Speedo at home.”

  “Probably a good move.” I found myself smiling back. “I’m glad you came.”