“SIL,” I said, “I would kiss you if you weren’t so disgusting.”
“Right back at ya.” She groaned and got up stiffly, and I did the same.
I stuck the bag in my jeans pocket and patted it. “We have evidence now.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you.” And then she stepped out from the shadows and swiftly circled Sofia’s neck with one arm. In her other hand, she held a hypodermic needle—aimed straight at my sister-in-law’s heart.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Drop that tea bag on the ground, please.” Sarah Crawford, aka Emily Haverford, pointed with the toe of her sneaker. “Right here at my feet.”
The blood pounded in my ears as I looked at Sofia’s calm face and stared into her eyes. I read two messages there: Don’t give it to her and I told you so. I swallowed hard and shifted my gaze to Crawford. Even in the darkness, her blue eyes were crazed. “Listen, Em . . . er, Sarah,” I said softly. “I can’t give it to you unless I know my sister-in-law is safe. You let her go, and I’ll drop the bag.”
She swung her head from side to side, tightening her grip on Sofie’s neck. “You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you.” She made a stabbing motion with the needle. “Or maybe your cute little sister-in-law would like a nice shot of adrenaline.”
Sofia’s eyes fluttered briefly, but she remained still. A tiny incline of her head told me to keep trying. I went in a new direction. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She peered at me through her long bangs. “I’m not,” she said simply. “I gave him years of my life—for what? So he could leave me for a younger woman?” She gave a bitter laugh. “It’s a tired old plot, isn’t it, Miss Mystery Writer?” She jerked her chin at me. “What do you know? You or her?” She slid her eyes toward Sofia. “You’re both young and pretty. Wait. Wait till you’re middle-aged and no one wants you.”
As she talked, her hold on Sofia loosened. All at once my sister-in-law let out a fighting shriek, stamped down on Sarah’s foot, and elbowed her once hard, knocking the hypodermic from her hand. As the needle rolled toward me, I kicked it a safe distance away. When I looked up, Sarah Crawford was on the ground with Sofia’s foot planted firmly on her neck. “You move, bitch,” Sofia growled, “and I’ll crush your scrawny neck.”
“Wow,” I gasped. “Those karate lessons really paid off.”
“Thanks,” she said breathlessly. “Now grab that needle.”
I stuffed the tea bag into my shorts first, then glanced over at the hypodermic, afraid to turn my back on Sofia and the crazy woman she had pinned on the ground. Grateful I was still wearing my gloves, I picked it up between two fingers and held it out in front of me. “Now what?”
But Sofia’s eyes grew wide; she opened her mouth to speak, but the voice I heard wasn’t hers.
“You stupid bitch.” I turned to see Angie Martini behind me, holding a small but menacing little pistol. It wasn’t aimed at me, but at her rival for her husband’s affections. And it was then that I finally remembered.
My walk down the boardwalk. The French movie posters. The convenient alibi that put both women in the same place at the crucial time, having a very public argument.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “It is diabolical.”
“Angie, I didn’t say anything. I swear,” Sarah whimpered. “I was trying to help.”
Get her talking, Sarah. Get her talking, please. I gripped the barrel of the needle. But would I have the nerve to use it if I had to? One corner of Sofia’s mouth lifted; she got the message and slid her foot down to Sarah’s chest.
“Help?” Angie sneered. “Oh, you’re a great help.”
“But I did what you said. I watched her so I could figure out what she knew. I followed her here.”
The green car. Some detective you are, Vic. Sarah flailed an arm in my direction. “And they found the tea bag. They led us right to it.”
“And now we’re stuck with two hostages. You’re pathetic—you know that?” Angie’s eyes glittered in the darkness, her voice a guttural rasp. “We used to laugh at you, Gio and me. He used you, and so did I.”
“No,” Sarah whispered. “He loved me.” She turned her head to the side, weeping softly. I had to remind myself that she had helped plan a man’s death. And that I was about to become a hostage to two psycho women.
“And now for you two.” Angie swung her arm around and trained the gun at my chest, her red nails looking like drops of shiny blood. I held the needle so tightly, my hand trembled. “First, you’re gonna drop that needle on the ground,” she said. “Then the tea bag.”
“Angie,” I said. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t tell me what I want to do!” She jerked her head toward Sofia. “Let Sarah the Spy get up.”
But Sofia didn’t move a muscle. “Looks like we’re at an impasse, Angie,” she said coolly, her foot still resting on Sarah’s chest.
“I’ve got the gun,” Angie said.
Sofia nodded. “True. But we’ve got the evidence.” She glanced at me. “I say we give them a head start, Vic. This way no one gets hurt.”
“Please, Angie,” Sarah said. “Just listen to what they say so we can get out of here.”
“Why should I listen to them?” she asked harshly. “We had a perfect plan, and they ruined it.”
“Listen, Angie,” I said. “If you drop the gun, I’ll give you the tea bag. And you can both go.” My voice shook and my fingertips were numb from clutching the hypodermic. “But I’m hanging on to the needle, okay?”
“How many times do I have to say this, Victoria? You don’t tell me what to do.” She waved the gun wildly, and I flinched, wishing I had a chance to see Tim one last time. To finish my book. To say good-bye to my mom and dad. I slid my eyes toward Sofia; she saw my fear and shook her head.
I was about to close my eyes and wait for the inevitable when a third crazy woman stepped out of the shadows, a frying pan raised high. “Oh no,” I whispered. “Not the head. Please not the head.”
My grandmother let out a primal cry as she brought the pan down, connecting hard with Angie’s right shoulder. I cringed as Angie, howling, crumpled in a heap. The second she let go of the gun, Sofia was on it. I watched in surprise as she emptied the chamber.
While Angie wailed on the ground, Nonna stood over her with the frying pan inches from her face. “You touch either of my granddaughters, puttana, and the next place this lands is your skull.”
The moments that followed were a blur of sights and sounds. Sirens. Lights. Sarah sobbing. Angie clutching her shoulder and moaning in pain. Men in blue uniforms, one of whom stepped from the group, his face white.
“Wanna tell me what the hell is going on here?” he growled.
Sofia threw herself against his chest. “Am I glad to see you, Detective.”
Dan glared at me over the top of his wife’s head.
“You should have seen her, Danny,” I babbled. “She was awesome. She disarmed that crazy Emily. I mean, Sarah.”
Sofia gripped Dan’s arm. “Oh, but Vic was great. She was afraid, but she kept Psycho Angie talking. And then—” Her eyes grew wide. “Bam! Nonna comes out of nowhere and whacks her with that pan.”
“She dropped like a rock!” I said. “You should have seen it. Then Sofie got the gun and—”
“What you did was dangerous!” he shouted. “I warned you both, damn it!” He jerked a thumb toward Nonna, who was still holding the frying pan and calmly giving a statement to an Oceanside officer. “And she’s worse than the two of ya put together.”
“But we’re okay,” I said.
He reached out an arm for me and let out a loud sigh. He squeezed the two of us tightly, lifted his eyes to the heavens, and muttered a prayer. “Please, God, preserve me from crazy broads.”
Sofia lifted her head and smiled. “But they’re in custody, Danny.”
My brother frowned, and just for a second switched to Stern Cop mode. “I wasn’t talking about them,�
�� he said.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Casa Lido opened its doors the next morning, just as it had every other Memorial Day for seventy years. We sat at the family table, fortifying ourselves with espresso for the busy morning ahead.
“That phone is ringing off the hook,” my dad said, snapping open the Asbury Park Press, which featured “Wife and Mistress Conspire to Murder RealTV Producer” as its top story.
“Curiosity seekers.” My mom leaned over to read the headline and pursed her lips. “I still can’t believe you and Sofia put yourselves into that kind of danger.”
“I tried to tell them that, Ma.” Danny’s arm tightened around Sofia’s shoulder, while she glanced at him adoringly. Judging from their high-watt glow, it appeared a reconciliation was in the works. I smiled at Sofia, who didn’t notice it. Or the frown my mother was casting in her direction. Ah, love.
“We’re fine, Mom.” I patted her arm. “And now that little black book of yours will be filled right up. Aren’t you relieved that the Casa Lido isn’t under a cloud of suspicion anymore?”
“Certo,” Massimo said. “I could not work under such conditions.” He tossed his head, then held out his coffee cup in a toast. “To Signora Giulietta, who save the day.”
“To my ma,” my dad said proudly. “Who took down a murderer.”
Nando nodded. “To our abuelita.”
I lifted my cup. “To Nonna, who saved my . . . behind.”
“Hmmph,” my grandmother grumbled. “That puttana is lucky it was my stainless-steel pan and not the cast-iron.
I grinned at her. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
My mother shook her head. “Those two women took an awful chance. How did they know it would work?”
Danny shrugged. “They didn’t. But every murderer takes a risk. Theirs almost paid off.”
“But, Victoria,” my mom asked, “how did you know they were in it together?”
I downed the rest of my espresso and shook my head. “I didn’t. Not till it was too late. But one night I took a walk down to the Paramount, and there was this poster for a French film festival and—”
“Oh my goodness,” my mom interrupted, her eyes growing wide. “I know which film you mean. Daddy and I saw it years ago. It’s the one with Simone Signoret where the wife and the girlfriend plan the husband’s murder—Diabolique.”
“You got it, Mom. Too bad I didn’t. But it was in the back of my mind all the time, bugging the heck out of me. That alibi was just too convenient.” I turned to my brother. “Danny, are they talking at all? I’m wondering how they got together in the first place.”
“Right now,” he said, “it’s just a lotta ‘she said, she said’ as far as who came up with the plan. But apparently Parisi was threatening Angie with divorce. And Sarah was still furious over being burned by the guy.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down. “At some point they decided they’d team up and get their revenge. And a whole lotta dough at the same time.”
“Well,” I said, “you have to hand it to them.”
“Hand it to them? Victoria, they are evil!” Nonna’s eyes narrowed. “Especially that Angie, who finally got what she deserved.”
I had a feeling Nonna was talking about more than murder, and apparently so did my mother. She raised her brow and smiled. “You know what they say about karma, don’t you, honey?”
I shot my mom a quick wink. “Yes, I do, Mother. And it’s especially apt in this case.”
“Well, they should both burn in hell.” My grandmother crossed herself and looked at the ceiling. “May God forgive me.”
“Evil or not, Nonna, it was brilliantly simple. They knew he was drinking that diet tea every day. So they doctor it with a substance they know will kill him and wait.”
“They did more than that, Vic,” Sofia said. “Remember Angie called him a bunch of times to see where he was. I bet she egged him on to come here and eat.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “She checked the place out. Think about it: She knows Tim works at a restaurant near the boardwalk where Parisi was appearing. So she employs her dubious charms on him and cases the Casa Lido. She sees the plant in the garden, and the plan takes shape. And then her ex ends up making the ‘fatal’ lunch. It was the perfect setup.”
“Almost perfect,” Sofia said. “They didn’t think about the police searching the trash.”
“Until it was too late,” I added. “So they locked Tim and me in the pantry.”
My mother sighed and shook her head. “Poor Tim, to have been involved with that woman. To have her use him in that way—”
“What about ‘poor Tim’?”
The conversation stopped abruptly as its subject came through the front door. He looked pale, with dark smudges under his eyes.
“We’re, uh, talking about last night,” I said.
“Right.” He strode past us and pushed through the kitchen doors.
I pushed away from the table. “Excuse me a minute, guys.”
In the kitchen, Tim was pulling packages from the refrigerator and slamming them on the counter. “What are you here for, Vic?” he asked over his shoulder. “To gloat about Angie? Or for my undying gratitude for saving my ass?”
“Tim, will you look at me, please?” He turned, crossed his arms, and waited. “I’m sorry about Angie. God knows, I have no love for her, but it can’t be easy knowing you were involved with a murderer.”
He flinched, and when he spoke, his voice was hard. “She could have killed you. Probably would have if your crazy nonna hadn’t shown up.”
“But I’m okay. And now you are, too. It’s over, finally.”
His lips were drawn into a thin line. “Did you want a thank-you, Vic? Is that it?”
“Well, a little gratitude would be nice, but that’s not what I came to talk to you about.”
He lifted a shoulder, his arms still crossed. “So talk.”
I stepped closer, about to lay a hand on his arm, but thought better of it. “Look, Tim.” I sighed. “I finally figured out something important. In a way, Angie Martini did me a favor all those years ago. If we hadn’t broken up, I’d never have gone to New York or had a writing career. Don’t you see? Things happened for a reason—”
“And this is your great epiphany,” he said, his voice harsh. “That losing me was the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“I didn’t say that!” I gasped. My anger rising, I jabbed a finger at his chest. “Losing you nearly killed me. But I survived. And I’m the better for it.”
He tilted his head, his eyes two dark stones. “Glad to be of service, Vic,” he said bitterly, turning back to the sink without a word.
I stalked past him out the back door of the restaurant and stood facing the garden, breathing in its smells for comfort. So this was what I’d come home to. I shook my head.
“Hey, SIL.” Sofia put her hand on my shoulder. “What’s up with Top Chef?”
“Apparently he’s mad at me for keeping him out of jail.”
She grinned. “Makes perfect sense.”
“Never mind me. What’s going on with you and my brother?”
She tilted her head, her eyes innocent. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, I could tell that when you were draped all over him at the table.”
Before she could answer, the sound of tires on gravel pulled our attention to the parking lot. Cal jumped from his truck and grabbed his toolbox from the back. He turned, smiled briefly at Sofia, and nodded.
“Hey, Cal,” I said. “Listen, can we talk for a minute?”
“Sorry, Victoria,” he said. “Runnin’ late.” He hurried past us into the restaurant and I sighed. I seemed to be doing a lot of that today.
“Well, that message was loud and clear.”
“Did you expect him to ask you on a date?” Sofia asked. “You practically called him a murderer.”
“Not in so many words.” I shook my head. “Men. What can you do with them?”
�
��Can’t accuse them of murder,” Sofia said.
“Can’t save their sorry asses.”
“Can’t live with ’em—” she began.
“And ya can’t kill ’em,” I said.
“Oh wait,” Sofia said, her dark eyes full of mischief. “Sometimes you can.” She stopped, her face suddenly serious. “Vic, were you scared last night?”
I looked around to make sure no family members were in earshot. “Shitless,” I told her. “What about you?”
She nodded, but her eyes shone. “Well, yeah, but . . .”
“But what?”
“It was kind of a rush, don’t you think?” Her words gathered speed, and I knew just where they were headed. “I mean, it was exciting. All of it. Figuring it out, digging for evidence—”
I grinned. “Literally.”
“Literally, exactly! And taking them out just felt so good, Vic. It felt right to me.” She lowered her voice and put her face close to mine. “I mean, wouldn’t you like the chance to do that again?”
“Oh, no, you don’t. Don’t even say it.” I backed away from her, holding up my hand to stop my sister-in-law’s crazy train before it flattened me. “I will never get mixed up in anything like this again. No way. Do you understand me?”
But Sofia just smiled.
• • •
I peeled the garlic clove slowly and sliced it neatly down the middle. As I pushed it to the side of the cutting board, a hand closed around my arm like a steel claw.
“Did you take out the green sprout?”
“Yes, Nonna.”
“And you’re not cutting them too small?”
“No, Nonna.”
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Victoria. Do you want to learn how to cook, or not?”
I looked at my grandmother’s upraised chin, her square shoulders, and the still-strong arms that had protected me from a crazed killer. I wouldn’t risk a kiss, but maybe I could hazard a smile.
“Yes, Nonna,” I told her. “I do.”
Author’s Note
I turned in the manuscript for this book less than a day before Hurricane Sandy struck. As the storm progressed, it devastated many areas along the Jersey Shore, including locales mentioned in my story; it also caused the deaths of at least five people in Monmouth and Ocean Counties. Since October 2012, many have come to associate the Jersey Shore with that terrible storm. But I made a conscious decision not to include mention of it in this book.
Murder and Marinara: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mysteries) Page 27