The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (13 page)

A
t the news, a rush of feeling spread through my entire body. My cheeks got warm; my hands and feet tingled. A baby—there was going to be a baby, and I would be an aunt. But behind the joy was a whisper of loss:
You wish it were you
, it said, and then faded to silence.

I went straight to her, wrapping my arms around her thin frame. “I’m so glad,” I said, my throat tight. I stepped back and wiped my eyes. “Some solver of mysteries I am. I thought you had a stomach bug.”

She wet her face again, dried it with a towel, and shook her head. “Not me. I think I knew from the moment of conception.”

“How far are you?”

“About seven weeks.”

I counted backward and grinned. “So you and Danny did get close after our little adventure in May.” I grabbed both her hands. “Oh my God, what did Danny say? Is he over the moon? I’m so happy for you guys, I can’t stand it! Good Lord, can you imagine Nicolina and Frank as grandparents?” The longer I
babbled, the stonier Sofia’s face grew. I dropped her hands, thinking I was squeezing them too hard. “Sofie? Are you okay? I mean, Danny’s happy about the baby, right?”

“Danny doesn’t know about the baby, Vic. My parents know. And now you, but that’s all.” She took one of my hands back and gripped it. “And you can’t tell him. You have to promise me.”

“Of course. It’s not my place to tell him, but—”

“But what?”

“He’s your husband.”

“We’re separated. We’re still trying to work things out. And this—” She pressed her hand to her abdomen. “This complicates things.”

“For God’s sake, Sofe, it’s not a complication, it’s a baby.” I studied her face. “Are you happy about it?”

She blinked, her dark eyes brimming with tears. “I’m thrilled about the baby,” she whispered. “But I’m worried. Danny and I aren’t even living together right now.”

“He’d be back in a heartbeat, and you know it.”

“I know. But I want us to reconcile for the right reasons.” She grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “He was just coming around to the idea of me applying for the police academy. Once he knows I’m pregnant, all bets will be off.”

I took both her hands. “I know this is important to you, but you have to shift your focus to the baby, at least for right now. The police academy is not going anywhere. You can always apply when the baby’s older.”

“Oh, really? How supportive do you think your brother will be once the baby comes? There is no way he’d go along with both of us on the job with a child in the picture. He’d never take that risk. And I don’t see Mr. Macho Man giving up
his
job. Do you?”

“No, I don’t. But he loves you, and he wants you to be happy. I’m sure the two of you can work out a compromise—”

“It’s easy for you to say, Vic,” Sofia snapped. “You’re single. You’re a writer with a cool New York apartment and you can come and go as you please. So you’re tired of writing mysteries, and boom”—she snapped her fingers—“you’re back in Oceanside, working on a history of the family. Everybody in town wants your autograph,
and
you have two guys chasing after you!” She plopped down on the closed lid of the toilet, still sniffling.

I grinned, even though she was in no mood to smile back. “You make it sound so glamorous.” I knelt in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “For one thing, no one has asked for my autograph except Gale the librarian. And, yes, I have a cool apartment, but it gets a little lonely sometimes. And as for the guys, Tim’s busy with the lovely Lacey, and I think Cal’s given up on me.” I pulled her gently to her feet. “You, on the other hand, have a man who’s crazy about you; more than that, he’s committed to you. And he’ll make an amazing father.”

She nodded, the tears spilling down her face. In all the years I’d known my sister-in-law, I’d rarely seen her cry. “I know he will. I just feel like I can’t tell him yet.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, SIL, but for you to be in this interesting condition, Danny had to have been there. Didn’t he know there was, shall we say, a malfunction?”

She sniffled and shook her head. “The ‘malfunction’ was on my end. And I only realized it afterward, and didn’t think to mention it to him.”

“Well, I think you’re gonna have to mention it to him soon.” I handed her a fresh tissue and tugged at her hand. “Now can we get out of this bathroom, please?”

“Yes,” she said, and blew her nose with a loud honk. “I spend way too much time in here as it is.”

Back in her office, Sofia wanted to get back to the case, but I put the red folder aside. “We’ll talk about this stuff later. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” She sipped her water slowly. “The doctor says this can go on for a while, though.” She took a packet of crackers from her desk and nibbled at one, taking careful bites.

“You’re not even two months along, right?” I asked.

“Right. That’s also why I don’t want to tell Danny just yet.” She rested her hand on her nonexistent belly. “It’s too early.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“No.” She let out a sigh. “While it’s still a secret, I feel like I have some control of the situation.”

“Control? Are you kidding? Your mother knows. Do you really think that Lucia Delmonico will allow you any say in this?” Sofia’s mother was a fifty-year-old version of my sister-in-law—sharp-witted, feisty,
and strikingly attractive. And someone you didn’t want to cross.

“I had to tell her, Vic. I was so sick and I was scared. But she’s driving me crazy, calling me, texting me. Not only that, she’s threatening to move back to Oceanside!” Sofia shook her head. “And you know how well she and Nicolina get along.”

I winced as I imagined the two mothers-in-law occupying the same state, let alone the same town. My mom tended to blame Sofia for the couple’s troubles; Lucia was certain Danny was at fault. And once that baby came, all maternal hell would break loose with those two crazy women fighting over their grandchild. No wonder Sofia wanted to keep the news to herself for a while.

“What does your dad say?” I asked.

“Not much.” She smiled. “You know my dad.”

“Yes, I do.” I’d never heard Dave Delmonico string more than three words together in any conversation. My mom always said that Lucia and Sofie did enough talking for all of them.

“Listen, Sofe,” I said, “I understand this must be hard for you. But everything else aside, Danny is the baby’s father. He has a right to know.” I took her hand. “I will keep my promise to you, but once you pass the two-month mark, will you tell Danny?”

“Okay.” Her tone was resigned. “But you know that once I tell him, he’s gonna be giving me a really hard time about this.” She pointed to the red folder.

“I didn’t even think of that. He wouldn’t be too happy to know that my future niece or nephew had
already accompanied us on our adventure the other night.” I grinned. “You know those baby books where you keep track of their first haircut, their first word, etc.? Yours will have a page for first stakeout.”

She swatted my arm. “It’s not funny, Vic! I like our investigations.”

“You say that like they’re a weekly occurrence. I’m hoping this is the last one.”

“That’s what you said in May.”

“True,” I said with a sigh. “Anyway, I’ll e-mail you my notes tonight. I have a few more ideas about Dennis Doyle.” I stood up and walked over to her chair. “Stay right where you are,” I said, giving her a hug. “Go home and take care of yourself. And try to eat something.”

I stopped at the door of her office. “I’m so happy about this, SIL.”

“Me too,” she said, and I could tell that she meant it.

I headed down the hall toward the front of Sofia’s studio, the murder all but forgotten. Instead my head was full of plans to a buy full set of Nancy Drew books and a baby-sized Bruce Springsteen T-shirt. So lost in thought as I headed out the door, I nearly collided with a tall, handsome cop—my brother, Danny.

“Hey,” he said with a grin. “Watch where you’re going there, ace.”

“Oh. Hey.” I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I was just . . . leaving. See ya later!” I tried to pass him, but he grabbed my arm.

“Whoa, Vic, slow down. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Um, sure,” I said, staring at the shiny badge on my brother’s blue shirt.

He tapped my head. “I’m up here, sis.”

“Sorry.” I threw him a bright smile. “My head’s in a million places.”

“Obviously. Listen, I want to talk to you about Sofia.”

Nooooh. Oh no, no, no.
“What about her?” I asked cautiously.

“She hasn’t been herself. She’s too skinny, for one thing. And kinda quiet. And that’s not Sofia.”

“She said the heat’s been getting to her.”

“She told me the same thing, but I don’t believe her.” He crossed his arms, looked past me down the hall. “She’s done for the day, right?”

“Oh yeah. We were just hanging out.”

His eyes narrowed. “Hanging out or trying to solve a murder? You tellin’ me Sofia doesn’t have that red folder out and ready?”

Ready? It’s already full.
“No. I mean, not really. We’re just tossing ideas around.”

“Right. So you two haven’t been going on any of your little recon missions?”

This probably wasn’t the time to mention snooping around the Belmont Club. Or crossing a police line. Or attending an AA meeting under false pretenses, and rifling through a suspect’s open garage. Some things were just better left unsaid. “Recon missions, ha ha!” I slapped his arm. “You’re so funny, Danny.”

“You may not have noticed, sis, but I’m not laughing.” He crossed his arms more tightly and spread his
feet apart, a clear demonstration of Tough Cop Swagger.

Which was just fine with me. I’d much rather field questions about our investigation than why his wife was sick. “Don’t worry. Okay, Detective? It’s an academic exercise.”

“Sure it is.” My brother leaned close, his hazel eyes boring into my own. “You may be considered the smart one in the family, but I’m not stupid, Vic. You stay out of this, or Sutton will be all over you.” He jerked a thumb at his chest. “And maybe me, too.”

“I will. Scout’s honor.” I held up the fingers of one hand and crossed them on the other. And made a mental note to go to confession for all the lying.

His face relaxed, but he didn’t quite smile. “Okay. Is Sofia in her office?”

“Yup. She’s . . . doing some paperwork.” I stepped out on one foot, poised for a quick getaway.

“Uh-huh. Would there be a red folder involved?”

I spread out my palms in a
beats me
pose and shrugged. My brother rested a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Remember what I said, Vic .”

As I watched him walk down the hall, I thought about how glad I was to have my big brother around. And how I hated having to lie to him.

T
hat evening, after a dinner of fresh pasta (courtesy of Tim, who makes it by hand in the restaurant) and fresh marinara sauce (courtesy of myself, as it’s the first sauce I’ve perfected), I took my glass of Orvieto out to my deck. The sky was clouding up, turning from a dusky blue to a threatening gray; the ocean slapped the shore in fierce, foamy bursts, and the wind blew sharply across the dunes. I shivered a bit and tucked my knees inside my comfy old Rutgers sweatshirt. Storms at the shore filled me with a strange combination of unease and anticipation. We all live in fear of hurricanes, but who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned thunderstorm on a summer night?

It’s too bad I had no one to share it with at the moment, particularly on a Saturday night. I imagined that Tim and Lacey were together, but tried not to think about them cuddling in Tim’s cottage on a rainy night. And what was Cal up to? Besides
not
asking me for another date? I’d seen him only once since Thursday, and while polite and friendly, there was none of his usual flirtatiousness.

I’d met Cal in May, and I knew little about him except what he’d told me. He was born in Baton Rouge, but lived most of his life in New Orleans. (He’d gotten a hearty laugh out of me saying New Or-LEENS rather than New OR-lins.) He’d had a furniture-restoration business that he lost in Hurricane Katrina; soon after, he was divorced and came up north. When Sofia and I had considered him a suspect, we’d done some digging, but didn’t turn up much more than he’d told me. Maybe he was simply a private person, and I’d been too long around Italians who spilled every detail of their personal lives with little prompting. But I was convinced there was more to Calvin Lockhart than appearances. Though I did find that appearance attractive.
Let’s face the unpleasant truth, Vic. A couple of months ago, you were enjoying the attentions of two men. Now they’re both ignoring you.

Well, if I couldn’t have a man, I’d at least have a different kind of sugar; it was time for dessert. But I was dismayed to find there were neither cookies in the cupboard nor ice cream in the freezer. No way was I going out in a thunderstorm, despite my sweet cravings. Desperate times called for desperate measures: I would bake. When I’d rented the cottage from Sofia back in May, my mom, ever hopeful, had stocked me up on staples, including a full spice cabinet and some baking pans.

I preheated the oven and proceeded to open cabinets. Flour, check. Butter, sugar, and eggs—check, check, and check. As I reached into the fridge, I spied a container of ricotta cheese.
Yess!
I would make my
grandmother’s ricotta cookies, and eat as many as I damn well pleased. Okay, I had baking powder and salt, but no anise extract. Not even anise seeds. But as I was fond of an after-dinner digestive on occasion, there
was
anisette. I opened the bottle, taking a deep whiff of the licorice aroma. I poured myself a taste, then another (for inspiration, of course). Without a recipe, I was working from memory, but a quick look on my phone gave me the basics.

I sifted the dry ingredients first and then pulled out a hand mixer that hailed from Betty Crocker’s early days. In a separate bowl I creamed the butter and sugar, which took forever, as I was too impatient to let everything come to room temperature. I finished with the ricotta cheese and a big splash of anisette, and tried a fingerful of dough.
More anisette,
I thought, and gave it another dash to bring it to
yum
.

I readied the first baking pan, and as I dropped spoonfuls of dough, spaced carefully apart, as Nonna had taught me, I pushed away thoughts of my nonexistent love life. Instead, I pondered Elizabeth Merriman’s murder and what we knew so far.
Elizabeth was not a popular woman, but a micromanager who bullied her staff at the Belmont Club. At Merriman Industries, she made enemies of her husband’s loyal employees and had to pay out on an asbestos lawsuit. But that was two decades earlier. On the night of her death, she has conflicts with Kate and Dr. Natale. William Fox and Toscano are also both present; both may have motives. We know that William Fox worked for Merriman, and he might want revenge for getting pushed out of the company. Toscano could gain
financially.
I finished the first tray and slid it into the oven, poured myself more anisette, and sipped it while I mulled things over.

Okay,
Elizabeth dies from a fall over the seawall, probably between twelve and one. According to
Sally,
Dr. C is still around at eleven forty-five that night, and Kate leaves at eleven thirty. Can we assume Sally is telling the truth?
I cut a piece of baking paper for the second pan and started the next tray.
Dennis Doyle claims Elizabeth is still alive
at eleven thirty; he also claims the Natale clan left at that time, but Sally says she saw Dr. C. later. Who’s lying? And why?

Startled by the oven timer, I dropped my spoon, sending a plop of dough across the table. I grabbed my oven mitt and took out the first tray, and the small kitchen was filled with the smell of licorice.
Dr. C. comes to see me and all but confesses to the embezzlement. After I find out Nonna attends Elizabeth’s wake, she tells me the story of Elisabetta and Tommy Romano, and the birth of their blue-eyed baby. So is Toscano Elizabeth’s son? What color are his eyes? Kate Bridges has blue eyes; could she be the lost child? Is a sense of abandonment the reason for her antipathy toward Elizabeth, or is there something else at work?

I set the cookies on a cooling rack and examined my flat, misshapen results—not a final product I would show my grandmother, but one I would happily eat. As the first warm cookie melted in my mouth, I lost my train of thought.
Where was I? That’s right, blue eyes.
Dennis Doyle has blue eyes and an arrest record for assault. Could he be Elizabeth’s grandson? Or might he have a different motive for murder, such as protecting his new in-laws?

I ate three more cookies and slid the last tray into the oven, telling myself I would freeze the rest. As I washed the bowls and pans, my mind circled around the two possible motives in Elizabeth’s death: revenge and gain. Unless she died in an accidental fall from that stairway. I shook my head.
Why would an elderly, half-blind woman walk out toward the beach so late at night?
It didn’t make sense. And Sofia and I were so focused on Elizabeth’s past. Were we missing something—or someone—with a more recent connection to her?

I scrubbed and rinsed, hoping to sharpen my focus. But I was startled by a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a crack of thunder. The bowl slipped from my hands, clattering into the sink. As the rain pounded the roof, the kitchen lights flickered, died, and came back on. My heart thumping, I grabbed two things I wanted at hand: a flashlight and the bottle of anisette. And prayed the lights would stay on.

I worked quickly, taking the last batch from the oven and wrapping the cooled cookies. Though the thunder had subsided, the rain was steady. Despite the warmth in the kitchen, I shivered in my sweatshirt.
Just nerves, Vic. Are you scared of a little thunderstorm?
I finished in the kitchen and headed out to the living room to close the windows. I shut and latched them, and looked out onto the dark street. The other houses were mostly dark, but here and there were signs of life. It was the height of the season; every cottage would have residents or renters. Why was I feeling isolated and a little scared? My attention was caught by a quick flash of light from a car across the street, as though someone
had turned on an interior light. It was a beat-up sedan, but I couldn’t tell its make. There was another brief flash from the car, and I pulled back from the window, my heart pounding again.

Okay, so somebody is sitting in his car. Maybe he’s trying to read directions. Maybe he’s lost or he’s waiting for the rain to stop.
So why wouldn’t my heart calm down? Why did I have those warning prickles up and down my arms, the kind that tell you to listen to your instincts? So I did. Scooping up the flashlight and the anisette, I turned off the downstairs lights and scurried up the steps to my bedroom, locking the door behind me.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed with my phone next to me, I opened my e-reader and scanned the titles. Too many Gothics; this was not a night for the Brontës or Wilkie Collins. I was two pages into my favorite Dorothy Sayers,
Gaudy Night
, when I noticed the rain had stopped, replaced by a different sound. It was rough, rhythmic, like that of sandpaper against wood. Once, twice, and it stopped. I listened again and then I recognized it. That sandpaper sound was actually the muffled crunch of stones in my driveway. Someone was outside the cottage.

I shut off the light in my bedroom and sat on the floor.
He’s not in the house,
I told myself.
He’s outside, and you’re locked in tight. Just wait.
But I had my phone ready. The sound faded, then stopped. Still clutching my phone, I unlocked my door and scrambled down the steps to the living room. I lifted one slat of the metal blinds. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I watched a small, bent figure open his car door, the interior light
shining off his shock of wild white hair. He drove away slowly, giving me enough time to see the letters and numbers I had written down on Thursday night. YRB-763.

I dropped into one of the mismatched chairs, exhaling in relief. I knew I wasn’t in any danger now. But why the hell was William Fox lurking around my cottage?