The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (14 page)

I
sabella stood at the door of the factory; through the window she could see the women at the machines, bent over their work, lines and lines of them filling the large room. Even standing outside, she could hear their unending noise . . .

As much as I wanted Isabella to make her way in America, I was having trouble concentrating on the story. I was hazy from a fitful night’s sleep, and I kept stopping to look out the window for a return visit from William Fox. Which reminded me that I needed to call Sofia.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better today. Thanks. I heard you ran into your brother yesterday when you were leaving.”

“I did indeed. He noticed that you’re thinner, Sofe. He’s worried about you.”

“I know. I’ll tell him soon.” I could hear the resignation in her tone.

“Unless he figures it out first. He’s not stupid, as he’s fond of reminding me.”

“Okay, is this why you called me?” she asked. “To nag me about your brother?”

“Nope. Not today anyway. I had a kind of a visitor last night.” I closed my bedroom door behind me and headed down the stairs.

“A visitor?”

I stood at the front windows; the morning was sunny and clear, and last night seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. “Well, more like an intruder.”

“Vic, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. The closest he got to me was the driveway. But get this: It was William Fox.”

“William Fox? Maybe he figured out who you were from the meeting and wanted to be your sponsor or something.”

“I don’t think he came out at ten o’clock at night in the middle of a thunderstorm to offer me AA sponsorship. But he might know who I really am,” I said, opening the front door but locking the screen. “Think about it. Toscano caught me at the club. Fox caught us at his house. If they’re working together, it wouldn’t take much for them to connect the dots, would it?”

She let out a long breath. “I don’t like this. Maybe you should tell Danny.”

“Not yet. And I’m not afraid of William Fox. Toscano, however, is another story. He gives me the creeps.”

“Maybe you should stay with your parents for a while.”

“God, no. I’ll take my chances with either of those guys, thank you. But I’m not sure where to go with any of this right now. Back to Elizabeth’s long-lost child? It would help if we knew whether Toscano, Kate Bridges, or one of the Doyles was adopted. It’s not a thing you
can come right out and ask people.” I wandered out to the deck and watched the beach as it began to fill up with crowds of day-trippers. I normally avoided the beach on weekends, but today I was happy to have the company.

“I think you should go see Mrs. Natale,” Sofia said. “She might tell you something about the Doyles.”

“So what do you suggest? Do I ask straight-out whether one of Dennis’s parents was adopted?”

“Maybe. But you never know what might come up in conversation. She was ready to blab about his arrest when she saw you at the wedding, right? Maybe you can find out more about that.”

I took a seat in the sun and stretched out my legs, grateful for the sunshine after the storm. “So he was arrested for assault, but I’m having a hard time believing Dennis Doyle committed murder at his own wedding.”

“It happened
after
the wedding, Vic. Which reminds me—we need to pin down the timing. When they left the club. The last time they saw Elizabeth. You’ve got Dennis saying one thing and that bartender saying another.”

“Yes, assuming Sally the Bartender is not mistaken, or lying for some reason, Dr. Chickie was still there at eleven forty-five. So is Dennis lying to protect him?”

“Or himself. So, you’ll go see Brenda Natale?”

“Yes, Sofia, I will go see Brenda. Listen, in the meantime, would you look into the adoption angle? Like which records would be open and which wouldn’t?”

“I’ll give it a shot. But see what you can find out
from the Natales. Because despite what your father thinks, and whether you like it or not, Vic, there’s something we have to consider: Maybe Dr. Chickie really
was
the one who pushed Elizabeth over that seawall.”

I didn’t have to work that afternoon, and after getting Brenda’s number and an admonition (“Don’t upset her, honey”) from my mother, I gave Mrs. Natale a call. She was home, and since Dr. Chickie was taking “his health walk,” this would be a good time to come. The Natales lived on the bay side of town in a modern monstrosity of stucco and stone. It was a lot of house for two people, and I wondered if the Natales would be able to keep it.

I rang the front doorbell, and Brenda appeared immediately. “Hello, darling,” she croaked. “Come in, please.” She led me through the house to their back deck. “I thought we’d sit outside; it’s restful out by the water—don’t you think?”

“It’s beautiful out here,” I said, taking in an impressive view of the bay.

We sat at a large patio table, already set with a pitcher of iced tea, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a plate of Italian cookies. Brenda poured me some tea and slid plate in front of me. “Eat, Victoria, please.”

She didn’t have to twist my arm. I served myself some fruit salad and took a sesame-seed cookie. “Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Natale.”

“I’m just grateful you want to help him, dear.” She didn’t take any food, but instead lit a cigarette. “Terrible habit, I know,” she said, blowing out her first puff
with closed eyes. “Roberta is after me to stop. I’ll try to keep the smoke away from you, hon. Now, how can I help you?”

“Well, I’m trying to piece some things together about the night of the wedding. I guess you could say I’m testing other theories about what might have happened to Elizabeth Merriman.”

Brenda’s heavy-lidded eyes were knowing. “You mean other than Chickie killing her?”

“Well . . . yes.” I hadn’t expected Brenda to state things so baldly, and I sipped my tea to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“Victoria, do you think I don’t know what people are saying? I was never one to hide from things.” She poured herself a glass of tea and looked up at me. “Did Chickie make some mistakes? Yes, he did. Did he kill that awful woman? No, he did not.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette.

“I believe that, Mrs. Natale. And that’s why I’m here today.” Yet I could hear Sofia’s words clearly:
Maybe Dr. Chickie really was the one who pushed Elizabeth over that seawall.
Was Brenda’s blind faith in her husband misplaced? I took a bite of cookie for sustenance and readied my notebook and pen. “I have some questions. They may not make sense to you, and I’ll understand if there’s anything you prefer not to answer, okay?”

She waved her cigarette hand. “Go for it.”

“Okay, when we were chatting at the reception, you mentioned Dennis’s ‘trouble.’ His arrest is on record, so the prosecutor’s office will have that information. But do you know the circumstances of the assault?”

Brenda’s froggy eyes grew wide. “You don’t think Dennis—”

“Of course not,” I said hastily. “I’m just trying to get a picture of what happened.”

“I don’t mind telling you, because it was really kind of silly.”

A silly assault?
“Go on.”

“It was a bar fight. A whole bunch of them drunk and banging each other around. He paid a fine and that was it.”

“I figured it was something like that. I appreciate your telling this. I do have another question, though.”

“Any way I can help, honey.”

“Do you know if either of Dennis’s parents was adopted?”

She frowned in confusion. “I have no idea. Is it important for Chickie’s case?”

“It might be. But it’s a long shot.”
And please don’t ask me to explain, Brenda.

“Look, honey, if you think it will help Chickie, I’ll see if I can find out.” She bit her lip and frowned. “Though I’m not sure how you bring such a thing up to a person.”

“I understand. Are you friendly with Mrs. Doyle? Maybe there’s a way to get her talking about her parents.”

But Brenda was staring out at the water. Then she turned back to me slowly and gripped my arm. “Hang on, darling. I just remembered a conversation I had with Maureen. We were talking about the kids, you know, and how we hoped we’d have a grandchild soon. So then Maureen mentioned what a big baby
Dennis was. Close to ten pounds, if you can believe it. Anyway, she had trouble delivering him.”

“I’ll bet,” I said, resolving not to tell Sofia this part of the story. “What else did she say?”

“This is the important part. She said her mother-in-law had said the
same
thing about Dennis’s father. He was also a very big man.” She waved the cigarette smoke away from me. “His poor mother labored for days or something.”

“That helps, Mrs. Natale. It really does.” So Mr. Doyle was not adopted and could be ruled out. “Also, do you know how old Mrs. Doyle is?”

“She’s younger than we are. Late fifties, maybe, but I know she’s not sixty.”

Assuming she wasn’t lying about her age, Mrs. Doyle was too young to be the lost child. But I had to be sure.
“
Could I ask you one other thing? Does Mrs. Doyle have blue eyes?”

Brenda was not ready for the curve I’d thrown her, and paused with her cigarette halfway to her lips. “Maureen? Blue eyes?” She shook her head. “No, dear. Her eyes are brown.”

Okay,
I thought,
it’s probably safe to say that Dennis Doyle is not Elizabeth’s grandson. And the assault charge
stemmed from a bar fight, not an attack on someone. He’s probably not a violent guy. But is he lying about when they last saw Elizabeth Merriman? And if so, why?
“Mrs. Natale, there’s one other thing. What time did you all leave the reception?”

Almost at once, Brenda Natale shifted her eyes back to the water. “We left at eleven thirty,” she said.

“And you’re sure about that?”

She nodded and looked down at her tea. “Yes. Elizabeth was still in her office. We could see her through the window.”

It was the same story Dennis had told me, nearly word for word. And if I asked Roberta, she’d probably tell me the same thing. And I had no doubt it was rehearsed. “Okay, then,” I said. “Eleven thirty it is.”

“We did leave at eleven thirty,” said a voice from behind me. “But I went back.” Dr. Natale kissed his wife, who only shook her head. “I have to tell her, Brenda,” he said.

Brenda stubbed out her cigarette and sighed. “Then have some tea first,” she said, and poured him a glass.

I waited, pen poised and heart fluttery. Was I about to hear a confession? “Dr. C.,” I said, “maybe you shouldn’t—”

“It’s okay, Victoria. Johnny told me not to talk about any of it, but this is different. Your father’s like my family.” He passed his hand over his eyes and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I think I’ll feel better if I tell the truth.”

I put the pen and notebook away, and Dr. Chickie gave me a faint smile. “Thank you,” he said. He drank down half the tea, set the glass in front of him, and folded his hands. “As I said,” he began, “we all left the reception at eleven thirty. And Elizabeth was still in her office. But I had Dennis take Roberta and Brenda in his car, and I stayed behind. I wanted to try to plead my case with Elizabeth one last time. I went to her office and laid an envelope of cash on her desk. I said it
was the first installment of the money I owed. I told her I’d pay back every cent of the money, but would she please not press charges.”

“What did she say?”

“She said no. Then she said, ‘It’s too late, Charles. The wheels of justice are already turning.’” He shook his head. “That’s how she put it. ‘The wheels of justice.’”

“What do you think she meant, Dr. C.? Had she begun the process of pressing charges?”

“I’m not sure.” He slumped in his seat, turning his glass from side to side. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. “But I would expect an arrest is imminent.”

“You don’t know that, Chickie,” Brenda said, gripping her husband’s arm.

“It’s probably a good idea if you don’t say any more about this, Dr. C.” I started to gather my things, but glanced longingly at my uneaten fruit. It would be tacky to stuff my face while my orthodontist’s life was falling apart.

“Wait a minute, Victoria,” Dr. Natale said. “I do have one other thing to say before you go—and this you
can
write down. When I left Elizabeth Merriman’s office at eleven forty-five last Saturday night, she was very much alive.” His bloodshot eyes held my own. “And that’s the last I saw of her. So help me God.”

T
hat evening, after a quick dinner in my cottage, I called Sofia. After a pregnancy update—morning sickness a little better, and, no, Danny didn’t know yet—I filled her in on my visit to the Natales.

“So, it comes down to who was still around that club at midnight,” Sofia said.

“And if any of them had motive,” I added.

“So let’s think about this logically, Vic. Assuming Dr. Natale is innocent, Elizabeth was probably murdered for one of two reasons: revenge or money.”

“Right,” I said. “Revenge points us to somebody tied to Merriman Industries; money points us to the lost child.”

“There might be a Merriman connection we’re missing,” Sofia said.

“There might,” I agreed. “But I’m leaning toward the lost child. If that child felt abandoned, he or she would have another reason for murder besides Elizabeth’s money.”

“Absolutely. And here’s a thought: What if the biological child approached Elizabeth and was rejected?”

“You might be onto something here. It would be like being abandoned twice, wouldn’t it?” As I pondered this theory, I remembered Kate’s nearly irrational dislike of Elizabeth. “Hang on, Sofe. Remember I told you I overheard Kate and Elizabeth fighting the night of the murder? I couldn’t make out much of it, but I clearly heard Elizabeth say something like, ‘Out, out! Do you hear me?’ What if Kate is the biological child and chose that time to tell Elizabeth? What if that was the rejection?”

“Hmmm.” There was doubt in that one syllable. “I don’t know, Vic. That’s a weird time and place to say, ‘Hey, I’m your long-lost daughter,’ don’t you think? It sounds more like she was getting fired.”

“Very shrewd, Ms. Delmonico. You’ve given me something else to think about, and maybe given Kate Bridges another motive for murder.”

After I got off the phone, I took a walk on the beach to think about my next course of action. It didn’t take me long to realize there was only one thing to do. But I needed Tim to do it.