The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (17 page)

T
hat afternoon I stood outside Sofia’s studio, watching through the window while she took a group of ten-year-olds through the five ballet positions. Though my own career in dance had been mercifully short-lived, I found myself shifting my feet into first, second, and third along with the kids. But I did manage to get my sister-in-law’s attention before I executed a plié out on the sidewalk. She motioned me inside, and I waited while she said good-bye to her small charges, most of whom stopped for hugs at the door.

“You’ll make a great mom, SIL,” I said as we walked back to her office. “You have so much patience. With the kids, that is.”

She grinned. “With you and your brother, not so much, right?” She took two water bottles from a small refrigerator and handed me one. “I got your e-mail about Kate. Is there more since then? Sit down and fill me in.”

“Well, I have had quite the morning.” I started with the phone call from Nina and the news of Dr. C.’s arrest, moved on to the mysterious phone message,
Toscano’s visit, and my chat with Lacey. “Oh, and then I finished by asking Cal to go out with me.”

She raised one eyebrow. “You
have
been busy. Save the Lacey and Cal stuff for later, though. It’s Kate and Toscano I’m interested in at the moment. So, you and Tim went to see Kate at the club yesterday.”

“Right. And it wasn’t very pretty. Our pretext for being there was flimsy, and she’s not a stupid woman. I think she let us stay to figure out why we were there in the first place.”

“And she freaked out when you mentioned her parents?”

I nodded. “It was strange. But, then again,
she’s
strange. Now that we know Toscano is Elizabeth’s son—”

“According to him, Vic.”

“And according to DNA proof he gave Elizabeth and the cops. I think we should operate under that assumption.”

“If you say so. So, if he’s Elizabeth’s son, Kate had another reason for her reaction to your question about her parents.”

“Which could be anything. She might be estranged from her parents. She might have been abused. Or maybe she’s just a private person.” I shook my head.

“Or she’s a little unbalanced. Could she have been the one who left the message, Vic? Think about the timing of the call. Maybe she disguised her voice?”

“Hmm. It’s possible, but I was sure it was a man. Also, there was a slight hiss to this voice. And I wouldn’t imagine Kate saying ‘please’ to anybody.” I shook my head. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t her.”

Sofia took a pad from the red folder. “Putting the phone call aside for a minute, I’d like to know what Crazy Kate and Elizabeth were fighting about the night of the murder. You heard something like ‘Out, do you hear me?’ Which still sounds to me like somebody getting fired.”

“So, do you murder someone for firing you?”

“Maybe. You said yourself that she loves what she does. And she still has her job at a fancy club, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but she’s talented enough to get a job anywhere. It doesn’t make sense as a motive. I keep coming back to Toscano,” I said, shuddering at the memory of his veiled threat.

“Except that he already had her money. If what he says is true, he had no reason to kill her.”

“So you think Kate and Toscano are both dead ends?” I pulled some notes from Sofia’s folder and looked again at the information about Merriman Industries.

“I’m not sure. Neither seems to have a clear motive. Somebody had to have a damn good reason to push an old woman over that wall. Think about how cold-blooded that is.”

“‘Cold-blooded’ describes Jack Toscano to a T.”

“True, but right now he doesn’t fit.” She looked up from her notes. “Are we back at William Fox? Did he wait twenty years to take revenge on the woman who ruined his career? And he was there that night.”

Then I heard the voice.
Are you ladies looking for me?
A male voice with a dragged-out hiss on the end of “ladies.” I met Sofia’s eyes. “Oh my God, that was
his
voice on the phone. I’m sure now it was Fox.”

“How do you know?”

“The way he pronounced the ‘s’ on ‘message.’ The night we were at his house and he asked if we were looking for him—do you remember the way he said ‘ladies’?”

“You’re right. I noticed it when he was speaking at the meeting.” Sofia shook her head. “I don’t like this, Vic. He was also sneaking around your house in the dark. Now he’s leaving anonymous messages to warn you off.”

“He just doesn’t strike me as dangerous, Sofe. He said ‘please’ on the message, as though he was concerned. I think the phone call might have been a genuine warning.”

“You don’t know that. And he’s tied up in some way with Toscano.” She scribbled on the pad as she spoke. “Are they working together, maybe? Did Jack hire William Fox to knock her off?”

“For what reason? She’d handed over her assets to Jack already. She was an old lady. Why take that kind of risk if you don’t have to?”

Sofia shook her head. “Unless there’s another reason he wanted her dead that we’re not seeing.”

“It’s possible. The question is: What
else
are we not seeing?” I pictured Elizabeth in her beaded gown, chatting with guests, chiding the kitchen staff, waving her cane around with that one-carat emerald sparkling
on her hand. Was it simple robbery, after all? “I wonder,” I said. “Was that ring still on her hand when the body was found?”

“You think somebody killed her for it?”

“I think it’s a long shot, but possible. The only thing is, her hands were arthritic. I remember wondering how she took that ring on and off with swollen knuckles.”

“Sounds like another dead end to me,” Sofia said, but wrote it down anyway.

I spread out the papers from the red folder and studied them. My gut was telling me the answer was here, but I was missing it. “Sofe, you said you thought this case had deep roots. And I agree that Elizabeth’s murder is somehow tied to the past. But how far back do we go?”

“Well, maybe we work chronologically.” She pulled a sheet from the pile. “Here are the notes from your conversation with Nonna.” She scanned the page, frowning.

“Are you feeling okay, by the way? You look a little funny.”

“I’m actually better.” She pointed to her face. “This is me thinking, not me feeling nauseous.”

“The expressions are similar.”

“Funny. Hey, Vic? Maybe we need to approach things a different way.” She tapped the sheet in front of her. “Tommy’s younger sister would be around seventy. I think we should try to track her down. If Toscano spent time looking for his mother, wouldn’t it follow that he’d look for his father’s family, too? He might have found his aunt; if he’s been in touch with her, she might have important information for us.”

“It’s a thought.” I turned the sheet to look back at the notes. “Though she could be anywhere,” I said. “And
Romano
is a common name. She could also be married. If that’s the case, where do we even start?”

But Sofia was already at her computer. “We take a chance and look up
Romano
. Do we have a first name?” she asked from behind the screen.

“No,” I said. “But I can check with Nonna.”

I heard Sofia’s nails clicking on the keys. “I figure we’ll start right here at home,” she said. “How many seventy-year-old females named Romano can there be in the state?”

“In Jersey?” I said as I got to my feet. “Thousands. Listen, Sofe, I’ll leave you to it, okay? Text me if you find anything.”

She stuck her head out from behind the computer. “Where do you think you’re going? We’ve got work to do.”

“
You
have work to do,” I said. “I have a date.”

It was a relief to take a break from investigating for a while to concentrate on getting pretty for my date. But the harder I tried to dismiss thoughts of long-lost children, mysterious phone warnings, and emerald rings, the more forcefully they returned. Had Toscano known about his father? Had Elizabeth spoken to him about Tommy? And had he tracked down Tommy’s sister? If so, would she be able to shed more light on this man? I stopped primping long enough to write down a reminder:
Ask Nonna for Romano sister’s first name!

Back at my mirror, I gave myself a critical once-over.
I’d treated myself to a little black dress at our local boutique, a V-necked sleeveless number that revealed my tan and hinted at a few other things. My hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, the band wrapped in gold mesh. I had darkened my brows and used a smoky eye shadow and liner that Victoria the Waitress wouldn’t dream of wearing during the day. But Victoria Who Finally Had a Date was pulling out all the stops, including a final touch of lip gloss in a flattering shade of plum.

I put on my great-grandmother’s gold earrings, and rummaged in my jewelry box for a vintage cocktail ring I’d bought in the city. As I slipped it on my finger, the question revealed itself to me, appearing hazily in my mind like the answer at the bottom of a Magic 8 Ball. A question that grew until it blocked out all thoughts of prepping for my date. A question that could rule out a possible motive, and one to which my grandmother might have the answer. But it would have to be asked in person, as Nonna hated telephones, including landlines.

I glanced at my phone. I had less than an hour before I was supposed to meet Cal for our date. I could probably squeeze in a visit to my grandmother and still get to the restaurant on time. Maybe. I slipped off my heels, slid into flip-flops, and grabbed my purse. If there was traffic, I might not make the restaurant for seven. But it was a chance I had to take.

“So, why are you so dressed up?” The question was laden with suspicion. “And that makeup is too dark.”

I ignored the dig as we each took a seat at the kitchen table. “I have a date with Cal.”

Her face cracked into a rare smile. “Calvino. How nice. Better than that Tim.”

Since the spring, my grandmother had been on an Anti-Tim Campaign, which provided a nice counterpoint to my mother’s Anti-Cal Campaign. “I’m glad you think so. But before I go, I need to talk to you a minute. Would you mind telling me Tommy Romano’s sister’s name?”

“What for?”

“Well, I got so interested in the story of Tommy and Elisabetta that they inspired me to do some research about them. For my book.”

Her eyes narrowed behind her bifocals. “I told you that in confidence.”

“I know,” I said. What I
didn’t
say was that the story might well come out, anyway, during the investigation. “I’ll be changing names and details. You don’t have to worry about that. I just thought that if I could talk to Tommy’s sister, I’d have more, uh, insight.”

“Is that so?” She tilted her head. “And by ‘insight’ do you mean ‘information’? So you can find out more about how Elisabetta died?”

I slipped both hands into my lap and crossed all available fingers. Then I lied straight to my grandmother’s suspicious face. “No.”

She only grunted in reply, but then switched tactics. “How ’bout a nice peach?”

“Thanks, Nonna, but I’m about to go to dinner. And you know me—I’ll end up dripping juice all over my dress.”

“That’s true.” She pointed to my ears. “You’re wearing my mama’s earrings.”

“I wear these a lot when I get dressed up. Which reminds me. I have something else to ask you.”

“What now?” Her frown said a multitude of things, none of them encouraging.

I would have to put this delicately, but how? “Um, at wakes when there’s an open casket”—Lord, this was a grim subject—“do people normally have their jewelry on?”

She pinched her thumb and fingers together in Italian code for
What, are you crazy?
“Why would you ask me such a thing, Victoria?”

“It’s just that when Grandpa died, I remember seeing his wedding ring on his hand. But you didn’t actually, uh, bury him in it. Because Danny wears it now.”

She let out a huff. “How disrespectful are you to speak of your own grandfather in this way? What does your grandfather’s ring have to do with anything?”

So, this is going well.
“It doesn’t, actually. I guess what I’m asking is: Is that a typical practice?”

She narrowed her eyes at me again and then crossed herself, just in case what she was about to say was sacrilege. “Yes, I suppose.” She held out her left hand. “When it’s time to lay me out, you leave these rings on my hand. They can be yours afterward. And make sure your mother finds me a nice dress. On second thought, I’ll buy it myself ahead of time.”

“Nonna! I don’t want to think about that, please. I’m not asking about you. Actually, I’m asking about
Elizabeth Merriman. At her wake, was she wearing a ring? A big emerald?”

She shook her head. “No. No jewelry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said. “An emerald, I would remember. I have some nice emerald earrings your grandfather gave me. You’ll get those when I die, too.”

I clapped my hands over my ears. “Stop it, please. Enough about this.” I grabbed my keys and stood up. “I have to run. But thank you for the information.” I sneaked a kiss, which she didn’t wipe off. Progress anyway.

I scarpered down the steps as fast as my flip-flops would carry me, my head reeling with this new information. If that ring wasn’t on Elizabeth’s finger, where was it? And was the person who now possessed it a murderer?

I had made reservations for us at the Shelter Cove Inn, a tiny place along the bay. Getting a table there was no small feat in July, and I was nearly thirty minutes late. Had they given up our reservation? More importantly, would Cal be angry at having to wait for me? Before leaving the car, I slipped on my gold sling-backs and did a last touch-up on my face, firm in the belief that the better I looked, the less angry he would be. As I hurried into the restaurant, I nearly collided with a maître d’ whose icy expression froze my heels to the floor. With his slicked-back hair and practiced sneer, he exuded the air of a snooty gatekeeper. As one who
was used to Frank Rienzi’s swingin’ charm as restaurant host, I was taken aback by the chill.

“May I help you, madame?” Though he said it with the accent on the second syllable, he was about as French as a plate of fries.

“Yes,” I said, attempting to sound the right note of haughtiness. “I am meeting a friend here this evening and I wonder if he’s been seated.”

“I believe the gentleman is waiting in the bar.” He stepped back behind a lighted podium and opened a leather portfolio. “I assume you have a reservation,” he said without looking up.

“Of course. It is for seven o’clock.” For some reason, I was enunciating each word like a New Jersey version of Eliza Doolittle.

“It
was
for seven o’clock,” he said with a sniff. “It is now seven thirty-four.”

In a futile attempt at chumminess, I leaned my elbow on the podium. “You know what traffic is like in the summer.” I threw him a brilliant smile, but it had no effect on Sniffy.

“I do indeed, madame, which is why I suggest that our guests leave ample time to get here. I’m afraid we shall be unable to seat you until nine thirty.”

“That’s unacceptable.” But one look at Sniffy’s flared nostrils had me rethinking my indignation. “I mean, couldn’t you find us something a bit earlier?”

He closed the book. “I’m afraid not. Now, if you’d care to wait with the gentleman at the bar, I’ll happily show you the way.”

And I’d like to show you an Italian gesture or two.
Instead, I smiled through my teeth. “I’ll find it. Thank you.”

As I stood in the doorway of the bar, it wasn’t hard to find Cal. Though he was dressed in a dark suit, he was the only man in there with hair that reached his shirt collar. He was sipping a drink—probably whiskey—and I enjoyed the contrast of his large, rough hands against the starched white cuffs of his shirt. He turned around on his stool, a slow grin forming as he looked at me.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and reached out my hand.

He pulled me closer, keeping my hand in his. “You show up looking like that, a man forgets where he is, let alone what time it is. And in case you haven’t noticed,
cher
, I’m a patient guy.” He raised his glass. “Would you like one?”

“Please,” I said as I sat down. “But a small one, okay? I’m still getting used to the taste.”

He gestured to the bartender and took my hand again. “You look beautiful,” he said, his green eyes holding mine.

“You clean up pretty nice yourself there, sir.” I squeezed his hand lightly, but slipped mine out of his grasp. It was too early in the night to get disoriented by the Lockhart charm, and his signals that were jamming my personal navigation system. “Cal, I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop and see Nonna.”

He lifted a brow in my direction. “You went to see Giulietta?”

“Uh huh.” I nodded, keeping one eye out for that Scotch. “I had to ask her about . . . a recipe.” The
bartender slid a glass in my direction, and I sent him a grateful smile.
Thanks for the distraction, pal.
“I’m trying to get her to teach me how to cook.” I lifted my glass to Cal’s; he tapped mine lightly, and I heard the unmistakable
ping
of crystal.

“Can I ask you something, Victoria? If you grew up in that restaurant, how’s it only now that you’re gettin’ cooking lessons?”

“Now, there’s a question.” I took a sip of the Scotch; I would need it for this story. “Well, you’re right. I did grow up there. I helped out in the dining room from the time I was ten years old. Danny and I both waited tables when we were in high school. I think the plan was for my brother and me to take over the business.”

“But you guys had other ideas.”

I nodded. “Once Danny decided on a career in law enforcement, he was let off the hook.”

Cal swirled the amber liquid in the bottom of his glass. “And all eyes turned to you.”

“Yup. I studied business at Rutgers with the idea that I’d run the restaurant someday. In the summers, I’d wait tables, hang out in the kitchen with Nando and Chef Massi. I was allowed to do some vegetable prep, but that was it. Nonna promised I’d eventually learn the sauces and our core dishes, but once I took over, I’d be strictly front of the house.”

Cal frowned slightly. “Did you
want
to be at the restaurant?”

“Another loaded question, Mr. Lockhart.” I shook my head. “I was conflicted about it. Until . . .”

“Until when?”

I looked straight into his smoky green eyes. “Until Tim came back from culinary school and my parents hired him as a line cook.”

He tilted his head, his face holding an expression of warmth and something akin to sympathy. “And then the restaurant business didn’t look so bad anymore.”

“No. I think my parents had hopes that we’d get married and run the place together.”

“And what about you,
cher
? What were your hopes?” He took my hand and held it lightly, as though I might snatch it away from him.

“The same. But that, sir, is water under the Driscoll Bridge.” I let my hand rest in his briefly, savoring the moment of comfort.

“Is it?”

“Yes. It is.” I lifted my glass for another sip of Scotch, which went straight to my head. I needed to eat something and get off the subject of Tim as soon as possible. “May we talk about something more interesting, please?”

He grinned, and that went to my head, too. “Fine with me,” he said, and as if reading my mind, pushed a bowl of cashews in my direction. “But you still haven’t told me why you never learned to cook.”

“Ah. That would be the Revenge of Nonna.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that after Tim broke up with me, I decided to leave Oceanside. And once I did, Nonna locked up her recipes for good.” I grabbed a handful of cashews, but forced myself to eat them like a lady, one at a time.

A glint of amusement shone in his eyes. “You’re kiddin’ me.”

I shook my head. “Nope. She made it clear that there would be no cooking lessons unless I came back to run the Casa Lido. And we both dug in our heels,” I said with a sigh. “For eight years. So now I’m consigned to meatball maker and escarole chopper. But I’ll wear her down.”

He tapped the end of my nose and smiled. “You’re a lot like her, you know. Why do you think her and me are such fast friends?”

“I would say mainly because you’re not Tim.” I downed the rest of the Scotch, and my head spun like a boardwalk ride.

“Truer words were never spoken.” He lifted my chin and held my eyes with his own. “’Cuz that guy was stupid enough to let you go. And that’s his loss.”

I blinked, wondering if he was about to kiss me. Instead he emptied his drink and handed the bartender his credit card. “Victoria, would you like to get out of here?”

I looked at my watch. Dinner was still an hour and a half away, and I needed something in my stomach besides a bowl of nuts. I’d have been happy with a burger, but I also wanted this meal to be special. “My plan was to take
you
to a nice dinner,” I said.

He waved his arm. “This is all a little stuffy for my taste anyway. And I think you could use a little fresh air, no?”

“Actually, yes.” I stood up, a little shaky on my sling-backs.

He took my arm and tucked it under his, leading me gently through the crowded bar. And despite the fact that I am an independent woman, it felt pretty nice to be taken care of.

It was also nice to tell Sniffy we were leaving. His only reply was to purse his lips and make a great show of scribbling out my name.
Way to make your customers feel welcome, pal.

Once outside, I took deep breaths of the clean sea air.

“Better?” Cal asked.

“Uh huh. My head’s a little clearer. But I don’t think I should drive.”

“I’m in complete agreement. In fact, I’ll drive ya back here later. After we get some food in you.” He led me to the parking lot, where I expected to see his work truck. Instead, we stopped in front of black BMW.

“Wow,” I said. “Nice car.” And what I didn’t say was,
Woodworking must be paying better than I thought.

“Thanks,” he said briefly, holding my door open.

I slid into the black leather seat, getting a whiff of New Car Scent mixed with Hunky Guy; it was nearly as intoxicating as that whiskey I’d downed. I leaned forward, noting the walnut dash, arrayed in dials and colored lights. I turned to Cal and grinned. “Hey, did 007 own this before you?”

“Nobody owned it before me.” He pressed the button for the ignition—a revelation for me, as my lowly Honda requires a key—and the engine started with a soft growl. I glanced at his profile as we pulled out of the parking lot, but his expression told me very little.

“Where we going?” I asked.

“You like jazz? There’s a club not far from here in Messina Beach. Nothin’ fancy, but they make a great burger.”

“Well, I don’t know much about jazz, but I do know my burgers. Do they use Angus beef?”

“Not sure about that, Victoria, but they taste mighty good. And there happens to be a trio playing there tonight that hails from my hometown.”

“Really? They play New Orleans jazz?”

“Yup. Seen ’em play Preservation Hall back in the day. Sat so close I had to duck the trombone spit.”

“Eww,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Can we get a seat in the back, please?”

“Wherever you like, ma’am.” We had reached the town, and he pulled into the driveway of a familiar, low-roofed building.

“Oh, this used to be the train station in town. We’d come here sometimes to go to Rahway and then into New York.” We got out of the car and I studied the dark red shingles and black shutters on the windows. “It looks just like I remember it.”

“Well, it’s a club now.” Cal held out his hand. “Shall we?”

We got there in time to hear the group play a rousing version of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” inspiring a number of audience members to sing along. The atmosphere was lively and loud, and about as far from the Shelter Cove Inn as you could get. But I was glad we’d come.

The trio was ending its set, and after Cal got me
settled, he headed to the stage, where he engaged in much hand clasping, man hugging, and backslapping. He was still grinning when he came back to the table. “Pretty cool they remembered me,” he said.

“Well, you’re a pretty memorable guy, Calvin Lockhart.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

We got our drinks—beer for him and wine for me this time around, which I sipped slowly. After a waitress brought us our burgers, I asked Cal a few questions about jazz.

“I like all kinds,” he said. “Charlie Parker’s the king, in my book, but I also like me some Chet Baker and John Coltrane.”

“I’ve heard
of
them,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ve heard their music.”

“I got a Chet Baker CD in the car; I think you’d like him.”

“Sorry if this seems like I’m stereotyping you,” I said, “but I assumed you’d like country music.”

He took a deep swig of his beer. “Not particularly. Unless you count the Allman Brothers. Don’t get me wrong, though; I’m a big fan of the Man in Black.” At my blank look, he grinned. “That would be Johnny Cash. You know, ‘Ring of Fire’?”

“Ah. I saw the movie about him. But you’ll have to excuse my ignorance. In my house the twin musical gods are the Men in Blue—collar, that is. Sinatra and Springsteen.”

He raised his glass. “Ain’t nothing wrong with that.
I’m a fan myself.” He gestured to the stage. “I think they’ll be back in about ten minutes. Would you like to stay to hear some more?”

“Sure. I’m still working on this burger anyway. And you were right—it is good.”

“Glad you like it.” Then he leaned toward me, his face serious. “In the meantime, wanna tell me what you and Miss Firecracker are up to?”

I looked down at my wineglass. “We’re not up to anything.”

“Right. But you happened to be at the country club the night that woman was killed. And you’re tellin’ me you’re not running around asking questions. Doin’ research that you’re pretending is for some book you have no intention of writing?”

“Maybe a little.”

“A little, huh?” He rested his chin in his hand, studying my face.

“Okay, maybe more than a little.” I stopped as a memory from our last date suddenly surfaced. “Hang on, Cal. Remember the night we were up on the boardwalk? You told me you worked at the Belmont Club. Before you took the job at the Casa Lido.”

There was now a wariness in that green gaze. “Yeah. Back in the spring. Why?”

I sat forward in my chair. “Did you know Elizabeth Merriman? I mean, did you have any dealings with her?”

He shook his head. “It wasn’t a big job and I wasn’t there very long. I saw her maybe one or two times. But I never talked with her. Anyway, she didn’t strike me
as the type to chat with the hired help.” He looked away from me and sipped his drink.

From what I knew about Elizabeth Merriman, she was exactly the type to chat with—no, make that
order around
—the hired help. “I’m surprised.” I said. “I mean, the night I was there, she was micromanaging for sure.”

He shrugged. “All’s I know is I never spoke with her. So I can’t really help you.”

I couldn’t shake the feeling that Cal was hiding something. But maybe he was just a private guy, as lots of guys are. “One more quick thing, if you don’t mind. Do you remember seeing a large ring on Elizabeth Merriman’s hand?”

He looked at me carefully. “Think so. A big ole rock, right?”

“Right.” I waited to see if he would describe the ring, but decided he needed some prompting. “According to my grandmother, she wasn’t wearing it when she was laid out.”