The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (4 page)

B
y the time I found the bar, I was sorely in need of a drink, and the smells of the food in that kitchen had whetted my appetite. As Tim had promised, the bar was full of that “historic crap” I love. Out on the floor, leather chairs with brass rivets sat on either side of small oak tables, and high-backed chairs with matching leather seats lined the bar. I sat down in one with a sigh, and a middle-aged woman behind the antique walnut bar pushed a bowl of nuts in front of me.

“What’ll you have, hon?” she asked.

“Any wine you pour that’s dry, white, and cold,” I said, taking an unladylike handful of almonds. “Oh, and do you have a bar menu?”

“Sure thing.” She slid a leather-covered portfolio across the bar, then provided me with a generous pouring of chardonnay.

I took a sip and closed my eyes. “Ah, nectar of the gods.” I opened the menu, fully intending to get a salad until the siren call of carbs caught me. “Could I have the goat-cheese pizza, please?”

“Good choice,” the bartender said. She reached for
the menu, revealing a small horse tattoo on her wrist. “I take it you’re not a wedding guest?”

I shook my head and held out the wrinkled lapels of my blouse. “Can’t you tell? No, I’m here with two other chefs from our restaurant, the Casa Lido. We catered the soup course.”

“Oh, that means you had to deal with Iron Lady. My sympathies.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sally, by the way.”

“Victoria. And now I understand that,” I said, pointing to her wrist. “It’s a mustang, yes?”

She winked at me, making a giddyup motion with her wrists. “Ride, Sally, ride,” she sang. Then she ran a hand through her cropped, flame-colored hair and grinned. “At least I did in my younger days. Let me put that pie order in for you,” she said, and disappeared through a door behind the bar.

“Separate kitchen, I assume,” I said when she returned.

Sally nodded. “Yup. Separate staff, too. We’re not super fancy over here.”

I smiled at the image of Chef Etienne turning out bar pies. “I imagine the kitchen staff at the bar has to be easier to work with.”

“Oh yeah.” Sally wiped down my section of the bar and refilled the nuts. “I mean, Chef Etienne’s okay—kinda hot, too, in a Frenchy sort of way. But he gets a bug up his nose about something and forget it. He does know how to handle Elizabeth, though; I’ll say that for him. Not like that crazy Kate. Sheesh.”

“You mean the pastry chef, right? Kate Bridges?”

“There’s only one Crazy Kate. Been here a month and managed to piss everybody off, especially Elizabeth.” Sally leaned in close, lowering her voice. “I just think there’s something off about her, ya know? I mean, what’s with all that makeup? Sure don’t improve her looks any. And it seems like she deliberately antagonizes Elizabeth.”

Maybe it was the writer in me, but right now my curiosity was sharper than my appetite. While Sally worked, I struggled with my conscience. If Elizabeth knew the club’s employees were inclined to gossip with strangers, she’d throw a fit, and probably throw Sally out the door, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to know what was going on here. I gave it another few minutes and a few more sips of wine before I spoke. “I would think it’s pretty easy to antagonize Elizabeth Merriman,” I said. “It’s clear she has her own way of doing things at the club, and woe to you if you get in her way.”

But before Sally could answer me, the door swung open and a waiter emerged with my pizza. As I contemplated the warm goat cheese, sautéed spinach, and caramelized onions sitting on a fragrant wood-fired crust, the urge to stuff my mouth fought with the urge to open it and ask more questions. Luckily, the pizza was too hot to eat, and Sally seemed inclined to talk. She pointed to the chardonnay and I nodded, hoping a second glass wouldn’t impair my ability to ice Nonna’s cookies.

“So, you all set?” Sally asked, rubbing her hands together.

“Yes, thanks. As long as I don’t run into Iron Lady again.”

Sally grinned. “Hey, stay far enough away and she won’t even see ya.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I think all her other senses are heightened. She sniffed me out in the ballroom just now.”

“Well, that’s the truth. Nothin’ gets by her.” She jerked her head in the direction of the ballroom. “That’s how she found out Father of the Bride out there was cooking the books.”

Cooking the books?
I dropped my head and cut into the pie, my mind racing. Elizabeth’s comment about court now took on a sharp clarity, as did the Natales’ fear. As treasurer of the club, had Dr. Chickie dipped his hand into the till? A wedding at the Belmont wasn’t cheap. And Dr. Chickie was part of my dad’s circle of high rollers we called the Rat Pack. Had his gambling pushed him into embezzlement?
This is not your problem, Vic,
I told myself. And because I still had a long night ahead of me, I fortified myself with a bite of pizza and a slug of wine.

Just then, a tall man with dark hair and sunglasses walked into the bar, followed by a slighter, shorter man. The taller man appeared to be the guy I’d seen in the ballroom with Elizabeth. Up close, I noticed his military haircut, cropped even shorter than my brother Danny’s regulation police cut. The man’s erect bearing and straight spine added to the impression of a military man. By comparison, the smaller man trailing behind him was rumpled and sported a thick head of
wild gray hair. His slumped shoulders suggested submission, possibly resignation. He was also much older, by at least ten or fifteen years. The two sat at a table behind me, and the tall one motioned to Sally, who merely nodded.

She pulled a beer and a soda from the cooler and brought it to their table, along with a bowl of nuts. When she came back, she leaned in close again and whispered, “Do you know who the dude in the dark glasses is?”

“No,” I said, resisting the urge to turn around.

Sally raised a knowing eyebrow. “The Iron Lady’s boy toy. Jack Toscano.”

I froze with a piece of pizza halfway to my mouth. “You’re kidding me. He’s my dad’s age, easy.”

“So what? He still almost twenty years younger than her.” She shrugged. “Speaking by comparison, he’s a boy all right. He’s with her all the time. Takes her to plays, drives her around town—you name it.” She lowered her voice again. “Grapevine says she bought him that condo he’s got over on the bay side of town.”

“I saw them in the ballroom together, but I never guessed that. She’s full of surprises.” I inched my chin to the right until I could capture a glimpse of Jack Toscano from the corner of my eye. He was a good-looking man in a rugged, old-movie kind of way, and though he had more lines on his face than my dad, was probably sixtyish. His face had that leathery look that said he’d spent lots of time in the sun. “Is he from down here?” I asked.

“Nah. Just showed up about six months back. But Merriman has him helping her manage the club.”

I gave up any pretense of minding my own business and leaned over the bar. “So, who’s the little guy with him?”

“Don’t know his name, but I recognize him. Can’t miss that Albert Einstein hair.” Sally took a paring knife and set out some lemons and limes. “I don’t think he’s a member; I’ve only ever seen him with Jack, and he always drinks a diet soda.” She motioned with the knife. “Bet you my last tip in the jar he’s a twelve-stepper.” She grinned. “Not that they allow us to have anything as tacky as a tip jar in this fancy outfit.”

Mustang Sally was a wealth of information. (My fictional detective, Bernardo Vitali, would call her a keen observer of the human condition.) But I needed to get back to the kitchen; if anything went wrong with those cookies, Nonna would have my hide. I reached inside my blouse for Tim’s credit card, hoping it wasn’t too sweaty. But Sally waved me away.

“It’s on the house. You’re part of the staff tonight; it’s the least we can do, considering you have to deal with Elizabeth.”

“Thanks, Sally.” I dug in my purse and pulled out a crumpled ten. “For the nonexistent jar,” I said.
And for the information,
I thought.
But I wish you’d told me more about what Dr. Chickie had been up to.

On my way to the kitchen I was arrested by a series of whining groans, a cacophony so loud and dissonant I wanted to clap my hands over my ears. As I
approached the ballroom, I spied the source of the noise—not a bunch of cats in heat, but six guys in kilts tuning up their bagpipes. The sound clashed wildly with the wedding band’s version of
The
Godfather
theme blaring from inside the doors. From my vantage point, I could see the cultural split in the room, with all the short, dark people on one side and the large, fair people on the other.
My mother will love this one,
I thought,
and Nonna will make gloomy predictions for the bride who marries outside her tribe.

The kitchen was nearly empty when I got back. A few of Etienne’s crew, including Antoine (who greeted me with a wolf whistle) were cleaning up. Tim was scarfing down a plate of pasta. In the back, the wedding cake sat on linen-covered table, and I could see Kate filling pastries, scowling and muttering as she worked.

“Is she doing that alone?” I asked.

“I offered,” Tim said. “But she wasn’t having it. Gave me a loud lecture about how nobody touches her pastries.” He grimaced. “Like I’d want to touch anything of hers.”

“Hey, that’s just mean.” I glanced over at Kate, who had recently reapplied her orange lipstick.

“C’mon, Vic,” he said. “She looks like one of the Insane Clown Posse.”

“I don’t know. I kinda feel sorry for her.”

“Hey, chick from the Casa Lido!” Kate bellowed. “You gonna get those cookies iced anytime tonight?”

Tim grinned and pointed to a large aluminum bowl set on ice. “The icing’s ready, but it’ll need a couple of
minutes to come to room temp. Don’t worry about her—we got plenty of time.”

I took the bowl out of the ice and set the cookies out on a counter Tim had lined with parchment paper. “Tim, can you find me a small spatula? I don’t want to ask her.”

Tim brought back two and uncapped the container of silver balls. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll help you. I sent Nando home and I’d like to get us out of here.”

“Oh, before I forget.” I took the credit card from my blouse and handed it to him. “I didn’t use it, but thanks.”

“Didn’t you eat?”

“I did indeed. A friend brought me dinner.” I neglected to mention that the friend was female, however, and shot him a look I hoped was mysterious.

“Good for you,” he said cheerfully. He scraped the spatula across the surface of the icing. “It should be soft enough soon.”

Once the icing was ready, Tim and I knocked off the job quickly. I started decorating them and sent Tim out of the kitchen for a break. Chef Etienne’s crew had already cleared out; I was so intent on placing the silver balls in the same triangular pattern for each cookie, I didn’t notice someone else was in the kitchen until I heard raised voices. Kate and the Iron Lady were going at it hammer and tongs.

How had Elizabeth come in without my seeing her? Was there a back entrance somewhere? And what was she even doing in here?
I couldn’t hear much of the argument, except for Elizabeth’s final words: “Out! Do you hear me? Out, and I mean it.”

She turned away from Kate and barreled straight toward me.
She doesn’t see me yet,
I thought, and backed out of her path into a dim corner near the sink. She tapped her cane along the floor, stopping suddenly near the door, lifting her head like a dog with a scent. “Is someone there?”

I flattened myself against the wall. Some instinct told me not to reveal either myself or that I’d overheard their fight. The tapping started again, followed by the whoosh of the kitchen door. I stepped out of my hiding place, only to face Chef Kate Bridges, her hands on her hips, her clown face fierce.

“That old bitch,” she growled. “Somebody oughta put her lights out.”

And before the night was over, somebody did.

W
e sat at the family table in the back of the restaurant, the
Asbury Park Press
spread out in front of us. Despite a morning espresso, I was still groggy from my late night at the wedding reception, and couldn’t quite believe the words in the headline. But my dad helpfully read them aloud.

“’Body of Belmont Club President Found on Beach.’ What a terrible thing,” he said, shaking his head. “And to think you were there last night, hon.”

My mother peered over my dad’s shoulder. “Poor woman. And I know this sounds terrible, but I hope it happened long after all the guests were gone.” She stood up abruptly. “I should give Brenda a call. Excuse me a minute, hon.”

“Dad, could I see that?” I turned the paper so I could read it:

In what appeared to be the result of a fall, Elizabeth Merriman, philanthropist, Belmont Country Club president, and former owner of Merriman Industries, was found dead on the beach below the club early this morning.
Ocean County Prosecutor Regina Sutton would not comment except to say that an investigation was already under way . . .

The article went on to describe Merriman’s accomplishments and indicated that she had no known surviving relatives. I let out a long breath; my mind was certainly clear now. If Merriman fell, it had to be due to her eyesight. I wondered if that cane was anywhere near the body. And I couldn’t help the other questions that crept into my brain like thieves.
How did she fall, and from what?
The answer, of course, depended on where the body was found. I tried to see the building in my mind’s eye.
Could she have gone out an open window? The widow’s walk was a possibility, but why would she be out there in the dark with an event going on downstairs? And if she’d fallen from that tower balcony, was it likely the body would end up on the beach? The seawall was also a contender, but would a fall from that height kill her? Was she pushed? If so, how did the murderer get her out there? Who had a motive?

At that one, my head snapped up, and I met my dad’s startled eyes. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” I lied.

He covered my hand with his. “You’re not worried, are you, Vic? I mean, this was an accident.” He lowered his voice and looked around, probably to make sure Nonna wasn’t within earshot. “It’s not like what happened in May.”

I felt a rush of affection as I looked into his
still-handsome face. He had the same hazel eyes as mine and Danny’s, but he didn’t have our healthy skepticism. His trusting nature and unfailing optimism, while endearing, had led him to bet long odds—at the track, in the casino, and in life. “Let’s hope not, Dad,” I said.

“You just listen to your old man.” He winked at me, pushed his straw fedora to the back of his head, and turned his attention back to the paper. But the only thing I could concentrate on was the fact that I’d been there. That I’d taken part in a significant conversation with the Natales and the deceased. That I’d overheard an argument and listened to a whole lot of gossip, all of which might have some bearing on this case. The county prosecutor, Regina Sutton, would be taking statements from anybody who came into contact with Merriman.
Well, Vic, you escaped Sutton before, but not this time.
No, this time I would have to face the tiger in her den and tell the truth of what I’d seen and heard—that Merriman had threatened Dr. Chickie with a court action, giving him a whopping motive for murder.

I stood up from the table. “I’m gonna get started on the setups, Dad.”

I headed down the narrow hallway toward the pantry and kitchen, and looked up to see my brother coming through the kitchen doors. He was in street clothes, but his look meant business. “I came in through the back,” he said quietly.

“I already know why you’re here, Danny.”

He peeked out into the dining room, where my dad was still studying the
Press
, then stepped back into the
hallway where he wouldn’t be seen. “You heard the news, I take it?”

“We just saw the paper. But there’s something else.” I hesitated, knowing full well my brother’s reaction to my next words. “I was there last night.”

I was well acquainted with my brother’s “you are kidding me” face. It’s the same one I’d get when he landed on my Boardwalk hotels in Monopoly, or when I said I hated fishing, or when he caught me meddling in a murder investigation. “What the hell, Victoria!”

“Ouch. You never use my full name. Believe me; I’m not happy about it, either. But Tim and Nando and I were there to cater the soup service. And I was out in the ballroom for a few minutes and—”

“And what?”

“I, uh, heard Elizabeth Merriman sort of threaten Dr. Chickie. She mentioned something about a court action. And a bartender at the club told me that Merriman caught him cooking the books.”

He ran his hand down his face and sighed. “So that’s out there.” He glanced out toward the dining room. “What do Mom and Pop know?”

“Just what they read in the paper this morning. And they know I was there, but not what I heard. But Mom’s probably talking to Brenda right now, so she’ll probably get more of the story.”

He rested his hand on my shoulder. “You know you’re gonna have to give a statement, right?”

“Yes, Detective. I know the drill. Unfortunately, I think I’m what you guys call a material witness.” Danny’s face told me he was doing some cop calculations,
adding up a dead body, a motive, and opportunity. “This doesn’t look good for Natale.”

“C’mon, Danny, this is Dr. Chickie we’re talking about. Do you really see him pushing an old lady to her death?”

“
If
that’s how she died, Vic. We don’t know that yet. It could be an accident. But you’d be surprised at what people do when they’re desperate.” He shook his head. “Look, they’ve got him on the embezzlement. He could even be looking at time.”

“Don’t they usually make some kind of deal? Like, if he pays the money back?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But this is a lotta money we’re talking about.”

“How much?”

Danny crossed his arms. “You know I can’t tell you that. In fact—”

“You shouldn’t even be telling me this; I get it.” But I kept going, my words coming faster and faster. “Danny, the newspaper article isn’t clear on where the body was found. Unless she went out a window on the ocean side of the building, I don’t think it’s likely she’d end up on the beach. And those windows just aren’t big enough. If she’d gone off the tower, I think she would have hit the main roof first, and there’s no telling where she’d land.” I grimaced at the image of the old woman’s body going off the tower and bouncing off the roof. Even Elizabeth Merriman didn’t deserve an end like that. “And wouldn’t someone have seen her fall out of or off the building? But the seawall is surrounded by dunes and brush. It’s overgrown; it would be harder to
see someone out there. But I wonder if a fall from that height would kill somebody, but then again, she was elderly and—”

He held up his hand. “I can’t comment on any of that,” he said firmly. “But I can tell you something that’s common knowledge: That seawall is eighteen feet high. That’s almost two stories, sis.”

“And a two-story fall is high enough to kill a nearly blind old woman.” My brother’s face was impassive, and I figured I’d learned as much as I was going to. I looked down the hallway. “Listen, we should let them know you’re here, or they’ll think we’re up to something.”

Danny shot me a grin. “We’re always up to something.”

“Hey, speaking of being up to something, how’s my beautiful sister-in-law?”

At the mention of Sofia, Danny’s tough-cop expression softened. “Sassy as ever.” But he smiled as he said it.

“Look, you can tell me if this is too personal, but are you guys back together?”

“
Mezzo mezzo
,” he said, illustrating with his palm.

“How can you be halfway back together? Are you back home or not?”

Danny let out a sigh. “My wife and I are
dating
. If you can believe it.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Here’s the thing, sis. For a while there, things got a little . . . intense. And Sofia thinks we should step it down a little—you know, take it slow.”

After our recent run-in with some dangerous types, Sofia landed squarely back in Danny’s arms, much to my grandmother’s delight and my mother’s chagrin. I needed to have a chat with my SIL (short for “sister-in-law”) stat.

“Listen, Dan, you should go say hello. Mom’s gonna be off the phone any minute and then you’ll be picked up on the Mommy Radar anyway.” I linked my arm through his and led him down the hall.

Danny pointed to my father, whose head was still bent over the paper, pencil in hand. “He’s doing the puzzles. He don’t even know I’m here.”

But the minute we entered the dining room, my dad leapt to his feet. “Hey, is that my wayward son?” He embraced Danny in a classic man hug, which involved a lot of backslapping but little actual touching.

“Did I hear Daniel?” My mother came in from the street and clicked her way across the dining-room floor. Like I said, radar. “Hi, darling,” she said breathlessly. “I’m so glad you’re here. I just got off the phone with Brenda.” She gripped Danny’s arm. “Chickie’s in trouble; they’re afraid he’s going to be arrested.”

The question
for murder?
formed in my brain and threatened to travel straight to my mouth. Luckily, Mom kept going, shaking Danny’s arm for emphasis. “He’s accused of stealing money from the club. And suddenly the woman who’s accusing him is dead. Daniel, we have to help them!”

My brother gently removed Mom’s clutching hand from his arm. “I’m not a lawyer, Mom. I’m not sure what I can do.”

When my dad finally got a word in, he did it in classic Frank Rienzi fashion. “Guys, it’s a mistake,” he said, opening both palms as if to say
there’s nothing here, see?
“I’ve known Chickie my whole life. He’s a stand-up guy.”

Not according to Elizabeth Merriman, Dad.
I glanced at my mother’s worried expression and my brother’s bland one. I think they both knew more than they were saying.
“But, Frank,” my mom said, “You know that Chickie—”

“What, hon?”

“Never mind, sweetie.” She dropped a kiss on my dad’s cheek. “I need to see about that reservation book.” She looked at my brother. “Daniel, will you at least talk to the Natales?”

“If you think it will help, Mom.” Danny said. “Listen, I’m gonna head over to the marina while I can. I’m on duty tonight.” At the door, he looked back at me. “Keep me in the loop.”

“You got it.”

After he left, I made a beeline to my mother’s small office in the back of the restaurant. She was at her desk and appeared to be studying the reservation book. But I knew better.

“What were you about to say to Daddy?”

“My goodness, Victoria!” My mother pressed a hand to her ample chest. “Don’t sneak up on a person. Don’t you have work to do in the kitchen?”

“Yes. Now, what about the question I asked you?” I leaned against her desk, my arms crossed. I wasn’t going anywhere, and she knew it.

She sighed. “Close the door, please.” She pushed back from the desk and looked up at me. “What I started to say to your father was that Chickie has a gambling problem.” She gave a small shake of her auburn curls. “But I thought the better of it.”

Though I had a pretty good idea of the answer, I asked anyway. “Why?”

But Mom’s radar was still set on high. “You know very well why, Victoria.”

I took her hand. “It’s because Daddy has a gambling problem, too.”

“But he doesn’t see it that way. He thinks that what he does, what Chickie does, what their whole Rat Pack does, for that matter, is just fun. A way to let off steam. A way that grown men can play.” Her eyes took on a pleading look. “And he’s been better, honey. You know he has.”

“His bets have been smaller, you mean. Yes, he’s been better. But it’s always there for us, that little, nagging worry. That one of these days he’ll backslide and bet the restaurant away in a poker game.”

“Oh, honey, don’t even say it.” She squeezed my hand and then slipped it from mine. “And we’re talking about Chickie now, not your father.”

There but for the grace of God, Mom.
“So, you’re saying it’s possible that Dr. C. really did steal money from the club.” I didn’t add that my brother had already confirmed it.

“It’s certainly possible. They’ve spoiled Roberta terribly, and all she talked about was a wedding at the Belmont Club. He waited years to become a member
and fought to be on their board.” My mother’s normally sweet face tightened. “Did you know that the Belmont Club only started letting in Italian-Americans about ten years ago?”

My eyes widened. “Stop it. It’s the twenty-first century!”

“Some practices are entrenched.” She shook her head. “I know because we tried to get in ourselves when you and Daniel were small.”

“Well, what did they do—just tell you ‘No, we don’t accept Italians’?”

She smiled. “Oh, nothing so obvious as that. No, they simply waited us out. Said the list was very long, et cetera.” She shrugged. “After a while it became less important, so we withdrew our application.”

I nodded. “As they knew you would. I guess by the time Dr. Chickie applied, things had changed a bit.”

“A bit, yes.”

“Well, I can see why someone would want a wedding there. That ballroom is stunning.” From there, the conversation turned to Tiffany windows, bagpipe players, and sparring chefs. I entertained my mother with as many details as I could dredge up, just to take that strained look from her face.

But I left out the most salient details of the night—Elizabeth’s threat to Dr. Chickie and her fight with Chef Kate. It was highly likely that I’d have to give a formal statement, and my instincts told me to keep my mouth shut about what I’d seen and heard until then.

“By the way, Mom,” I said. “It’s after ten. Shouldn’t
Nonna be back from church by now?” St. Rose’s was around the corner, and Nonna usually walked to the restaurant after Mass. I crossed myself as I thought about my own spotty attendance at church, and hoped Nonna wouldn’t mention it.

“She should be here any minute, hon.”