The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (5 page)

And she was. As soon as I stepped out of my mother’s office, Nonna greeted me with a hail of questions. (It was better than a cross-examination about why I wasn’t in church, but still exhausting.) Did I count out the meatballs for each plate? Was the escarole cooked properly? Was the soup hot enough when it went out? And the cookies—were they decorated to her specifications? Most importantly, were they finished by the guests?

After my four yeses and an “I don’t know,” Nonna still looked at me with suspicion. “I sent you there to do a job, Victoria.”

“And I did it. Honestly, Nonna. Everything turned out fine.”
Except for that dead body on the beach.
I searched my grandmother’s face for any indication she’d heard that piece of news, and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell her. My dad got there first anyway.

“Ma, did you hear?” He walked up to us, waving the paper like a flag on the Fourth of July. “You know Elizabeth Merriman? The club president? She’s dead.”

My grandmother stood stock-still, her only movement a quick shift of her eyes behind her glasses. “Did you say she’s dead? Elisabetta?”

“Yes, Nonna,” I said. “They found her body on the beach early this morning.”

She pressed her palms together, perhaps in prayer. “Then may God rest her soul,” she said, and turned to go into the kitchen.

It wasn’t until later that evening, in the middle of taking orders, carrying trays, and clearing tables that it struck me: My grandmother had referred to Elizabeth Merriman as Elisabetta—a name that was as Italian as Nonna herself.

I
sabella trudged along the cobblestone street, her hand curled around the few coins she possessed.
Enough to buy bread,
at least,
she thought, the word coming to her in English—not
pane
, but “bread” . . .

Okay, so Isabella’s learning English
. I stared at the screen through gritty morning eyes. In the two months I’d been back in Jersey, I’d managed to get a start on my historical novel. And though I’d brought my main character Isabella to America, I wasn’t really sure what do with her next. I cranked open my bedroom window and breathed in the sweet sea air. The cottage I’d rented from Sofia was at the end of a beach block far from the noise of the boardwalk, a perfect place to work. The ocean glittered a silvery blue in the morning sun, and if I concentrated, I could hear the crash of the waves. While I loved my city view back in Manhattan, there was something about the ocean—its timelessness and predictability—that soothed me.

But the ocean wasn’t providing much inspiration this morning. And it didn’t help that I kept expecting County Prosecutor Sutton’s phone call. I’d already had
one run-in with Regina Sutton because of my involvement in a murder investigation, and here I was likely to be in the middle of another one. But besides my statement, how many others would need to be taken? I tried to do some quick calculations: two hundred wedding guests, plus the staff and anyone who might have been in the bar, equaled days of questioning. But that also depended on the time of death. Once that was established, it wouldn’t be difficult to narrow that pool of witnesses to whoever was in or around that building when Elizabeth Merriman met her death.

I paced the small bedroom, turning the same question over in my mind:
Did she fall or was she pushed?
I strained to remember my first sight of the old hotel and its proximity to that seawall. I settled back at my desk, minimized my document, and with apologies to Isabella, accessed the Web site for the Belmont Beach Country Club.

The building had been a seaside hotel, the Windswept, from the late nineteenth century until about 1950, when it was sold and converted to the Belmont Beach Country Club, keeping its patch of private beach for club members. But that beach was steep and narrow, protected by a seawall built to buttress the dunes; the only way to get down there was via a creaky stairway. A historic photo of the club showed a wooden pathway with railings that led from the side of the building to the wooden platform and the steps down to the beach. Had Elizabeth Merriman traveled that walkway on Saturday night, ending up at the platform two stories above the beach?
Now, if this were in my
book,
I thought,
my detective, Bernardo Vitali, would find Elizabeth’s cane or that emerald ring up there as a convenient piece of evidence.
But as I’ve learned the hard way, life doesn’t unfold like a neatly plotted book.

Well, I would only learn so much staring at a screen. The best thing to do would be to get over there and take a look at the property again, and it was at this moment that the voice of my conscience interrupted me, sounding a whole lot like my brother Danny.
You’re not going anywhere,
it said,
except to Sutton’s office to make a statement. Stay out of this.

I wanted to stay out of it, I really did. But the question of how she ended up on that beach wouldn’t let me go. I looked back at the picture of the old Windswept, as though it held the answer.
Did she fall? Was she pushed?
And a third possibility slowly dawned:
Had Elizabeth Merriman jumped to her death?

Come summer, the Casa Lido is open seven days a week, and I was scheduled for the lunch shift, so later that morning I hopped on the old Schwinn bike that came with my cottage rental and cycled through the busy town. Though weekdays were a bit quieter, Oceanside Park was still packed with vacationers on a Monday morning.

I went around to the back of the restaurant, where Nonna’s garden was in full bloom with flowers, herbs, and tomatoes. Because of my experience in May—finding a dead body among the tomatoes—being in the garden still gave me a bit of a creeping chill, even on a hot summer morning. I took a quick look and
went in through the back door that led straight into the kitchen, where Nando was already getting started on prep.

“
Hola
, Nando. The sauces smell great.”

“Thank you, Miss Victor. Today’s
especial
is beef ragu.” Nando gave the sauce a stir and adjusted the heat.

I inhaled the scent of simmering meat and tomatoes; behind that was a hint of basil. “Oh my God,” I said, “I could eat that right out of the pot.”

Nando gave me a toothy grin. “You do that and your
abuela
will—” He stopped and drew his palm across his neck in a cutting motion.

“Don’t I know it.” I tied on my apron, rolled up my sleeves, and started scrubbing my hands. “Is she coming in for the lunch shift?”

He shook his head, his long braid swinging with the motion. “Probably for dinner only. Also, your papa call to say he and your mama will be coming later.”

“And Chef Massimo is off today,” I said, “and Tim should be on his way soon.”

“But Calvin is here,” Nando said, furiously chopping herbs.

“So Cal’s back?” I tried to keep my tone neutral, even while my stomach did a flip-flop. The scruffily attractive Calvin Lockhart, originally from New Orleans, was restoring our carved-wood bar. We’d struck up a flirtation back in May, and things were going nicely until I sort of implied he was a murderer, causing a bit of chill to form between us. About ten days ago, he’d taken off on an apparent vacation. Considering he worked only a few hours a week on the bar, I
couldn’t understand why he suddenly needed a break. But there were lots of things about this Southern charmer I didn’t understand—there was definitely more to him than met the eye.

But what met my eye when I walked out into the dining room was an altogether pleasant sight: Behind the bar was Cal on a stepladder, sandpaper in hand, his lean but well-muscled form in a pose that emphasized a number of his masculine gifts. I tilted my head for a better look.

“Mornin’, Victoria,” he said without turning around.

“How’d you know I was here?”

“Got radar where you’re concerned,
cher
.” He used the New Orleans endearment that from just about anybody else would have been offensive.

“You and my mother.” I pointed. “Hey, have you actually cracked a smile there, Mr. Lockhart?”

He turned, leaning back against the ladder with his arms crossed. His sun-streaked brown hair had grown a little shaggy again, and he was back to wearing his Saints cap, backward, as always. The better to see those sleepy green eyes.

“I supposed you could call it a smile,” he said, exaggerating his drawl so that “smile” became “smahl.” He patted his flat tummy. “Might just be a touch of indigestion, though. What y’all call ah-gi-tuh.“

“Funny.” I stepped closer to the bar. “But I would think with a half-Italian mama, your pronunciation would be a bit better.”

“You would, wouldn’t ya?”

I held out my hand. “So, are we friends again, Cal?”

He came down from the ladder and grasped my hand in his broad palm. “We were never
not
friends. You just got my Southern temper up, is all.”

“I know.” I smiled, unaccountably relieved to be on good terms with him again. “You can let go of my hand now.”

But before doing so, he raised it to his lips and dropped a warm kiss on my knuckles, leaving me with a case of the tingles. He winked and climbed back up the ladder. “No rest for the wicked,” he said, and went back to his sanding.

Wicked is right,
I thought, judging by the various sensations produced by that little kiss on my hand. What might a real kiss feel like? I was still in a dreamlike state as I set up the coffee station, wiping down the espresso machine with loving strokes.

“Girl, what are you smiling about?” Lori Jamison, our head waitress and my oldest friend stood with her hands on her hips, a knowing look on her face.

“Oh, hey, Lori. I’m not smiling about anything.” I emptied an espresso packet into the basket of the machine.

“Right.” She tucked a clean pad into the pocket of her apron. “Could it be that what you’re
not
smiling about is back from vacation? And looking mighty fine out there in his tight T-shirt?”

“Lori Jamison, you rascal, you. A married lady like yourself.”

“A married lady who still has eyes in her head. And speaking of fine eyes, where’s Chef Tim this morning?”

“Probably in the kitchen.” At the thought of Tim,
my floaty feeling turned distinctly earthbound. I wondered if he’d called Lacey yet. If I knew Tim, they probably had a date already.

“Oh, Vic, by the way,” Lori said. “I heard what happened out at the Belmont Club.” She shook her head. “That poor old lady.”

“She wasn’t so poor. And to tell you the truth, she wasn’t so nice, either.”

Lori’s eyes grew round in her freckled face. “You don’t think—”

I held up my hand. “I don’t know. According to the papers, she died from a fall.”

“And you were there.” She looked around the empty dining room. “Like last time,” she whispered.

“This is
not
like last time,” I whispered back, even though we were alone and Cal was too far away to hear us.

“You’re a regular Jessica Fletcher. Murder follows you wherever you go.”

“Cut it out, Lori,” I said. But
was
this death another murder? Maybe it was suicide. I shook my head. There was nothing about Elizabeth Merriman that suggested she was despondent. She struck me as a tough old bird, an Iron Lady who would hold on to life with both hands. Unless . . . could something have driven her to it? Or more likely, some
one
.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the front doors opening. Nor did I see Lori trying to send semaphore signals with her eyebrows. But I did hear a rich contralto behind me, one that froze me into position like a Roman marble statue.

“Ms. Rienzi—now, isn’t this lucky? I take a chance on coming here to speak with you, and, lo and behold, here you are.”

I turned to face County Prosecutor Regina Sutton, decked out in designer sunglasses and a canary yellow suit that flattered the warm brown of her skin and her ample curves. She was surely not the only woman to hold such a position in our state, but she had to be the most fabulous, from her cropped blond Afro to her metallic copper manicure and snakeskin pumps.

I held out my hand, hoping it wasn’t shaking too much. “Ms. Sutton. Nice to see you again.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” She took off her sunglasses, revealing her unusual amber eyes. “But I’m certain you know why I’m here.”

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and Lori handed me a glass of water. “Be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said out of the side of her mouth.

With a quick nod to Regina Sutton, she disappeared down the hallway. I took a gulp of water and nodded. “It’s about what happened at the Belmont Club. Are you here to take my statement?”

She smiled almost sympathetically. “I don’t conduct county business in Italian restaurants. Unlike some of my colleagues,” she said dryly, and I smiled in spite of myself.
So she’s not completely humorless,
I thought.
That’s gotta be a good sign
. “I’m just here to let you know you’ll be coming in.”

“You came all the way over here just to tell me that?”

Her smile tightened. “Face-to-face is so much more effective—don’t you think? I mean, one might ignore a phone message or text, or even pretend she hadn’t received it. This way, I see you, you see me, and you see that: I. Mean. Business.” She held out her card. “Your appointment is on the back. My office is in Ocean Township. Don’t be late, Ms. Rienzi,” she said, and sashayed out the door.

I
stared down at the card with its raised gold seal and Regina “I Mean Business” Sutton’s name in black letters. On the back was my appointment. Well, it wasn’t a surprise; I knew I’d be called in to give a statement. But so would a number of other people, and I had more than a week before I had to show up.
More than a week to solve it, Vic?
I asked myself. Then I sat down at a nearby table to think.

The last time I’d seen Elizabeth was in the kitchen around nine, when I’d overheard the argument between her and Kate Bridges. The wedding reception had been scheduled to end at eleven. If Merriman had gone over that seawall before eleven o’clock, wouldn’t someone have noticed? And if her death was not an accident, would a murderer have taken such a chance with the club filled with guests? No, I was betting—in the fine Frank Rienzi tradition—that Elizabeth Merriman died sometime after that reception had ended. But that still left a number of suspects and possible witnesses who would have been at the club.
At least I can’t be accused of murdering her,
I thought.

Who still would have been in that building after the wedding reception? The whole clean-up staff and probably anyone left in the bar. But that didn’t preclude any of the wedding guests, who might have waited and then gone back to find her, including Dr. Chickie. It was likely that Merriman had been lured to her death—otherwise, how did she get out on that platform? And that suggested someone she knew. If Sally’s gossip was accurate, it seemed there was at least one person with whom she’d
willingly
walk to the beach after eleven at night, and that was Jack Toscano.

“Victoria, you’ve got nothing to do that you sit and daydream?” Nonna’s voice sliced through my reverie.

I jumped to my feet. “Just taking a quick break, Nonna.”

She frowned. “A break? Your day just started. Are the vegetables prepped?” Without waiting for an answer, she pointed to the kitchen.

I was about to head back when my parents came through the door. “No, Frank,” my mother was saying. “I will not have her mixed up in this again.”

My dad appealed to me. “Honey, your mother says I shouldn’t ask you to help Chickie. I mean, you were so smart about it last time, figuring how the guy died and all.”

Right, Dad. I messed with a police investigation, got Danny in trouble on the job, put Sofia in danger, and nearly got myself killed. Oh, and made a permanent enemy of Prosecutor Sutton. I was brilliant, all right.
“Daddy, I—”
I began, but my mom cut in front of me.

“Absolutely not, Victoria,” she said. “I will have no argument on this.”

Then Nonna had her say, uttering words she’d probably not spoken in forty years. “Your mother is right. This is not your business.”

“But, Mama,” my dad said, “this doesn’t look good for Chickie. And if anybody can figure this out, Vic can, and—”

My mother stamped her high-heeled foot, her curls bouncing. “I will not have her involved, Frank!”

“Basta!”
I shouted. “Enough, okay?” I held up Sutton’s card. “I am involved. Whether we like it or not.”

Mom took the card from my fingers, turning it over in her hand. “You have an appointment with the prosecutor’s office?”

“Well, it’s not for a manicure, Mom.”

“But why you? There had to be dozens of people in that club.”

“More. And Sutton’s office might have to talk to all of them.” But I didn’t add that I had crucial information with a direct bearing on the case. Did Sutton already know about the conversation I’d heard involving the Natales and Elizabeth Merriman?

“Honey, I’m speaking to you,” my mother said, shaking my arm. “Do we need to call Johnny?”

Another of my dad’s cronies, Johnny Tremarco, was an attorney who specialized in the defense of some colorful characters around town. “Mom, I’m not a suspect. I don’t need a lawyer. Listen, all of you. I will go to her office at the appointed time. I will answer her questions honestly and I will sign the statement. And,
hopefully, that will be the end of it.”
If I can stop thinking about things like cause and time of death, motive, opportunity, and alibis.

“It had better be the end of it, Victoria.” The edge in Nonna’s voice was harsher than usual. “You are not to go digging around and asking questions, you understand?”

“Last time you
insisted
I go around asking questions.”

“This is different. That woman’s death has nothing to do with us.” Her beady eyes swept over us. “Now don’t we all have work to do?”

Shoving the card in my pants pocket, I hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. And as much as I wanted to concentrate on scraping carrots and rinsing lettuce, I couldn’t stop thinking about my grandmother’s words. Today she had referred to her as “that woman,” but yesterday she’d called her Elisabetta. Granted, my grandmother had a propensity for Italian-izing names; Cal was “Calvino,” for example. But there was a familiarity about how she used Elizabeth Merriman’s name. And she didn’t want me asking any questions—that was for darn sure. But why?