The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (7 page)

Still alive at eleven thirty. Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Was anybody else around?”

“How should I know?” She frowned deeply. “All I know is my wedding was ruined and my father might end up in jail.”

“Like I said, I’m sorry, but—”

“But nothing. C’mon, Dennis. Let’s get out of here. We’re not gonna get anywhere with her.” She grabbed her husband’s arm and pulled him down the stone path to the street, looking like a Yorkie tugging on a compliant Labrador.

I let myself into the front door of the cottage to drop off my things (leave the purse, take the
zeppole
), and cupping the bag in two hands to keep it warm, I headed out to my tiny deck. I took a deep breath of the
night air and closed my eyes to listen to the crash of the surf. So Elizabeth Merriman was still alive at a time when most of the guests would have already cleared out. Who would still be around? And among them, who would want Merriman dead?

I decided I would think more clearly with a
zeppola
in my stomach. I opened the bag and was greeted with the sweet smell of deep-fried goodness. I took a bite—the first of the season—and, despite a mouthful of fried dough, smiled.
Worth coming home for,
I thought. After I’d polished off two more, I still hadn’t figured out how many people had access to Elizabeth Merriman or who they might be. But I was closing in on her time of death. And by the time I ate my fifth
zeppola
, a nice case of
agita
,
as well.

A
s I emerged from my heavy,
zeppole
-induced sleep, I was conscious of bright slashes of morning sun piercing the slats of my window blinds. And “Glory Days” was playing somewhere in the vicinity of my ear. I squinted at my Bruce Springsteen 2008 tour poster. Bruce was leaning against an amp, looking wise and world-weary. He wasn’t singing to me, but apparently my phone was.

“Hell-o, Victoria!” The bell-like tones of Nina LaGuardia’s television voice rang in my delicate ears.
Not again,
I thought in a panic.
Please not again
. Though not the sharpest knife in the journalism drawer, Nina was a local television news anchor. I’d managed to keep her at bay the last time I got sucked into a murder investigation, but I wasn’t sure I had the energy to do so a second time.

“You
must
know why I’m calling,” she said gleefully.

“Oh, I can guess,” I muttered. I rubbed my eyes and raked a hand through my bed-head of hair. “Must you always call so early in the morning?”

“Journalism never sleeps.” I winced as she gave a tinkly laugh. “I’ve been up for
hours
. So, when do we conduct our interview?”

I groaned. “Nina, I already gave you an exclusive.”

“That was
weeks
ago. Old news, darling. This is a
new
story. A juicy one. And there
you
are, right in the middle of it.
Again
!”

Nina’s italics were making my head hurt. I lowered my voice, hoping that she’d follow suit. “I am not in the middle of it. I was at the wedding reception, along with about two hundred fifty other people. Why don’t you go wake them up?”

“My, aren’t we grumpy this morning? No, sweetheart, there’s no need for me get in touch with people who don’t have any relevant information for me.” She paused. “Or who weren’t on the premises when Elizabeth Merriman was killed.”

I sat straight up in bed, my head suddenly clear. “And you know when that was?”

“Oh, so now I’ve got your attention. Yes, I happen to have that information in my possession. Are we doing a little investigating, dear?”

I answered her question with one of my own. “How do I know your information’s accurate?”

“I have a number of reliable sources, Victoria. And if you’re willing to talk to me about what transpired at that wedding reception, I might just share what I know.”

Hmm. Do I take this deal?
I met Bruce’s eyes across the room. His expression seemed to say,
Go with it, darlin’. You can handle her.
I gave him a wink. “You got it, Boss.”

“What’s that, Victoria?”

“I said okay. You tell me the time of death and I give you a statement. But I have it on good authority that she was still alive at eleven thirty. So unless you have something different to offer me . . .” I crossed my fingers and waited.

Nina’s voice dropped to a whisper. Finally. “It’s likely she died sometime between twelve and one, with cause of death severe head trauma.”

She seemed talkative, so I pressed my advantage. And grabbed the pencil and pad I kept near the bed. “She went off the seawall, right?” I asked her.

“That’s the scenario the police and Sutton are working from.”

No surprise there,
I thought
.
“Was she seen with anybody? Have they picked up any of the suspects for questioning yet?” But my questions were met with silence. “Nina? Hey, are you there?”

“I’m here,” she sang out. “But I’m done talking until you schedule a time to talk to me. Today. Or tomorrow, at the very latest.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a problem, Nina. You see, I have an appointment with Regina Sutton’s office to provide a statement. And I’m sure she won’t want me talking to the press until afterward.”

“What?” she shrieked. “You think you’re smart, don’t you Victoria?” Nina’s melodic tones had grown shrill. “She won’t want you talking to the press at
all
, and you know it, you b—”

I cut off the call before I could discover what Nina had called me, though I had a pretty good idea. I also
had a good idea of where to start now—to find out who was still in that building at midnight.

That morning in the restaurant kitchen, I found Tim in a place he normally avoided like the plague: the vegetable station. But there he was, happily tearing lettuce. And singing a Sinatra song while he did it. This behavior could mean only one thing, and that thing had long legs and red hair.

I set the tray down on the butcher block worktable. “Morning, Tim.”

“Morning, sunshine,” he called over his shoulder, and resumed his off-key version of “Summer Wind.”

“Could you bring the volume down there, Chef?”

He turned and shot me a sideways grin. “You don’t like Sinatra?”

“Please. In my house, there was a Chairman of the Board long before there was a Boss. I love Sinatra. Which is why I’d like you to shut up.”

Strangely, Tim did not take offense at this comment, and, in fact, stopped singing. His smile just grew broader.

“Someone is awfully chipper this morning,” I said.

Instead of answering, he handed me a box of plastic wrap. “Wanna cover that fruit, babe?”

“I have not been your babe for years.”
But I bet you’ve got somebody else lined up for that position, Trouvare.

“And a shame it ’tis, lass,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

Was
it a shame? Or a blessing? Watching—okay, admiring—his tall, lean figure at the sink, I had to
stifle a sigh of my own. I’d missed Tim in the time I’d been gone. And when I first came back home, it looked as though we might get close again. But he’d hurt me badly all those years ago, and the incident at the restaurant in May served as a vivid reminder of that time. “I suppose it is a shame,” I said quietly.

Tim turned from the sink, his gray eyes serious. “Vic, you made it clear there was no chance for us,” he said. “And I’m trying to respect that.”

“And move on, no doubt.” I smiled to let him know I was fine.
(Am I fine?)
“Given your unusually sunny mood this morning—singing, prepping vegetables without a complaint, not yelling at me to get out of your way—I’m assuming that you’ve been in touch with the lovely Lacey.”

“Yes, I have. I’m seeing her tonight.”

“Oh.” There was a big difference between thinking about Tim dating Lacey and knowing it for sure. “Well, good for you.” And then, without my permission, the words left my mouth: “She’s a little young—don’t you think?”

This time he turned completely around to face me, resting his back against the sink with crossed arms. Not a good sign. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she’s twenty-eight.”

And you’re thirty-six.
“That makes her a veritable grown-up. I hope you’ll have a good time,” I said, trying hard to mean it.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head as though he were a king pardoning a wayward subject. “I’m sure I will.”

I stood with my hand on the kitchen door. “So, anyway, if you don’t need me in here, I’ll go help Lori in the dining room.”

“Thanks, Vic, but you can go. I don’t need you.” And I left the kitchen with his words echoing in my ears.

Because we were busy, the lunch service flew by. Once I had time to catch my breath, I took a seat at the back table, poured myself a coffee, and forced my thoughts away from Tim and in a more promising direction—Elizabeth Merriman’s time of death. If Nina’s information was accurate, the crucial window of time was likely between midnight and one o’clock Sunday morning. I took out my crumpled list from this morning:

• How far is beach path from platform? How to access it from building?

• Who or what got her out there?

• Is suicide a possibility?

• How high is railing on platform? Had it been tampered with?

• WHO WAS IN BUILDING BETWEEN 12 AND 1??????

This was only a start. There were dozens of other questions. Who had motive?
Dr. Chickie, for sure. Maybe Kate Bridges, as well.
Who stood to gain by her death?
Possibly Jack Toscano.
The article about her death indicated she had no known relatives, but it was early days yet. Who knew who might come out of the
woodwork with a claim on Merriman’s will? For that matter, who else might have a grudge against her? I shook my head. The field was wide open on that one.

“There she is!” Hearing my father’s voice behind me, I shoved the list back into my apron pocket. But when I turned around, I saw that my dad wasn’t alone. “Look who’s here, honey,” my dad said. Standing next to him, bleary-eyed and unshaven, was my former orthodontist.

“Uh, hi, Dr. Chickie,” I said. “Are you here for lunch? The kitchen’s closed, but I’m sure we can get you something.” I stood up in the flimsy hope that he’d come in for the Casa Lido’s famous pasta special and not for the services of its resident sleuth.

Dr. Chickie shook his bald head sorrowfully. “I’m not here to eat, Victoria.”

Of course you’re not.
“Listen,” I said, “I think I know why you’re here—”

“Honey, hear him out.” My dad gently pushed me back down in my chair, took a seat, and motioned for Dr. Chickie to do the same.

“Thank you, Frank,” Chickie said. “Victoria, I know that you have to give Sutton a statement. And I know that you have to tell her the truth.”

I let out a breath; I was sure he was here to ask me to lie to the county prosecutor. “I’m glad you understand that. Roberta came to see me with Dennis last night. I think she’s a little upset with me.”

Chickie waved his hand. “She’s always upset. She had a perfectly nice wedding. Nothing happened till afterward.”

Well, don’t stop now, Dr. C.
He folded his hands and looked straight into my eyes. “She was alive when we left the reception. And I had nothing to do with that woman’s death. But that is all I can say at this time.”

“He’s working with Johnny Tremarco,” my dad said in a confiding voice.

I noticed he didn’t say a word about embezzlement, but Tremarco had probably counseled silence on that topic. “Dr. C., you have a lawyer. Why are you coming to me?”

The orthodontist leaned closer. “Everybody knows how you figured things out last time.”

“This is not like last time.” Seriously, did I have to get a T-shirt made?

But he just kept going. “You’re a smart girl. If you can find out who did this, maybe we can uh, minimize some of the damage.”

“Honey,” my dad said, “please say you’ll help.”

“Daddy, Mom will kill both of us. If Nonna doesn’t get to us first.” Who was I kidding? In my pocket was a list I’d started. Sofia was already at her computer. I couldn’t stay out of this case and I knew it. I just didn’t want my family to know it.

My dad gave me the kind of nod that said Frankie had a sure bet. “You leave them to me.”

Right. I’d seen how my father had handled the women in his life. I looked from his confident face to Dr. Chickie’s desperate one. “Okay, both of you listen to me. I will look into some things, talk to a few people. But I can’t do anything that could get me in hot water with Sutton. You understand that; right, Dr. C.?”

He nodded, and patted my hand. “I understand, Victoria. I know there are some things I have to face. I’m willing to accept the consequences for the things I’ve done. But not for the things I haven’t.”

I watched my dad walk him out, his arm around Dr. Chickie’s shoulder. What to make of the little orthodontist? A gambler? No doubt. An embezzler? Probably. But a murderer? I didn’t think so.

I
shouldn’t be doing this,
I thought as I turned the key in the elderly blue Honda I’d bought when I’d moved back here.
Sutton might find out
.
Danny might find out. Or, worse, Nonna might find out.
But I kept seeing Dr. Chickie’s haunted eyes, and I couldn’t tamp down the sparks of my own curiosity. As I traveled down Ocean Avenue toward Belmont Beach, I pondered how best to get into that club to find out what I needed. It was after four, so the bar would likely be open. I had to hope that Mustang Sally was on duty and as talkative as ever.

When I reached the club, I parked at the far end of the lot in one of the two guest spots that were open. The parking lot was on the beach side, so I had a clear approach to the walkway. But so had the Belmont police, as bright yellow caution tape laced the railing along the walkway like a grim bridal decoration. I looked around me, and the grounds seemed quiet. Behind the building was a small picnic area where one or two members were having drinks. Otherwise, there appeared to be few people—and no police cars—around.

From where I stood I could see that the walkway to the beach was lined with a mix of natural vegetation and flowers that grow in sandy soil. The path was a good distance from the club, and the beach grass was high enough to obscure anyone walking there, especially at night. I crept along the side of the path, my heart thrumming in my chest. Sneaking around in places I shouldn’t be was the part of detecting that I hated (and Sofia thrived on). In the distance was the ocean; in front of me the platform and a steep drop to the beach below. I kept my eyes on the horizon as I approached the platform, trying with little success to look as though I belonged on a crime scene. The railing around the platform would have been waist high for my sixty-five inches; Merriman was taller. But there was no gate across the stairway and the steps looked narrow. She probably fell forward, straight over the stairway. I dropped to my knees next to the left side of the platform and flattened myself against the sandy ground. I scooched as close as I could, trying to ignore the caution tape that told me in bold black letters and exclamation points (
POLICE
LINE
—
DO
NOT
CROSS
!
) that what I was doing was highly irregular and probably illegal.

I reached out and ran my hand across the platform, feeling grit, sand, and splinters, one of which embedded itself into my palm. Saying a forbidden word under my breath and wondering why I was trying to save Dr. C.’s felonious behind, I rested my chin on the edge of the platform and squinted in the late-day sun. At the edge of my periphery, something glinted in the
crevice between two of the wooden boards. I stretched my fingertips as far as I could, and using my nails in a way that would appall my mother, dug the tiny object from the crack. It rolled and skittered across the platform; I slapped my hand over it, wincing as the splinter dug deeper into my palm. Pinching it between my thumb and forefinger, I brought it to my face and blinked. Prickles rose up and down my arms when I saw what it was: a tiny pink bugle bead, exactly like the ones on the dress Elizabeth Merriman was wearing on Saturday night.

Still holding the bead between my fingers, I slid sideways and creaked to a standing position. I slipped the bead into the zippered section of my wallet, brushed the sand from my jeans and, heart pounding, made a dash back to the parking lot. Taking slow breaths, I walked the long way around from the lot toward the circular drive at the front of the building, shaking my sore palm. I would have to deal with the splinter later.

I walked up the stone steps and entered through the front doors of the club, hoping there wouldn’t be anyone checking for membership cards. But I was lucky, and passed through the foyer alone, stopping to peer into the ballroom, where a couple of male staffers were setting up tables. Had Dr. Chickie risked everything—his reputation, his freedom, his practice—just so Princess Roberta could have a wedding reception in this room? Even those glorious windows and glittering chandeliers weren’t worth that.
The things we do for love,
I thought, and headed down the hallway for the bar.

I blinked in the bar’s dim light, hoping for a glimpse
of Sally’s bright hair. I jumped when her head popped up.

“Well, look who’s here!” Sally came out from behind the bar to greet me. This was better than I could have hoped for—who knew she’d be this happy to see me? She shook her finger at me and grinned. “I know who you are, lady. You’re not a caterer. You’re that mystery writer.”

“Guilty,” I said, raising my right hand and dropping it quickly in case she tried to shake it. “You met me as Victoria, but I write as Vick Reed.” Before I could come up with a reason for being there, Sally supplied one herself.

“And I know why you’re here. It’s to do research, isn’t it? Because of what happened to the Iron Lady?” Her eyes were bright with excitement, and who was I to disappoint her?

I put my finger to my lips. “Shh. Can we keep it on the down low, please, Sally?”

“Oh, you bet. C’mon, sit down.” She stepped behind the bar. “Can I get you something?”

“Just an iced tea, thanks.”

She poured the tea, dropped in a lemon slice, and slid it across the bar. “So, this is for a new book, right?”

“I guess you could say that,” I said. I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have still been here after that wedding reception ended?”

Relishing her role as informant, Sally looked around the empty bar to make sure there were no prying eyes or ears and then nodded. “There’s the clean-up staff.”

I took out a pad and pen. “How many?”

She lifted a skinny shoulder. “Not sure. Maybe a dozen. But I don’t see any of them killing Merriman. Why would they?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? What about wedding guests?” I asked, quickly scrawling some notes—not easy with my stinging hand.

She shook her head. “They clear out quick after an event, especially a wedding.”

“What about the families of the bride and groom?”

“Not exactly sure on that one. I do know that Dr. Natale was still here, though.”

I stopped writing and looked up from my pad. “What time did you see him?”

“Maybe quarter to twelve. I know because we closed the bar early that night.”

So Dr. Chickie
was
on the premises, despite what he himself had said about leaving at eleven thirty. Did Dr. C. double back that night? There was also Dennis Doyle’s assertion that they’d left fifteen minutes previous, which neatly lined up with Dr. C.’s story. Was Dennis lying to protect his new in-laws? I made a note to check into Doyle’s background, hoping I could read it later. That splinter was doing a job on my writing hand. “Who else, Sally?” I asked.

“Jack Toscano was also here, and so was the dude with the crazy hair. They were in the bar till I closed at eleven thirty.”

Now, that was interesting. Toscano was still around, as was the man with the Einstein hairdo. “Hey, Sally,”
I asked, “I don’t suppose you have the name for the white-haired guy?”

She shook her head. “Nope. I can try to find out for you if you want.”

“Don’t worry about it; it doesn’t matter.” Of course it did matter, but I was supposed to be researching a mystery, not conducting my personal investigation. “How about the kitchen staff? Were Chef Etienne or any of his guys still here?”

“Don’t think so, but I wouldn’t swear to it. I do know this, though: Crazy Chef Kate went marching past this bar around eleven thirty, cursing up a storm. We all heard her. And then she left, right out through the front doors.”

“How do you know?”

She laughed. “’Cuz I followed her ass. I was gonna let her know to keep her voice down, but she was too fast for me and got out before I could stop her.”

“That doesn’t mean she couldn’t have come back,” I said, more to myself than Sally.

“But think about it, Victoria—she’s pretty darn recognizable. With that bright red scarf and all that makeup. If she came back, she took a heck of a risk.”

“Well, somebody took a risk.”
Was
it Kate Bridges? That night in the kitchen she’d said of Merriman that somebody should “put her lights out.” Then she made a noisy exit a half hour before Merriman was killed. If she’d killed her, why be so obvious? Unless it was all an elaborate ploy. But Kate struck me more as the hot-tempered type who’d act impulsively rather than someone who
would coldly calculate a murder. I took a deep slug of my tea and wrapped my throbbing hand around the cold glass. Then I took my questions in a new direction. “Sally, how well do you know this building?”

“Pretty well. I’ve tended bar here for almost ten years.”

“Okay, so what’s the closest door to get to the walkway to the beach?”

She leaned close enough for me to see her glittery green eye shadow. “You think she went over that seawall, don’t you? Hell, she must have—the cops have it roped off. So, you gonna kill off your next victim that way?”

I thought about the bead sitting deep within the confines of my wallet. A piece of evidence that the police and Sutton’s team had missed, and one I certainly should not have in my possession. I swallowed nervously, prompting Sally to refill my tea. “Let’s just say that’s a possibility, okay?”

She shot me a wink. “I get it. So, back to your question. There’s a side door off the kitchen—that one’s the closest. But not one that the members use. If you go back out here to the main hallway and continue to your right, you’ll see two doors at the end of the hall—the one on the left leads outside. The other one takes you up the stairs.”

I grinned at her. “To the mysterious tower?” I asked in my best horror-movie voice.

She waved her hand. “It’s all boarded up. But you know what? In your book, I think your character should
get pushed off the tower instead. Much more interesting.”

If and when I get back to my mysteries, I might do just that,
I thought.
In the meantime, I have to focus on real life.
That’s when another thought occurred to me—one so obvious, I should have lost my private-eye license, if only I’d had one. I leaned forward on the bar. “Sally, Merriman didn’t drive, did she? I would think with eyes that bad—”

“Nah,” Sally interrupted. “Toscano drove her everywhere. Or she took cabs. She was big on taking cabs.”

I wrote
Toscano drive/cabs
on my pad, then a colon followed by these words:
How was she planning to get home that night?

Sally turned my pad around to face her, tapped my notes with her fingernail, and pushed the pad back. “Now, that’s the sixty-four-dollar question, ain’t it?” she said.