A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (14 page)

I tucked the bankbook back under the mattress, wondering if I’d just discovered a motive for murder. Was Stinky Pete, who’d boasted of knowing things, more than just a harmless alcoholic or an unwashed bum? Was he also a petty blackmailer? If so, maybe someone had finally gotten tired of paying him off.

I
sabella peered from her window at the two men on the stoop below. The younger of the two wore his cap pulled low over his eyes; he stood with his shoulders hunched, his movements furtive and frightened. The older man was broader and thickset, wearing an expensive suit.

And not like the ones made in her garment shop, but cut and tailored to order. Even from the window, she could see his fine shoes of Italian leather. He held out his palm and the younger man placed something in it. Money.
A payoff,
she thought. Isabella had heard of such men in the neighborhood . . .

I looked back at the words and sighed; it was clear that the details of the case of Stinky’s Pete’s death and my great-uncle’s history were seeping into my work.
Okay, Isabella, I’ve got about an hour left on this computer. Help me figure out what to do with you that doesn’t involve gangsters or other disreputable types.
I sat at my desk, the cursor blinking on the screen; I knew I wouldn’t do any more writing this morning, and I might as well save the battery. It was time to catch up with my partner in crime-solving.

*   *   *

“So, the question is,” Sofia said as we sat in her office, “what exactly did Pete know?”

“And not just what, but who—he had the goods on somebody, possibly more than one person. At least that’s how it looked. Where else would he get the money for rent and regular bank deposits?”

Sofia held up her thumb and fingers and began counting off. “Social Security. Pension checks. Help from a family member we don’t know about. Even panhandling if he was good at it. Any number of places.”

I shook my head. “No, Sofe, they were small payments, under a hundred bucks in cash on a fairly regular basis. The last deposit was only made a couple of weeks ago.”

“How much did he have in total?”

“Over nine thousand.”

“That’s not a lot of money, Vic.”

“Relatively speaking, it is. This guy everyone assumes is a homeless drunk has nearly ten grand in the bank.”

Sofia still looked doubtful. “I don’t know. If he really was blackmailing somebody, wouldn’t you expect him to have more than that?”

“Maybe. But such small amounts wouldn’t raise suspicion. And I think this was more about having some power and control than it was about the money. When he told me he knew things about people, he was almost—I don’t know—
gleeful
.”

“And Father Tom confirmed that Pete had put himself in a dangerous position with at least one person, maybe more.” Sofia opened the red folder and took out a pad and pen. “There’s only one thing to do, Vic. Time to make our list.” She pointed her pen at me. “It had to be somebody at the party, right?”

“I think that’s a safe assumption. So let’s start with Richard Barone. At least we have an implied motive there.”

She nodded and scribbled on the pad. “The connection to Robert Riese. I wonder if it had to do with Riese’s murder arrest?”

“Certainly possible. Hey, Sofe, let’s make a note to dig into that one a little more. We need to find out how much time he served. Again, I wonder if he died in jail. If nothing else, I’d like to be able to tell my dad and my grandmother the truth about Zio Roberto.”

“Okay, but let’s not get sidetracked,” Sofia said. “So we’ve got Barone. Who else?”

“Strictly speaking, any and all the guests and waitstaff could be suspects, right?” I asked.

“True,” she said, “but for now let’s go with the likeliest, starting with the guests. What about Iris?”

“Iris?” I frowned. “She’s, like, the gentlest human being on earth. Why would she want to hurt Pete?”

“You said yourself that she’s crazy about Barone. What if Pete was blackmailing him and he shared it with her? She might have wanted to protect him.”

“Put her name down, but I’m not buying her as a murderer. Anne McCrae is a more likely fit. She’s obsessive about this town and her role as its leader. What if Pete knew something about her?”

“Certainly possible,” Sofia said. “And she’s a slippery one. How about Gale Spaulding?’

“The librarian?” My voice rose with incredulity. “Are you kidding me?”

Sofia shrugged. “I’m not counting anybody out. In fact, I’m adding Father Tom,” she said as she wrote his name out carefully.

“Okay, I draw the line at our parish priest, Sofe. He was concerned about Pete. Why would he deliberately draw attention to Pete walking toward the rides pier?”

Sofia tapped her temple with a forefinger. “A shrewd move to deflect suspicion.”

“How did you get so cynical? You’re not even thirty years old, for gosh sakes!”

“I’m not a cynic, I’m a realist. We can’t rule anybody out. In fact, we should probably get the full guest list from your mother.”

“I’ll work on that. In the meantime, what about staff?”

“You tell me,” Sofia said. “We got the Casa Lido regulars and all the summer help.”

“I know we’re not supposed to be ruling anybody out, but I don’t see Lori or Chef Massi knocking off poor old Pete. Florence, on the other hand, has a vicious streak.”

“Okay, so Florence DeCarlo goes on the list. What about the kid? The busboy with the scars on his face? Poor kid,” she added.

“Listen to you,” I said, “showing sympathy for a suspect.”

“Well, he can’t help his bad skin. But he’s not a very friendly type, is he?”

“An understatement if I ever heard one. No, he’s sullen and kind of withdrawn. His name’s Jason Connors, by the way.”

Sofia made note of the two names. “Any other summer hires? What about the blond with the ponytail? I caught her checking Danny out when she was serving the appetizers.”

“Alyssa? Miss Sorority Girl? Your imagination’s working overtime on that one. She’s a kid—maybe twenty or twenty-one.”

Sofia raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “And you think twenty’s too young to give an older man the eye? Please.”

“We’re not talking about flirting here; we’re talking about murder. What possible reason would Alyssa Mayer have for wanting Pete dead?”

“What reason would
any
of them have, Vic? He had something on them. Think about it. This is a guy who sleeps out, who roams all over this small town. He’s in the perfect position to observe things about people—things they think they’re keeping private. And if you’re right about those deposits, he was using that information to make money off them.”

I sighed. “And I was feeling so sorry for him. But Pete sure isn’t the innocent we had him pegged for. Father Tom even said it—he put himself into danger.”

Sofia nodded. “He pissed somebody off big-time.”

“Oh, I just had a thought,” I said. “What about the temporary guys we hired for the party? I think there were at least six extra servers here that night.”

“Let’s not worry about them right now,” she said, still making notes. “We’ll start with the likeliest guest first.”

“Unfortunately, I think I know who that is,” I said. “Richard Barone.”

“You’ve talked to him once,” Sofia said. “We don’t want to raise his suspicion.”

“I think I already did that, but you’re right. We’ll hold off on him for a bit. Where should we start?” I asked. “Or I should say,
with whom
?”

“I think it’s better if I focus on the restaurant staff,” she said. “You ruffled some feathers with that wine bottle. Put me down for Florence DeCarlo, Jason Connors, and Alyssa Mayer—can you get me addresses on them?”

“What are you gonna do—show up at their doors?”

“Heck no. I’ll be parked down the street, practicing my stakeout skills.”

“Not again,” I said with a groan. “I thought you gave up on the whole private investigator thing.”

“No way.” She patted her belly. “It’s just on hold for a while.”

“Sofia, if you do anything to put yourself or that baby in danger—”

“Give me a little credit, will you? All I plan to do is check out where these people live and watch their comings and goings for a bit. In the meantime, I think you need to tackle the other party guests—start with Iris Harrington and Anne McCrae.”

“I don’t mind grilling Anne, but I like Iris. She’s a friend.”

Sofia wagged her finger at me. “There are no ‘friends’ in our investigations, only suspects.”

“If you say so,” I said with a sigh. “When do you plan to do these stakeouts, by the way?”

She glanced at her phone for the time. “ASAP. I don’t have another class until after lunch. I can close the studio for a couple hours and follow up on those three. We can meet back here later this afternoon. Text me the addresses as soon as you can, okay?”

“Will do. And you’ll be careful, right?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Yes, Nervous Nellie. You sound just like your mother.”

“Thanks loads. I’ll be touch,” I called as I headed out the door.

After a quick call to my mom, I sent Sofia the three addresses. Florence and Jason both lived close to Oceanside; Alyssa lived in Westwood, a few miles inland. Wishing I could ride shotgun with Sofia instead, I reluctantly drove to the Seaside Apothecary to see Iris, hoping to get that interview over with before I tackled our snarky mayor.

Her store appeared quiet, and I jumped as the bell over the door rang when I opened it. Iris came forward, today wearing a sheath dress in a floral print; the faint scent of patchouli wafted my way.

“Hi, Victoria,” she said, without her usual friendliness. In fact, her manner was wary. “Anything I can help you with?”

You can tell me if your boyfriend’s a murderer.
“Yes,” I said, my forced smile making my face ache. “I’m out of those probiotics I bought last month.”

“Oh, of course. They’re over here with the vitamins.”

Did I imagine the relief I heard in her voice? I followed her down the aisle, and she handed me a plastic bottle. “There are ninety in this size. Is that okay?”

“Perfect, thanks.” We stood across from each other among the rows vitamins, both of us silent for a moment. “So, how are you and Richard doing?” I asked, my voice unnaturally loud in the quiet store.

This time there was no question about it; her attitude shifted as swiftly as the winds across the bay. “I know you went to see him,” she said coldly. “He told me all about it.”

“Right,” I said. “I was doing research for my new book and—”

“Oh, please, Victoria. I know you better than that. You think I forgot that you came here in May with questions about toxic herbs? That was supposed to be
research
, too, wasn’t it? And now you’re at it again.”

I tried to approximate a look of confusion. “Iris, truly, I had questions about an ancestor of mine that I thought Richard could answer.”

“Don’t you dare insult my intelligence.” She crossed her arms. “I know why you went to Richard’s offices. As if he would have anything to do with the death of that disgusting old man.”

“I never suggested that.”

“But you’re thinking it,” she said, pointing at me accusingly. “Why else would you have gone to see him? You can’t help yourself, can you? You’ve snooped around twice before. It’s become a habit with you.” Her voice was harsh, her eyes angry. I was unprepared for this side of the gentle, hippie Iris I thought I knew.

She stepped closer to me, her patchouli scent overwhelming. “Stay away from him. I finally have some happiness, and if you think I’m going to let you—or anyone—get in the way of that, you’re dead wrong. Now please leave my store. And find somewhere else to buy your vitamins.” She spun around and stalked to the back of the store while I stared after her, my mouth gaping.

Iris Harrington wasn’t just in love with Barone; she was obsessed with him. And who knew how far she might go to protect him? Because there was only one word for the look in her eyes as she stared me down:
murderous
.

S
till shaken from my encounter with Iris, I was relieved to learn that Mayor McCrae wasn’t in her office; I wasn’t up for another confrontation. I was sitting in my car, pondering my next step, when my sister-in-law called.

“Guess where I am,” she said, but didn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m down the block from Alyssa Mayer’s house, where her mom and dad are busily packing their SUV with boxes and clothes. Meanwhile, the princess is standing in the driveway directing them.”

“I think she goes to school in Boston,” I said. “Her classes probably start right after Labor Day. And if they’re leaving today or tomorrow, I don’t see how we’re going to get much from her.”

“We might have gotten something already,” she said. “About a half hour ago she scooted down the street, acting very much like somebody who didn’t want to be seen. But you could see that blond ponytail from a block away.”

“What was she doing?” I asked.

“Meeting somebody. A guy in a red Dodge Charger—not a very subtle car to be driving around in. It had vintage plates on it, too. She got in the car and they talked for a few minutes. Then they kissed for a while—and man, did that get boring—and next thing I know, she’s out of the car, fixing her hair, and hightailing it back home.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Yup. He drove right past me. He’s no college kid, that’s for sure. Looks closer to thirty. His hair was super short, like it had been shaved and it’s growing back in. Fair skin and I think light eyes, but I didn’t see the exact color.”

“Except for the red car, he could be any number of guys out there, though, Sofe.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Vic,” she said, unable to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. “He had tats up both arms. Talk about identifying characteristics.”

Even in my warm car, I felt a chill up both arms. “I think I’ve seen that guy,” I said. “He was one of the extra waiters we hired.”

“He was at the party? Oh, this is better than I thought,” Sofia said, and I could imagine her rubbing her hands together with glee. “Somebody to add to the list. Now, did Miss Alyssa know him beforehand or did she meet him that night?”

“She might have suggested him for the job, but I wonder if that even matters,” I said. “Or if
he
even matters.”

“Talk to your mom anyway, Vic. Find out his name.”

“I’m writing it down right now. Listen, he didn’t see you, did he?”

She let out a huff. “You have no faith in me, SIL. Of course he didn’t see me.”

“Okay, but I think you should get out of there now. I shudder at the thought of what my brother might do if he found out you and the
bambino
were out on a stakeout.”

“You let me worry about Danny. I’m heading back to Oceanside now anyway to track down Jason and Florence. I’ll let you know what I find out. Hey, how did you do with Iris and McCrae?”

“Not great. Her Honor’s not in her office and I’m not sure Iris is speaking to me.” I explained Iris’s suspicion and her heated words. “She’s very protective of Barone,” I said.

“Sure sounds it,” Sofia said. “And it makes you wonder how far she’d go for him. So, who’s next on your list?”

I sighed. “I guess I’ll go see Gale Spaulding at the library. She might remember something from the party, but I hardly see her as a murderer.”

“Remember what I said, Vic.”

“Yes, I know—nobody’s a friend. Everybody’s a suspect. Even the librarian.”

When I got to the library, the parking lot was pretty full, even on a beautiful August day. With power still out on my side of town, the library provided electricity, a wireless network, and lots of diversion. I found Gale in her office attempting to eat a quiet lunch. She motioned me inside.

“Need to charge up or do some research?” she asked.

“A little of both, Gale. But I was hoping you had a minute to talk.”

“Sure. Have a seat. Is this for your book?”

“Yes and no.” Mostly no, if I were to be honest. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Pete Petrocelli’s death, and there are some things I’m wondering about.”

“Really?” she asked with a frown. “I would think it was pretty straightforward. He was elderly, he was an alcoholic, and he was out in that terrible storm. I assumed it was an accident. I mean, doesn’t everyone think that?”

“I think the police are still looking into it. Maybe it’s just my mystery-writer brain working overtime, but I was wondering if you noticed anything the night of the party—say around the time that Pete showed up?”

She set her sandwich down and leaned forward in her chair. “Do you think someone killed him?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Oh no,” I said, realizing I’d just tipped my hand to a possible suspect, no matter how unlikely she might be. “I mean, who would want to kill Pete?”
Besides the people he was blackmailing, of course.
“No, I meant I was curious about the events that led him to the carousel house.”

“I’m not sure I can help you with that,” Gale said. “I mean, I remember Pete making quite an entrance at the party. He was already a couple sheets to the wind.”

“You’re right. He was swaying and stumbling when he got there.”
So it might not have taken that much wine to push him over, after all.
“Gale, did you notice him talking to anybody?”

She frowned in concentration. “I saw him heading to the table your dad had set up as a bar. And I remember your grandmother going to intercept him.”

“What about after that?”

She shook her head. “I’m not—hang on a minute. I did see him talking to someone else. A woman. I was wondering if he was bothering her.”

A woman?
“Was it Iris?” I asked, struggling to keep the excitement out of my voice. “The woman who owns Seaside Apothecary?”

Gale’s expression was confused. “The woman who owns Seaside Apothecary has long salt-and-pepper hair. This woman had short dark hair. I remembered her because she was wearing such a pretty dress.”

“With purple flowers on it?” I asked. “In fact, they were irises.”

“Yes, of course! Oh, I should have put that together—the irises, I mean. But she’s changed so much I didn’t recognize her.”

“She certainly has,” I said. How much had Iris changed? Enough to kill—or help kill—a man who was a threat to her new relationship? “Thanks, Gale. You’ve been a big help.”

After I left Gale’s office, I found an open study carrel with an outlet and got my laptop and phone plugged in. I clicked open my e-mail, dismayed by the number of entries in bold. When was the last time I’d checked these? There were two from Josh Silverman, my agent, and one from my editor, Sylvie Banks. The next Bernardo mystery was releasing right after Labor Day, and Sylvie’s message was a reminder to call the publicist about possible book events. I had every intention of returning those e-mails until my phone dinged with a picture message from Sofia. The text read:

Look who I just saw leaving Florence DeCarlo’s house

I squinted at the image and enlarged it with my fingers. On the front steps of Florence’s house was a pixelated but still recognizable Jason Connors. What was Jason doing at Florence’s? A kid she couldn’t stand and for whom she had little patience? One plausible reason might be that she had cash for him from her last night at the restaurant. But the waitresses generally settled up with the cleanup staff at the end of the shift.
There’s definitely
something weird about this,
I thought. Just then another text from Sofia came through:

Check yr email

I refreshed the page to see a new e-mail from Sofia; there was no message, but only a link to an archived edition of the
Oceanside Chronicle
from late June. I clicked on it, wondering what could possibly be of interest in an article about the graduates of Oceanside High. Scrolling down through the various senior portraits of smiling boys and girls, I stopped the cursor on a dark face with an even darker expression. There was Jason Connors, wearing a too-big jacket, a blue tie, and a scowl. Next to his picture was a description of his achievements: National Honor Society, awards in chemistry and computer programming, leader of a robotics team, with perfect SAT scores in math, chemistry, and physics. I shook my head in disbelief. But the kicker came at the end of the piece. “Connors will be attending MIT on a full scholarship in the fall.”

One thing was clear: This kid was a genius. And he certainly wasn’t the Jason I knew. The monosyllabic boy who claimed he was going to county college was, in actuality, something of a prodigy who was heading to one of the most prestigious schools in the country. On a full ride, no less. So why pretend to be something else? Why hide who he truly was? Was he merely being modest? Or secretive? I thought about what a scholarship to MIT would mean to a working-class kid like Jason. His was a future that most kids dreamed of.

But what if something threatened to jeopardize that future? Something that Stinky Pete knew or saw? I immediately got busy searching
Jason Connors + Oceanside Park
. He seemed to have a lower social media profile than most kids his age; there was no Facebook or Twitter account. I went back to the
Chronicle
’s archives and searched his name, coming up with an article about his robotics team. I scanned it quickly, skipping over the scientific details. Several members of the team were quoted, as were their parents. And there it was, in the last line of the piece. A quote from Jason’s mother expressing her pride in her son and her wish for his bright future. Her name leaped from the screen; without thinking, I shut down the computer and mechanically packed up my things. I had a visit to make. Before I could leave, however, a final text from Sofia appeared on my screen:

He’s got a lot to lose, doesn’t he???

He sure does,
I thought. But enough to kill for? There was only one way to find out.

*   *   *

It wasn’t long before I was heading to a small garden apartment complex just outside Oceanside Park. Judging from the lights on in a few windows, this building and its twin next door had power. I found the apartment number I was looking for and climbed the crumbling brick steps Jason Connors had stood on just an hour before. I rang the buzzer; when nobody came I knocked and continued knocking until the harried and furious lady of the house finally answered the door.

“Hello, Florence,” I said cheerfully. “I was hoping to have a chat with you and your son.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice on edge. She stood blocking the opening of the door. “I live alone.”

“Give it up, Ma,” said a male voice from behind her. “She knows. Just let her in.”

“I don’t work for you anymore,” she said. “And I don’t need you harassing me.”

“I’m not trying to harass you, but I think I have a right to know why you lied to me and my family.” I deliberately raised my voice. “Why did you hide the fact that you and Jason are mother and son?”

Florence stuck her face close to mine, close enough for me to see her smeared mascara and smell her cigarette breath. “I don’t have to answer your damn questions.”

“You could always let me in. Unless you want the neighbors to hear all about what a fraud you are.”

“Will you let her in, for Chrissakes?” Jason roared, and jerked the front door open, nearly knocking his mother over in the process. Florence turned without a word and I followed her inside.

I stepped into a small living room, most of which was taken up by a long computer table. On it was an expensive-looking desktop computer, two laptops, and what appeared to be a small robotic car. “You’re quite the whiz, aren’t you, Jason?” I pointed to the cluttered table. He merely grunted, cleared some newspapers from the couch, and sat looking at me expectantly while Florence hovered at his side. As I looked from one to the other, I searched for a resemblance that wasn’t there, part of the reason they’d gotten away with their masquerade.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why the whole act about hating Jason? What was the big deal about letting us know that he’s your son?”

Her voice was petulant. “We didn’t think you’d hire us both. Some places have policies against it. We needed the work.”

“So you never thought of just asking my father or grandmother?”

She let out a snort. “That crazy old hag. She never woulda let us work together.”

While I wasn’t above calling my grandmother a variety of names—privately, of course—it was quite another thing to hear someone else do it. My Italian blood was rising, and I answered her through my teeth. “In the first place, don’t ever speak about my grandmother that way again. In the second, if you didn’t ask, how would you even know what our policies are? But I think you had a different reason for hiding his identity.”

Jason looked up at me through a lank strand of dark hair and frowned. “What are you even
talking
about?” His voice had that eye-rolling tone that teenagers often take with adults, and my temper flared again. Too angry to worry whether these two might be dangerous, I plowed on.

“I’m talking about Pete Petrocelli, Jason. I’m talking about you and your mother taking a job at the Casa Lido because you knew he hung around the restaurant.” I paused and looked from mother to son, both of whom were wearing frozen expressions. “I’m talking about opportunity. You’re a very smart boy—do I really have to spell it out for you?”

He jumped to his feet, his face dark with anger. “Get out of here, you b—”

Florence grabbed his arm. “Sit down, Jason. And shut up. I wanna hear what else she has to say.” She glared at me. “I’m not as smart as my son, so maybe you should spell it out for
me
, then.”

“Okay,” I said. “I think one or both of you gave Pete wine the night he died. His blood alcohol was dangerously high.”

“He was an old drunk,” Florence snapped. “And he probably fell and hit his head or something.” She frowned at me. “What do you care, anyway? What’s he to you?”

“I care about the restaurant. And as you so sweetly reminded me, he died after leaving the Casa Lido. I have a stake in knowing what happened to him.”