A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (17 page)

“No, because I’d be legally bound to turn those names over to the authorities.” He shook his head. “We’re not in the business of ruining lives here. Certainly not for a stupid prank that ended up hurting no one.” He jabbed his forefinger in my direction. “And what did I teach you fifteen years ago?”

“That we have to balance truth with harm,” I said with a sigh. “But prank or not, Mr. A—what they did was illegal. And if a college got wind of such activities, isn’t it possible it would rescind that student’s admission?”

“Of course. That’s why, if my staff had information about who hacked into the system, they weren’t sharing it with me. Nor would I want them to.” He stood up, a clear signal that our conversation had ended.

“Thanks, Mr. A. I’ll let you get back to it.” I stood up and held out my hand, wincing as Mr. Ainsley crushed it in his large paw.

“Nice seeing you again, Ms. Rienzi. And remember what I said: I want to see a real book from you one of these days!”

I walked down the hallway mulling over my conversation with Mr. A. Was the grading system hack truly a victimless crime? Was it merely a prank perpetrated by very smart kids just to prove they could do it? In Mr. A’s place, would I have also turned a blind eye? But why wouldn’t the school have worked harder to find out who was behind it? And just as I reached the door to the parking lot, it struck me: Jason Connors was a classic success story. The son of a working-class single mother who wins academic awards, gets a full ride to a prestigious institution, and brings lots of positive attention to the school that fostered his talents. Even if the school suspected he was behind the system hack, they would be reluctant to call him out on it.
Geez, Vic, you’re getting cynical in your old age
.
Maybe Jason—or whoever did this—just covered his tracks too well to be caught.

I was opening my car door when I heard a breathless voice behind me. “Miss Reed?”

Not expecting to hear my pen name, I turned, a little puzzled. The girl with the ponytail and glasses held out a pen and a battered copy of
Molto Murder
, one of my early Bernardo Vitali mysteries. “Would you mind signing this for me?” she asked a little shyly.

“Sure. What’s your name?”

“Kelly,” she said, peering over my shoulder. “I recognized you from the back cover.”

I scribbled our names on the title page and handed it back to her. “How do you like working on the paper?” I asked her.

“I love it,” she said. “It’s so cool getting that first byline. But it’s nothing like having a real book out with your name on the cover.”

“Yeah, it is. How do you think I started? With bylines on the school paper.” She seemed in no hurry to leave, and I knew that she had not followed me out here just to have me sign her book. “Can I ask you something, Kelly?”

Her blue eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “Sure.” Her expression was expectant, almost excited.

“I think you overheard some of what I was talking about with Mr. A,” I said. “The system hack that you guys reported on last year.”

“We wanted to do an investigative piece on it, but he wouldn’t let us.” She rolled her eyes. “So much for hard-hitting journalism.” She shrugged. “In the end, though, nothing we got could be substantiated. But we all knew who did it.”

“Was it Jason Connors?”

She nodded. “And someone else from the robotics team. Here’s the thing: People didn’t really like Jason that much, but there’s nobody who doesn’t like Guy. So nobody would, like, run and tell about the hacking.”

I frowned. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. You said no one liked Jason, but then you indicated that everybody liked the guy. Which is it?”

She shook her head. “I said everybody liked
Guy
. Guy St. Vincent. I guess you could say he was Jason’s accomplice.”

O
f course.
Guy is gone
was what Florence had said, not
that guy is gone
. I’d had the name all along, without even knowing it. “Kelly, where is Guy St. Vincent now?”

“At school, I guess, like they all are.”

College kids make terrible suspects,
I thought.
Especially in September
. I crossed my fingers and sent up a small prayer to the Holy Mother. “Do you know where he goes to school?”

She frowned slightly. “Why do you want to know? Are you gonna make trouble for him?”

“No, really, I’m just looking for information. I won’t get him in trouble. I give you my word.”

“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “He’s at Rutgers.”

“New Brunswick?” I could barely contain my excitement. Aside from being my alma mater, Rutgers was a relatively short hop along Route 18; I could be there in under an hour.

She nodded. “Look, he’s a really nice kid. He made a stupid mistake by following Jason. Please don’t tell anyone about what they did, okay?”

I wanted to be able to promise Kelly that I would keep my mouth shut. But that would depend on what I learned and whether I needed to bring the information back to the police or the county prosecutor. “I’ll do my best, truly.” I held out my hand. “Thanks for the information. It was nice meeting you, Kelly. You better get back inside before Mr. A has to hunt you down.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said, but her hurried gait said otherwise. “Thanks for signing my book,” she called.

I hopped in the Honda, turned on the ignition, and checked the gas gauge. Plenty to get me to New Brunswick and back. It was time for my next class reunion.

*   *   *

I had barely gotten onto the highway when I realized that I only had a name—Guy St. Vincent. He was one student out of thousands. Heck, tens of thousands. I didn’t know his dorm; I didn’t even know if he lived on the main campus. The Rutgers campus sprawled over several miles and a couple of towns. Where would I even start? College Avenue seemed the natural choice, but did they even house freshmen there these days?
Think, Vic. Think
. I considered calling the university and pretending to be his mother, but what kind of mother forgets where her own kid is housed? It was Friday of the holiday weekend—did I really think some helpful administrative assistant would pick up her phone and just hand me the info I needed?

This wild goose I was chasing was likely to leave me with nothing but an empty gas tank and a heap of frustration. I turned off the highway into a strip mall and parked my car. I took a swig of warm water from the bottle in my cup holder and tried not to think about how old it was. I fished my phone out of my purse and stared at it, as if for answers. And it gave me one, in the form of a tiny “F” that appeared among my apps. Gotta love Facebook. And uncommon names.

Unlike Jason, Guy St. Vincent had a Facebook page. And Rutgers, New Brunswick, was listed as his college destination, but there was no mention of his dorm. He had posted on his timeline this morning, though:
Move-in day at RU!!!
So he was on campus, as Kelly had said. I scanned his page, spreading my fingers across the window to zoom. And then I saw it—a link to a Twitter account.

One quick tap and I had what I needed because Guy St. Vincent was live-tweeting his move-in day for all the world to see:

Last trip in the elevator to the top of Hardenburgh. Whew.

So the wild goose wasn’t so elusive after all. He was living in one of the freshman dorms—in fact, it was
my
old freshman dorm. I started the car and got back onto Highway 18, taking the same route I’d driven more than a decade ago, with almost the same sense of excitement and adventure.

In another thirty minutes I turned onto College Avenue. With a little shock of recognition I took in the student center, the library, and the three river dorms that stood sentinel over the Raritan. And it was all much more crowded and busy than I remembered. I parked in a lot near the dorm (illegally, I was sure) and took a minute to orient myself. These were not the shabby 1950s high-rises I remembered.
Wow. They sure have spruced these up.

I walked to the back of Hardenburgh, where a lone young man in a ripped black T-shirt stood smoking against one of the cement columns. As I got closer, I noticed his eyeliner and black nail polish.

“Excuse me,” I said a little breathlessly, “but I’m looking for Guy.”

He slid his eyes my way and blew smoke at me in a world-weary fashion. “Get in line, sister,” he said. “We’re all looking for a guy.”

“No, not
a guy
. Guy is his first name. Guy St. Vincent. He’s a freshman.”

“Cool name.” Black Nail Polish narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re too young to be his mother and too old to be his girlfriend. Are you a creeper?”

I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring, as opposed to creepy, way. “No. I’m an alum, actually, and I have some information for him.”

He raised one penciled eyebrow, took another drag on his cigarette, and waited.

“Really,” I said. “I need to see him about, uh . . . a scholarship.”

“Right. The Cougar Award, no doubt.” He stamped out his cigarette and pointed to his left. “I think that door’s open, though.” One side of his mouth twisted in a lopsided grin. “Good luck finding your Guy.”

Thanks, kid.
But I took his advice. Inside the dorm, small knots of students stood talking, holding boxes and bags. A little rush of nostalgia came over me as I remembered my own first day at college; I felt ancient as I listened to their chatter and laughter. I moved from group to group, but no one knew Guy or recognized the name; I had likely come all this way for nothing. I was heading out the door when I spotted a gangly boy with blond curls in the parking lot. He was holding a duffel bag in front of his chest; as he shifted it, I saw his T-shirt:
SAVE THE CA
ROUSEL, OCEANSIDE PAR
K, NEW JERSEY
.

“Excuse me,” I said, hurrying toward him. “Are you from Oceanside? And is your name Guy, by any chance?”
And please don’t think I’m a creeper.

He frowned, more out of curiosity than dismay. “Yeah. It’s actually pronounced Gee, ’cause I’m French, but everybody says ‘Guy.’ Do I know you?”

I held out my hand. “I’m Victoria Rienzi. My family owns the Casa Lido Restaurant in town. Jason Connors worked for us this summer and—”

He held out both hands in front of him, his duffel bag sliding to the ground. “I don’t know who you are or why you showed up here, but I don’t want to talk to you.” He scooped up his bag and tried to push past me, but I stepped in front of him.

“Wait, Guy, please. I’m not here to cause trouble for you, I promise. I need five minutes of your time and then I’ll go, okay? My questions are about Jason, not you.”

His shoulders sagged, and when he looked at me I saw the worry in his face. “Five minutes?” he asked in a low voice.

“Absolutely. We can stand right out here and talk if that’s okay, and then I’ll go.”

Guy nodded, but looked unhappy. “What do you want to know?”

“Look,” I said quietly, “you probably know this is about hacking the school computer system. I would never ask you to incriminate yourself in any way—do you believe me?”

“I guess.” He looked at me, his pale blue eyes filling with tears. “I thought that crap was behind me. I’m starting college, for God’s sake!”

“I know. I’m not here to rake it up, but I need some information. You can just nod or shake your head, okay? Was it Jason’s idea to hack the system?”

He nodded without hesitation and I sensed that he was being truthful. “I don’t want to know details,” I said. “But could someone have seen you near or in the school?”

He shook his head and then spoke. “When Jason and I . . . hung out, we were usually at his house. If we, uh,
played computer games
, we played them on our own desktops.”

“Got it. Did his mom know you guys were ‘playing computer games’?”

“Afterward, she knew.”

“Okay. In terms of playing these games, did you guys
talk
about the games first? I mean, there had to have been some planning involved, right?”

He nodded, looking more miserable by the minute, but stayed silent. “Did you do this talking at his house or at your house?” I asked.

“His. But if his mom was home, we’d talk somewhere else in town.”

“In a public place?” My pulse picked up its pace. “Such as?”

Guy shrugged. “Usually outside somewhere. The park. The boardwalk.”

The park. The boardwalk.
Two places Stinky Pete frequented, and two places that offered areas to hide. My heart raced as I asked Guy my next question. “Do you know if anyone ever saw or heard you talking about the, uh, computer games?”

Guy swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple prominent in his thin neck. “There was a homeless guy,” he whispered. “He was asleep under the boardwalk one night. Jason said we shouldn’t worry about it. That the guy was a drunk and wouldn’t have understood what we were talking about anyway.”

“Thank you.” I held out my hand again and Guy took it reluctantly. “I promise you that this conversation never happened,” I said.

And I meant it. Even if I had to bring information to the authorities, there was no way I would mention this boy’s name. I pointed to the building behind him. “I lived there my freshman year. It was great. In the winter we’d steal trays from the dining hall and slide around on the frozen river.”

He smiled, though he still looked as though he wanted to cry. “I don’t think you can do that anymore,” he said, pointing. “There’s a big fence up now.”

“Yeah, well, that was back in the day. I loved it here. And you will, too.”

I watched his figure grow smaller as I drove away, grateful that Guy St. Vincent had taken the risk to talk to me. Because another tiny thread had just been woven into the fabric of the mystery of Pete’s death—maybe soon a true pattern would take shape.

B
idding my college alma mater a fond farewell, I popped in my earbuds and called Sofia on the ride home to fill her in.

“So, are we pretty sure that Pete overheard Jason and Guy talking about hacking the school computer system?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I think Guy was telling the truth. The poor kid was terrified that I was there to drag it all up again. I promised him I’d try to keep him out of it.”

“I think you’ll be able to keep that promise, Vic.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pete’s death was officially declared an accident. Danny found out this morning. And after he told me, he sweetly reminded me that you and I should stop ‘digging around,’ as he put it.”

“But Danny doesn’t have all the information we do,” I insisted. “He doesn’t know Pete was probably a blackmailer. He doesn’t know about Iris or Tattoo Guy and the Alyssa connection or that Jason Connors and his mother had something big to hide that Pete probably knew about.”

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me,” Sofia said. “But you know your brother.”

I did know my brother, and it was time to have a conversation with him. “Is he working today?” I asked.

“No, he’s down at the marina. But you better hurry if you want to catch him. Once he’s out on the boat, he’s gone for hours.”

“I’ll try. What about you? Anything new on the Zio Roberto side of things?”

“I did find something promising, but I’m still looking into it. I’ll tell you when I know more. Good luck in talking to Danny, by the way.”

“Right,” I said. “I’m gonna need it.”

*   *   *

Despite having grown up around water, I wasn’t too fond of boats. I stepped gingerly onto the deck of Danny’s boat, the
Bella Napoli
, feeling queasy the moment it shifted under my feet. I found my brother out on deck, inspecting his cooler full of smelly bait. He was in his fishing uniform—tattered shorts and T-shirt, ball cap, and wraparound sunglasses.

I wrinkled my nose at the smell. “I don’t know how you can handle that stuff,” I said with a shudder. “It’s gross.”

“Can’t catch fish without it, sis.” He crossed his arms and assumed a wide-legged cop stance. Not a good sign. “What are you doing here? I know it’s not to go fishing.” He cocked his head. “Or maybe it is.”

“Believe it or not, I’m not here to get information. I’m here to
give
it. I heard that Pete’s death was ruled an accident and I’m not so sure that’s the case.”

“
You’re
not so sure? And what makes you an expert in law enforcement? I would think you’d be relieved after the wine bottle incident.”

“Lose the attitude, would you, Danny? There are things you don’t know—things the county prosecutor might find relevant. Will you hear me out or not?”

He sighed. “I won’t be able to leave dock until I do. What have you got?”

I filled him in on Barone and Iris, Florence and Jason, and Alyssa and her tattooed boyfriend. I reminded him of the Leo Barone and Zio Roberto connection, and also of Pete’s boast of knowing things.

Danny pushed his ball cap to the back of his head and took off his sunglasses, a sign he was taking seriously what I had to say. “I’m listening, Vic,” he said. “But I’m not convinced. What makes you so sure Pete was blackmailing anybody?”

Here was the tricky part. Did I admit to my brother that I’d talked myself into Mrs. Ferraro’s house and snooped around Pete’s room? That I’d found his bankbook? I hadn’t involved Sofia, but what I’d done, while legal, wasn’t exactly ethical. I took a deep breath, hating myself. “Let’s call it a gut instinct, Dan.”

My brother settled his cap on his head and squinted at me from under the brim. “Is that so? Your gut’s telling you that Stinky Pete was blackmailing people with information he’d overheard?”

I nodded, and grasped at one last straw. “There’s also my conversation with Father Tom. Obviously, Father Tom had to keep some things confidential, but he implied—strongly—that Pete had put himself in danger in some way.”

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got me thinking.” He pointed at me in warning. “But just thinking, you hear me? Don’t get carried away, Vic.”

“I’ll try not to. In the meantime, Dan, can I ask a favor? Do you think you can use your contacts in law enforcement to find out what happened to Robert Riese, aka Zio Roberto? I’m thinking he probably died in prison, but I’d like some proof.”

“Sofia already asked me, but I didn’t follow up on it because we still don’t know for sure that Riese was Pop’s uncle.” He shook his head and put his sunglasses back on, probably in the hopes that I would get the hint and go. But as stubbornness runs in the Rienzi family, I didn’t move.

“Okay,” he said with a huff. “I’ll do it. I’ll check the state databases and use my contacts in corrections to ask about this Riese character. If only to get you two broads off my back.”

“Thanks, Danny. Oh, and one last thing—do you know if your brothers in blue were able to lift any prints from that wine bottle?”

“If you are asking me
can
prints be lifted from the bottle, yes, they can.”

“You know what I was asking you, but let’s keep it theoretical. How do they do it?”

He grinned. “With glue, believe it or not. They put the wine bottle in a water tank, open a glue packet, and drop it in. The fumes from the glue react with the acids in the prints and harden them in place.”

“That’s so cool,” I said. “I totally need to use that in the next Bernardo mystery.”

“Cool or not, sis, that bottle—the one you’re concerned with—is a no go.”

Did my brother mean that no prints were found or that an empty wine bottle did not constitute evidence of murder? But even if he was drunk when he arrived at the party, there had to have been at least one other bottle for Pete’s blood alcohol to have been that high. Was that what he was carrying in the bag Nando had seen him holding? I would probably not get an answer, but I had to ask.

“But what about
another
bottle, Dan? Like perhaps one that might have been found in the carousel house?”

My brother rested two heavy hands on my shoulders and lowered his head so that it was level with my own. “There
is
no other bottle. Or anything else that suggests foul play. That carousel house was swept clean. And except for your ‘gut instinct’ about Pete being a blackmailer and some ancient mob history, there’s nothing there, Vic. Nothing.”

“Maybe. Or maybe not.” I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Listen, I’ll keep you posted.” I stepped back onto the dock, relieved to have something firm under my cowardly feet.

“Wait . . . posted about what?” he called as I hurried away. “You leave this alone, Vic—do you hear me?”

Oh, I heard him all right. Whether I was listening was, well, another kettle of fish.

*   *   *

After a quick stop for lunch, I headed back to my cottage, where I was greeted by a strange sound from my basement—the steady chugging of my new sump pump. Could it be? I reached for the light switch, and lo, the basement was flooded with light. (And still some water, but the smell was improving.) When I got downstairs, there was another scrawled note from my dad:

Hey, sweetheart, your new pump is up and running. Also, I did some cleanup down here with bleach. Don’t think you’ll have trouble with mold.

Your Pop

You had to love the guy, though I did wonder how he’d gotten into my house both times. I wouldn’t put it past my parents to have a duplicate key to the cottage. Note to self—have locks changed,
subito
.

Up in my bedroom, I plugged in my computer, charged my shaver, and ran my blow dryer just because I could. Still reveling in my restored power, I was about to charge my phone when I noticed the voice mail icon. My mother’s cheerful tones rang out across the room:

“Hi, darling! In case you’re not aware, the power is back on. Plan to come in early tomorrow morning for food prep so that we can open for Saturday lunch. See you bright and early!”

While I was glad the restaurant wouldn’t be losing any more business, my window of time to work on the Mystery of Stinky Pete was shrinking. I’d be tied up at the Casa Lido all weekend long, right through Labor Day. In the meantime, Jason would be on his way to school, with his mother probably right behind him. Alyssa was already gone, and who knew where Tattoo Guy might be? Barone would retreat behind his protective wall of money, and meanwhile, this trail was growing ever colder. I had a sense of urgency I couldn’t ignore, but did I have enough evidence to convince County Prosecutor Sutton to initiate a murder investigation? I’d barely convinced my brother that there was more to Pete’s death than it appeared. Once Pete’s body was released and the official cause of his death made public, it might be too late.

Or would it? I sat at my desk, gazing out my small bedroom window at the ocean in the late-afternoon sun. Maybe if the murderer—or murderers—thought they were safe, they—or he or she—might get careless and give something away. My thoughts were interrupted by a dinging sound from my phone. A text and a link from Sofia:

Have you seen this?

I followed the link to today’s
Oceanside Chronicle
, which bore this headline: “Richard Barone Pledges to Save Carousel, Financier/Philanthropist to Purchase Historic Ride.”

I scanned the article avidly, taking in the important details. In it, Barone offered to buy the carousel and provide funding for its yearly maintenance. The article included quotes from Barone, some boardwalk business owners, and Mayor McCrae, who could barely muster any gratitude.
Guess you’ve been foiled again, Annie,
I thought. But the most interesting part was the article update, posted only hours before:

With the restoration of power to the eastern end of town, there will be a ribbon-cutting ceremony tonight out on the pier at 8:00. The carousel house will be open and all rides functioning. The event is open to the public.

For the first time since Pete’s death, the carousel house would be opening its doors to the public. To the families who now had their weekend restored. And to the curious who wondered about the body that had been found inside. Would the guilty party be among them? This was exactly the kind of scene I would imagine for my fictional detective, Bernardo. He would show up in his linen suit and Panama hat, closely observe all the suspects, trap one of them into a confession, and have the mystery solved by the end of the chapter.
If only
.

I texted Sofia back:

I’m going. You?

What do you think?
she replied.
Dinner first? How about Louie’s at 7? I’m craving sausage sandwiches.

See you there, sister,
I texted back
.

Because come hell or high seawater, I would be out on that pier tonight. And I would finally get inside that carousel house—the scene of the crime.