A Dish Best Served Cold: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (Italian Kitchen Mystery, An) (22 page)

Of course you have, Richard. But you haven’t answered my question.
“I appreciate this, Richard,” I said. “I really do. But I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.” He sat back easily in his chair with the air of one who has no worries.

“Well, your great-grandfather prided himself on a bloodless organization, yet you’ve just confirmed that my great-uncle served time in prison for murder. How do you explain that?”

Barone was still smiling and appeared relaxed, but he shifted in his chair. “From what I’ve been able to piece together, the shooting in the Pine Barrens was not at Leo’s behest. It was a private matter between Riese and Mancini, his victim. Something about a woman. Your great-uncle’s car was at the scene. I think the evidence was pretty compelling.”

“That doesn’t quite line up with what my brother was able to determine about the case.”

Barone raised an eyebrow. “Your brother is a police detective on the local force, correct?” The implication was clear:
He’s a lowly civil servant. What does he know?

“Yes, but his law enforcement contacts are widespread. He was able to speak to somebody at the state corrections office. And he has access to criminal databases that the public does not. He learned that the case against Riese—likely our great-uncle—was primarily circumstantial.”

“You know as well as I do, Victoria, that plenty of people are convicted on circumstantial evidence. Even now, in the age of DNA.”

“That’s true. And some of them are innocent.” We locked eyes for a moment, but Barone was giving nothing away. I glanced back at the papers in the folder. “According to what you’ve found here, Riese died in jail. I wonder why he never tried to reach his family in all that time.”

Barone shrugged. “He was probably ashamed. Or he was protecting them. As you have pointed out to me, Victoria, we all have family skeletons, do we not?” He pushed away from his desk and stood up. I got the message and followed suit.

I held out my hand. “Thanks for this. My family will be very interested to know what’s happened to him after all this time.”

I hurried out of the building clutching my keys, questions swirling in my head. How long had Barone been privy to this information? Did he think that giving me what I wanted might stop me from pursuing information about Pete’s death? Was that folder merely a bone he was throwing me in the hopes that I would take it and go away? Providing me with the information about my uncle suggested he had nothing to hide, so was that the act of an innocent man—or a guilty one who was taking a big gamble?

I
sped away from Barone’s offices feeling as though I’d had a narrow escape. The accordion folder on the seat next to me and the strongbox thumping around my car trunk were not only evidence, but physical reminders of what I’d gotten myself into. It was like driving around with two live grenades, either of which might go off at any moment. I was due at the restaurant in an hour; it might be just enough time to take the next step in the case of Pete’s death—turn the strongbox over to the right person to be investigating it.

County Prosecutor Regina Sutton lived only a few miles inland, and with the help of my phone, I was able to find her address
and
a map to get there. Once I reached her house, I sat nervously in my car. Sutton was scary, but so was this strongbox I was carrying around.
Just do it, Vic.
I dropped the metal box into a shopping bag and trudged up her front walk, taking a deep breath before I rang the bell. An attractive black man with a close-cropped beard answered the door. Sutton’s husband, perhaps?

“Excuse, me,” I said. “I’m sorry to disturb you.” I held out my hand. “I’m Victoria Rienzi. I was wondering if Ms. Sutton was available.”

He shook my hand and smiled in a disarming away. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Den Sutton. C’mon in.”

“Is Den short for Dennis?” I asked as I followed him inside.

He turned back to me with a grin. “Not Dennis.
Denzel
. Mama was a fan.”

“Oh, me, too. Hard name to live up to, though.”

“You don’t have to tell me. Could have been worse—I had a buddy named Shakespeare.”

“You did
not
!”

“I certainly did. We called him ‘Shakes’ for short. Tried to fix him up with a chick named Ophelia one time, but it didn’t work out.”

Friendly, funny, and warm, Den Sutton seemed the opposite of his brisk, all-business, and rather intimidating wife. I was still laughing when Regina Sutton entered the room, resplendent in a jungle-print maxi dress that set off her golden brown skin. She fixed her amber eyes on me, and my smile froze in place. Not for nothing had I nicknamed her the Tiger Lady.

“Have you brought me a gift, Ms. Rienzi?” she asked, motioning to the department store shopping bag.

“Not . . . exactly. I think it’s evidence.” I shrank from that cold gold glare. “And I’m so sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t important.”

She crossed her arms, her face unsmiling. “Important to whom? To you? Or to that restaurant you and your family live and die for?”

Interesting choice of words there.
“I think it will be important to you, but yes, we do have a stake in this. It has to do with Pete Petrocelli’s death.”

“Lord, preserve us,” she said, rolling her eyes. She looked at her husband, her expression suddenly affectionate. “Baby, would you mind checking on the food?”

He kissed the back of her hand. “I am at your command, my queen.” He nodded to me. “Nice meeting you, Victoria.”

“Same here.” I looked back to Sutton’s impassive face. “That’s cute how he called you his queen. Because of your name, I mean. You know, Regina . . .” My voice trailed away, silenced by Her Highness’s imperious presence. She motioned for me to follow and led me to a small, cozy room lined with books.

“I love your house,” I blurted out. “Was it built in the twenties? They did a lot of neo-Tudor stuff then.”

She raised an eyebrow. “The late teens, actually. So you have an eye for architecture as well as mysteries. You’re just full of surprises. Now, why don’t you tell me why you have interrupted my peace on a weekend exactly
one hour
before I am expecting guests?” she asked, tapping the thin gold watch on her arm.

“Again, I’m sorry. But I have reason to believe that Pete’s death may not have been an accident.”

“I’m listening. But you have ten minutes, Ms. Rienzi. Use them well.”

We sat down and I began with Pete’s own words to me, went through my family research, recounted the night of the party, my visit to the high school, my conversations with Florence DeCarlo, Richard Barone, and Gerry Domenica, and ended with the computer problems at my cottage and the restaurant.

Regina Sutton listened in silence without interrupting, even when I paused for breath. Her face was expressionless, much in the way my brother’s had been when I tried to convince him. When I finally finished, she gestured to the box. “So you think this is evidence, is that it? What you have brought me, Ms. Rienzi, is not evidence, but plot threads. This is a story that your overactive imagination is imposing over a series of unrelated events, some ancient Atlantic City history, an old man’s delusions, and a box of junk.” She leaned across her desk, her expression almost kind. “It’s one big heap of supposition, girl. And because of your family’s experience with another dead man, you’ve convinced yourself there’s something here.” She shook her head. “I just don’t think there is. His death has been ruled an accident. Period.”

“But don’t you think it’s possible somebody plied him with wine deliberately?” I didn’t want to mention his blood alcohol levels, because she would know immediately that the information came from my brother.

“It’s possible,” she said, “but the cause of death was
drowning
, Ms. Rienzi, not alcohol poisoning.”

“Couldn’t somebody have helped that along, though?” I shuddered at the thought of someone holding the old man’s head down on the flooded floor.

“We found no evidence of another person in that carousel house.” She was clearly losing patience with me.

“Look,” I said, the desperation sounding in my voice, “I understand everything you’re saying, but any number of people might have wanted Pete dead. And my gut is telling me there’s something wrong here.” I pointed to the box on her desk. “I brought that here because I don’t want it in my house. I’m actually . . . afraid.” I smiled weakly. “Hard as that is to admit to you.”

Her eyes searched my face. “I can see that.” She sighed. “All right, then. Leave it with me.” She stood up from her chair. “I’ll be back in my office on Tuesday. In the meantime, I will give this some thought, but that is
all
I will do. Now if you don’t mind, I need to get ready for my company.”

I scrambled to my feet. “Of course. I appreciate your seeing me, Ms. Sutton, I really do.”

I followed her down the hallway to the front door she was holding open, clearly in a hurry to get rid of me. “This is such a relief,” I said. “Thanks again.”

“You may not thank me when this is all over. Richard Barone is a very powerful man. You’ve thought of that, I suppose.”

I nodded. “Believe me, I have. You have a very nice husband, by the way,” I called as I hurried to my car.

She raised both eyebrows this time, still shaking her head as she watched me drive away.

*   *   *

Tonight would be our last big push before the Labor Day crowds started lining up outside our doors. According to my mom, our computer system was back up and running as efficiently as ever; apparently, Jason worked in mysterious ways. There was no way to prove what he’d been up to here and at my cottage, but that would be Sutton’s problem now, not mine. Weekend traffic held me up, so I got to the restaurant a little after four. I parked quickly and hurried through the back door into the kitchen.

“You’re late,” Tim growled. “And I could use some help. Nando doesn’t come in for an hour. I had to wash all this basil myself.” He hit the button on the food processor, its loud snarl a fitting background for his mood.

Welcome to my world, dude.
“Keep your shirt on there, Chef. I have to wash up.” I stood at the sink scrubbing my hands for the requisite two minutes. If Tim was already cranky, I would be sure to get a lecture on cleanliness if I cut corners. I glanced at the menu notes posted on the wall. Tonight’s dinner specials included fresh-caught tuna.
Ugh
. “Please tell me I don’t have to clean fish!” I yelled over the sound of the machine.

“Please,” Tim called over his shoulder. “Do you think I’d trust you to fillet the tuna?” He stopped the processor and turned to me with a scowl.

“Thanks for your vote of confidence. I’ll finish the pesto if you want. Is the cheese all grated?”

He slammed his palm on the counter. “No, the cheese is not grated. So you’ll have to handle that job yourself, I guess.”

“Geez, Tim, would you lose the attitude? What the heck is wrong with you, anyway?” But before he could answer, I had a sudden realization: Lacey Harrison must have made her decision.

He let out a loud sigh and turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Vic. I really am. I didn’t mean to be such a jerk. Especially to you. Lacey and I broke up.”

“Ah.”

He frowned at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

What it meant was
so my guess was right
, but I didn’t want to reveal Lacey’s visit to me. His male pride was already battered enough. “Nothing. It’s just a sympathetic sound, that’s all.”

One side of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t quite smile. “So now you’re feeling sorry for me.”

I held up my thumb and forefinger in a
this much
gesture. “To tell you the truth, Tim, you seem more pissed off than heartbroken.”

He shook his head. “You know me too well, lass.”

You can say that again.
“Look, I’m sorry. I really liked Lacey.”

“I did, too.” He rested his eyes on mine. “But I didn’t love her.”

I looked into those gray eyes I knew so well, studied his familiar lean form. I knew what he was trying to say, but I wasn’t ready to go there. “Well, then,” I said, trying to keep it light, “that must mean your heart’s in one piece.”

“It’s not and you know it isn’t.” He reached out his hand, palm open.

I stared at that outstretched hand, knowing how easy it would be for me to take it. To move into his arms swiftly and easily, as though that would fix what he had broken eight years before. I shook my head in the slightest of movements.

“I don’t know what’s in your heart, Tim. But I do know this: Your girlfriend breaks up with you, and you expect me to fall into your arms a second later. And why? Because I’m here and we’ve got a history. It’s
convenient
.”

His eyes widened and his hand dropped in slow motion. “That’s what you think of me?” he asked in a harsh whisper. “You think I would use you like that?”

“I . . . I don’t know what to think, I guess.” I felt my face redden and the tears start behind my eyes. I stared down at the checkered pattern on the floor.

“I guess you don’t. Listen, I need to get down to the big walk-in for the fish, so if you wouldn’t mind finishing the pesto,” he said as he strode past me.

I watched him go, blinking furiously to keep the tears from spilling over.
You will not make me cry, Tim Trouvare. Not anymore.

I
woke up on Labor Day with the same sense of relief and sadness I’d felt every year I lived at the shore. By tomorrow, the summer season would be over, and soon the town would retreat into its quiet winter cocoon. While I hated to see summer end, I yearned for the peace that came with September. And now that Sutton had that strongbox, maybe I could find some of that peace myself. I scrambled out of bed and pulled an old bathing suit out from my dresser. Before facing a grueling day at the restaurant, I needed to clear my head.

The beach was still quiet, but within an hour it would be full of vacationers getting those last few hours in before work and school tomorrow. Without letting myself think about it, I ran into the surf and dove under the waves. The water was colder than I expected, and I jumped up shivering and gasping, salt water in my eyes and up my nose.
This is how Pete must have felt,
I thought, and shivered again, but not from the cold. I ran from the water, the waves crashing behind me. Grabbing my towel, I trudged up the beach toward home, where a hot shower and hot coffee would be waiting. I finally felt free of Pete and the obsession with his death; it was someone else’s problem now. I would get back to my writing and finish Isabella’s story. One more crazy shift at the restaurant to get through tonight, and I’d have all the peace and quiet I needed. When I got to my cottage, I let myself in through the deck—just in time to see a red Dodge Charger cruise past my front door.

*   *   *

That evening at the restaurant, I went through the motions mechanically, barely talking to Lori or the staff. My parents were preoccupied, and my interactions with Tim and my grandmother were limited to them shouting orders and me scurrying to fill them.
Just get through the night,
I told myself, trying to dismiss the image of the red car. I called Sofia on my one five-minute break to fill her in on my visit to Sutton and the appearance of the red Charger near my cottage.

“So ‘Jackson Manchester’ is still around,” she said.

“Apparently. I locked up tight before I left and blocked all the first-floor windows with furniture.”

“I don’t think you should go back there, Vic. Why don’t you come here tonight? Danny’s on duty—we can have a girls’ night.”

“It’s tempting, but I’ve got my bike with me and it’s too far to go. The second I’m done here tonight, I’ll head over to the boardwalk for the last
zeppole
of the season and then home. If anything looks off, I’ll call you to come get me. But you’ll be waiting parked out on the street; I don’t want you anywhere near the boardwalk if there’s trouble.”

“You sound just like your brother.”

Who is on duty tonight and out of reach if I need him.
“Well, we both love you.” I took a breath. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. If I’m really desperate, I’ll bike over to my parents’ house.”

Sofia snorted. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Stay in touch and text me when you get in.”

“Will do. Get some rest, okay?”

I shoved my phone into my apron pocket. It was after eight, and already twilight. I was scheduled for another hour and a half, which meant a ride home in the dark. I would stay to the boardwalk side—it would be crowded, well lit, and relatively safe. From there I could go to my parents or wait it out until Danny was off duty.

That seemed like a reasonable plan until I pedaled out of the parking lot in full darkness more than ninety minutes later. My bike light shone a weak beam on the pavement, and I kept looking over my shoulder for a red car.
This is your hometown, Vic. You know every inch of it. Get to the boardwalk and you’ll be fine.
I crossed at the next intersection and locked my bike to a lamppost near the corner of Ocean and Tuckerton. I hurried up the nearest ramp, overlooked by the Chowder House, relieved to be among the crowds and the bright lights of the boardwalk. The
zeppole
stand was about two blocks down. I walked on the right side, staying within the lights of the souvenir stores and arcades.

When a call came through from Sofia, I crossed the boardwalk and took a seat on one of the benches along the railing. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she answered. “I just remembered something from our interview with Gerry Domenica, and I’m pretty sure it’s the thing that’s been bugging you. Remember he said that he didn’t know Alphonse’s last name?”

“Right.”

“But later on in the conversation, he used it when he was looking at the picture of your uncle. He told you that you were too pretty to be a Petrocelli.”

“Oh my God, you’re right. It seems so obvious now. So we’ve caught Domenica in at least one lie. But we’re done with this, Sofe. We shouldn’t even be thinking about it.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m sitting here and it’s all I
can
think about.”

“Listen,” I said, “I better go. My battery’s low.”

I ended the call and turned to face the ocean. It was an inky gray under the bright moon, and I sat for a moment, listening to the soft crash of the waves in the distance. Tired and achy from a long day at the restaurant, I leaned my head back. Just as my eyes started to flutter closed, I saw a tall woman standing in front of the arcade across from where I sat. She was on a cell phone, and when she turned her head, I recognized her: Iris Harrington.

She looked from one end of the boardwalk to another, gesturing and talking excitedly.
My God,
I thought.
She’s looking for somebody. And I think it might be me.
I slipped off the bench and turned my face away from her. But which way to go? The crowd was thin here and I couldn’t risk her seeing me. Slowly, I shifted to face the metal railing, and I knew I had no choice. Without thinking, I gripped the rail, slid down to a squat, and slipped down, feet first, onto the sand. Forget about the
zeppole
; I had no appetite for them now anyway. I would make my way back along the beach until I reached Tuckerton Avenue, and then grab my bike and pedal my butt off to my parents’ house.

But the sand was deep under the boardwalk, and it made for slow walking. I could smell the damp on the wooden planks, and above me, footfalls echoed weirdly. The refrain from the old song kept playing over and over in my brain as I trudged through the sand.
Under the boardwalk, down by the sea.
When we were kids, hanging out under here was cool, but now it seemed creepy as I made my slow way in the dark. My sneakers, full of sand, were slowing me down, but I didn’t want to stop to take them off. When the roof of the Chowder House came into view, I nearly cried with relief.

Until I heard a swishing sound behind me. I wasn’t alone under here, and ankle-deep in damp sand, I was in no position to run. The sound came closer and somebody grabbed my arm. In a panic, I tried to shake it off but was pulled around to face my assailant. Expecting to see Iris, I felt fury rising in me as I looked into the dark, scowling face of Jason Conners.

“Let go of me, Jason,” I said breathlessly, “or I will shriek this whole boardwalk down.”

“I need to talk to you,” he said nervously, but didn’t loosen his grip.

“Get
off
me!” I yelled, jerking my arm hard just as he let go. I caught him hard in the ribs with my elbow, sending him tumbling backward into the sand.

“Ow! Will you take it easy?” He stood up, brushing the sand from his hands and arms. “I just wanna talk.”

“No way.” In a burst of energy born of fear, I kept walking.

“What are you doing skulking around under here, anyway?” he asked, hurrying to keep up with me.

“
Skulking
. That’s a big word for you,” I called over my shoulder.

“Cut it out, okay? I told you I had to talk to you. I’m supposed to be at school. I’m only sticking around this crappy town because you can’t stay out of my business. Damn it, will you just stop?” he yelled from behind me.

My choices were limited—stay alone on this dark beach with Jason or climb back up to the boardwalk and risk being seen by Iris. I stopped and waited for him to catch up. “There’s a beach entrance up ahead. You go first.”

He shook his head but complied. I waited until he was on the boards before I followed. I gestured to a bench in full view of several concession stands. “We talk here or not at all. Five minutes. And you touch me again and I call my brother and have you arrested for assault
and
breaking and entering.”

“I didn’t assault you,” he said, sneering. “And you can’t prove I was anywhere near your house or that restaurant.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” I pointed to the seat. “You better put at least a couple of feet between us.”

He sat at the end of the bench, shaking his head. “Oh, for Chrissakes, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m here to tell you the truth. My mom’s freaking out and it’s all your fault.”

I slapped my hand against my chest. “My fault? Your mother’s crazy. She pushed me off her front steps and probably gave Pete that wine.”

He leaned toward me, lowering his voice. “
I
gave it to him, okay? Not her. I wanted him to go away, okay?” he said again, his voice shaking. “I admit I used the napkin so my prints wouldn’t be on it. I couldn’t risk anybody connecting him to me, but I didn’t kill him. That’s the truth.”

Though I was inclined to believe him, I wasn’t quite ready to cross Jason and his mother off the list. “You just said you couldn’t be connected with him. Because he knew about the hacking, right?”

He sighed. “Will you just let me finish? Actually, I need to start from the beginning.”

I crossed my arms. “You have four minutes.” He rolled his eyes dramatically, and I had a moment of pity for Florence having to deal with a surly teenager twenty-four/seven.

He sat forward, his hands dangling over his knees, looking like any number of kids on this boardwalk. I had to remind myself that I shouldn’t get too comfortable; I could be sitting on this bench with a murderer.

“Look,” he began. “My mother hasn’t had it so easy. My father left us when I was little; he lives somewhere out in Ohio and sometimes sends us money when he thinks of it. But
she
raised me, pretty much on her own. I’ve always been smart, especially with math and science. Computers are my thing. But you know that.” He couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, Jason. So yeah, I know firsthand you’re a computer whiz. Keep going.”

“Okay, so I did really good in high school.”

Really well,
I wanted to scream.
Not really good
. Instead I nodded. “Good enough to get into MIT,” I said.

He nodded. “But there was that, uh, trouble last year. And the old guy, Pete, he must have overheard . . . another dude and me talking about it.” He pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes and wiped his forehead. “And then he found my mother at the restaurant one day and told her he knew. He asked her for money. And that’s when it started. She’d never know when he’d show up, and she’d give him all her tips. That’s when she had the idea I should get a job there.”

“That’s right,” I said. “We hired you a little later. Why didn’t she just go to the police? Or to one of us? We could have talked to my brother.”

“Right.” He shook his head, clearly wondering at my stupidity. “Sure, let’s go tell the police I hacked the school computer system. Real smart.”

“So instead you gave him enough wine to kill himself. I guess that was real smart, too.”

“He didn’t die of alcohol poisoning,” he hissed. “He drowned.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, swiped a finger across the screen, and held it out to me. “I guessed you missed this one, Sherlock.”

It was a small item in the
Asbury Park Press
, indicating that’s Pete’s death was due to accidental drowning. So it was public knowledge now. Which meant Pete’s murderer would be feeling pretty safe, unless he or she knew I was pushing to reopen the investigation.

“Big deal.” I shrugged. “So maybe you and your mother are looking at a manslaughter charge instead.”

“Will you cut the crap, already?” he said through his teeth. “We weren’t anywhere near that carousel house the night of the storm. We went straight home from the restaurant. But the thing is, we can’t prove it. We only have each other’s word on it.”

He leaned toward me and I drew back. He let out a loud huff. “I’m not gonna hurt you! How many times do I have to say it? I’m asking you to believe me.” He dropped his voice. “My mother worked her whole life for me to have this chance. She didn’t hurt that old man and neither did I.” He stood up and stuck his hands in his pockets, his hair falling over his scarred face. My heart twisted a little for this genius kid and his waitress mother, who only wanted a better life for themselves. But that didn’t necessarily mean I took him at his word.

“Listen, Jason, I’m not a police officer. I’m not even a detective.” He let out a snort, which I chose to ignore. “But you’d better be prepared: If this case gets reopened, you might be questioned.”

He shrugged, but his eyes were those of a scared kid. “If they get me on the hacking, so be it. But I didn’t kill anybody.” He pointed. “And I think you know that.” He turned to go, and I watched him make his way down the boardwalk to the street ramp.

Was Jason telling me the truth? Was he just a kid who’d made a mistake he was desperate to cover up? Or a very, very shrewd killer?