Murder and Marinara (15 page)

B
ack in the kitchen, I prepped the asparagus and basil while Tim rolled out the thin sheets of pasta dough. Once they were the right consistency, they would still have to rest before cutting.

“Tim, should we get that pesto started while the dough dries?” I shook the basil leaves over the sink and twisted off the stems.

“We?” Tim cleared a spot on the island for the last batch of dough, and I found myself admiring his arms as he worked my grandmother's giant rolling pin.

“Yes, ‘we.' Have you looked at the time?” I started tearing the basil leaves into a colander.

“Just keep that basil comin', okay?”

He came up behind me and peered over my shoulder, his face close enough to mine that his morning stubble brushed my cheek. I turned to face him. “Are you checking out my basil leaves?”

“Among other things.” His voice had a lazy quality that had always had a hypnotic effect on me. He rested his hands against the sink on either side of me, his arms brushing mine. I put my wet hands against his T-shirt, and he curled his own around them.

“Oh, Tim.” I sighed. “This is such a bad idea.”

He rested his forehead against mine. “Why?” he whispered, and letting go of my hands, he slid his arms around my waist.

The sensations were sweetly familiar—how he smelled, how his palms felt pressed against my back, and how his eyes looked when they darkened with emotion. I wanted to give in to them because, more than anything, being with Tim felt like home. A home I'd missed keenly during my years in New York. I lifted my face and closed my eyes, but the moment I did I flashed upon a pale face with creamy skin and raspberry lips. And just as I dropped my arms to my sides, the kitchen door swung open.

“What's cookin' in here, y'all?” Cal stood grinning, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, a mischievous look in his green eyes.

Tim stepped back, and I turned to the sink, my heart thumping. “Not much, Cal,” I said, wondering if one of the conditions of being back in Jersey was lying my butt off all the time.

“That so, Victoria? You couldn't prove that by me. Not judging by what I see.”

My face burning, I dropped my head over the sink, tearing basil leaves with frightening force.

“What are you talking about, Lockhart?” Tim growled.

Cal swept his hand across the kitchen. “Looks to me like you fixin' to make some
pasta fresca
.”

I turned quickly from the sink. “How do you know what it's called?”

“Well,
cher
, you'd have no way of knowing this, but my mama's half Italian.”

“You're kidding me!” For some reason, I found this heartening news and flashed Cal an answering smile.

He nodded. “We got Italians down Louisiana way; I'm one of 'em.” He grinned. “Well, a quarter anyway.”

At this, Tim gave a snort of skepticism. I motioned to him with my thumb. “He's half.”

“That settles it then. You win, brother.” He walked over to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of San Pellegrino.

“Hey, easy on the stock,” Tim said. “Who said you could just come in here and take what you want?”

If Tim's question was laden with meaning, Cal either didn't get it or chose to ignore it. “My boss, Giulietta, that's who.” He pointed to the pasta dough on the counter. “And I'm looking forward to a nice plate of pasta for my lunch.”

“Get out of my kitchen, Lockhart. I won't say it again.”

“I'm on my way.” He paused with his hand on the door to look back at me. “Catch ya later, Victoria,” he said, lifting the San Pellegrino bottle with a wink, and pushed back through the door.

“What is it with that guy?” Tim exploded. “He thinks he can just come and go whenever and wherever he wants. This is our restaurant, damn it.”

I frowned in Tim's direction, but he didn't pick up on it. “Oh, it's ‘ours,' is it?” I said. “Since when?” The edge in my voice finally got his attention.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. This restaurant belongs to the Rienzi family.” I paused for effect. “It's not like you
married into it
or anything.”

“C'mon, Vic. You know what I mean; I love this place. I grew up here.”

“There's growing up and there's growing up, Tim.” I sighed. “And I'm not sure you're grown-up enough for me. I must have been crazy to forget the rules, even for a minute.”

“The hell with the rules!” He grabbed my hand. “Look at me. We still love each other, and you know it.”

I gently pulled my hand from his and rested it against his cheek. “And I used to think that was enough. But now I know better.”

•   •   •

With only a few twinges of guilt, I left Tim to finish the lunch prep on his own. I couldn't trust myself around him, plain and simple. According to my deal with Nina the TV reporter, I had less than two days to get to the bottom of Parisi's death. I couldn't afford any distractions. I stepped outside to call Sofia and fill her in on my conversation with Mr. B when I noticed a text from Josh:

Chaz says Rosen and Parisi on good terms despite difs. Rosen close to P's wife, but see pic he sent colleagues via e-mail.

The photo was taken the day of the murder. It showed two handsome men, one dark and one fair, with the ocean in the background. The caption read: “On our honeymoon in Miami.”

“Sofie,” I said into the phone, “looks like we can eliminate a suspect. Rosen was getting married around the time that Parisi was killed.”

“Are we sure that rules him out? Just because he's married doesn't mean he wasn't involved with Angie,” she said.

I laughed. “Not an issue, Sofe. The bride's name is Michael.”

“Go, Harvey. Now I get to take my red pen and put a great big line through his name. Did you talk to Biaggio?”

When I was finished summarizing the key points of that conversation, Sofia asked a question. “So you think he was being evasive about coming back to the restaurant that day?”

“Sort of. I'm not sure he told the police he came back a second time.”

“But they'd know based on your interview and Tim's.”

“True. But Mr. B clearly didn't want to talk about the fact that he was here just before Parisi was digging into that salad. And he was afraid, Sofe. That's for damn sure.”

“Does afraid equal guilty?” she asked.

“Maybe. But here's the real question: What is he afraid
of
?”

After finishing my call, I thought about where we were. Gio Parisi had been dead exactly one week. The autopsy results had yet to be made public. And while we had a list of names and lots of supposition, we still had no idea who had killed him. If Danny was correct, the county prosecutor's office would be taking over the case, if they hadn't already. And I was likely to be questioned again; I had found the body, after all. My stomach turned over at the thought, particularly as there were little matters of interest—such as the Tiffany receipt and a bag of stolen garbage—that I had neglected to share with the Oceanside PD.

And my involvement in this case could well be compromising my brother's career; even if Danny's cop friends in town would protect him, I was pretty sure that blue wall of silence wouldn't extend to the prosecutor's office.

I turned to look over at the boardwalk and beyond that to a blue-green strip of sea that glittered in the sunlight. The Ferris wheel was making its slow revolution, and the smells of pizza and cotton candy were wafting across the street. The season was starting, and it would pick up momentum as fast as those rides out on the pier. Would the Casa Lido be part of it, as we had every summer? Or would we have to close our doors for good?

•   •   •

Our two-for-one special helped us fill a few tables during lunch, though I noticed they all seemed to be visitors, rather than regulars—visitors who likely hadn't heard that a man had dropped dead after eating at Table Five. Once Lori came in, I stopped to have a plate of
tagliatelle
with pesto; after one bite, I knew I could fault Tim for a number of things, but his cooking wasn't one of them. The pasta was light and eggy, but it held up to the swirl of flavors coating it—sweet basil, rich walnuts, and the sharply nutty imported parmesan. After going back for seconds, I made a mental note to do some extra bicycling this week to work off all these luscious carbs.

I stepped over to the bar to offer Cal a plate, but he'd already eaten.

“I'll say one thing for the Iron Chef in there,” he said, pointing to the kitchen. “Pleasant he ain't, but the man can cook.”

“Oh, he's pleasant enough when he wants to be.” I narrowed my eyes at him but couldn't help a smile. “You just like goading him.”

“Ya got me there.” He cut a small piece of sandpaper, than wrapped it tightly around a pencil.

“What are you doing with that?”

He held it up. “This here's for sanding those tiny places in the wood.” He pointed to a floral carving in the mantel over the bar. “See where I filled in with the new wood on that rosette? That's gotta be smoothed fine before I can stain it.”

I went behind the bar and squinted at the spot where he was pointing. There was only a fine line where Cal had replaced the cracked piece. “Did you hand carve that?”

“Yup.” He took the dowel and lightly sanded the raw wood, blowing the dust away after each pass.

“And do you think you can match that stain?”

“Pretty near,” he said over his shoulder. “Might have to do some mixing to get it right.”

“I had no idea this was such precise work.” I walked back to the front of the bar and perched on a stool. “God knows what we're paying you.”

He gave me a sideways grin, and my face grew warm.

“No Saints cap today?” I asked.

“Nope. Don't need it at the moment.” He ran a hand through his hair, and it struck me that he was less shaggy than usual.

“Calvin Lockhart, you're sporting a new haircut.”

“Guilty as charged, ma'am.” He turned to face me and cocked his head. “No reason a man has to go 'round looking like he just rolled out of bed, now, is there?”

As he stood there in a snug black T-shirt with his arms crossed over a tightly muscled chest, it occurred to me that the sight of Cal rolling out of bed might not be such a bad thing. And despite the innocent tone in his voice, the look in his eyes suggested he was following the train of my impure thoughts. Come to think of it, he was more like the engineer.

“Well,” I said primly, “you look very nice.”

He nodded, but seemed to be enjoying a private joke.

I jumped down from the stool in an attempt to derail the conversation. “I should be getting back.”

“Hang on there, Victoria. Before you go runnin' off—I got a question.”

“Um, okay.”

He set his hands down on the bar and leaned toward me. “I been hearing so much about this boardwalk of yours. I don't suppose you'd like to take a turn with me up there later on?”

“You mean like a date?” I blurted out.

He grinned and shook his head. “You Northern girls aren't exactly subtle, are ya? Yes,
cher
. I mean like a date. You've heard of 'em, I take it?”

“Yes, I've heard of them.” So the enigmatic Cal Lockhart was asking me out. An unforeseen development, surely, but one I could live with. He was fun, he was good-looking, and he had been here the day of the murder, possibly a suspect, and an evening together would afford me the opportunity to ask him some questions. At the very least, he might have seen something the rest of us had missed. And I would be safe; there were few places more public than the Oceanside boardwalk.

I met his amused green stare. “But I won't be taking a turn with you—you'll be taking one with
me
. It's my boardwalk, after all. And I know all the best spots.”

He inclined his head and smiled. “I look forward to you showing them to me. How's six?”

“Six would be fine. We can meet outside the restaurant.”

“Sounds good. I'm looking forward to learning all about your ‘best spots.'” He turned back to his work, leaving me zero words and two pink cheeks.

As I walked back to the kitchen, I told myself that a date with Cal might help move the case forward. That a chance to talk to him alone might provide more information about his own background and explore the possibility that he knew Parisi. That it was all about the case.

So why was I so worried about what to wear?

I
arrived at a few minutes after six to find Cal waiting for me.
Good start, dude. You don't keep a girl waiting.
But the Cal who stood outside the Casa Lido this evening was a far cry from the guy who worked on the bar during the day. His hair was combed back off his face and tucked behind his ears. He wore a crisp tailored shirt in a faded blue that set off his tanned skin, a pair of dark jeans, and black canvas shoes. As I got closer, I noticed he wasn't wearing the earring, but instead sported a vintage wristwatch. His rolled-up sleeves were the only vestige of Cal-the-woodworker, and I couldn't help noticing he had forearms to rival Tim's.

“'Evening, Victoria.” He held out his hand, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it. His broad palm was warm, and my fingers slipped easily through his. When he leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek, he smelled so good, it disoriented me.

“Good evening,” I said, struggling to get my equilibrium back.

“You're lookin' lovely.”

“Thanks. I figured it was warm enough for a dress.” Of course it was. And the fact that it showed off my legs was entirely coincidental. He was still holding my hand when Tim emerged from the restaurant sweaty, disheveled, and still wearing a bandanna on his head. The contrast between him and the neatly turned-out Cal was not lost on either man, as they eyed each other up and down. And was it my imagination that Cal's grip on my hand tightened just the tiniest bit?

Tim planted himself in front of me. “Where the hell are you two going?”

“Not that it's any of your business, brother, but Victoria and I were just headed up to the boardwalk there for a bite to eat, maybe even go on a couple of them rides.” His accent got thicker by the word, and I knew he was trying to get Tim's goat.

I turned to Tim, expecting to bask in his disapproval, but to my shock (and a bit of dismay), he just smiled. “Oh,” he said, “that sounds like fun. But you might want to go easy on the rides.” He pointed to me. “The last time I took Vic on the Tilt-A-Whirl, she threw up all over my pants.” His smile grew wider. “You two have fun now.”

“We will,” I called out, trying to sound cheerful through gritted teeth.

We crossed the street and walked up the ramp to the boardwalk. “Listen,” I said, “about the throwing-up thing—”

“Hey, no worries about that, okay?” He pointed at his jeans. “They're washable. For future reference though, there are easier ways of separatin' a man from his pants.”

I glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow. “Pleasanter ones, too.”

He raised an eyebrow back. “Ms. Rienzi, I do b'lieve you've just said something naughty.”

“Mr. Lockhart, it's that mind of yours that's naughty.”

“I won't deny it. But right now it's my stomach that concerns me. What do you recommend?”

We stood at the top of the ramp, and I pointed to the right. “That way lies the best pizza outside of north Jersey. To the left resides a sausage sandwich that rivals my nonna's. They also make a nice fried calamari.”

“Squid and sausage it is,
cher
. Lead the way.” As we walked, I pointed out my favorite spots for saltwater taffy and frozen custard.

“I haven't been up here in a long time,” I said, “but I would know this place with my eyes closed.”

He grinned. “All you gotta do is follow the smell.”

“True enough. And if you inhale deeply right now, you should be picking up the fine scents of peppers, onion, and pork spiced with fennel, as we have reached our destination: Louie's Famous Subs.”

We ordered at the counter and brought our food to a table that faced the ocean. I dunked a piece of calamari
in Louie's fresh marinara and popped it in my mouth, savoring the competing textures of tender and crispy. “Ummm—oh, that was worth coming home for.”

Cal took a bite of his sausage sandwich and nodded vigorously. “And that was worth comin' north for.”

“Told you. Hey, what are you doing? Don't you like onions?”

I watched Cal carefully remove all the onions from his sandwich and push them to the side of his plate. “I like them fine, Victoria.” He smiled, and I admired the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “But not when I'm on a date with a lady.”

“Ahh, I see. You don't want to offend, should we find ourselves in close quarters. Is that it? I think that's a bit presumptuous. Don't you?” I took a hearty, onion-laced bite of my own sandwich for emphasis.

“Girl, I admire your spirit.” Cal held up his beer bottle in a toast and then forked the onions back into his roll.

As we finished our sandwiches and the rest of the calamari, Cal asked me questions about my writing. They were thoughtful and respectful, and he didn't ask me to name a character after him—a request I got frequently from friends and acquaintances.

“So tell me about the new book,” he said.

“Oh, yes, the new book. Well, it's a departure for me. I mean, I've branded myself as a mystery writer, and the series has been good to me—”

“But?”

I laughed. “You knew there was a ‘but,' right?”

“There usually is.” He took a long swig of his beer.

“It's just that I realized I wanted to write a different kind of book.” I looked out over the ocean. “It's what writers call ‘the book of your heart.' It's the one you're aching to write, even if nobody will publish it.”

“It's a tough business, ain't it?”

“My God, yes. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for my success. Me and Bernardo—that's my detective—we're a pretty formidable team.”

He grinned. “But.” He held out his beer to me, and I took a sip. “It sounds to me you got what your boy Bruce calls a ‘hungry heart.'”

“Yes, exactly!” I held my hand out for his beer again and drank more deeply this time. “But don't we all?”

He nodded. “Most of my work's in restoration, but I make furniture of my own. One-of-a-kind pieces. That's where the real love is for me.” He shook his head. “I appreciate a fine antique, and I love bringing a piece back to life. But for me it's the creation of something new.”

“I'd like to see some of that work. Do you have any of it up here with you?” It occurred to me that I had no idea where Cal lived. Was he renting a place in town? There was so much about this guy I didn't know. Beyond that, he'd charmed me into talking a whole lot about myself (not difficult) and revealed little about himself. Somehow I had to work the conversation back to the afternoon of the murder.

“No,” he said. “It's all in storage.”

“Do you sell them?”

“I sold one piece a couple of weeks ago. A garden bench. But for the hours I put into 'em, I normally have to charge too much to make a profit.” He shrugged. “In the end, it's not worth it.”

“Hmm. You need to take your stuff to Manhattan.” I put the last piece of calamari in my mouth. “You would be amazed at what the market can bear in the city.”

“Maybe.” He grinned and pointed out toward the pier. “So, we gonna take a turn on that Ferris wheel, or what?”

I looked over at the giant ride and my stomach fluttered. “I don't know. As Tim made clear earlier in the evening, I'm not a fan of rides.”

He caught my hand and lifted me to my feet. “Tell you what. You get up there and feel afraid, I'll jump down and stop the ride myself.”

“Oh, right.”

“C'mon,
cher
. It goes nice and slow. We'll get a great view of the water and plenty of time to talk. I promise I'll distract you.”

Time to talk
. Maybe time to talk about the murder and to find out if Cal had seen anything I'd missed.

To my chagrin, there wasn't much of a line for the Ferris wheel, and before I knew it, I was stepping shakily into an open seat. Cal slid in next to me, and the operator locked the bar into place. I gripped it with both hands.

Cal flashed me a sideways grin. “You okay there?”

I tightened my hands on the bar. “Uh, I'm good. Thanks.” I looked over at him with a frozen smile. “It's not—”

I'd been about to say
as bad as I thought it would be
, but then it was. We were lifted up and backward, and I had that familiar dropping sensation that I got on airplanes. The one that made me feel that I'd left my stomach somewhere on the ground and that I was flying away without it. My eyes darted for an escape, but Cal put an arm around my shoulders.

“It's okay. They're just raisin' the car to bring the next one up on the platform.” He assumed the slow, gentle tone one might use with a skittish horse, and I frowned at him.

“I said I'm fine, okay? So if you're worried about your p-pants—” The car jerked upward, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my God, what the hell are they doing?”

“Victoria, open your eyes. They're just filling up the cars, is all. Once they do that, we'll make a couple of nice, slow circles and be back down on the ground before you know it.”

I opened one eye and glared at him with it. “This ride is interminable.” My grip on the bar was so tight, I was losing feeling in my hands. I shifted in the seat, which set the car rocking and me wondering whether sausage and peppers had been such a good idea. At that moment we began our slow ascent, and my whole body stiffened. Cal tightened his arm around me, but I was too terrified to tell whether or not I enjoyed the feeling. “Uhh, you said you'd distract me. So let's t-talk.”

“You got it. But would you mind opening your other eye?” I could hear the amusement in his voice.

“Right. Both eyes open.”
Ha, that could be the theme of my investigation.
But
was
I keeping both eyes open? I glanced at Cal's hand on my upper arm. “You don't have to keep holding on to me, you know.”

He lifted his arm away from my shoulder and then patted my hands. “I can see you're doing fine. So what do you want to talk about?”

“Well . . . whoa, we're getting a little high here.” I swallowed, wishing I had Cal's cold beer in my hand. For all the good it would do me; to drink it, I'd have to let go of the bar. “So, uh, I told you about me, but you didn't tell me much about you. When did my parents hire you?”
Now, there's a friendly opening, Vic. That's sure to disarm him.

He frowned slightly and rubbed his chin. “Last month.”

“And before that where were you working?”

“The country club over to Belmont. They gave your daddy a reference.” He slid his eyes toward me. “And there's no outstandin' warrants for my arrest, in case you're wondering.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to sound like I was grilling you. It's just that—”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“Right. I mean, we only met about a week ago.” I looked down at my still-clenched hands; I'd have to pry them from this bar finger by finger. “And then we have this death at the restaurant.”
And you were there the day it happened
.

“Victoria, just what is it you are trying to ask me?” Cal crossed his arms over his chest. A defensive gesture? Or an angry one? We were about to crest the top of the ride, and I hazarded a look down. The sun was setting in swaths of orange and deep blue; the lights of the boardwalk twinkled below. It was so beautiful that for a few seconds, I wasn't afraid. Until the ride stopped with us at the very top of the wheel.

“Oh God,” I whispered, as afterimages of the boardwalk lights danced behind my eyelids.

Cal tapped my forehead. “Will you please open your eyes?”

“Uh, okay.” I looked at Cal's stern expression and fought the urge to close them again.

He leaned closer to me, his face inches from mine. “What's going on?”

“Nothing.” I sighed. “It's just that business has been falling off since Parisi's death, and Nonna's been bugging me to try to find out what happened before the season starts. Then my sister-in-law, Sofia, got involved, and well—”

“Oh, so you and Miss Firecracker been playin' detective. Is that it? Then let's get a couple of things straight right now. One: I'd never seen that Parisi guy before he came into the restaurant, and didn't know him from Adam. Two: I didn't notice a dang thing. You waited on him and your old boyfriend made his plate.
He's
the one you oughta be talking to.”

“C'mon, I didn't accuse you of anything!”

“Didn't you?” He reached out a finger and turned my face toward his. “Now, if I
were
a murderer, it'd be mighty stupid of you to be up here on this ride with me, wouldn't it?” His eyes were hard to read, as clouded as a piece of dark green sea glass.
Oh God, have I stepped out of my life right into the middle of a Hitchcock film?

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” I sputtered. “Don't be silly. I'm just wondering if there's something I missed.”

Before he could answer, the wheel creaked into motion and the car began to descend. My body stiffened as we dropped, and I gulped in a big breath of sea air. “Listen, Cal,” I said. “Are you absolutely sure that nobody else came into the restaurant while Tim and I were in the kitchen?”

“You mean the widduh, don't you?” He pointed. “You'd just love it if I said, ‘Oh, silly me. I just remembered that Anjelica came in and sprinkled poison all over her husband's salad.'”

“Cut it out.”

“I'm right, lady, and you know it.”

“Okay.” I admitted. “Maybe I wouldn't mind seeing Angie arrested for murder.”

“Because of her and the Iron Chef, right?”

My eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

“The Casa Lido's a small place,
cher
. Things get around.”

“And by ‘get around,' you mean Lori told you.”