From Mangia to Murder (A Sophia Mancini ~ Little Italy Mystery) (7 page)

It would have been an open and shut case, except for the fact that they each had a different version of the truth.

“Stop, Orellia, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

Sophia’s Zia Orellia turned to face her younger sister. “Hush, Corella. You’re the one that has got it all wrong. I assure you, Captain, that my version is far more accurate than my sister’s. Don’t you agree Sophia?”

She almost issued her standard ‘I can’t get in the middle of this argument’ disclaimer that she relied on whenever her relatives wanted to drag her in as referee, but she stopped herself. She’d learned long ago that the best way to navigate treacherous waters was to stay on the shore. She was curious to see if the police captain would sink or swim if he ventured in.

“Thank you both. Ladies, I have all I need at present. You’ve both been tremendously generous with your information.”

Sophia darted a quick glance in his direction. If he was being sarcastic, her aunts didn’t appear to notice.

“Would you care for something to drink? Cappuccino perhaps?” Orellia asked.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Sophia answered.

“We meant the captain, cara, not you.”

Now he looked downright smug. Sophia would have been annoyed except that she noticed Sergeant O’Brian slowly guiding her Uncle Nunzio over to the table. She smiled. If Zio Nunzio was true to form, Captain McIntyre would get his.

“Nothing to drink for me, ladies. Thank you.”

“Nonsense.” Zia Orellia helped her sister to her feet. She frowned down at him. “You have to want
something
to eat.”

The Captain shook his head and lifted a hand in refusal.

“But you’ve obviously been playing baseball all day,” Orellia insisted, making him seem like an eight-year-old boy instead of a very grown man. “You don’t know what you want. We’ll bring you some biscotti. You like biscotti, don’t you?”

“Of course he does. What a question,” Corella scolded her sister. “Come, we’ll bring you some to try. Then you can tell us you’re not hungry.”

Arm-in-arm, they went off toward the sweets table. Sophia couldn’t help but smile. Murder didn’t worry her aunts as much as a man with an empty stomach. To them, that was the true crime.

“And who is this, Sergeant O’Brian?”

“I want to know what my rights are,” shouted Zio Nunzio.

Sophia made a mental note to talk to her cousin Umberto about his father’s hearing aids.

“Please sit down, sir.” Sergeant O’Brian held a chair out.

After Zio Nunzio was settled, Captain McIntyre leaned forward and spoke in a slightly raised voice. “We just would like to know what you saw, sir.”

Zio Nunzio scoffed. “Never mind what I saw. Let’s talk about what I’m seeing.” He pointed to Sophia. “Why are you interrogating this poor girl?”

“We’re not interrogating Miss Mancini. You needn’t worry on that account.”

Zio Nunzio carried on as if he hadn’t heard, which he probably hadn’t. “Just because she threatened the chef, doesn’t mean she did him in.”

Sophia groaned. “Oh, Zio, not that again.”

“Threatened him, did she? Tell me more about that.”

“Zio,” Andrea shouted from the other side of the room, “chiedi loro quanti agenti di polizia sono italiani?”

Uncle Nunzio didn’t miss a beat. He looked at Captain McIntyre. “How many of your police officers are Italian?”

The captain stared in surprise at the change in subject. Sophia shot a look of annoyance at Andrea but he only grinned in response. She’d give him an earful later but this wasn’t the time or place.

“McIntyre is your name?” Nunzio turned around in his chair and snapped his fingers at Sergeant O’Brian. “Young man. Yes, you. What’s your name?”

“Sergeant O’Brian, sir.”

“O’Brian. McIntyre. Humph. No Italian cops on the Harrison Heights police force?”

Sophia felt almost sorry for the police captain, because Uncle Nunzio was just warming up. Perhaps she should put a stop to the lecture that she knew was coming. After all, Captain McIntyre had saved her from Mrs. Featherstone. She did owe him.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Nunzio beat her to it.

“I wish to file a complaint with your police captain.”

“I am the police captain, sir.”

“Dressed like that?” Uncle Nunzio pointed to his baseball uniform. “So, it’s all fun and games being a police officer, is it?”

Sophia leaned in closer so that the captain could hear her but her uncle couldn’t.

“Is it really necessary to question my uncle right now?”

“Did you threaten Vincenzo?” he shot back.

“If I did, do you really want to hear Nunzio’s version?”

A half-smile flashed across his face, but it was gone as quickly as a shooting star.

An hour and a half later, they were sitting in an almost deserted restaurant, a cup of steaming coffee in front of each of them. Eugene had been given permission to brew a pot of coffee for the police officers who were still there. She could see Angelo standing out front talking with a few officers he knew from his days on the force. Everyone else had been allowed to go home.

Sophia stirred her coffee, her mind awhirl with questions. She felt frustrated and disappointed listening to the captain’s conversations. How foolish. What had she expected? To see bloodstained clothing? To hear a confession?

“I don’t think we learned anything from all of those interviews.”

“We?” The captain took a long sip of his coffee, his eyes not leaving hers.

His Irish brogue was attractive, warm and comfortable. His tone of voice, however, left much to be desired.

“Okay, I’ll speak for myself then. With everyone giving us a different version of what happened, it’s impossible to make sense of it all.” She sighed. “I didn’t learn one useful piece of information. Don’t tell me that you did either.”

“I did indeed.”

That was all he said, his silence daring her to ask. Her pride and her curiosity battled it out for a moment. Curiosity won.

“And what was that, Captain McIntyre. Or can’t you tell me?”

“You heard for yourself, Miss Mancini. Everyone claimed to have seen dozens of others go into the kitchen. That means that someone here went into the kitchen, murdered Vincenzo, and came back out again knowing that no one would find it out of the ordinary.”
Sophia’s eyes widened. “You mean the murderer just walked in there as bold as brass?”

“Very likely.”

“But there’s a back door in the kitchen,” she protested. She desperately didn’t want to believe that someone at the party was capable of murder. It wasn’t possible. “Surely someone could have come in that way.”

“It’s possible, yes, but unlikely. When you went in the kitchen, you used the door from the dining room?”

“Yes, of course. Everyone did.”

“Did Vincenzo turn around when you entered through that door?”

She thought back for a moment. “No. He didn’t. He was bent over a stack of papers--the books I’d assume. He didn’t turn around. He just yelled at me to go away.”

“And don’t you think that if someone had entered the alley door he’d have likely looked up to see who it was?”

It was so patently obvious when he put it like that. Vincenzo had been stabbed in the back, which meant someone must have snuck up on him. He was a large man capable of fending off almost anyone, but there didn’t appear to have been a struggle. Or else he’d seen who it was and, perceiving no threat, turned his back on them.

A fatal mistake. Her horror at the realization must have shown on her face.

“You’re right to be taking this seriously. Murder is grim business.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, his words still intense. “I don’t want to hear one word that you’re involved in this in any way, Miss Mancini. Do you understand me? This is a police matter.”

Sophia sat back in her chair.

“As you are aware, Captain McIntyre, my brother and I are partners in a private detective agency.”

“You don’t have a client with an interest in the matter, do you?”

Her silence answered for her.

He stood. “Mind my word then, and don’t let me hear you have asked one person even one question about this murder. Not one.”

There was an unspoken agreement amongst the women in Little Italy that no widow should mourn alone.

How exactly this would work in Stella Moretti’s case, Sophia had no idea. She dug through her dressing table drawer in search of her rosary. How had Stella reacted when she’d been told of her husband’s murder? Doubtless she was delighted to be a widow, but it still must have come as a shock to hear that Vincenzo had been murdered.

Or had it?

Had Angelo really seen Stella at the restaurant? Or was his memory confusing someone else with Vincenzo’s wife? If Stella had been there, why hadn’t she come to say hello? Or had she been there to see Vincenzo?

Sophia slammed the drawer shut. Was it a sin to not have a clue where your rosary was? Probably. A vision of Sister Adelaide, her fifth grade teacher, flashed before her eyes. She could hear Sister’s disapproving voice as clearly as if it were yesterday, ‘If you even have to ask, Sophia, you may safely consider it a sin.’

Who had told Stella about the murder?

She’d have to keep her ears open and see what she could learn at Mass.

A knock on the bedroom door startled her. She opened it to find Angelo neatly turned out in a navy blue suit.

“Sis, we’ve got a problem.”

“What is it? Can’t find your rosary?”

“Very funny.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out two, one his, one hers.

She took hers and slipped it in her dress pocket. “Thank you. What’s the matter?”

“It’s Luciano. He’s got a fever.” He held up a hand. “Don’t panic. He’s probably just warm, but I don’t want to drag him to Mass if he’s not feeling well. I’ve got to find someone to watch him.”

She didn’t have to ask why he didn’t ask Grandpa. Grandpa never, ever missed a wake, a rosary, or a funeral. Friend, enemy, or stranger, it didn’t matter. Grandpa was there.

“I think you’d better stay here with him in case Mrs. Featherstone drops by. Let me come take a look at him.” She grabbed her black lace headscarf, black gloves, and handbag, and followed him downstairs.

Luciano had only a slight fever.

“I think he’ll be fine if you keep him warm and full of liquids. I’ll ask Francesca to come by after Mass to see if you need help.” She reached down and kissed her nephew’s forehead. “Be a good boy for Papa.”

“What about our appointment with...ummm...” Angelo snapped his fingers. “Wait, don’t tell me. I know this--”

“Frankie Vidoni.” Sophia pulled on her gloves. “I’ll go for the both of us.”

“I don’t like the idea of you going there alone. Can’t we reschedule?”

“No chance. If he wants to hire us, then we need to say yes. Today.” She reached down and tucked a blanket around Luciano, who was already drifting back to sleep. She lowered her voice. “We’re running out of time.”

Uncertainty paraded across Angelo’s face. He looked down at his sleeping son, and then back at her. “That’s one thing I can’t forget. Okay, go see Vidoni but take someone with you. Ask Andrea or--”

“Andiamo,” their grandfather called from the front door. “Come, Sophia. We want to get good seats.”

***

Vincenzo’s salvation should have been foremost on Sophia’s mind during Mass, but all she could think about was his assassinio. Who plunged that knife into Vincenzo’s back?

She knelt and tried to focus on the priest’s voice. Concentrating during Mass had always been hard for her. She’d always blamed the Latin. Today she blamed the murder.

It wasn’t as if death was new to her. As part of a big Italian-American family, she understood the cycle of life. Babies came into the family, welcomed with joy. Older relatives passed away, sent on with prayerful tears petitioning for their eternal reward. And then there had been the war. The last five years had taken far too many young men from among them, but those were lives given in noble sacrifice. Murder was anything but noble.

When the priest asked the parishioners to bow their heads in prayer, Sophia stole a glance around. As Vincenzo’s widow, estranged or not, Stella sat up front and center amongst her relatives. This wasn’t Vincenzo’s funeral Mass, but it was the start of days of mourning that would culminate in his burial. The shock, or novelty, of Vincenzo’s death was the reason St. Catherine’s pews were unusually full.

Did Vincenzo have a family? She couldn’t remember hearing about one. Perhaps they weren’t up front with Stella, but sitting elsewhere in the church. But if they were present they were doing an amazing job of hiding their grief. As far as she could see, no one was crying, sobbing, distraught, or even mildly disturbed.

Sophia let her eyes roam over those assembled in prayer. Something wasn’t right. Someone was missing. Where was Eugene? As Vincenzo’s business partner, wouldn’t common courtesy dictate that he be here? Perhaps he was sitting toward the back. She turned around, her eyes scanning the parishioners behind her.

She spotted Eugene in the back pew. He sat alone, his eyes staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking about right now.

She turned to look over her other shoulder and did a double take when she spotted a single figure standing at the back of the church. It took her only a second to recognize Captain McIntyre. Instead of a baseball or police uniform, he wore a dark suit. He stood slightly in the shadows, but she’d know those broad shoulders anywhere. When he nodded in her direction, Sophia spun back around and bowed her head, feeling caught in the act.

What was Captain McIntyre doing here? St. Catherine’s was a predominately Italian-American parish and she doubted he’d come all this way to receive Holy Communion.

When Mass was over, Sophia made her way out of the church and lingered on the steps, waiting for her chance to express her condolences to the widow. When it was her turn, she hugged Stella.

“I’m sorry.” The words seemed inadequate, but what
did
one say to a woman who just lost the man she hated?