Murder and Marinara (12 page)

Next up was Mikey G. I was unaccountably nervous as I made my way up the marble staircase to the penthouse suite that housed the Gemellis. The door was opened by a fiftyish man in a razor-sharp Italian suit. It was all I could do not to stroke his lapels.

“Ms. Reed?”

“Yes.” I held out my hand, praying he wouldn't connect Vick Reed with Victoria Rienzi. “Mr. Gemelli?”

He covered my hand with his. “Call me Michael, please. It's our pleasure to have you here.”

I fumbled in my bag for my ticket inside the penthouse—an advance copy of the latest Bernardo Vitali mystery,
Murder Della Casa
. “A small token of thanks,” I said, handing him the book.

“Wow,” he said. “It hasn't even come out yet. Am I the first kid on the block to get one of these?”

“You bet,” I said.
If you don't count
Kirkus,
Publishers Weekly,
and about a hundred book bloggers.

“Where are my manners? Please, come in.” Michael Gemelli ushered me into a sumptuously furnished apartment that looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel—all velvet drapes and plaster cherubs. In one corner of the room, lounging on a carved wood sofa, was Mikey G himself, texting madly and grinning to himself with each response. Michael Gemelli swept his arm across the room and held it out toward his pride and joy. “Ms. Reed, may I present the man of the hour, Michael Junior?”

The man of the hour didn't look up from his phone. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey, yourself,” I responded. I held out my hand. “I'm Vick Reed.”

As Mikey halfway shook my hand, I noticed that there was a lacquered shine on his fingernails that matched the one on his hair. His face was already tanned, and when he smiled, I squinted at its brightness. “Nice to meetch ya. I hear you wanna write a book about me.”

“Well, about you and other young people who find sudden fame on reality shows.” Oy. I didn't even believe myself. “I was hoping to do a nonfiction project, you know, to take a break from the mysteries.”

“Uh-huh.” Mikey looked back down at his phone.

His father frowned. “Michael Junior, please put that phone away and listen to Ms. Reed. She wants to write about you,” he said through his teeth. He shot me an apologetic smile. “You'll have to excuse him. He hasn't been the same since our producer passed away.” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “God rest his soul.”

Mikey raised one dark eyebrow—waxed, I noted—and tried to look sad. “Yeah, I'm all broken up about it.”

I'll just bet you are
,
I thought.
You
and
Daddy. Parisi was the only thing standing between you and a big pile of cash.
Gemelli Senior had used “our” when he spoke about the show; that career, not to mention that giant paycheck, belonged to both of them. But at least they'd given me an opening. I cleared my throat. “Yes, I heard about that on the news. It was fairly sudden, right?”

Michael Gemelli nodded. “A terrible thing.”

“It is,” I agreed. “Mikey, weren't you with him at that appearance in Oceanside Park?”

Mikey's lazy gaze moved from his phone to my face. When I caught the shrewd expression in his eyes, I knew this was no Fifi I was dealing with. “Yeah, me and Feef were there.” He lifted one broad shoulder, and as he moved, the muscles in his neck rippled; his pecs and arms were well-defined. This dude spent a lot of time at the gym. If he were going to kill somebody, it's a safe bet he'd do it with his fists, or possibly a bullet. Slipping something into Parisi's “special water,” just didn't seem his style. I looked over at his father. While it was hard to imagine Gemelli Senior getting his hands dirty, he might just hire somebody else to do it. A ripple of anxiety echoed my fear from the previous night. What had I gotten myself into?

“So he seemed okay when you were with him?” I asked.

Mikey shrugged again, and his father frowned. “Miss Reed, aren't you here to talk to Michael Junior about a book project? Why are you so interested in Gio Parisi?”

Uh-oh. “Well, I . . .”

Before I could finish, Mikey struck. “C'mon, Dad, don't you know who she is?” He swept one manicured finger across the screen of his smartphone and then held it up for us to see. Captured in the window was a screen shot of my interview with Nina LaGuardia, just at my “no comment” moment. “She says she heard about it on the news.” Mikey sneered. “She
was
the news.”

Michael Gemelli slowly turned his head from the phone to my face. “Wait a minute. You're connected to that restaurant where Gio died.”

“You could say that. My parents own it.” I tried to smile, which was hard to do with trembling lips. “Small world, huh?”

Gemelli Senior's voice was as rough and gravelly as our unpaved parking lot. “What are you
really
here for, Ms. Reed?”

My mind racing to come up with some kind of explanation, I was (in a change for me) struck dumb. There was no good reason to be here. There was no book. There was just me playing amateur sleuth, and doing a bang-up job of it, apparently.

“Wait a minute—I know what this is about!” He shook his finger at me, and I winced, waiting for the inevitable. Did he think I suspected his precious son of murder? What might he do, or more likely,
have done
to me in response? My mouth went dry.

“You're doing research. And not for a book about Mikey, but for one of your mysteries.” There was menace in his voice, enough to make me break a sweat in that air-conditioned room and to wonder where
he
was on the day Parisi died. “My son's life is not fodder for one of your books. And now I'd like you to leave.”

He held the door open, and I couldn't escape fast enough. Better to have him think I was researching a mystery than searching for a murderer.

As Mikey G followed me to the hallway, he flashed me a wolfish grin and leaned close enough for me to smell his wintergreen Tic Tacs. “Whatever you might think, Miss Rienzi, I'm not some dumb guido,” he said. “I just play one on TV.”

•   •   •

As I drove home from Bay Head, I tried to process all I had learned, but it was all what my mother calls a
giambotta
,
which is informal Italian for “great big mess.” Thinking I would do better to talk it through with Sofie, I turned my attention to my second job: identifying those herbs I'd taken from the pantry. And as I turned down Ocean Avenue and hit my hometown, I knew exactly who could help me.

“Victoria!” Iris Harrington greeted me at the door of her shop, the Seaside Apothecary, which contained all manner of things herbal and organic. It had been an old pharmacy and still had racks of wooden shelves that Cal would appreciate. The store smelled medicine-y and flowery at the same time, and Iris—with her peasant blouse, long skirt, and leather sandals—fit perfectly in her surroundings. She still wore her hair long, as she had in high school, only now it was streaked with gray. Fresh-faced and devoid of makeup, she was an attractive woman, though Sofie was itching to get her hands on her for a makeover. Iris gave me a quick hug, and I caught a whiff of her patchouli scent.

Her blue eyes were bright as she looked me over. “It's so good to see you back. You look wonderful. So you're here to work on a book?”

I grinned. “Gotta love the Oceanside grapevine. Yeah, I'm here to work on a book, do some research. You know.”

“So, is there something you need? Still getting those tension headaches of yours?”

“Yes, and yes, but this is actually part of my research.” I pulled the herbs from my bag and laid them out on the counter. “Do you think you can identify these for me?”

Iris took a small leaf from one of the packets and rubbed it between her fingers. “This one's easy. It's dried sage. A nice savory herb.” She grinned at me. “I'm surprised you didn't figure that out for yourself,” she said.

I probably would have recognized the sage if I'd been willing to put it close to my nose. “My grandmother would be ashamed of me,” I said. “She makes a butter-and-sage sauce for her ravioli.”

She opened another packet and sniffed. “This one's raspberry leaf. Some people make infusions from it or even mouth rinse. It has astringent properties.”

“Could somebody get sick from it?” I asked. “Or even die?”

Iris laughed. “No. Pregnant women drink it. I think it's pretty safe.” She pointed to the third packet. “And that last one is lovely lemon verbena. It dries nicely and has a wonderful scent. In Europe they make tisanes with it to treat colds. Oh, and it's a natural insect repellent.”

“Would somebody use these in something like, say, salad dressing?”

She frowned. “The sage, possibly. But it's a pungent herb; it's often used with meats or in stuffings.”

I wrapped the packets back up and slipped them into my bag. “So none of this stuff would kill anybody?”

“Goodness, no. I suppose in large amounts they might make someone a little sick, but I don't think any of these are toxic unless someone had an allergy.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No, actually, that's what I thought.” Relief coursed through me; I could be fairly sure that nothing in that pantry killed Parisi. And while I never seriously considered her a suspect, it let my grandmother off the hook, too.

She cocked her head and grinned. “If you're trying to kill somebody off with a plant, there are better ways to go.”

“Such as?”

“Such as
Phytolacca
, also known as pokeweed; the roots are toxic. And foxglove, of course, also known as
Digitalis purpurea
. Enough of that will stop your heart. Oh, and oleander; there's a nasty one. In some places you're not even allowed to plant it. Now, some people think holly berries can kill you, but they mostly just make you sick . . .”

I only half listened as Iris talked. While I was relieved the herbs were harmless, I was now left with more questions. If some toxic substance caused Parisi's fatal heart attack, how was it delivered? Until those test results came in, we had only conjecture and supposition.

I left Iris's shop feeling a bit better until my phone rang. I recognized the number, even though I'd deleted it from my contacts ages ago.

“Vic,” Tim said. “Can you stop by the restaurant for a minute?”

“I'd rather not; I'm trying to avoid my grandmother.”

“It's important. It's about last night.” At this moment, last night felt like an experience glimpsed through the mirrors at Tillie's Funhouse: distant, distorted, and a little nightmarish. I didn't particularly want to relive it. “What about last night?”

“I'd rather talk in person. Just get over here, okay? Come in through the back.”

It was good advice. I parked as far from the door as I could, hoping I wouldn't see my grandmother—or anyone else in my family, for that matter. Tim was waiting outside for me.

He strode over and took my elbow. “C'mere. I want to show you something,” he said, and led me to the Dumpster at the corner of the lot.

“You want to show me the garbage?” I wrinkled my nose. Few odors were as pungent as restaurant refuse.

Tim lifted the top and pointed. “Look.”

I stood on tiptoe and leaned forward. “I don't see anything.”

“That's just it,” Tim said. “It's empty. And we don't have pickup until Monday.”

“I don't understand.”

“The garbage is gone. That means whoever was here last night took it.”

I shook my head. “That's impossible. The police would have taken it on Tuesday.”

Tim looked around and lowered his voice. “They only took the kitchen trash.”

“How do you know that?”

“I talked to Danny, who probably shouldn't have talked to me. The OPPD screwed up, plain and simple. I saw the bags myself; there's been trash in there all week—until today.”

“Trash that might have held evidence,” I said.

“Maybe evidence that could have proved me innocent if this guy was murdered.” Tim sighed. “Too bad I didn't think of it till now. Now that it's gone.”

And probably destroyed, if that's why the intruder was rummaging around the restaurant last night.
I shivered at the memory. Looking at Tim's worried face, I was fairly sure he wasn't a murderer. But how would we ever prove it?

I
sabella stared at the young man's open collar, the white fabric a stark contrast against the tanned skin of his neck and chest. Shyly, she lifted her eyes to his face—

I groaned. At what point had my book become a romance novel? The vibration of my cell phone was a welcome interruption. Until I saw who it was.

“Vic! How's the sleuthing going down there? Guess you haven't had much time to work on the new novel, huh?”

“Don't sound so cheerful, Josh. I
was
working on it. Until you interrupted me, that is.”

“Oh, I'll let you get back to it. But I thought you should know that I talked to Sylvie.”

I took a quick swig of cold coffee to fortify myself. Much as I adored my editor, I stood a little in awe of her. “And?”

“Well, she's happy that you're doing this book-of-the-heart project.” He paused. “But she's also happy about Bernardo's sales. She thinks the series still has traction, and she's worried you won't have time to promote the new release.”

“Josh, I haven't forgotten my obligation to Agatha Press or to Sylvie. Or to you, for that matter. I'll do as much promo as you need me to do on the new book.”
Sure I will. In between solving a murder and getting my family's business back on its feet, as well as dodging my old boyfriend
and
a guy who might be interested in becoming my new one.

“You don't have to convince me, Vic,” Josh said a shade too heartily. “I figure it's only a matter of time before you'll be back in New York. How're things going with that grandmother of yours, by the way?”

“Peachy. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to work.”

“Sure, absolutely. So did ya figure out who killed Parisi yet?”

“No, Josh. I'm gonna let the police work on that one.”

“Ha! You won't be able to help yourself. Listen, you know he wouldn't budge on the contract talks, right? Think one of the kids from the show knocked him off?”

He had hit upon one of our theories, and it occurred to me that Josh might be a valuable source of information. “Hey, Josh? Do you still have that connection at ARC Entertainment?”

“You mean Chaz? The guy who handles TV talent?”

“Yes. Could you find out what he knows about Harvey Rosen?”

“Parisi's partner?” Josh's voice took on an excited tone. “You think he killed him, don't you?”

“Hold your horses there, dude. I don't think anything. I'm just looking for some information.”

“Sure you are. And if that information happens to give you the plot of the next Bernardo mystery—”

“Don't get any ideas, okay? Yes, I'm looking into this Parisi thing. The restaurant is losing business, more every day. I've got to find out what happened to this guy. Could you please talk to Chaz? Find out whatever you can about Rosen's relationship with Parisi and especially his relationship with Parisi's wife.”

“You got it, Vic. I'll call you as soon as I know something. Now I'll let you get back to your writing.”

But as I ended the call, I realized there would be no more work on the book today. I had to get over to the restaurant. My mom and dad had called the staff in for a meeting this morning, and Nonna would certainly be there. It was time to face the Italian music. And if I knew my grandmother, I'd be hearing the entire opera.

•   •   •

When I got there, Massimo, Tim, and Nando were already seated at the family table, espresso cups in front of each of them. A platter of pastries occupied the center of the table; I could smell the almond paste from fifty paces. On the plate were macaroon cookies studded with pignoli nuts, several kinds of biscotti, and shell-shaped
sfogliatelle
filled with sweetened ricotta and dusted with sugar.

Mouth watering, I sat down across from the men; Massimo poured me a coffee and handed me a plate. I took a
sfogliatelle
and bit into it with a satisfying crunch and a puff of powdered sugar.

“Umm. My first taste of pastry from Roberto's. Now I know I'm home.”

Massimo lifted his cup. “And welcome you are,
cara
. Especially now.”

I nodded my head toward the kitchen. “They here yet?”

Tim grinned. “What's the matter, Vic? Can't face Nonna?”

“Very funny. Like you aren't afraid of her, too.” I took a sip of the hot, strong espresso, savoring the bitter aftertaste.

“Don't matter to me.” He shrugged. “I've been on her S-list for months.” His mouth lifted in a sneer. “Right now her boy is
Cal-vino
.”

“Jealous, Tim?” I slid my eyes toward his, but he just scowled.

Nando, on the other hand, was enjoying himself immensely. He shot me a toothy smile. “Tim and Cal, Miss Victor—they are
aceite
and
agua
.”

“Yeah, and I know who the oily one is.” Tim leaned across the table and spoke in a low tone. “I don't trust the guy, Vic. We don't know a thing about him. And he was here that day.”

Massimo and Nando exchanged a look; I shook my head at Tim, but he refused to get the message. “He's as phony as that bayou accent he lays on so thick, and for all we know, he had a connection to Parisi—”

“
Who
had connections to Parisi?”

I jumped at the sound of my grandmother's voice. She sure had a way of sneaking up on people. “Another producer on the show, Nonna,” I said, avoiding her eyes and marveling at what an adept liar I'd become.

She snorted in my general direction, which was probably the best I would get until she got over finding me and Tim in the pantry. And it was better than calling me a
puttana.
She came into the dining room followed by Danny and my parents—and one other person. “I've asked Calvino to join us,” Nonna announced. “He is on staff here now, and what we decide affects him as well.”

From Cal's impassive expression, it was difficult to tell how much he had overheard. But he did make a point of sitting next to me at the table. He looked across at Tim and nodded. “Where ya at, brother?”

Tim's face tightened. “I'm not your brother, dude.”

Cal held up his palms and grinned. “Just tryin' to be polite . . .
dude
.”

While he and Tim threw each other dark looks, I got to enjoy an entirely new sensation—two men fighting for my attention. My mom kissed Tim on the cheek and made a point of ignoring Cal, probably because Cal was now in my grandmother's favor. Danny lifted an eyebrow and shook his head, and my dad seemed blissfully unaware of the family undercurrents flowing around him. I wondered if he knew about the broken wine bottle left in the pantry.

My grandmother folded her hands on the table and looked around at the rest of us, her eyes hard behind her glasses. I took another gulp of coffee, wishing it was Frank's Chianti instead. “I have called you here, today,” she began, “because the Casa Lido is in trouble. Our receipts are pitiful. Even our regulars have stopped coming.” She waited to let the words sink in. “And this will continue”—she slowly turned her gaze upon me—“until we know who killed that
cafone
.”

“But, Nonna, I—” I began.

“You what?” My mother frowned. “You're not getting mixed up in this, are you?”

“She is merely gathering information, Nicolina,” Nonna said.

“You will do no such thing, young lady.” My mother's curls shook in indignation as she spoke.

“For one thing, Mom, I'm thirty-three years old, and I'm not—”

“I don't care how old you are.” How often had my mother spoken these words? I stifled a sigh as she went on, her volume increasing with every word. “There was an intruder here the other night. You could have been injured. Or worse.”

“Ma, calm down,” Danny broke in. I winced, because I knew exactly what was coming. Did men never learn?

“Don't you dare tell me to calm down, Daniel. I am still your mother.” She pointed a bright pink fingernail in his face for emphasis. “You are not to drag your sister into this investigation. Do you understand me?” As she went on lecturing him, I caught a sly glance from Cal and fought the urge to smile. Instead, I stuffed a chocolate biscotti in my mouth.

When my mother finally finished, Danny sighed. “Ma, you know I wouldn't compromise the investigation, and I'd never put Vic in danger.”

“I wouldn't have let anything happen to her, Mrs. R,” Tim said.

My mother rewarded him with a bright smile. “I know that, Tim. But the fact remains that someone was in this restaurant. Someone rifled through the kitchen.”

And someone stole the garbage
. I didn't feel the need to share that with the family, though I had told Danny.

My dad patted my mother's hand. “Baby, you worry too much.” He picked up a pastry and waved it around. “You
all
worry too much.” He turned to Danny. “Those results will be in soon, right? They'll prove that nothing he ate killed him, and we can all go back to normal.”

“In a perfect world, Dad,” I said. “Look, this has hurt us; there's no denying it.”

Massimo crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “I cannot have my reputation sullied.”

Tim groaned. “You weren't even here, Massi. Anyway, it's
my
reputation on the line, isn't it? I'm the one who served him. I'm—”

“Basta!”
my grandmother shouted, startling all of us except Cal, who had the same bemused look on his face. “Quiet, all of you!” She held up one knobby finger. “Our season begins in a week.
One week
.” She looked around the table at each of us. “I don't care what those test results are—the Casa Lido will be keeping its doors open.” She shifted a beady glance in my direction. “Now, if someone was to find out what really happened to Mr. Big Shot Television Producer in the meantime—”

“Mama,” my mom interrupted, “I will not have Victoria mixed up in this.”

“Was I speaking to you, Nicolina? No. I was speaking with my granddaughter; was I not?”

“But she's
my
daughter!”

As the two women went back and forth, I watched Cal's eyes slide from one to the other and then back to me. Was he checking out my gene pool? If so, he was probably finding some pretty murky water that would douse any spark of interest he might have for me. While I tried to figure out whether I cared or not, the front door swung open.

“Vic,” Sofia called, “you have to see what I found! Oh my God. It's—”

Danny got to his feet and looked his wife straight in the eye. “It's what, Sofia?”

She skidded to a halt about halfway across the dining room, and her eyes locked with his. “Oh . . . hey, Danny.”

Though my brother's expression was stern, I knew he was fighting the impulse to head straight across the room to his wife. Instead, he jammed his hands into his pockets and spoke softly. “Was there something you needed to talk to Vic about?”

Sofia never even looked my way. I watched in admiration as she lifted one eyebrow in my brother's direction, her mouth curling into a slight smile. She dropped her voice to a caressing tone. “Just girl talk, baby. You know.”

The air between them was charged. Sofia stepped toward him, and Danny took a quick breath. Any moment now, he would take her into his arms and they'd get back together, just as we all wanted. I caught a look at my mother's frowning face. Well, maybe not all of us.

But instead of pulling her into a clinch, he held his hand to stop the oncoming Sofia traffic. “Don't even try it, sweetheart,” he said. “You wouldn't be playing detective, by any chance, would you?”

Sofia lifted her chin and gave a little sniff. “What I do is no longer your business.”

My grandmother stood up. “Sofia,
mia
, would you like to join us?”

“No, thank you, Nonna.” She came over to the table and raised her hand in a little wave. “Hi, everyone.” I saw her steal a look at my mother, whose grim expression said it all. Then her eyes landed on Cal. As his amused glance met hers, I found myself making a silent wish:
Please don't find my sister-in-law attractive.
“You must be Cal,” Sofia said.

He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Pleasure, ma'am.”

Ma'am?
Now, that was encouraging.

Sofia grinned and nodded her head in my direction. “I've heard about you.”

“Have ya now?” He sat back down and shot me a sly look.

Good going, SIL. Remind me to kill you later.

Danny took the long way back to his seat, pointedly avoiding Sofia. My mother smiled in approval and then sent Sofia a silent message—
Time to go
.

I caught Cal's eye across the table and he winked. “You have quite an interesting family, Victoria.”

“You have no idea,” I whispered back.

•   •   •

By the time I could extricate myself from the family meeting, Sofia was already finishing her second class of the day. After bidding her young charges good-bye, she threw a towel around her neck and motioned me to her office.

“So what happened there, Mata Hari?” I said. “I thought you'd have my brother eating out of your hand.”

“I will—just give me time. Anyway, it's your mother I'm worried about.”

“She'll come around. She's protective of Danny, and she doesn't like that Nonna's taking your side. They're doing the same thing with Tim and Cal at the moment.”

“Let me guess—your mom's on Team Cal and Nonna's backing Tim.”

I shook my head and circled my finger in the air. “Other way around. Don't forget, Tim besmirched my honor in the pantry.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You need a freakin' scorecard with that crazy family of yours.”