Murder and Marinara (26 page)

T
he opening strains of “Thunder Road” sounded tinnily in my ear as I struggled awake. What was Bruce doing in my bedroom? Another second's consciousness told me my phone was ringing. By the time I found it, the call had gone to voice mail.

“I haven't heard from you, Victoria!” Nina LaGuardia sang out in the message. “I believe you owe me an interview. I'll be waiting for your call. And soon!”

I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes, and it all came flooding back. The closed sign on the restaurant. My reenactment and my encounter with Fredo, the preppie mobster. Mr. B's confession. The realization that something was wrong with Parisi's tea. I shook my head to clear it.

Today was Sunday, tomorrow Memorial Day. On Tuesday, Sutton would launch her formal investigation of Parisi's murder. I could probably put off Nina LaGuardia, but the Tiger Lady was another story. I had work to do and only a matter of hours to do it in. And I would start with the one person with access to Parisi's cup of tea: Calvin Lockhart.

I hadn't seen Cal since the night we'd gone up to the boardwalk. Since then, he had texted me once to say that he'd enjoyed himself and hoped we could do it again. But some instinct had told me not to respond, and I didn't hear from him after that. But it was time for another conversation with the mysterious Mr. Lockhart. Was that garden bench in Gemelli's yard a clue or just a stinky red herring? Had Cal been lying when he said he didn't know Parisi? And why had our digging into his past turned up so little? I would get him to meet me in a public place, the more crowded the better. I found his last message in my phone and texted a reply:

You up for a walk on the beach this morning? Meet me at the corner of Ocean and Seaside at 11.

•   •   •

Cal arrived at the appointed spot a few minutes before eleven. He wasn't exactly dressed for a date, but he wasn't wearing work clothes, either. I'd never seen him in shorts, and his tan, well-shaped legs were a pleasant surprise. But I couldn't afford to be distracted by Cal's physical charms.

He greeted me with a grin. “You didn't say anything about swimmin', Victoria, so I left my Speedo at home.”

“Probably a good move.” I found myself smiling back. “I'm glad you came.”

“You think I wouldn't?”

“I wasn't sure. C'mon, you're my guest today.” At the gate I flashed the seasonal badge Sofia had left me and paid for Cal. Though the beach was relatively quiet, it was filling up. If Cal were a threat to me, he'd have a hard time pulling anything with so many witnesses around. I stole a glance at him from the corner of my eye. What did I know about this guy?

He was probably in his late thirties; he'd lived in New Orleans until Katrina hit. He'd had a furniture business, which he'd lost in the storm. He claimed to be divorced and hadn't mentioned kids. Sofie's Internet search had turned up one old address in New Orleans, but nothing local. I didn't even know where the guy lived.
And yet here you are on a second date with him, Vic. And like it or not, he's a murder suspect.

“Victoria? Which way would you like to go?”

I jumped at the sound of his voice. “Oh. We can head down toward the rock jetty if you like. It's the fishermen's area.”

“I'm more of a lake fisherman, myself, but why not?” He slid a glance my way. “I was kinda surprised to hear from you this morning.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “I mean, I thought you'd had a pretty nice time up here at the boardwalk. But I didn't get the impression you wanted to repeat the experience.”

“You make it sound like a visit to the dentist.” I looked at his guarded expression and went with the truth. “I did have a nice time. But I don't know anything about you.”

He grinned and caught my hand. “Then let's remedy that right now.”

“Not so fast there, pardner,” I said, pulling my hand away. “How about we start with some conversation?”

“Fine by me.” He looked out over the horizon. “You know, I'm always surprised by how pretty your Jersey beaches are.”

“It's not the Gulf, but it's got its charms. C'mon. Let's walk along the shoreline.” I rolled up my jeans, took off my flip-flops, and tentatively reached out with my toes, but jerked them back again. “Oooh, definitely not for swimming yet. What are the beaches like in Louisiana?”

Cal splashed his hand in the surf and shook it dry. “Water's a lot warmer—that's for damn sure.”

“Do you miss the South?” My shoes in hand, I continued barefoot, relishing the feel of wet sand under my feet.

“Sometimes. I go back once or twice a year. Usually avoid hurricane season, though.”

“So have you established yourself up here?”

“I have. Been doin' fairly well, mostly through word of mouth. I guess my work's pretty specialized. Besides some of the historic work, I do some private jobs now and then.”

Like a garden bench, maybe?
“What about your furniture?”

“Like I told you, I did a piece for a guy a little bit ago.”

“Is his house nearby? I'd love to see it.”

Cal shrugged. “I dunno. I didn't deliver it. He hired somebody to come pick it up.”

It wasn't hard to imagine Gemelli hiring someone to pick up the furniture. But any number of wealthy guys would do the same thing. And I couldn't come out and ask him his customer's name, much as I wanted to. It would look too suspicious. And Cal was already looking a little skeptical. “So is your workshop around here?” I asked.

“My workshop's my garage. I got a place in Seaside.”

“Oh, so you're pretty close by.” I pointed to a mound of shiny black rock. “There's the jetty. The rocks can be a little slippery, so be careful.” I put my flops back on to start the climb, and Cal followed me. I turned to look back at him. “Have you done work for anybody else in the area?”

He frowned, his face puzzled. “Maybe one or two last year. Did you need references or something?”

Yes, but I can't very well ask for them. “Oh, no. I was just curious about your work.”

“About my work, huh?”

Definitely time to switch tacks. “So I haven't seen you around the restaurant much lately.”

“I haven't seen you, either. But I gotta work around the lunch and dinner hours.”

“You know that we're closed, right? But I'm hoping it's temporary.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. But I guess I'm not surprised after what happened.”

“No.” I watched the waves rise and break against the rocks, uncomfortably aware that Cal stood close behind me. Was my discomfort due to attraction? Fear? A little of both? It was time to get down off this jetty. I slid down from the rocks and Cal followed; I headed in the direction of my cottage.

We walked a bit in silence, and then I turned to face him. “Cal, there were only a couple of us there that day.”

“I guess I know which day you're talking about.” His voice was as cold as the seawater. “You're still playin' detective, aren't you?”

“I'm not playing anything,” I said.

“I don't know what this is about, Victoria, but it sure ain't about us getting acquainted.” He stopped abruptly and stood with his arms crossed, his green eyes hard. All his warmth and humor receded with the tides, and standing in front of me was an angry stranger.

“Look, I—”

“Look, nothing,” he interrupted. “I know what you're doing.” Gripping my wrist, he leaned in close to me. “You need to leave this alone, Victoria. Do
not
be mess-in' with this. I'd hate as hell to see you get hurt.”

I jerked my arm away, and he turned without another word. I watched him stalk down the beach, my insides churning like the waves. I thrust my hands into the cold water and pressed them against my face to stop the rise of panic. But I couldn't stop the question that had risen in my mind. Had Calvin Lockhart just threatened me?

There was only one thing to do. I hiked the last half mile down the beach to the cottage, stopping long enough only to jam a ball cap on my head and grab a pair of sunglasses. Gripping the car keys in my sweaty hand, I jumped in the Honda. There was no time to call Sofia, but I had to make one last road trip, this time alone.

As I sat in holiday traffic, I thought about Cal's parting words. Why had he been so suspicious? Why the flash of temper? Had he warned me off out of concern for me—or out of fear for himself? The traffic was at a crawl as I left town, and my anxiety intensified with each slow mile I put behind me. I was putting myself in harm's way yet again. Only this time wearing a lame disguise in broad daylight. To quote my brother, I was taking a helluva chance.

When I finally reached Shelter Point, I pulled the hat down low and crouched in my seat. Michael Gemelli's block was quiet, with most of its residents probably down on the beach. I cruised slowly past the house and parked at the end of the street. Once I was sure the street was empty, I walked rapidly down the sidewalk and cut through the yard next to his, once again avoiding the garage, edging ever closer to his grass. I wiped my wet palms on my jeans, conscious of the blood pounding in my ears and the breakfast threatening to come up any minute.

Stop thinking, Vic. Just go!
I sprinted across the yard and dove behind the bench. Breathless, I searched the back and arms of the bench, but there were no markings. I would have to crawl under it for a better look. I slid beneath it, blinking against the sun that was pouring through the slats of the bench. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out black printing in one corner of the seat. I shimmied closer, took a breath, and read exactly one word: “Sears.”

•   •   •

I spent the rest of the day holed up in the house with my outline for Isabella's book. I sat at my desk upstairs, alternating between scribbling ideas on index cards and looking absently out at the ocean.
You could write this book in New York
,
Vic. You don't have to stay here.
I sighed loudly. What
was
keeping me here? I was about to get dragged into Sutton's investigation, along with the rest of my family. The Casa Lido would probably not weather the media storm, and the best we could hope for was a fat check from the guy who wanted to open a Starbucks. I should get out now, before things grew ugly and before I got any closer to Tim.

Feeling foolish after that impulsive trip to Shelter Point, I had a sudden longing for the anonymity of the city. Where nobody knew my real name or my checkered history with Tim. Where nobody cared how often I visited and where cooking was beside the point. I stood up and paced my little bedroom. If I left now, it would be like quitting on a book before the last chapter was written. But the Mystery of the Poisoned Patron wasn't any closer to a solution, and I was no Bernardo. My detective was methodical and wise and experienced. He had blinding insights at crucial moments that always led to the solution. (Because I put them there, of course.)
So think, Vic. What would he do right now?
Go back over his notes to see if there was anything or anyone he'd missed? Maybe do more interviews of suspects? Make one of his pithy pronouncements about fate or human nature?

I grabbed my pocket notebook and wandered down to the kitchen, and over a dinner of cold pizza, I reviewed my notes. On the first page was the original list Sofia and I had made of those in the restaurant on the day of the murder. Tim, Cal, and Lori. And I'd added Mr. B. As I stared at the names, it struck me like one of Bernardo's mental lightning bolts. I'd interviewed everybody on the list except the one person who'd seen what was left of Parisi's lunch that day.

After a quick phone call, I changed into shorts and a T-shirt for the bike ride across town; there was no way I was getting back in a car. Lines of cars filled Ocean Avenue, narrowing the bike lane. A green sedan came up close behind me, and I swerved and hugged the curb. Though I tried to pay attention as I rode, my thoughts drifted to Cal again. The bench was just another blind alley, and I couldn't prove a connection between him and Gemelli or Parisi, but he
was
there.

But I'd reached my destination—Lori's street on the bay side of town, and I parked the bike in the driveway of her neat little Cape Cod.

“Hey, girl.” Lori met me at the door and motioned me inside. “We're in luck. Billy and Will are fishing, so it's just us.” She led me to the kitchen, where there were two glasses of iced tea waiting. “Took ya long enough to get here.”

“I know, LJ, and I wish this were a social call. You know the restaurant's closed, right?”

She nodded. “Your mom called me. I think it's just temporary, Vic.”

“Maybe. But Sutton will be calling us in after the holiday. It doesn't look good for Tim, and it doesn't look good for the Casa Lido either.” As if on cue, a few musical notes sounded on my phone—a text from Nina LaGuardia.
Where are u?!?!?!?
Turning off the phone, I dropped it into the bottom of my crowded purse. “Lori, would you mind going over the day he was murdered? Start from when you noticed his car outside.”

“Sure.” As she spoke, her account bore out my own memory of events. “Then you asked me to clear his table,” she continued. “And I brought his plate to the kitchen.”

“How did Parisi look when you took his plate? Was he sweating or anything?”

She shook her head. “Maybe a little pale, but that's all.”

“So in the time I got his bill ready, he was starting to feel sick.” But still drinking the tea, I remembered. “Let's go back to his plate for a minute. How did it look before you cleared it up?”

“Hang on.” She shut her eyes. “Okay. There's a lunch plate that's empty. On top of that is his dirty napkin and silver.” She frowned in thought. “Next to that is the gravy boat with the dressing in it. And on the other side of the plate—I think—is his teacup and saucer.” She opened her eyes. “That's it.”