The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (18 page)

He lifted a shoulder. “Coulda been stolen,
cher
. A diamond of that size would bring somebody a pile of money.”

“That’s possible,” I said. “It’s . . . quite a rock.” Only it wasn’t a diamond. I had spotted that emerald from across the Belmont Club kitchen the night I met Elizabeth; there was no way it could be confused with a diamond. But maybe Cal was mistaken. Or maybe his memory was faulty. Or maybe he’d never seen Elizabeth Merriman’s ring at all. Had Cal worked at the Belmont Club or hadn’t he?
I should ask Dad about his references
. I felt guilty for even thinking such a thing;
for all I knew, Elizabeth had any number of rings. Still, there were things about Cal that didn’t add up. Like a brand-spanking-new BMW, for example.

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said.

He wiped his mouth on his napkin and smiled. “Sorry I can’t be more help.” He’d finished his burger but pushed the fries to the side.

I pointed to his plate. “Are you going to waste those tasty fries?”

“Gotta watch my waistline,” he said, patting his stomach.

“Please, you don’t have a spare ounce on you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “So you’ve noticed.”

“I suppose you could say that.” My face grew warm, the result of a glass of wine and the memory of Cal in a pair of tight jeans. But I was saved by the appearance of the musicians coming back to the stage, and we were treated to another half hour of raucous New Orleans jazz.

At the end of the set, I motioned to the waitress for the check, but when she brought it to the table Cal slapped his hand over the black billfold. “I got it,” he said.

“But this is my treat. I asked you, and I screwed up our dinner reservation. At least let me pay.”

“Tell you what.” He took my hand, turned my palm up, drew small circles there with his finger. “We can wrestle for it. First person with a pin pays the check.” His face split into a grin and he raised an eyebrow. “That’s a win-win all around, wouldn’t you say?”

With my free hand, I took the last gulp of my wine and felt my face—as well as a few other body parts—suffuse with warmth. “Fifty-fifty?” I said weakly.

“You drive a hard bargain, girl,” he said, giving my hand a final squeeze.

We each seemed lost in our own thoughts as we rode back to the Shelter Cove Inn. Mine were a winey whirl of questions: Did I like this guy enough to see him again?
Yes
. To get involved in a relationship with him?
Maybe
. Did he have genuine feelings for me or was he merely hoping for a fling?
Too soon to tell
. As he pulled up to my car, I worried about that moment of awkwardness—the possibility of a good-night kiss—and took the coward’s way out.

“This was really fun, Cal. Thanks.” I gestured to the building. “I’m kind of glad we didn’t get in there. Thank you so much.” I opened my door, about to jump out, but he put a hand on my arm.

“I’m not saying good night yet, Victoria. I’m following you back to your house and making sure you get inside safe. I don’t like all this snoopin’ around you’re doing.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about William Fox, but I didn’t. He helped me inside my car and pointed to my door, which I dutifully locked. As we pulled out of the lot, he stayed behind me. On the way home, when I’d glance at the rearview mirror, he was always there, a safe distance away. It was reassuring. He was watching out for me, so why was I hesitant to tell him about William the Intruder or about Toscano’s
veiled threats? I still had to talk to Sutton, so I had to be discreet. But there was also more to it. There was a part of me that didn’t quite trust Cal.

Granted, he was a private person, but there was so little I knew about him. He’d referred once to an ex-wife, but not by name. And he’d never talked about any other family. True, the Rienzis were close to the point of smothering, but I’d expect a guy to occasionally mention a parent or sibling. For all I knew, he had a kid somewhere. And now there was the issue of Elizabeth’s ring.

As I turned down my block, I remembered the last date we were on. We’d been talking about accents, and, without warning, he’d launched into a perfect New Jersey voice. If my eyes had been closed, I’d never known it was Cal speaking.
So what, Vic?
He’s got a good ear for voices. Does that make him untrustworthy?

“Maybe,” I said aloud. I pulled into my driveway, Cal still following behind.

“Cute place,” he said as he came up the front walk. “Good location, too.”

“Thanks,” I said. He walked me up the steps, his hand under my elbow and we stopped in front of the door. Then came the ultimate question:
Should I ask him in?

“I have an early day tomorrow,” he said, “so I’ll say good night right here, if that’s okay.”

Well, viewers, tonight’s forecast is steamy, followed by a mixture of relief and disappointment.
“Sure.”

He stepped closer, put one finger under my chin,
and lifted it slowly. My eyes lingered on his mouth, which was moving ever closer to my own.

All at once I tasted whiskey and wine; somewhere in the back of my head a jazz sax was playing and a tiny Mardi Gras parade wound its way up and down my spine. My lips softened against his, and I slid my arms around his neck.
How long?
I thought.
How long
has it been since I was well and truly kissed?
He pulled me closer, but gently. He wasn’t rushing the kiss and he wasn’t rushing me. I slid my hands into his hair, and he pressed his palms against my back, moving his lips to my chin, the side of my face, my neck, and back to my mouth. My knees buckled slightly, and I could feel his smile against my lips as he tightened his hold.

Abruptly, the music in my head stopped, and in the silence I could hear my heart pounding. He traced the line of my mouth with his finger. “If I don’t leave this very minute, I’m likely to forget my mama raised a gentleman. I had a lovely time,
cher
. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He turned, lifted his hand in a wave, and stepped into his black car, flashing me one last grin. Breathless and shaky, I leaned against my front door and watched him go, knocked flat by the force of Hurricane Calvin—with all my doubts and suspicions about him blown out to sea.

“A
re you even listening to me?” Sofia shook my arm a tad more forcefully than necessary.

“Uh huh.” I stared out the car window dreamily as we headed south on Interstate 95.

“Then what did I just say?” Sofia demanded.

“You asked did I put Louise Romano’s address into the GPS.”

“That was two questions ago. I asked what you said to her on the phone.”

“Oh.” Back in the moment, I shook my head to clear it of all thoughts of whiskey-flavored kisses and well-muscled arms. “I said the usual. That I’m doing research for a book.”

“Well, that’s sort of true this time.”

“I guess,” I said with a sigh.

“Okay, was that an
I’m tired of lying
sigh or a
Mr. Down on the Bayou is a good kisser
sigh?”

“Kinda both.”

“Vic, how much do you really know about this guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question. We looked into his past and
couldn’t find a thing. You only know what he’s told you. We couldn’t even confirm the furniture business he talked about.”

“He lost it in Hurricane Katrina! And that was in 2005. Why would you expect to find anything about it now?”

“Because the Internet leaves a long trail, and you know it.”

The rational part of my brain told me she was right. It also reminded me about the BMW and Cal’s mistake about the ring. I told it to shut up. But Sofia was still talking.

“And you shouldn’t throw away all reason just because a guy’s a good kisser.”

“He’s not just a good kisser. He’s a FAB-u-lous kisser. They don’t come along every day.”

“If you say so. Here’s our exit.” She shook my arm again. “Can you please snap out of it, Vic? We need to be focused.”

“I’ve got it together—really. I’ll ask her all about her brother, and hopefully we’ll find out whether she knows she has a nephew. You’ll take notes, right?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “You talk and I’ll write. This way I know we won’t miss anything.” She glanced at her dashboard and back at the road. “The turn’s coming up.”

In about five minutes we were parked in front of the small colonial belonging to Louise Romano. Sofia’s hunch that she still lived in Jersey proved correct; she was also still using her maiden name, which made my job easier. I’d started working the phone at nine this morning, and by ten I’d found the right Louise.

As we walked up to the door, Sofia grimaced and pressed a hand to her stomach. “Here we go again. Ugh.”

I put my hand on her arm. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

“I’m fine,” she said, and rang the bell. “What about you? Are you sure you can see with all those stars in your eyes?”

The woman who answered the door was about seventy, with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. She was still striking, particularly her bright blue eyes. I knew without a doubt that we were looking at Tommy Romano’s younger sister.

“You must be Victoria,” she said. “I’m Louise. Please come in.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Louise,” I said as I stepped inside. “This is my sister-in-law, Sofia. She’s here to help me take notes, if that’s okay.”

Louise smiled. “Of course. Come sit in the sunroom.”

We followed her to a small room at the back of the house. It had glass panes on three sides, but the fourth wall was lined with books. A black cat streaked from under the couch, and I jumped. “That’s just Edgar,” she said with a grin. “Don’t mind him.”

I couldn’t help smiling back. “As in Poe, right? You did say you were a mystery fan.”

“Yes,” Louise said, “but I’m a bit embarrassed to say that I haven’t read yours.”

“Please don’t be,” I said. “But I’ll send you an advance copy of the new one—how’s that?”

“That would be lovely. Please sit.” Sofia and I took
seats on the couch, and Louise sat across from us. “But this new project you’re working on isn’t a mystery, is it?”

That depends upon how you define “project,” Louise.
I pulled out my pad and pen, but then hesitated. I hated lying to this nice woman who’d welcomed us into her home. As always, when faced with guilt, I led with a partial truth. “Not really. It’s more of a historical based on my family’s history, so I’m seeking out people from their old neighborhood. My grandmother, Giulietta Rienzi—you probably knew her as Giulietta Catenari—told me some great stories about Oceanside Park in the forties and fifties.”

“I remember your grandmother,” Louise said. “And your great-grandmother, Ida. We would go to her when we were sick sometimes. Your grandmother and my brother, Tommy, were in the same class in high school.”

I was grateful to see Sofia already writing, as I was in danger of getting lost in Louise’s story. I didn’t want to stop to take notes. “Yes, Nonna said wonderful things about your brother. He seemed so alive when she spoke about him that it struck me he’d make a compelling character.”
And he would,
I thought.
Once I learn more about you, Tommy—and about your son, whoever he is—I promise I’ll put you in my book.
So this, at least, would not be a lie.

At the mention of her brother, Louise’s face held an expression of warmth tinged with sadness, much as Nonna had looked when she spoke about Tommy. “My brother was a special young man,” she said. “Larger than life, you know? In fact, hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.”

The second Louise left the room, Sofia turned to me. “You’re gonna ask her about Elizabeth, right?”

“Eventually, Sofe. But give me a minute, will you? I feel bad enough being here on false pretenses—”

But Louise was returning with a large framed photo. “I think you’ll have a better sense of him if you see this. This was his official army portrait.”

Sofia let out a long breath. “Wow,” she said.

I held the picture out in front of me. “Wow is right.” The young Tommy Romano wore his hat back far enough to reveal the dark curls that my grandmother had talked about. But his eyes were an arresting blue, rimmed with black lashes. Only his broad shoulders and strong jawline saved him from being pretty. And while Jack Toscano was an attractive man, this guy was movie-star material.
If this man is your daddy, Jack,
I thought,
you don’t look a whole lot like him.
I handed the photo back to Louise. “Now I know what all the girls saw in him,” I said with a grin. “Including my grandmother.”

“Aside from the fact that he was handsome,” Louise said, “he was smart, athletically gifted, and kind. So kind.”

Sofia gave me a quick nudge, and I thought I knew why. It was hard to imagine the stiff and reserved Jack Toscano as the son of this extraordinary boy. But how much is nature and how much is nurture? Toscano’s experiences with his adoptive family were more likely than his DNA to have shaped his personality. Maybe we needed to track them down next.

“Tell us more about Tommy,” Sofia said.

“Well, he was ten years older than I was,” Louise said. “And, of course, I trailed behind him everywhere. But he let me. He’d use his pocket money to buy me ice cream or take me to the movies at the Paramount.” She stopped. “I heard the Paramount still shows movies.”

“It does, yes,” I said. “It’s kind of an art house now.”

Louise looked out one of the large windows and sighed. “I haven’t been back to Oceanside Park in all these years. Not even to walk the boardwalk.” She shook her head. “I can’t do it. It’s just too painful. Is your family’s restaurant still there, by the way?”

“Still going strong,” I said. “I’m working there this summer while I do my research.”

“Good for you,” Louise said.

“Not really,” Sofia piped up. “Nonna’s running things now.”

Louise laughed. “I didn’t know her well, but even as a young woman, Giulietta came across as strong willed.”

“That’s putting it mildly, Louise,” I said. “But I’ll tell you what—when she talked about your brother, I saw a different side of her.”

“He had that effect on people,” she said. “He was . . .
beloved
in that town. There’s no other way to put it.”

It was time to move the conversation in a more sensitive direction. How much would the nine-year-old Louise have remembered about her brother’s great romance? And would she connect the young Elisabetta with the Elizabeth Merriman, whose death had been all over the news? “Speaking of love, my grandmother
told me that Tommy had a serious girlfriend before he left for Korea.”

She nodded. “Elisabetta Caprio. She was as pretty as he was handsome. They were a striking couple. But her parents didn’t approve of her dating at all, and
our
parents didn’t approve of Tommy sneaking around. So I’m not sure how much time they were able to be together.”

Long enough to conceive a child.
“I have to say, it makes a romantic story.”

Louise met my eyes; hers were tear filled. “Until its ending.”

“Yes,” I said. “Would you mind talking a little about that?”

“Not at all,” she said. “There are so few people left I can talk to about Tommy. If he’d lived, he’d be eighty. It’s so strange to imagine him as an old man. In my mind, he’s forever nineteen.”

That’s how it would have been for Elizabeth Merriman,
I thought. She would advance further into age, year after year, while Tommy Romano stayed a boy. Sitting on that couch in Louise’s house, I was struck by a wave of sadness and sympathy for Elizabeth. “He’ll always be that young man in the photo,” I said.

Louise nodded. “We got word early in 1952 that he’d been killed. My mother took to her bed. My father just shut down. I was a little girl, alone in my grief.” She shook her head. “We moved away about a month later. To this very house, in fact. And here I stayed.”

By now my guilt was eating holes in my stomach. “I’m sorry if this has been difficult for you, Louise. I so appreciate your talking to me today.”

“I’m happy to do it. I adored my brother, Victoria. And I didn’t have him for very long. That’s why I was so grateful to have known his son.”

I felt Sofia stiffen on the couch next to me and kept my face averted from hers; we couldn’t give anything away. “Tommy had a son?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Louise nodded. “Yes, he and Elisabetta had a son. I didn’t know at the time, of course. We’d moved by then and we cut all our ties with Oceanside after that; as I said, it was just too painful.”

At this point, Sofia could no longer contain herself. “How did you find out about Tommy’s son?”

“He found me about two years ago. Once his adoptive parents passed away, he began searching for his birth family; I’m his father’s last living close relative.”

“Do you know if he ever tracked down Elisabetta?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” She shook her head. “I think his feelings about her were conflicted. He told me he assumed she was dead. He didn’t talk to me about her much, and, of course, I didn’t really know her. Over the years I thought about trying to find her myself, but never followed through.”

Sofia elbowed me again, a quick, sharp shot that said
tell her
. “In fact, Louise,” I said, “she passed away recently.”

“Did she?” Louise looked thoughtful. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

I was about to ask her nephew’s name when Louise
stood up. “Would you like to see a picture of Tommy’s son?”

“Very much.”

Louise walked to the bookcase and took down one of the framed photographs. She passed it to me, and I stared at the image of four men in combat fatigues, all wearing dark glasses. “This was taken in Afghanistan,” she said. “It’s a shame you can’t see his beautiful blue eyes; they were exactly like Tommy’s.”

I grasped the frame so tightly my knuckles whitened. The four men in the photo were of varying ages; the two on either end appeared to be middle-aged. Louise pointed to the one on the left. “That’s my nephew,” she said. “The two young guys were in their company, and the guy on the right is their commanding officer. Thomas was very close to him.”

The guy on the right.
He stood a little apart from the other men, holding himself rigidly. There were deep lines in his forehead, and his skin was leathery. Despite the dark glasses, it was possible to read his expression: serious to the point of grim.
Jack Toscano.
Sofia peered over my shoulder, saw my face, but stopped herself from asking. I needed to make sure. I pointed to the other middle-aged man on the left side of the photo. “So that’s your nephew,” I said.

She nodded, and I watched in surprise as her lower lip trembled and tears rolled down her face. “That’s Thomas,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He was a hero, just like his father. And like his father, he died serving his country.”