The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery (9 page)

O
n Thursday, the
Press
ran an article indicating that Elizabeth Merriman’s body had been released and that a wake for was planned for Saturday. The cause of death was severe head trauma, just as Nina LaGuardia had said. I hoped that meant her sources were accurate about other things as well, such as the time she died. I sat in my bedroom, mulling over this news, as well as what Sofia had learned. During Elizabeth’s time as CEO of Merriman Industries, she had clearly made enemies. But would any of them have waited two decades to take their revenge? Was Sofia right? Was it merely a case of someone having an opportunity the night of the wedding?

As my mind worked, the cursor on my computer screen blinked at me reproachfully. My manuscript was open, but I hadn’t added a word. I wasn’t expected at the restaurant for a while yet, and I should have been writing, not detecting.

“Sorry, Isabella,” I said to my novel’s protagonist, “but you’ll have to wander the streets of nineteenth-century New York a little while longer.”

I closed the document and opened a Google search page. Sofia had already tried to track down the obituaries of the three men who had died due to asbestos exposure, but with no luck. Getting that information would require a trip to the library and a long slog with a microfiche machine. Was it worth that time? And even if I could track down their family members, what would I be likely to learn? Two decades had passed. While I couldn’t rule this piece out, neither could I afford to spend lots of time on it. William Fox, on the other hand, was still alive. My own curiosity and a sense of urgency spurred me on; I had to find out for myself.

I started a people search, cursing the commonness of his name. There were way too many people in New Jersey with some version of the name William Fox. I printed the list and grabbed a marker, crossing off any William Fox who was younger than seventy and older than eighty. That still left about a dozen candidates. Of those, four lived in the shore area. At least I was narrowing them down. We had only Uncle John’s word that Fox had stayed in this area, but those in a thirty-mile radius seemed the place to start. I highlighted the names and numbered them in order of proximity:

1. William Fox, Jr., Asbury Park

2. William Fox, Dover Township

3. William R. Fox, Barnegat

4. Will Fox, Cape May

What I needed was a picture. If I knew what William Fox looked like, I might remember seeing him on
Saturday. But a Google image searched turned up several guys who were too young to be the Fox I was looking for. (However, two of them
were
looking for dates. Too bad they weren’t my type.)

What were my options? Call each one on a pretext and ask if he’d worked for Merriman Industries twenty years ago? Drive all over New Jersey on stakeouts in hopes of getting a peek at him? In my last foray into sleuthing, I’d used my position as a writer to talk to people connected to the case, but that was a hand I didn’t want to overplay. I made a note to ask Sofia to talk to her uncle again, but stopped suddenly, my pen still in the air.
Hang on,
I thought. According to Uncle John, Fox had become an alcoholic after he was forced out of Merriman Industries. Was he still drinking? Because if not, it’s likely he attended AA meetings.

Okay, so they were two big ifs, but it was worth a look. It took me all of thirty seconds to learn that there was only one place in our area that held regular meetings—and there was one scheduled for tonight. I texted Sofia:
You up for another road trip, SIL?

That afternoon at the restaurant we had a full dining room for lunch, and since I was on alone, I didn’t have a moment to even think about William Fox or any of our other suspects. By the time the rush was over, I’d barely had a chance to rest my feet before Chef Massimo arrived. I found myself on peach duty, prepping the fragrant Jersey fruits for Nonna’s peach
torta
, the Italian version of peach pie, and tonight’s dessert special. While the smell of the fresh fruit was intoxicating, I’d
have to get every last bit of peel and slice them perfectly, or I’d hear about it from my grandmother. But it wasn’t the worst job at the Casa Lido, and at least I got to enjoy the garden on a sunny shore day. As I was bringing in the tray of fruit, our head chef was arriving.

“
Ciao
, Massi,” I said, greeting him with a kiss on each cheek, Italian style.

“
Ciao, cara
,” he said. “Was our luncheon busy?” Massimo buttoned his chef’s coat, pushed his long hair behind his ears, and sat his toque on his head.

“
Sì, maestro.
Tim has the sauces going, and the fruit is prepped for the peach
torta.”

He nodded toward the tray. “So I see.
Bene
. Nando will make the pastry when he comes in.”

I sighed. “He gets the fun part.”

“Good prep work is vital,
cara
.” He patted my cheek. “And you wanted to learn, did you not?”

“As everyone is fond of reminding me.” I followed Massimo into the kitchen, partially to observe his work, but also to ask him a few questions about his colleagues at the Belmont Club.

“Hey, Massi?” I asked. “Do you know Chef Boulé? I mean, before you saw him on Saturday?”

Chef Massimo stuck his Roman nose in the air and gave a small sniff. “By reputation only. He is
il maestro
when it comes to the French cuisine, I will give him that.”

“But not Italian, I take it.”

Our master chef gave me a look that would wilt escarole. “I would say that is obvious, Victoria, no?”

“What about Kate Bridges, Massi? Do you know her? Do you know her work?”

Massimo went to the sink, rolled up the sleeves of his coat, and started scrubbing up like a surgeon. “Again, we had not met personally. But she is known to be a skilled
pâtissière
,” he said, using the formal French term for pastry chef. “And she is not young; she has come through the ranks slowly but steadily. Ambitious, that one.”

That’s not surprising,
I thought. Kate Bridges was tough, supremely confident of her abilities. I wondered about her garish makeup: didn’t she worry that her appearance might put people off? Or, worse, that she wouldn’t be taken seriously as a chef? “Has she always looked like that?” I asked.

He grimaced. “You mean like the clown from
la commedia dell ’arte
? I do not know. But many stories and rumors float about regarding Signorina Bridges—that she has been fired from half her jobs, that she is independently wealthy, that she studied in Paris with Fabrice Le Bourdat, that she is a self-taught genius—it is hard to tell which are true.”

Now, this was interesting. Did rumors swirl around Kate Bridges because of her outsized personality and tendency to alienate others? Or did she cultivate them herself to keep people guessing about her? “So she’s not an easy person to know.”

“No.” Massi looked up from the sink. “Still, I admire her, despite the attitude and the orange face. She works at her craft because she loves it; she is good at it and does not care what others think.”

“That’s for sure,” I said.
And judging by her behavior to
Elizabeth Merriman, she sure doesn’t care whom she offends, either.

He dried his hands on a clean towel and tucked it into a back pocket. Once he started tasting the sauces, I knew that would be the end of any conversation that didn’t involve tonight’s menu. I stayed long enough to taste the spicy arrabbiata sauce and to submit to a quiz from Chef Massi about the flavors. Then I insulted him by mistaking his use of red chiles for the dried variety, and ended up banished to the dining room. And who was sitting there quite cozily but Tim and his new lady love, Lacey Harrison.

Tim hadn’t yet changed into his kitchen clothes, and, I had to admit, he looked a treat in a blue button-down shirt and snug-fitting jeans. Without his bandanna, his newly cropped curls only set off his gray eyes.
Do not release that sigh, Victoria,
I told myself, and lifted my chin in an attempt to convey indifference. Not that it mattered, as neither one of them was paying attention to me. Lacey was seated like a queen at the center table; Tim was leaning over her and whispering something into her golden red hair. She giggled, and I cleared my throat. Or perhaps gagged.

“Oh, hey, Victoria!” Lacey waved to me. “Tim’s cooking for me—isn’t that cool?”

“You bet,” I said, and glanced at my watch. “But lunch is over, Tim.”

“I know what time it is, Vic. I’m making Lacey a special meal.”

“Yeah, but aren’t you supposed to be helping Massi with dinner prep?”

As if on cue, Chef Massimo appeared in the dining room bearing a plate of bruschetta.

“Welcome,
signorina
,” he said, setting the plate down on the table with a flourish. “A little taste for you of what is to come. It is like toast with a fresh tomato mixture on top—a little onion, some basil. Is verrrry nice.”

Okay, who needs
bruschetta
explained to them? I raised an eyebrow at Massi, but he was too busy admiring the lovely Lacey. “Oh, thank you, Chef Fabri,” she said. “It looks delicious.”

Massi nodded regally and started back to the kitchen, but paused to inform me to learn the specials for dinner. “And when you taste them, Victoria, be sure to appreciate the full complexity of my flavors.”

“Uh, chef,” I said, “I’m not on for dinner tonight, so—”

“So you think you do not need to learn the specials, is that it?” Massi brought his palms together, not in prayer but in an Italian gesture that can mean anything from
please
to
I can’t believe you’re so
stupido
.
I was pretty sure which one he was going for. “If you wish to learn the cuisine, Victoria, you must apply yourself to the task.” Lifting his chin, he walked back to the kitchen.

“Yes, chef,” I said to his retreating back.
And thanks for reminding me that I am an underling in front of Tim and the babe.
Though since I was once again wearing server clothes—black slacks, white blouse—my role was quite obvious.
Might as well play it to the hilt, Vic.

“May I get you anything to drink, Lacey?” I asked, in a tone so cheery that Tim shot me a look.

“Just some water, thanks. Gosh, these smell good,”
she said, picking up her knife and fork. She then proceeded to cut her bruschetta into dainty quarters.

I shook my head at such foolishness, and Tim frowned at me. “I’ll just go get that water,” I said, deciding to treat her to a San Pellegrino, our imported Italian brand. On my way back to the table, I noticed Cal coming in the front door, and I cheered up immediately.

“Hey, Cal.” I lifted the water bottle in greeting.

“Afternoon, Victoria,” he said. “Your dad here yet, by any chance? I got something I need to ask him about that stain for the bar.”

“Nope. But Tim is.” I gestured to the center table, where Tim was still whispering sweet nothings into Lacey’s ear. “And so is his new squeeze.”

Cal’s eyebrows rose under the brim of his Saints cap. “Now, ain’t that interesting?”

Not too interesting, I hope.
“C’mon,” I said, “I’ll introduce you.”

I set the water down in front of Lacey and made the introductions. Cal’s response was only one word, but it made my heart sing: He lifted the brim of his cap, smiled, and said, “Ma’am.”

She smiled prettily back at him, but even that was even too much for Tim, who hovered around her like a protective knight-errant. He scowled at Cal, who grinned even wider and clapped Tim on the shoulder. “Where ya at, brother?”

It was hard to contain my amusement as I watched Cal toy with Tim. The two had set themselves up as rivals for my affection a couple months back and,
despite Tim’s new relationship, his antipathy for Cal was still evident. Was it shallow of me to enjoy the moment?

Tim lifted Cal’s hand from his shoulder and proceeded to ignore him. Instead, he gave Lacey’s hand a quick squeeze and promised her, in a suggestive tone, “the meal of her life.” Lacey responded with a playful swat on the arm, while I strained my ocular muscles to keep my eyeballs from rolling back in my head. Tim breezed past me with a “Later, Vic,” as he returned to the kitchen.

“If you’ll excuse me, Lacey,” I said, and turned to follow him.

“You can’t stay away from me, can you, Vic?” In the kitchen, Tim was buttoning his chef’s coat, a particularly smarmy look on his face.

“You’re irresistible, Tim. What can I say?”

“Children,” Chef Massimo warned, “play nicely. There is a dinner service to prepare, and there is no time for this nonsense.”

Oh, but there’s time to make Lacey a special meal.
But that was a thought to keep to myself if I wanted to learn anything about Italian cooking. As usual, I was consigned to the vegetable station, prepping the sweet little Sicilian eggplants now in season. If I were lucky, I might even get to grill them out in the July heat. But as ordered, I watched and listened as Tim and Massimo prepared the veal special for tasting, with an extra serving for the special guest in the dining room. After I dutifully tasted the sauce and submitted to questioning by both guys, I readied a plate for Cal.

“Where’re you going with that?” Tim called over his shoulder.

“Just bringing Cal a taste,” I said as I pushed through the kitchen door. Behind me, Tim had a few choice words to say about that, including a few of the four-letter variety.

“Yours is coming,” I said to Lacey as I hurried past her.
And I’m sure Tim will stand over you, cutting your veal into delicate pieces and waiting for you to swoon over his cooking.
But these thoughts weren’t worthy of me and probably unfair to Lacey. Grateful for Cal’s presence, I headed to the bar, wearing a smile that wasn’t forced.

“Here you go,” I said. “A sample of tonight’s veal special and your favorite San Pellegrino water.”

“Well, thanks, Victoria.” He uncapped the bottle and took a long swig.

“I figure it’s the least I can do,” I said, taking a moment to appreciate his well-muscled arms.

“For what?”

“For calling that sweet young thing ‘ma’am.’ It made my day.”

“If that’s what makes your day,
cher
, you needa get out more.”

“True that, as my sister-in-law, Sofia, would say. You’re late today, by the way.”

“I know. Got another project I’m working on at the moment.” But he didn’t elaborate. “This smells great.” Cal took a healthy bite of the veal and nodded in approval. “So, how long’s the Iron Chef been dating Miss Lacey?”

“Like, two days. He just met her.”

“Well,” Cal said, shaking his head, “no accountin’ for taste, is there?”

“Nope.” I glanced back at the dining room, where Tim and Lacey were sitting, their heads close together.

Cal jerked a thumb in their direction. “That bother ya any?”

“Nah,” I lied. “Tim and I were done a long time ago.”

“So you’ve told me.” Cal finished the veal and nodded again. “The guy can cook—that’s for sure. But I can’t hardly say a word to the man without he gets in my face.”

“You know you mess with his head.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but he lets me.”

“I know. Tim’s got some growing up to do.” I pulled out a stool and took a seat at the bar.

“Took the words outta my mouth.” He leaned both arms on the bar, staring me down with those distracting green eyes. “So, are you gonna wait for that to happen? Or move on?”

I dropped my eyes and folded a bar napkin into tiny pleats. “I wish I had an answer,” I finally said.

He pulled the napkin from my hand. “You’re a smart, beautiful woman. There’s no end of men out there who’d appreciate you.” One side of his mouth curved in a half grin. “Me included.”

“Is that so?” I said, meeting his eyes again and feeling a flush of warmth at the compliment.

“That’s so. Now, no doubt but we got off to kind of a rocky start back in May. What with you playing Nancy Drew and all.”

“Hardly Nancy Drew,” I said. “Maybe a much younger Miss Marple.”

He flashed me a grin, the effect of which disconcerted me. “In any case,” he asked, “what do you say to trying again?”

Cal had asked me on a date before, one which ended up an uneasy mix of socializing and interrogating. I hadn’t been completely fair to him then. But I liked him. He was different from the guys I’d dated back in New York—an interesting, seasoned man. And damned attractive. A burst of feminine laughter came from the dining room, but I kept my attention on Cal. “I’d like that,” I said.

“Good, then. No time like the present. How ’bout having dinner with me tonight?”

Tonight?
Tonight I had plans with Sofia to stake out an AA meeting in the hopes of identifying William Fox. Tonight I was hoping to get one step closer to figuring out who killed Elizabeth Merriman. I couldn’t go tonight, and I couldn’t tell him why.

“Oh, Cal, I’m sorry. I can’t tonight.” I dropped my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Are you on dinner shift?” he asked.

“No, I’m not. But I am tied up tonight. Can we make it another time?”

His smile faded. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe some other time.” And he turned back to his work without another word.