Free Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova Page B

thought.
    â€œThis arugula is from the stuff Mr. Biaggio delivered, right?” I asked. All around me, forks were frozen in midair, poised inches from open lips.
    â€œI’m not sure,
cara
,” Massimo said, “but this was from a bag in the ’frigerator.”
    â€œFrom when?” Danny asked, still holding his fork aloft.
    â€œBy all the saints!” Nonna said. “It’s a new bunch. The police took the rest last night.” She gestured with closed fingers in the familiar Italian manner. “I ate a salad from this today. What’s wrong with all of you?”
    â€œWe’re just a little jumpy, Nonna.” Danny took a healthy bite of his frittata; fueled by both hunger and relief, the rest of us did the same.
    As we ate in silence, I looked around the table at the people I’d be working so closely with over the next year—my family, the Casa Lido staffers, Tim, and finally Cal. Except for Cal, I knew them as well as I knew myself. My brother’s suggestion that there might be more to Parisi’s death had unsettled us to the point where we were afraid to eat. But if it wasn’t a heart attack, what was it? I knew that a reaction to the food was a remote possibility, but what if someone had tampered with his meal?
    My eyes rested on each of the faces around me. The only people in the Casa Lido yesterday while Parisi ate were Tim, Cal, and Lori. I would vouch for Tim and Lori any day, but what about Cal? I watched him fold his egg into a slice of bread, taking careful, slow bites, eating just like he talked and worked. What did we really know about this guy? I shook my head and forked the last piece of egg from my plate, savoring the bitter taste of the greens. I stopped in midswallow.
The greens
. Mr. Biaggio had come into the kitchen with a delivery. He was a protester. He made no bones about his antipathy to Parisi and his show. His face red and angry, he had compared Parisi to garbage to be thrown away. . . .
Stop it, Vic.
Do you really think the chubby little produce man is a murderer? My writer’s imagination was clearly getting the best of me. And then Danny, who was sitting to my right, slid a piece of paper under my plate. On it was one word. I crushed the paper in my hand and jumped to my feet.
    â€œHey, Dan? Could you help me with something out back?”
    â€œSure thing, sis.”
    I hurried down the narrow hallway, my brother close behind me. As we stepped out the back doors, the sensor light illuminated the dark outline of the shed. The rain had stopped, leaving us in a chilly mist, and I shivered, both from cold and the memory of my last trip out here. I held up the crumpled paper. “Your handwriting sucks, but this says ‘petechiae,’ right?”
    He nodded, his face grim. “So you know what that means.”
    â€œIt means there were broken blood vessels in his eyes. And that maybe he didn’t die of natural causes.”
    â€œThere’s more, sis. Tomorrow morning the county prosecutor’s going on record with the press that it’s a suspicious death.”
    â€œOh no—”
    â€œWhat are you two whispering about?” The voice that sliced through the darkness was as sharp as aged cheese.
    I jumped, slapping my hand against my chest. “Geez, Nonna. You scared me to death. Danny’s just looking at my car.”
    â€œNonsense. Your car is on the other side of the lot. And I know exactly what you two are talking about.”
    â€œShe don’t miss a thing,” Danny muttered.
    Nonna pretended not to hear him and instead reached out and patted my arm. “Victoria, dear, you no longer have to worry about the tomatoes.”
    Touched by her concern, I smiled. “Thanks, Nonna.” But that stone face never cracked. She tilted her head, her eyes calculating and just a bit scary behind her bifocals. “No, you need not worry about the garden. In fact, you don’t have