Free The Wedding Soup Murder: An Italian Kitchen Mystery by Rosie Genova Page B

more settled. C’mon, she’s a protective Italian mama. You’ve got one of those. And someday you’ll be one yourself.”
    “Right.” She pushed her plate away and took another sip of water.
    “So, what do you think?” I asked. “Dessert?”
    “I don’t think so, Vic.”
    I pointed to her nearly full plate. “You hardly ate anything.”
    “I know. I think it’s the heat.”
    I looked at her slender arms. “I mean, you’re not trying to lose weight or anything, are you? You teach dance all day. You must burn a million calories.”
    She raised one of her beautifully arched brows. “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have to
try
to lose weight.”
    “Show-off.” I patted her arm. “Okay, I’ll be virtuous and I won’t have any, either.”
    “Right. And then you’ll stop at the boardwalk for
zeppole
.”
    “Oooh, there’s an idea. Maybe food will take my mind off this case.”
    “I doubt it. In fact, when I go home, I’m taking out the red folder.”
    The infamous red folder had held all our notes and information for our first—and I had hoped last—investigation. “Didn’t the newspaper say she owned Merriman Industries? I think that’s a good place for me to start, don’t you?”
    “Given your formidable research skills, yes. I think my focus should be the club.”
    “Does this mean we’re on the case?” Sofia held out her hand.
    “Against my better judgment, but yes.” I took her hand and shook it. “God help us,” I added.
    We paid the check and said our good nights, and I headed out of town toward my cottage, determined I would not eat another thing. But as the smells of boardwalk food drifted my way, I walked up the nearest ramp. I’d landed close to the rides pier, with the carousel house at one end and the Ferris wheel at the other. Though not a rides person, I’d taken a spin on that wheel with Cal not so long ago. The lights of the rides streaked the darkness in lines of neon color, illuminating the faces of those strolling the pier. I had missed this in New York; this was home, my history. Even the summer crowds didn’t bother me. I walked past the game stands and the arcade, halfway tempted to stop in for a quick game of Skee-Ball. But the lure of fried dough won out.
    I bought a half-dozen
zeppole
and walked down the ramp to the street, shaking the bag to properly coat the little Italian doughnuts with several layers of powdered sugar.
I will not open this bag,
I thought
. Not till I get home.
At which point I would make myself a cup of decaf, put two (maybe three) fried treats in a napkin, and sit out on my deck to eat them. But my happy thoughts darkened considerably as I approached my cottage and saw that I had visitors. Standing in front of my door like two mismatched sentries was none other than the newly married happy couple, Dennis and Roberta Doyle.
    “We’ve been waiting for you. You weren’t at the restaurant,” Roberta said accusingly. “So your dad told us where you live.”
    Thank you, Frank
. I gripped my bag of
zeppole
. In lessthan three minutes, these babies would be too cold to eat. I sighed. “Shouldn’t you guys be on your honeymoon?”
    Roberta, whose dark hair was styled in a complicated upsweep that mimicked her wedding look, narrowed her eyes at me. “We don’t have a honeymoon, thanks to that old bitch getting killed.”
    “Yeah, that was really thoughtless of her. Look, I’m sorry about what happened at your wedding. But why are you here?”
    “Your dad told my dad that the county prosecutor came to see you. I wanna know what you plan to tell her.”
    Frank strikes again.
“I plan to tell her the truth, Roberta.”
    She pointed a French-manicured fingernail at me. “You mean you’re gonna tell her about what Elizabeth said to my dad and get him arrested for murder.”
    “Whoa,” I said, holding up my palm. “You’re getting way ahead of things here.”
    She put her tiny fists on her hips. “Am I really? Everybody in town