Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova

against her fair skin. In her four-inch heels, she was nearly shoulder to shoulder with Tim; her shoulder, in fact, was brushing his, a detail I registered but quickly suppressed. Standing across from me in my flats, she dwarfed my measly sixty-five inches, and I had the sense that she and Tim belonged to some superior race of tall, beautiful beings to which I could never aspire.
    Straightening my spine and lifting my chin, I did my best to sound confident, in control, and not vertically challenged. “Were you looking for me?”
    She reached out with a pale long-fingered hand. “I’m Anjelica.” She paused, and I watched in fascination as one tear gathered in the corner of each eye. What were the odds that those tears would spill over and ruin that perfectly made-up face? Only the kind my dad would bet on. Her voice was a whisper when she spoke again. “Anjelica Parisi.”
    Uh-oh
. Parisi’s widow? I raised my hand slowly to take hers, all the while staring at her creamy skin, arched brows, and dark blue eyes. Her nose was small and straight.
Either she’s not Italian
,
I thought,
or she’s had some work done.
And while I was sure I’d never met her, there was a vague familiarity about her features. I watched her closely, taking rapid mental notes to share with Sofia later on.
The silk blouse she was wearing revealed a willowy neck but a bare throat—no silver necklace.
    â€œYou must be Victoria.” She blinked, and her full raspberry-colored lips trembled. “I understand you served my husband right before he died.” She gave a shuddery breath. “Would you mind telling me about his last moments?”
    I glanced instinctively at Tim, who swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked as though he would rather be hanging upside down from the scariest ride on the boardwalk than standing between the two of us. What the hell was making him—quite literally—sweat?
    â€œI’m sorry for your loss,” I said, and she nodded. “But I don’t think there’s much I can tell you.”
Or much I
should
tell you.
“He came in on Tuesday around four. He ordered a salad and some tea.” I did not add that his table manners were disgusting, as my mother has taught me not to speak ill of the dead. “At the end of his lunch, he looked pale and asked for the bathroom. That was the last time I saw him until—”
    She gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said. “You were the one who found him!” Her dark blue eyes widened and again filled with tears.
    Given my debut on the local news, I found it hard to believe Anjelica Parisi didn’t know that I was the one who discovered her husband’s body.
Give her a break
, I told myself.
She’s grieving
. Or was she? Despite the tears, her eyes held a canny expression, and I would swear the lip tremble was the result of years of practice. As Danny had recently remarked about our grandmother, this one didn’t miss a trick. She was probably capable of a few of her own as well; she inched closer to Tim, her arm resting along the length of his. He, on the other hand, held himself stiffly, as though she had some communicable disease. As I watched them, my stomach gave a little thump of warning. Whatever my five senses wouldn’t or couldn’t tell me, my gut was screaming. Something was definitely off here.
    â€œYes,” I said. “I’m sorry. But I probably don’t know any more than you do.”
    Anjelica took a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her now-dry eyes. “The police won’t tell me anything.”
    â€œThey don’t know anything yet.” Tim’s voice came out in a croak, a sound so unexpected, I jumped. When I looked over at him, he refused to meet my eye. My stomach thumped two more times, like an impatient person knocking at a locked door. It was a summons I’d have to answer sooner or