Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova Page A

later. I turned my attention back to the widow.
    â€œI understand he had a heart problem?” That much had been on the news, so I figured I was on safe ground.
    â€œYes,” she said, sniffling and wrinkling her tiny nose in a gesture that was both pathetic and flirtatious. “But he was doing well.” As she spoke, she gazed up at Tim, who shrank against the bar, wide-eyed. I watched in sick fascination as her hand crept to his forearm, my eyes glued to the five pink ovals of her nails against his skin. Her hand still clutching his arm, she turned her attention back to me. “I can’t help wondering,” she said quietly, “if it was something he ate.”
    Well, there it was. The lovely young widow had just voiced the suspicion that hung over the Casa Lido like a dark cloud in hurricane season. I had a sudden image of Anjelica holding a press conference, and from there it was all too easy to picture the storm breaking right over all our heads. “No, Mrs. Parisi,” I said automatically. “There’s no question of that.”
Except for the one looming in my mind, of course.
    Anjelica took a deep breath, as though preparing herself for the answer to her next question. “Can you tell me who prepared his lunch, please?”
    I was about to say I didn’t know when my treacherous little eyeballs swiveled in their sockets, stopping only at Tim’s face, now the color of ricotta cheese. Anjelica dropped her hand from Tim’s arm.
    â€œOh, Tim,” she cried. “What have you done?”
    â€œI didn’t do anything! I made him a salad. I swear to God, that’s all.” He turned and gripped her two shoulders tightly. “Angie, you have to believe me.”
    Angie
.
Angie
.
Angie
. The blood pounded rhythmically in my head, those two syllables sounding over and over like a death knell. There was only one Angie. She was the woman who’d taken a wrecking ball to my life. The woman who’d sent me running off to New York without once looking back.
    The woman Tim had left me for.

Chapter Eight
    â€œW ell, if it isn’t Angie ‘Even One Is Too Many’ Martini. I don’t know why you bothered with introductions,” I said to the woman now calling herself Anjelica. I stared her down in my best imitation of Nonna. “You know very well who I am.”
    She nodded, trying hard to appear apologetic, but there was no mistaking the flash of triumph in her eyes. “I do,” she said. “But I wasn’t sure you knew who I was.”
    I leaned my head sideways and studied her more closely. “Your hair’s longer—and darker. You’re wearing blue contacts, and you’ve got some nice veneers in your mouth now.” I smiled, baring a few teeth of my own. “And your lips are a bit fuller than I remember.” I shrugged. “Then again, I’d seen you only in passing, and it’s been a number of years. Right, Tim?”
    Tim, who had dropped his hands from Angie’s shoulders, flinched at the sound of his name. The misery on his face was evident, but it was nothing compared to what he’d caused me all those years ago. Standing in front of me was a pale, frightened-looking stranger with shaking hands. “Vic, please,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “You have to believe me.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s the police you have to worry about.” I marched past them into the kitchen, my head, back, and neck so erect I should have been in uniform. Lori stood behind the door, her eyes wide. She pointed past the kitchen doors toward the bar.
    â€œIsn’t she—?”
    â€œYes,” I interrupted. “She sure as hell is.”
    â€œHoly cannoli,” Lori said. “Tim’s ex-girlfriend Angie went and married Gio Parisi.”
    I plopped down on a nearby stool. “Yup.”
And she all but accused Tim of murdering him
, I