Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova Page B

thought. “Only now she’s his widow.”
    Lori nodded. “His very rich widow.”
    I didn’t say anything, but my mind was reeling with possibilities. And questions. If money was an issue, Anjelica certainly had a motive for wanting her husband dead. But she hadn’t had access to his food. Could she have given him something at home? But he’d spent several hours on the boardwalk looking the picture of health, and he was fine when he came into the restaurant. The most logical explanation was that he ingested something that had killed him while sitting right there at Table Five.
    I thought back to Lord Peter’s dictum: If you know how, you know who. Well, we still didn’t know how. But I was beginning to have a pretty good idea of who. And I wasn’t sure it was a solution I could live with.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    I spent the rest of the day and most of the evening helping Lori and avoiding Tim—not hard to do since there was no reason I needed to visit the kitchen. The Casa Lido was so quiet that Massimo and Nando didn’t come in, and neither did my parents, much to my relief. It was too hard to look into my mom’s worried face or listen to my dad’s false cheer. All I knew was that another day without customers brought us closer to closing our doors for good.
    By nine I sent Lori home, her apron pocket not exactly bulging with cash. While cleaning up behind our one table of the dinner service, I noticed that Cal was back and appeared to be packing up his tools.
He’s finishing now?
This was a man who kept his own hours—that was for sure. And it was time I learned more about this stranger whose name was on the short list of those in the restaurant on Tuesday.
    I stepped behind the bar and held up a bottle of our best single-malt Scotch. “You interested?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say no.” He dropped his toolbox at his feet and sat at the bar.
    I poured him a generous splash and then filled a wineglass with pinot grigio for myself. I came out and took a seat next to him.
    â€œSo it’s been a day around here,” he said. “I heard the widow”—or “widduh” as Cal pronounced it—“made an appearance.”
    â€œIt sure has, and, yes, she showed up.” I waited for a comment of some kind, but none was forthcoming.
    I glanced sideways at him, keenly aware of his forearm resting close to my own, his large, work-worn hand resting on the table. He had taken off his hat, and his shaggy hair was tucked behind his ears; there were deep lines around his eyes that attested to days in the sun. He raised the tumbler, and I clinked my wineglass against his.
    â€œ
A votre santé
, Victoria.” He drew out all four syllables of my name in a low drawl, Vic-TOW-ree-uh, lingering over the second and softening on the last. It was an accent one didn’t hear much in Jersey, and I couldn’t help smiling.
    â€œYou’re a long way from home, Calvin Lockhart.”
    He nodded, still staring at the bar. “That I am,
cher
.”
    â€œYup, between that Saints cap you wear and that
faux
French you just dropped—which, by the way, we Northern girls don’t find so endearing—”
    â€œI’ll remember that.” He flashed me a grin that
was
pretty endearing, though.
    â€œSo are you from New Orleans originally?”
    He winced. “Girl, don’t ever say ‘Or-LEENS.’ You sound like a straight-up tourist. I grew up in Baton Rouge, but went to the city when I was eighteen. You ever been?”
    â€œAre you kidding? I love that place. The food, the music, just the feel of it.” I leaned my chin on my hand, dreamy-eyed as I remembered my trip there. “I went once after college and fell head over heels for that place.” I grinned at him. “That city is like a bad boy you can’t resist—you know he’s all wrong for you, and you’ll