Murder and Marinara by Rosie Genova Read Free Book Online Page B

into the soft soil, and settled the first plant into its bed. Only 143 to go.
    I had nearly a whole row planted when I spotted something in the grass near the shed. I stood up, my knees stiff, and took a few steps toward the object. When I bent my head for a better look, goose bumps prickled up and down my bare arms. It was a shoe—a two-toned black-and-cordovan oxford that had no business being in my grandmother’s garden. My feet, of their own accord and certainly without my permission, carried me around the corner of the shed. I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself and looked down at a sight that I had only ever seen in my fevered imagination.
    But this was real. And that smell wasn’t fertilizer. There on the ground, his arms and legs splayed out and his face in a puddle of vomit, lay Gio Parisi.

Chapter Four
    W hy couldn’t I move? Why couldn’t I speak? A voice, calm and rational, was saying, “Call nine-one-one. You
need
to call nine-one-one.” My mouth dry, I opened it to answer, only to realize the voice was in my head. Holding my breath against the odor, I dropped to my wobbly knees. Careful not to disturb anything (I had learned at least that much in eight years), I reached out to touch Parisi’s wrist, but my hand froze in midair.
He might need help
, the calm voice said.
You have to check and see
. I swallowed, breathing hard through my nose, and closed my fingers around the cold skin. But Gio Parisi was beyond any help I could give him. Still shaky, I fell backward in the grass, but pushed myself to my feet. I dug my hand into the pocket of my jeans for a phone that wasn’t there.
    I jerked my head up at a sudden rustling in the grass, expecting—no, willing—my fictional detective to show up. I desperately wanted Bernardo Vitali, jauntily arrayed in a summer linen suit and straw hat, his notepad and fountain pen in hand, to take over the case so I could run the hell back to Manhattan. But it was only Tim, rounding the corner from the other side of the lot, the empty compost bucket in his hand. When he saw my face, he dropped the bucket and ran toward me.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Vic? What’s wrong?”
    I pointed, still unable to utter a word. Tim looked down at the spectacle behind the shed, his face swiftly draining of color. He gripped my arm with a clammy hand. And then he did something I’d been waiting half my life to see: He dropped into a dead swoon at my feet.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    The scene that followed was surreal, mostly because I had written it so many times. In some ways, it felt as though I were still writing it. We were herded into the restaurant so it could be closed off; an Oceanside officer stood guard in the parking lot, carrying out the first rule at the scene of a suspicious death: nobody in, nobody out. Every vehicle in the lot, including Parisi’s new Escalade and my old Schwinn, had to be accounted for. All our statements had to be taken. And, of course, the press had to be kept at bay.
    In the dining room, my family and I, Lori, Cal, and Tim were all crowded around one table. “Why? Why,” Nonna asked, wringing her hands, “did he have to pick
here
to die?”
    â€œTuesdays are slow anyway, Ma,” my dad said, in a masterpiece of understatement. “Thank God nobody was in the dining room.”
    My mom frowned. “No matter how we may have felt about him, or how this affects our business, a man is dead out there.”
    He certainly was. I took a huge gulp of the wine in front of me, catching Cal’s eye over the top of my glass. When I was outside with Tim in a crumpled heap next to me, I finally found my voice. Cal was the one who came running. He got Tim back on his feet and put a strong arm around each of us to get us back inside. He called 911 and then Danny, who materialized in what seemed like seconds.
    Cal’s expression now was warm and concerned;