Murder at Veronica's Diner Read online

  DEATH OF A WAITRESS

  “Do you see Teri Jo so you can ask for the check?” Alberta asked.

  Helen looked up and saw Teri Jo walking toward their table. She waved her hand, but before she could scribble in the air, which everyone understood was the universal, and unspoken, way to ask for a check, she noticed a look of utter fear consume the waitress’s face. When Teri Jo fell to the floor inches from their table, that same look transferred to the faces of each of the four women.

  They weren’t horrified because Teri Jo had fallen.

  They were horrified because a butcher knife was jutting out of her back . . .

  Books by J.D. Griffo

  MURDER ON MEMORY LAKE

  MURDER IN TRANQUILITY PARK

  MURDER AT ICICLE LODGE

  MURDER AT VERONICA’ S DINER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  J. D. GRIFFO

  A Ferrara Family Mystery MURDER AT VERONICA’S DINER

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DEATH OF A WAITRESS

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE - Un incubo non rovinerà la mia giornata.

  CHAPTER 1 - Ciò che Dio fa è ben fatto.

  CHAPTER 2 - Felici sono quelli che sono chiamati alla sua cena.

  CHAPTER 3 - Attenti alle aringhe rosse.

  CHAPTER 4 - Una cena con qualsiasi altro nome.

  CHAPTER 5 - Fai attenzione a un estraneo con regali.

  CHAPTER 6 - Il tempo può essere sia un amico che un nemico.

  CHAPTER 7 - In bocca chiusa non entrò mai mosca.

  CHAPTER 8 - Colui che aiuta se stesso.

  CHAPTER 9 - Senza il tuo nome non hai nulla.

  CHAPTER 10 - La familiarità genera disprezzo.

  CHAPTER 11 - C’è un fantasma nel cortile sul retro.

  CHAPTER 12 - Toccare il cielo con un dito.

  CHAPTER 13 - Morto che cammina.

  CHAPTER 14 - Non puoi fidarti dei tuoi stessi occhi.

  CHAPTER 15 - Omicidio, omicidio ovunque.

  CHAPTER 16 - Una bomba a orologeria.

  CHAPTER 17 - È tempo di spezzare il pane con il nemico.

  CHAPTER 18 - Le persone possono morire, ma i ricordi persistono per sempre.

  CHAPTER 19 - Sono solo soldi.

  CHAPTER 20 - Guarda oltre ciò che vedi.

  CHAPTER 21 - Il Signore sia con tutti tranne te.

  CHAPTER 22 - L’unico crimine che vale la pena commettere è un crimine di passione.

  CHAPTER 23 - Salva l’anima davanti al corpo.

  CHAPTER 24 - Un voto fatto non può mai essere infranto.

  CHAPTER 25 - L’aereo! L’aereo!

  CHAPTER 26 - Nascondersi in bella vista.

  CHAPTER 27 - Un tempo codardo, sempre codardo.

  EPILOGUE - Un dono di Dio.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Michael Griffo

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-3093-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-3094-7 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-3094-1 (ebook)

  For Melisa. And our special orange vinyl banquette at The Brass Rail, the best diner in Allentown, PA.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks again to everyone at Kensington Books and my agent, Evan Marshall, for their continued support and belief in me as a writer. And special thanks to all the great Jersey diners I grew up on, especially the Plaza Diner in Secaucus. Your disco fries and egg creams are legendary—you are still missed!

  PROLOGUE

  Un incubo non rovinerà la mia giornata.

  When Alberta jolted awake, the first thing she did was clutch the gold crucifix hanging around her neck. Her action was a physical reflex, but the cross itself was an emotional touchstone. For over forty years the simple but cherished piece of jewelry, which was a gift from her parents on her twenty-first birthday, had always been a source of solace and comfort. This morning she needed it to give her strength.

  She wasn’t overwhelmed by stress and there were no major issues in her life that she needed to confront and sort out, yet for some unknown reason, Alberta had one of the worst night’s sleep she’d ever had. Restless, consumed with ominous dreams, and culminating with Alberta waking up startled and gasping for breath, desperate to escape the clutches of a nightmare.

  “Dio mio,” she cried.

  Her voice was shrill and tight, like she was being strangled, and in a way she was. Not by the hands of a violent attacker, but by her own unconscious fear. Something had penetrated her sleep, something unwanted and nefarious had gotten inside her brain and contaminated her mind, and even as Alberta lay awake in her bed, it wouldn’t slither away. Stubbornly, it maintained its residence and Alberta could feel her heart still pounding in her chest, thumping loudly like a determined predator banging on a locked door. Her immediate surroundings, however, were the complete opposite, and their appearance belied the inner turmoil she was experiencing.

  The early morning sun peered through the large window opposite Alberta’s bed and cast a glorious glow throughout the room. The blue hydrangeas that decorated her bedspread, the same flowers that flourished in her backyard, appeared to blossom in the sunshine. At the foot of her bed, Lola, her beloved black cat, was curled in a ball, sleeping, and purring contentedly. The white stripe of fur over her left eye rose and fell with each breath. Lola appeared entirely unaffected by Alberta’s abrupt rising.

  Surveying the room for a sign that something was out of place, Alberta wondered if there had been an intruder in her home during the night. Perhaps someone had broken in and her nightmare was real. Could her sleeping mind, aware of an invasion, have become so frightened that it forced Alberta to remain asleep? Her eyes canvassed the room with more scrutiny, but she found nothing that was in disarray, nothing that looked suspiciously changed from the night before, and nothing that caused her any alarm. Until she looked to the right.

  Hanging on the wall over her writing desk, where she paid her bills and wrote out her Christmas cards as well as the occasional letter to a relative still living in Italy, was a painting of a country village in Sicily. It was a family heirloom; it was also the source of her nightmare.

  In the background of the painting were two small houses and a larger square-shaped church that seemed to emerge from the side of a hill. A cross rose from the top of the church, modest yet foreboding, and seemed to judge the village from its vantage point. A narrow dirt road started at the entrance to the church and ran
down the vertical length of the painting, separating the two houses, while all around a lush green landscape pulsated with life, except for a small portion on the left, where the bank of a river could be seen. For all its realistic depiction and natural beauty, the main focus of the painting was the couple in the foreground.

  The young man in the painting was barefoot and virile; his left hand, the closest to the viewer, was at his side, and dangling from his grip was a bouquet of colorful wildflowers. He was smiling, his eyes filled with mischievous delight, caught mid-saunter through the field, lackadaisical but with a purpose, because on the other side of the dirt path was a beautifully dressed young woman.

  She was walking toward the house on her side of the road, so she was only seen from behind, her long black hair cascading down her back and in startling contrast to the powder-blue dress she wore. However, her profile could be seen as she looked at the young man, and it was enough proof that the young man’s impish smile was warranted. Her right eye was fully open and hopeful; her lips were closed, but in the beginning stage of her own smile, and her shoulders were high, as if she had just gasped for breath at the sight. It was a scene that usually made Alberta smile, but this morning it sent a chill down her spine. In a flash, the details of her nightmare rushed back to her and Alberta knew her bad dream wasn’t arbitrary, it was an omen.

  According to Ferrara family folklore, the painting was a gift as part of the courtship between Alberta’s maternal great-grandmother, Viola, and her suitor, Marcello. The two had grown up in houses alongside each other, just like the ones depicted in the painting, and played as children in the fields and the nearby river, while the villagers watched with knowing silence as friendship developed into curiosity and, ultimately, into love.

  Their marriage was inevitable, but Marcello, being the romantic that he was, courted Viola as if she were disinterested and aloof. He brought her gifts, wrote her songs, baked terrible-tasting desserts—an element of the story that made Alberta feel even more connected to her ancestors since she too was a terrible baker—until he finally presented her with the painting that hung on Alberta’s wall instead of an engagement ring when he proposed marriage. Any other girl would have scoffed at him and demanded a ring, but Viola didn’t care about shiny objects, all she wanted was Marcello. Even though Marcello didn’t want anyone other than Viola to be his bride, his family had other ideas.

  Thanks to the war and the devastated economy it left in its wake, Marcello’s family had lost the little money they had and, like most families in the village, were poor and without prospects. When a rich man’s daughter from Calabria, who was visiting family nearby, fancied Marcello, his family saw it as an opportunity to turn their backs on poverty. Marcello was forced to leave the village and travel back to Calabria with the rich girl’s family and, unable to break the news to Viola in person, he left without saying a word. Later, Viola was told that Marcello was killed in an accident, but everyone in the village knew that Marcello had simply chosen his family over Viola.

  Lies don’t linger long in a small Sicilian village, so Viola must have known the truth about her young suitor, but for whatever reason she never let go of the painting. Alberta always felt it was because, despite Viola having married a very good man with whom she had four children, she could never let go of her first love or the only physical link that connected the two of them.

  When Viola’s granddaughter, Annamaria, was going to throw it out decades ago, Alberta asked if she could have it. The painting wasn’t a masterpiece, nor did it depict a joyful memory, but Alberta wanted it nonetheless. Up until now it had never given her a bad feeling.

  Inexplicably, she had dreamed about Viola and Marcello. Not about the love that was evident between them in the colors of the painting, but the anger and vengeance that lurked just outside the confines of the frame. She dreamed about what happened after Marcello fled, or more judiciously, was forced to flee the village, and Viola’s reaction was far from subtle. Within Alberta’s dream world, Viola unleashed a fury onto Marcello that was filled with deep-rooted and unresolved pain and anguish.

  The details of the nightmare were bad enough, but worse than that, Alberta didn’t know if she was victim or voyeur. Was she observing Viola get her revenge, or was the vitriol somehow directed at her? Would she soon be on the wrong end of someone’s fiery display of repressed emotions? Or would it be someone close to her?

  Sitting up in bed, Lola finally waking up to stretch long and slow, Alberta looked at the painting and declared, “Un incubo non rovinerà la mia giornata.”

  One nightmare wasn’t going to ruin her day. Although she meant every word that she said and believed it to be true, she would find out very soon just how wrong she was.

  Her day was about to go from bad to worse.

  CHAPTER 1

  Ciò che Dio fa è ben fatto.

  A few hours later as she sat across from her sister, Helen, in a booth at Veronica’s Diner, Alberta couldn’t shake her misgivings. Apprehension clung to her stronger than the scent of Emeraude had clung to her Aunt Nancy’s skin. Her father’s baby sister doused herself with so much of Coty’s light citrus-smelling perfume that being in her presence was like being drenched in orange juice. Alberta swore the last time she visited Nancy’s grave she practically choked on the scent of the perfume wafting up from the earth.

  “Berta, what’s wrong with you?” Helen asked.

  It took Alberta a moment to realize her sister had questioned her and another moment for her to respond. “Nothing.”

  As Alberta said the word she shook her head back and forth so quickly while waving a hand wildly in the air that it looked like she’d had a sudden seizure. Helen dismissed the idea that her sister could be in the middle of a medical emergency, and knew it was much more likely that Alberta was attempting to convince Helen that she was fine. Unfortunately for Alberta, her attempt was unsuccessful.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Helen snapped. “Something’s wrong with you. You’ve been anxious since you picked me up.”

  Taking a sip of her coffee, Alberta rolled her eyes. “Why must you always be so dramatic? Nuns are supposed to be low-key and submissive . . . sottomesso.”

  “I am no longer a nun, so I don’t have to act like I’m still in a convent,” Helen replied. “Plus, I was never that kind of nun.”

  “Yes, Father Sal’s filled us in on the stories of your glory days,” Alberta said.

  Helen glared at her sister, and Alberta wasn’t sure if it was because she mentioned Father Sal, her sister’s longtime nemesis recently turned frenemy, or if it was because she was waiting for Alberta’s calm veneer to crack. Whatever the reason for Helen’s stare, it unnerved her.

  Alberta averted her eyes to the left so she wouldn’t have to make contact with Helen and saw Father Sal sitting at the counter, a folded tweed jacket on the stool next to him. For a moment she thought she should escape the booth and join Sal, but her sister’s voice startled her. When she placed her coffee cup in its saucer it clanged so loudly it could be heard throughout the diner.

  “I know what it is,” Helen said. “You’re still jealous that Veronica is a better cook than you are and it’s gotten you ansiosa.”

  “I’m not anxious,” Alberta declared, wiping up the spilled coffee from the table with a napkin. “And Veronica might bake a better pie than me, but if you ever say she’s a better cook than me again, I’ll never make another tray of lasagna, so help me God.”

  It was Helen’s turn to pause and take a sip of her coffee. When she placed her coffee cup down on its saucer it was as if she was placing it on a layer of cotton. She reached for her pocketbook on the bench to her left, placed it in her lap, and fished for an item until she found it. After decades of seeing her sister without a stitch of makeup on her face, it was always jarring for Alberta to see Helen gussy herself up as she called it. It was even more jarring when the lipstick was several shades brighter than what she normally wore.

  “Santi numi! Wh
at color is that?” Alberta gasped.

  “Bubble gum pink,” Helen replied, applying the lipstick to her top lip and then placing a napkin in her mouth to wipe off any excess color.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little youthful?” Alberta asked, trying not to sound as judgmental as she felt.

  “I do,” Helen replied. “Which is precisely why I bought it from Tabby.”

  “Who?” Alberta asked.

  “Tabby, the salesgirl at the drug store,” Helen replied. “Her real name is Tabitha, but she said everyone calls her Tabby. I told her that’s a cat’s name and she laughed. She’s kind of a stolto, but a whiz when it comes to cosmetics. She said the pink would complement my gray hair, and by golly she was right.”

  “It clashes with your glasses,” Alberta said.

  Helen took off her glasses and compared the color to the blot of lipstick on the napkin. “You’re wrong,” Helen said. “Blessed Mother blue and bubble gum pink are a perfect combination. And stop trying to change the subject, Berta. Why are you anxious?”

  “I’m not,” Alberta protested.

  “You are so,” Helen said. “Your foot keeps tapping the floor like you’re Ann Miller’s understudy.”

  Alberta ran her fingers through her own chin-length hair, which was dyed jet black, and tucked it behind her right ear. The mannerism was a holdover from her youth and a telltale sign that she was about to finagle the truth. She didn’t like keeping secrets, especially from her sister. They were both too old to start telling lies to each other, or to anyone for that matter, but she also didn’t want to hear Helen articulate in her own blunt way how stupid Alberta was to be nervous and apprehensive because of a bad dream.