Despite the early hour, people were already milling about on Garibaldi Avenue. None of the stalls had opened yet, but many locals were either helping with the setup or simply gawking.
A man was testing the giant popcorn machine. Two women were polishing the display case for fresh pasta. One stand overflowed with hand-carved and painted figures representing famous Italian-Americans: Dean Martin, Jon Bon Jovi, Mira Sorvino, and dozens more.
As I neared Moroni’s, I bumped into Peter Piatek.
He shoved his phone at me, the audio recording app open and ticking away. “Miss Bernie Smyth, any comment on being released from police custody?”
“Cut it out, Peter. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
He stopped the recording.
“Off the record?”
“You have no idea how damaging your article about me was.”
“The citizens of Carmine have a right to the latest news.”
“Does the rest of the world as well?”
“Thanks to you, I’ve attracted hundreds of new readers to the site. This one story has had more views than anything since last year’s pumpkin festival resulted in the second-largest pumpkin in New Jersey.”
An icy hand ran down my spin. “Exactly how many people out of state have seen this?”
“Oh, quite a lot,” he said. “There are people on both coasts, in the south, Midwest, you name it. Even a couple of views from Alaska.”
Maybe I ought to tell Roberta that—it might convince her Alaska was no safer than New Jersey.
Peter patted my shoulder and smiled. “Get used to it, Bernie. You’re famous.”
I dragged my feet to the bakery, feeling unbearably heavy. Even if I somehow miraculously solved the case, my face was all over the internet. Harry Casanova was looking for me. How long before he found my photo on The Carmine Enquirer website?
I staggered into Moroni’s. A wave of heavenly smells rolled over me—freshly ground coffee and baked sugar—and I drew in a deep breath of air. It steadied me a little. Then Angelica threw herself at me, wrapping me in a fierce embrace, and nearly knocking me off my feet.
“Poverina,” she exclaimed.
We held each other for a while. Angelica’s hair smelled of fried dough. It was possibly the most comforting smell in the world.
“You’re wearing yesterday’s clothes,” she said. “Go home, shower, change. Do you need to get some sleep?”
I shook my head. “I’d rather be here making cannolis with you.”
Angelica smiled ruefully. “Well, I do need a lot more cannolis.”
I gave her a long look. “How bad is it?”
“Oh, there’s nothing bad about the cannolis I’ve made so far. But I only have sixty so far. And that leaves—“
“Two hundred and forty.”
“That’s right,” she said with a sigh. “And the fair opens in an hour.”
I joined her in the kitchen, and we got to work. We made more cannoli shells. We made more ricotta cream. But even as we worked, my hands felt sluggish and my mind drifted off to unanswered questions.
Where was Mark’s cousin, Steve?
What would he do about Susan still being alive?
And how had he ever thought he would get away with these murders?
If only there was a way to know where he was hiding.
At one point, Angelica glanced over at me. “You still thinking about the murders?”
I nodded.
She tsk-tsked. “Imagine how different everything would have turned out if Mark had taken Joanna’s advice and made a will. Even if he’d refused to go to a lawyer or a notary, he could have made a handwritten one and that would have been legal, or so Joanna tells me. Just imagine. There would have been no point in killing him or anyone else.”
I stared at Angelica.
“Are you all right, sweetie?”
“Angelica, you’re a genius,” I said and put down my spatula.
“I am?”