Chapter 23

Once outside, I peered up and down the sidewalk that runs along the shops and restaurants on the wharf, trying to spot which way Angelo and Anastasia had headed. No sign of the pair.

Shoot. How could they have disappeared so quickly?

But then my eye was caught by a flash of red on the other side of the street—Anastasia’s crimson jacket. It looked as if they were headed for Bobby’s giant pickup, which sat across from his dad’s gift shop. But no, they’d stopped at the blue sedan next to it.

Realizing how conspicuous I must be, standing there gawking at them (the food-spattered apron I’d forgotten to remove didn’t help), I ducked behind an SUV parked in front of the restaurant and continued to monitor the couple through its windshield.

Anastasia dug around in her bag and extracted a set of keys, then leaned back against the driver’s side door of the car. They continued to chat, Anastasia nodding and smiling at whatever he was saying, but after a few minutes she pushed off from the car—clear “okay, I’ve gotta go now” body language. Angelo took a step closer, then leaned in to give her a kiss. It looked as if he was aiming for her mouth, but at the last second Anastasia turned her head so that his lips landed on her cheek instead.

Opening the car door and sliding into the seat, she started the engine and pulled out of the parking space with a quick smile and wave good-bye. Angelo watched as the blue car sped down the wharf, then turned and directed a kick at a seagull pecking at a pile of French fries at his feet. The gull hopped out of the way, then immediately returned to its dinner.

The fisherman glanced my way but didn’t appear to notice me crouching behind the black SUV. With one last look in the direction of Anastasia’s car, he crossed the street back toward Solari’s, then turned the corner of the restaurant toward the rear of the building.

Keeping a safe distance, I followed Angelo. He made his way across to the bocce court, where a group of players were gathering up all the balls scattered about the crushed granite surface and packing them into their canvas cases. I hid myself behind the Marcella and watched as he approached a tall, lanky guy with his back to me. Frank, the bocce player with the temper, I realized when I caught sight of his profile.

The two spoke for a few minutes, then Frank leaned toward Angelo, said something into his ear, and let out a bark of a laugh. Angelo stared briefly at the other man, then gave him the Italian version of the finger (raised clenched fist, hand on bicep) and strode off.

I was torn. Should I continue to follow Angelo or stay and see what Frank was up to? But then I noticed that from my vantage point, I could keep an eye on both men, at least till Angelo rounded the corner. So I stayed put, hidden behind the red-and-green Monterey clipper.

Frank was now laughing in earnest. Pulling on a dark brown jacket to match his slacks, he gestured toward the retreating Angelo as he held court with three other guys who’d come over to see what all the fun was about. I could well imagine what was being said about poor old Angelo, who must have made the mistake of confiding in the other about being rebuffed by his young lady friend.

I left them to their gossip and hightailed it after the fisherman, who’d turned the corner out of my line of sight. As I emerged onto the sidewalk in front of Solari’s, I spied him crossing the street once more. Angelo threaded through the cars to the far side of the parking area, then took a seat at one of the wood benches sprinkled along the edge of the wharf. Stretching his long legs out before him, he leaned back, arms crossed, and gazed out across the water.

He didn’t look as if he was leaving anytime soon. The bay between the Boardwalk and Cocoanut Grove was now awash in orange and pink from the setting sun, a vista that even the dejected fisherman had to appreciate.

Better go back inside to see if Dad has anything else for me to do.

I felt a little sorry for Angelo. At the same time, however, he’d started to give me the heebie-jeebies. Not just that hard look in his eyes earlier tonight, but also what my dad had told me about him losing it with the fish buyer. Anyone who could clock a grocer with a lead weight could just as easily have walloped old Gino on the head, right?

But what about Frank? I’d witnessed him heave a rock-hard bocce ball at a group of old men for no reason other than their laughter at his errant throw. Could he have been equally angry at something Gino had said or done and retaliated in a similar manner? He could have used a bocce ball, but it could also have been some other blunt object lying close at hand. Something like an oar from my father’s Boston Whaler. And that would explain why Gino’s cap had fallen into the boat.

Well, I thought as I made my way through the Solari’s dining room toward the back of the house, if that’s the case, hopefully they’ll find some prints—other than Dad’s—on the oars.

It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but just five tables remained and they’d all been served their entrées. A slow night. Good. That meant Dad would be able to get to bed early as well. We both needed a full night’s sleep in preparation for our big day tomorrow.

I found him in the office, studying a handwritten sheet of paper. “Oh, hi, hon,” he said, looking up when I came through the door. “I thought you’d gone. I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow.”

“Sorry. I just went outside for a bit to get some air.”

“Yeah,” he said with a laugh, “it is a bit funky in here from all that cabbage you boiled. Here.” He handed the paper to me. “You wanna sit down for a sec and decide who’s going to do what so we don’t have to figure it all out tomorrow morning?”

“Sure, no problem.”

I pulled a folding chair up next to Dad, and the two of us conferred about setup, beverages, food prep, and logistics for the pre-dinner appetizers in the restaurant and the sit-down meal in the tent. After we’d finished, he headed back to the kitchen and I went in search of Giulia to make sure our head waitress was in on the game plan.

That done, I plopped down once more in the Solari’s office to check my phone. Nothing urgent, thank goodness, since all I wanted to do right now was go home, play with Buster while I had a soothing nightcap, and then fall into bed.

I hoisted myself out of the chair with a grunt and made my way back to the kitchen, where Dad was helping Emilio with the final cleanup. Slipping behind my father as he pulled plastic wrap over a container of leftover tarragon-cream sauce, I planted a kiss on his cheek. “See you tomorrow morning,” I said, then headed out the back door, the screen slamming behind me.

The sun had been down for a while, but off to the west the sky still glowed a violet and cobalt blue where it met the Pacific Ocean. Pulling my jacket closer around me, I walked across the now-empty bocce court to the railing and inhaled deeply. After the closeness of the Solari’s kitchen, the cool, salt-sea air was a welcome relief.

Strains of laughter and seventies rock music escaped from the restaurant bar two doors down, and I tried to make out the song. Bob Seger, maybe? It sounded a little like “Night Moves,” but the slap of water against the wharf piers was too loud for me to tell for sure.

I tilted my head back and gazed upward. Dark clouds raced across the sky, and between them a host of stars gleamed in the moonless night. Please, please let it not rain tomorrow. Yes, we did have the tent, but it would still be a bummer of mammoth proportions if we had to transport all that food from the restaurant kitchen to the tent in a downpour.

Leaning forward again, arms crossed on the railing, I stared out across the inky inlet toward West Cliff Drive. Okay, I really should get myself home and to bed, I thought, and stood up. But as I pushed back from the railing, a shadow fell on its wooden frame. I had just enough time to register that someone must have come between me and the security light attached to the back wall of Solari’s before I felt a sharp blow to the back of my head.

I crumpled, falling limply across the railing. Too dazed to pick myself up, I drew a slow, shallow breath and tried to turn my head to see my assailant. But before I could even open my eyes, I was lifted up by my legs.

It didn’t take much. Once I was about a foot off the ground, the weight of my upper body did the rest of the work and I slid over the side of the railing. Down I plunged.

Into the cold, black water below.