The Marinara Murders

Chapter 1

Arthur Beautyman sat unmoving in his mom’s basement, trying to ignore the hard thump of her heel on the floor above him.

Arthur! Ruth called. He heard her heel fall again. Julie stayed late to see you!

Julie Diamond was Ruth’s favorite bridge partner. Since moving back in with his mother he’d noticed that Ruth tended to cancel Thursday bridge parties if she couldn’t have Julie across the table from her. He knew she was one of his mom’s closest friends, but he hadn’t warmed to her. Like the rest of his mom’s new friends, he felt she was an imposter—an older parody of the women he remembered visiting the house when he was a child.

But Beautyman was no longer a child. He was a 41-year-old man currently hiding from company in the basement. And even he was getting a little embarrassed by his mother’s shouts and stomps.

Beautyman pressed a key on the computer keyboard that sent his screen into lockdown. Now only a 20-digit password would unlock the computer. It would take the Feds, or anyone else for that matter, years to crack through the 256-bit cipher to gain access.

He stood and grabbed a ticket to the Vikings game later that night. It wasn’t for another couple hours but he would use the game as an excuse to leave if he needed to.

There you are, Arthur. I thought you were ignoring me, Ruth said as her son appeared in the doorway to the kitchen.

I had my headphones on, Mom, Beautyman answered. He kissed the top of her head and went to the cabinet. Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Diamond? he asked, pulling a glass out.

Good heavens, she’s been sitting here for two hours and you think I haven’t offered her something? Ruth asked.

I’m fine, thank you, Arthur. Ruth made me some tea, Julie answered.

Beautyman looked over at her as he filled his glass from the sink. She didn’t look fine. In fact, he might have guessed that she had been sitting at the table for two hours without even a glass of water. Her skin was ghastly pale and an uneven application of makeup couldn’t hide it. Over her head she wore a bright red turban, tight against her temples with not a hair showing underneath it.

You like it? Julie asked, putting her hand to her head. It’s a little like that poem. I figured if I had to wear something right now it should at least be pretty, right? She gave a small forced laugh, and Beautyman was impressed she could muster that.

He sat at the table across from her and rested his forearms on the cool Formica surface. I do like it. It looks warm too.

I’ve lived in Minnesota all my life but I had no understanding of how cold it actually was. Without my hair the chill just cuts through me. Julie looked down at her teacup. Beautyman couldn’t tell whether she expected a response and without one, the room fell into an awkward silence.

She has a case for you, Ruth said several seconds later.

Beautyman’s head snapped up in surprise. He’d assumed this was a social visit, that his mother had wanted him to spend 20 minutes with her friend avoiding the topic of pancreatic cancer. He hadn’t imagined that Julie Diamond was here to see him. Although wasn’t that exactly what his mother had been shouting?

He didn’t even know where to begin. Ah … Mrs. Diamond, I don’t know what my mother’s told you—

That you were the best detective the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department ever saw, Ruth cut in. It’s the truth and you know it.

I’m not in L.A. anymore.

"You can be a detective here."

She said it with the force of someone who had no idea what she was talking about, Beautyman thought. Like when she deleted the first chapter of her memoirs from the computer and insisted that he could bring them back. I’m done with all that. No department is going to hire me after what happened.

I’m not asking you to join up again, Arthur. Just get your feet wet as a private detective and see if you still like it.

I don’t want to do it, Mom!

He’s just being obstinate, Julie, but he’ll hear you out, Ruth said, changing strategies.

For the second time in as many minutes, Beautyman couldn’t think of a response. Not that he’d mounted an elegant argument in the first place. For the last four months it felt like he was 16 and pleading with his mom to change his 10:00 curfew.

He sulked, barely tuning in as Ruth tried to convince Julie to unload her problem onto Beautyman. Clearly his involvement was his mother’s idea, he thought. Or maybe he’d put up too much of a fight in front of his mom’s friend. He winced.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Diamond, my mother and I seem to have that fight more and more often, he said. But now you’ve got me curious. It was a lame explanation partnered with a lame smile, but Julie stopped packing tissues into her purse. So maybe she did want his help.

It’s my grandson, Jake. He’s been gone for so long … no one imagined we’d ever see him again.

When did he leave? Beautyman asked.

"Three years ago. There was a note that made it sound like he … like he was going to drown himself in Lake Calhoun. When he disappeared the police searched the lake but there was no body, just his jacket. But we all knew. He’d been having such a hard time … We just knew that he had gone through with it.

Since then we’ve had so much death visit our family. First Jake’s mom—my daughter-in-law Ellen. She died two years ago in a car accident. Then my diagnosis just a few months ago … it’s been too much. Nathan never came back like he promised—he’s on Wall Street doing who-knows-what. And May is in Europe thinking she’s getting cultured but probably just drinking a lot.

Nathan and May? Beautyman asked.

All grandchildren. Nate’s the oldest, then Jake, then May.

He wished he had a pen to keep track of the names being thrown at him. He looked over at his mother to ask for one but saw that he needn’t have worried. She would know the names of Julie’s grandchildren as if they were her own.

But my son Henry keeps pushing on, she said, smiling fondly, as if his perseverance were a great in-joke. He opens his restaurant tonight. If Ellen were around to see it I know she would have been so proud.

Her voice cracked and Beautyman let her regain her composure without interruption.

Jake named it, actually. Years ago when Henry first said he wanted to open a restaurant—and not just any restaurant, the finest restaurant in Minneapolis—it was Jake who suggested he name the restaurant Carat. Julie smirked and Beautyman’s face mirrored hers, a habit formed in many interrogation rooms. Maybe he had something of a detective’s soul left in him.

What an awful pun, Henry Diamond naming his first restaurant Carat, Julie said. "But he thought the name had a certain flair, and after Jake disappeared, I don’t think there was any doubt what he was going to name it.

We … we all thought it was behind us, I think. We’d each made peace with it, as best as we could. Until yesterday, when Jake came back into our lives. Julie’s face suddenly collapsed into tears.

He came home? Beautyman was confused, and his mother’s startled look made a mockery out of any vain belief that he still was on his game. A good detective would have known what was coming next.

Jake’s body was found yesterday, Ruth said, her arm around her friend. In Lake Calhoun.

They said he’d only been in the lake a couple hours before they found him, Julie said, her nose red and sniffling. "A couple hours! That’s it. After being gone so long, after making us think he’d killed himself … he’s been alive? He’s been here? And now taken from us again. It’s like I’m living it all over again. She started crying again. I just want to know where he’s been the last three years, that’s all I want. Why did he do this to us?"

Chapter 2

Beautyman sat behind the Viking’s end zone, stewing in his Budweiser and barely registering the field. He hated football. In virtually every metric he could think of, it fell short when compared to baseball. The brute force of the gridiron couldn’t compete with the elegance of the diamond. But October had come and gone. His beloved Dodgers had come up short again and the Twins weren’t any better. So the only sports left to get him out of the house were football or hockey. It was a coin toss which was worse, so he picked the one without ice.

And what were they doing playing on a Thursday night? Football was supposed to be confined to the weekend and baseball went through the week. Next week was Thanksgiving, and that was the only Thursday football should be allowed.

Beautyman looked down into his plastic cup and gave his beer a small shake. Only a few bubbles of carbonation left. What could he possibly do for Julie Diamond? He had no Minnesota license to act as a private investigator. He had no friends in the police department who could help him out. All he wanted was to be out of his mother’s house and out of Minnesota as fast as he could.

How long had he been saying that? Six months now? He’d slunk into his mom’s basement, jobless and disgraced, telling himself that he was there to look after his ailing mother. But she was not ailing. What was he doing, waiting for her to start dying like her friend so that he could justify living off her savings?

Beautyman stood. It’s a bad sign, he thought, when you can lay a guilt trip on yourself better than your mother.

Tonight I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, Beautyman thought, his nose practically pressed to the window of the new restaurant. Standing next to him could have been Ebenezer Scrooge, watching his younger self dance and drink and peck coquettes under the mistletoe.

The party inside was that kind of party. Friends were embracing, land deals were auctioned like door prizes, the food looked as if it’d been plucked from the perfect world of television commercials, the alcohol only gave you the perfect buzz, and all the women were sexy and smart. At least, that was how it looked though the window.

Despite the night chill of November in Minneapolis, Beautyman still held back from going inside. This was not his party. Julie was going to be the only one who knew him. Would anyone be happy to see him? Jake Diamond was dead. Bringing it up at his father’s restaurant opening—a restaurant that Jake had named, no less—was going to go badly.

If he exploded the party, Julie was going to be devastated and Ruth furious. But being a good detective always had an explosive quality. What if someone in Jake’s family knew he had faked suicide three years ago? he could hear himself shouting to his mother. What if one of them even knew why he was dead now? But she wouldn’t be willing to hear of it, of course. His job was to catch the one-armed man. That he would suspect a relative of her closest friend would be outrageous.

His fingers were beginning to look and feel like frozen fish sticks. He jammed them in his pockets and walked in.

The hostess was at her podium and greeted him with a wide smile. Good evening, sir. Welcome to Carat.

She looked at him expectantly. Beautyman suddenly wished he could just flash a badge. But out of his pocket came the invitation Julie had given him.

The nicer they are, the more worried I am that I received it by mistake, he smiled.

Don’t worry, you look like you’ll blend right in, she said coming around her station. She placed her fingertips on his elbow. Beautyman felt himself holding his breath.

I’ll take your coat if you’d like, sir, she prodded when he didn’t move. She grinned as he turned around, exhaling, and he knew that she had read his face exactly.

Beautyman let his coat fall off his shoulders and into her hands. He couldn’t help but feel his short stature next to this Amazon of a woman. She barely had to raise her arms to catch it.

I’m here as a guest of Julie Diamond. Can you point me toward her table?

I’m sorry, sir. She’s already left for the night. Can I show you to a private table?

Only if you’d join me, he wanted to quip. Her light blonde hair was pulled tight into a small professional bun at the back of her head. She had to be half his age, and yet he found himself actually entertaining the possibility that she might reciprocate his attraction. I need to get out more.

That’ll be fine, thank you.

Beautyman let her guide him through the crowd of people. He should have been scanning the crowd but his eyes couldn’t leave the perfect skin and muscular shoulder blades exposed by the backless dress of the hostess.

She stopped at a small table tucked into the back of the dim restaurant and indicated a chair.

Actually, I wonder if there might be a seat at Henry’s table? He ventured. He wasn’t going to learn anything sitting alone at a table.

She grinned politely. Mr. Diamond hardly has time to take a seat tonight. But I will be sure to tell him to come find you and say ‘hello,’ Mr. …

Beautyman. Detective Beautyman. It’s about Jake.

The tall woman’s eyes flashed hot as he sat down. Was it fear? The pang of loss? Anger at being ambushed with it? The heat, whatever it was, dissipated, and her eyes filled with tears. She hurried toward the kitchen, her hand up to her mouth too late to prevent him from hearing a small sob. Beautyman realized that once again he’d missed his guess. He was getting rusty.

Beautyman ordered a Manhattan from the waiter who came by after the hostess had fled. He didn’t particularly like the drink, but it felt appropriate for the atmosphere. The restaurant was expertly lit. Save for the ornate polished silver chandelier in the middle of the room, Beautyman could hardly see a bulb or a fixture. Every light source seemed to be hidden, the light bouncing off the walls as if they were faintly glowing. The dim was periodically punctuated by the blasts of fire escaping the pans in the open kitchen tucked in the back or the table-side preparation of bananas flambé. It looked to Beautyman like an ideal choice for a first date or a silver wedding anniversary.

He stopped his survey as a thick hand in a tuxedo sleeve placed his Manhattan in front of him.

You made Dana cry, a voice said.

Beautyman looked up. A silver-haired man was staring down at him. Built wide and tall, his barrel chest filled his tuxedo. From his seated position, Beautyman could have sworn he looked like he was wearing football pads under the jacket. The man was huge, and packed with strength.

Before Beautyman could rise, the man slid into the seat across from his with surprising grace. Holst promised no one would be doing anything but observing tonight. But you’re harassing my family and drinking my liquor.

I’m sorry if there’s been some confusion, Mr. Diamond. I don’t know anyone named Holst and I fully intend to pay for my drink.

Henry Diamond cocked his head to the side. Dana said you were with the police.

An impression Beautyman had intended to give her, although he regretted how cavalierly he had thrown out Jake’s name now. I think she must have been mistaken. I’m a private investigator. Just don’t ask for my license.

With which agency?

My own.

May I see your license?

I must have left it in my other pants, Beautyman answered without bothering to go through the charade of looking for it.

I understand. Diamond stood up. You’re not a detective, you’re a friend of Alcamo’s. If you don’t start walking toward the door now, the officers here will be happy to escort you all the way to the station. I believe they have some questions for you. Despite his crisp words, Diamond didn’t look like he actually believed what he was saying.

Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone named Alcamo, either. I’m here on behalf of Julie Diamond.

Diamond snorted, but when Beautyman didn’t flinch he eventually sat back down. Of course you are, he muttered, shaking his head.

I’m sorry if I created a stir at your opening, Mr. Diamond. Sometimes a stir can provide information that you can’t find any other way. I hate doing it, but it’s part of the job.

What job is that? Scamming little old ladies out of their pensions with promises that can’t be kept?

Beautyman took a sip of his drink. Why was he doing this? Normally he hated playing aggressive games with people. First, he wasn’t very good at it. Something about being 5’ 6" with lifts in his heels. Or maybe it was his face, which managed to be ugly without being menacing—entirely useless. And yet for some reason he was playing games with a man who had nine inches and a hundred pounds of muscle on him.

There was a better way.

He slouched back into padded chair. "I’m not getting paid, Mr. Diamond. Truth be told, I’m not really here for your mother, I’m