BM03 - Crazy Little Thing Called Dead (16 page)

The dead guy’s name is Albin Shvakova and he’s a Bulgarian hit man.

Grant was threatened by a woman named Margaret. (French)

Hambecker follows Hugo to NYC. Hugo meets with Michèle.

Hambecker calls Michèle Margaret

Is Hugo really Victor Puccini?

Grant is murdered

Does Hambecker know why Shvakova was in the country?

The first thing I needed to find out was if my hunch about Victor was right. Was he also known as Victor Puccini? I picked up my bag, looked around for my pastry and realized it was gone. Had I eaten it without noticing? Ranger was licking his chops.

“You ate my breakfast, didn’t you?” I shook my finger at him.

“What are you talking about?” Meg asked.

“Ranger ate my bun, that’s all.” I gave him the evil eye.

“Nothing unusual about that. Are you going now?”

“Yep, I’m out of here. Come on, Ranger.”

I debated taking Ranger home before I drove out to Ronnie’s, but it was a cool enough day, and Ronnie didn’t have any dogs he would upset, so I drove straight up Route 110. I was happy to see the pickup was behind the shed when I pulled into the drive. I wanted to talk to Hugo.

“Hi Bree!” Ronnie was already out on the porch when I got out of my truck, leaving the windows cracked so Ranger wouldn’t get too hot, or run out of oxygen, but not so open he could jump out and terrorize Ronnie. I waved hello and walked over to sit on the porch step next her.

She was watching Ranger sniff the air through the open window.

“He can’t get out,” I said. “He wouldn’t hurt you if he could. He’s big, but he’s gentle.”

“I’m not afraid. Can I pet him?” She looked at me her eyes wide, smiling with no reservation. She acted with such innocent happiness; I didn’t think I’d ever get used to that much guilelessness in an adult face.

“Sure, you can pet him if you want.”

We walked over to the truck and I let Ranger out and asked him to sit and stay. I didn’t want Ronnie to get knocked over by accident and start to fear big dogs. He put up with her handling with good grace and licked her hands and face. She laughed and called him a good boy. She looked so happy that it hurt me. I didn’t know what she’d gotten in the middle of, but whatever it was not only wasn’t she to blame, she also wasn’t responsible. Even so, her life was going to be changed. Her brother’s association with the mob wasn’t going to leave her untouched. I blinked back the unexpected tears and put Ranger back in the truck.

“Can I see him again sometime?” Ronnie asked her eyes bright with dog infatuation.

“Of course, anytime,” I said. Not knowing if there’d be a next time at all. “Do you live here alone, Ronnie?

“Yep. I know how to cook and shop and drive. Hughie taught me. I never go on the freeway. He said that would be bad.” She took my hand, and quickly dropped it. “Hughie told me that grownups don’t hold hands. But I forget sometimes.”

“Does Hugo visit you often?” I couldn’t bring myself to call him Hughie.

“Almost every week.” She had a big smile now. “He’s here now. Hughie has been visiting me. He’s on vacation.” She opened the door to the kitchen and led me in. “Hughie, somebody’s here!”

The basement door opened and a short sandy haired man stepped into the kitchen. His face was tense and there were bags under his eyes. “Ronnie, go upstairs and sweep the carpet. I need to talk to Bree.”

“Okay, Hughie.” Ronnie ran down the hall and I moment later I heard the low hum of the vacuum cleaner.

“You’re that reporter who came here with the fed.” There wasn’t an ounce of welcome in his voice and his face was like granite.

“Bree MacGowan.” I stuck out my hand. He didn’t hesitate, which surprised me; he took my hand in a firm, dry grip that didn’t hurt, and didn’t last too long. He may be a crook, but he had manners.

“Sit down, Ms. MacGowan.” He pulled out a chair for me, and took the one opposite, facing the door. I was not surprised.

“Call me Bree,” I said. “But I’m not sure what to call you. Ronnie calls you Hugh, but I’m almost certain you’re the man Michèle Ledroit is looking for, Victor Puccini.”

“My full name is Victor Hugo Puccini.” A slight smile softened his face. “My mother had a sense of humor. Ronnie never liked Victor; it was too full of hard sounds when she was little. She’s always called me Hugh.”

“You’re her brother from different fathers?” I hazarded a guess.

“Yeah, that’s not unusual is it?” He raised his brows at me.

“No,” I smiled. Considering the MacGowan habit of not marrying at all, I couldn’t pass judgment. “You take care of Ronnie.”

“I’ve tried. But truthfully, things have gotten out of hand and I need help. I’m willing to make a deal with the cops if it means Ronnie will be safe, but I’m not talking until I have proof. And it’s not going to be easy, because she’s not entirely innocent. If I wasn’t desperate I wouldn’t talk, but it won’t be long now until Margaret finds me, and when she does she will hurt Ronnie in ways Ronnie wouldn’t be able to recover from. I can’t let that happen.”

“Why didn’t she take you out at the restaurant the other day?”

He looked at me sharply. “Did Hambecker tell you about that?”

“No. I was there. I saw you.” I didn’t see the harm in offering him the truth as a gesture of good faith.

“You followed me?” He looked slightly shocked. “I didn’t realize you knew I was here. I must be slipping.”

“Actually, I followed Hambecker. He was following you. I didn’t put Hugo together with Victor until I saw you with Michèle Ledroit. That was Michèle, wasn’t it? She doesn’t have a twin?”

“Her name is Margaret “Widow-Maker” LeDonne, and she is the Consigliore for Shirley “The Shredder” Gambino. They are not people you should get messed up with.” His voice was tinged with regret.

“But then why did she introduce herself as Michèle? Why come to me at all?” I would have been mortified except this story was going to be all mine. And it was big.

“She uses Michèle Ledroit when she doesn’t want her identity to be discovered. Even the Widow-Maker cannot kill everyone whose services she uses. She needed a local, someone who would notice a stranger. That’s why you. If she ever finds out how much you know, you’ll be dead.”

“In other words, after I write this story my life will be in danger. I’ll be screwed.”
Well, shit
.

“Pretty much.” He pitied me.

“Why should I help you then? If I’m going to have to choose between telling the story and my life?”
Damn, damn, damn
. I would tell this story.

“You could write under an assumed name.”

“That wouldn’t save me. But truthfully, I’m tired of this game. I’ll help you because Ronnie needs help. She doesn’t need to be alone in this world. Tell me why she’s in danger.”
Forget ramifications and cut to the chase already, MacGowan. There’s nothing to be done for it.

“Bring me written proof that Ronnie will be safe, signed by someone who can make it happen and I’ll give you the story. God help you if you run it.” He stood up and offered me his hand. I thought he was going to help me up, but he shook mine. As if to seal the deal.

“Hambecker is out of town, and I don’t know when he’ll be back, but as soon as he is, we’ll work this out. I’m assuming the state police won’t be able to give you what you want.”

“Wait for Hambecker. He has a stake in this. He’ll be willing to make it happen.”

He showed me out, the drone of the vacuum still emanating from the upper floors. I wondered how long Ronnie would continue to clean before her brother stopped her.

***

I stopped in at the Brain Freeze for a chocolate cone with the works on the way back to the office. I made Ranger lie down with his head facing his door so I could eat it, and he kept shooting me dirty looks over his shoulder. Driving while eating a cone is dicey, add a dog’s butt in your lap and it becomes ridiculous. Every so often he’d wag his tail and smack me in the face. There was dog hair in my chocolate.

“You turkey.”

I tried pinning his tail under my other arm, but it just didn’t work. I almost gave him the rest of the dog covered cone then I remembered that dogs can’t eat chocolate. So I ate it anyway, hair and all.

Hugo had confirmed two of my assumptions; Margaret and Michèle were one and the same, as were Victor Puccini and Hugo Hart. The size of the other team had just been halved. I didn’t much like what I’d heard of LeDonne, but Victor/Hugo seemed decent enough. I wondered how he’d gotten mixed up with the mafia.

Meg laughed when I walked in the door.

“What?” I asked, but I figured I must have ice cream on my face.

“Go look in the mirror,” she said. “You look like you’re about four years old.”

Sure enough I had chocolate and dog hair on my face and shirt to feed a small army. It took me a minute to figure out that when Ranger’s tail had gotten hair on my ice cream he’d also gotten ice cream on his tail. Which he’d wagged all over me. I vowed never to eat ice cream with Ranger in the car again and cleaned myself up.

***

The tough part was now that I had something concrete, I couldn’t do anything about it. Until Hambecker re-appeared, I was stuck. And I wanted the story before the next
Star
came out. For one brief moment I considered interviewing Ledroit, but self-preservation put the kibosh on that pretty quick. I wasn’t ready to get dead. I made Tom promise to call me if Hambecker was back in town and settled down to wait.

I wasn’t good at waiting. I made a batch of brownies and ate them all. Not good. Thursday evening was spent lying on my bed groaning, and not in a good way.

The funeral was Friday afternoon. I dressed as appropriately as I knew how, which in this case was a black swirly skirt, and black and red peasant blouse and my slouchy cowboy boots. No way was I walking through a cemetery in high heels. Parking was tight around the green. I should have thought to ride the Kawasaki, although the Kawasaki was not so compatible with the skirt. I snagged a spot near Planet Hair and walked across the Green to the church with the red door.

The place was packed and hushed. Muffled weeping accompanied me up the aisle toward the front, where I squeezed in next to Claire. “Nice duds,” she whispered. If circumstances were different I would have laughed, she wore a classy black suit which I was sure was designer, and black leather pumps with a pretty, but sensible-for-cemeteries, heel.

When the minister started to speak the entire front pew began to sob. Men and women both held tissues and handkerchiefs to stricken faces. I held my body still trying to still my own urge to break down. Claire grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back. We were both bawling by the time the service was over and friends and family had all spoken. My heart was breaking for Grant’s family, for the community’s loss and for the man who had so casually held me close while he chatted with Hambecker. Underneath the sorrow was a growing fury at Margaret LeDonne.

Claire and I stood together at the gravesite while the minister said a few words and lowered the casket into the ground. We threw in flowers and racing confetti of minute checkered flags and little golden trophies. I didn’t even know him that well and I wanted to throw myself on the grass and sob. I couldn’t imagine how his sisters were feeling.

As Claire and I walked toward the road I caught the glimpse of stylish black hair and froze. My heart was step dancing in my chest.

“What?” Claire caught the direction of my gaze and started craning her neck. “What do you see?”

“Stop. Don’t look. I think it’s the woman who threatened to kill Grant. She’s got some nerve being here. Go on back to your car; I’ve got to tell Tom.”

“I’m coming with you.” Claire grabbed my arm. “I want to see her.”

“No. No you don’t. People who see her die. Please, Claire. I can’t take another murder right now.” I could see that she wanted to object, but whatever it was she saw in my face stopped.

She nodded. “I’ll see you there. Stay safe.”

I found Tom standing in a group of Troopers and their families. I placed my hand on his arm and drew him away. I had spotted the black haired woman and caught a look at her face. It was Ledroit.

“Michèle Ledroit is here,” I said. “The woman who threatened Grant.”

“Where?” He asked. “But don’t point.”

As if I would.

“On the street next to the big maple. Across from Garret Flint’s angel.” She was standing her back to a sleek Mercedes, surveying the mourners. I don’t think she’d spotted me; the cemetery was pretty full of people.

“I’ll take care of this. Get in your car and go to the wake. Do not—and I mean it, Bree—do
not
go anywhere alone. Got that?” Tom was watching me carefully, probably looking for signs of rebellion.

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” And I probably would have obeyed the command if my car hadn’t been in her direction. The closer I got to where she was standing, the madder I got and the faster I walked. I was close enough that she would have heard if I’d called her name, but she was looking the other way and my plan was to take her out at the knees and choke the life out of her. I was one car length away and I broke into a jog, putting a little power behind my tackle when I was grabbed around the waist from behind and whisked around the back of a truck.

“What—” I began.

“Shh! Lower your voice. Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Hambecker let me go and I whirled on him.

“Why’d you stop me,” I hissed. “I had her. She was mine.”

“It can’t happen like that. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to let her walk free. But if you grab her now we can’t charge her with anything. We have no proof.” His hand was around my wrist, restraining but not hurting me.