Killer Smile (23 page)

“Mary! Mary! Itsa sin, that Frank’s gone!” yelled Joe Grassi, from the back. “He woulda been so proud, to see what you accomplished. He tol’ me last week, you been workin’ for no pay!”

“No, wait, everybody!” Mary put up a hand. Enough was enough. “It was my boss who paid, Bennie Rosato. Give her the credit!” She pointed to the edge of the throng, where Bennie had been collared by a
circolo
member who wanted to franchise his chain of nail parlors. “Pop, take Joe over, to thank Bennie!” Her father and the
circolo
changed direction as quickly as a school of guppies, leaving Mary and her mother standing face-to-face with Jim MacIntire, the reporter. He’d evidently been at the funeral, because he’d slapped a tie on his workshirt. It was a look Mary used to love.

“My God, you have lots of fans, Mare!” Mac said. “The
circolo
, is it called, they all want you to take over Frank Cavuto’s practice, now that he’s gone.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Mary said, recoiling.
He’s not even buried yet, you jerk.

“This must be your mother!” Mac boomed, and Mary was figuring out a way she could turn his doggedness to her advantage.

“Ma, meet Jim MacIntire. He’s a reporter, so don’t answer any of his questions.”

“Ah-ha!” Her mother sniffed, making no disguise of her instant dislike, which only confirmed Mary’s doubts. Her mother’s instincts about people were positively canine. She could take one whiff, and you were either sunk or made. German Shepherds came to her for advice.

“You must be so proud of your daughter!” Mac boomed again, sounding more the proud parent than Mary’s own proud parent, who gave her daughter’s arm a familiar squeeze, turned on her thick rubber heel, and without another word, walked off into the crowd. Mary tried not to laugh.

“Tough room,” Mac said. “Listen, I want to talk with you about Brandolini. I guess you heard that Giovanni Saracone died yesterday. If you’re going to ask me how I know, we have an obit section, and I saw the notice.”

Mary kept her middle finger to herself. She was so near church and all.

“Let’s talk, Mare. Like we did, that first time, in your office.” Mac’s tone softened, and she gathered it was his Love Voice. The one that made her check if he had a wedding ring on.
Fool me once, fool me twice.
Mac took a step closer. “I felt for you when I heard. Just as you started to find the only man who knew Brandolini, he died. Did you ever get to see Saracone?”

“Did
you
?”

Mac blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said. You had the same information I did, you copied my research. You gonna tell me you didn’t go to the Saracones? Track him down like you did the director at the museum?”

“I didn’t say that I didn’t.”

“You didn’t say that you did, either.” Mary thought it was fun, turning the tables. “When did you go? Who did you see?”

“I went there yesterday afternoon and met Melania. Giovanni was too sick to see me.”

“Then you didn’t really learn he was dead from the obit.”
Liar
. “You knew he was on his deathbed way before any obit got called in.”

“I didn’t know for sure.”

“Bullshit. I don’t think Uncle Joey told you anything about me and Amadeo. I think somebody at Saracone’s did.” Mary wasn’t even sure she was right on the facts, which made accusing him even more fun. “I think you’re on Saracone’s payroll, and you’re using the fact you’re a reporter to find out what I know.”

“What?” Mac’s mouth dropped open, but Mary didn’t intend to elaborate. This was a hit-and-run. She wanted to shake him up.

“Who are you working for now that he’s dead, Mac? The son, the wife, Chico? Or somebody else? When you want to talk, I’ll want to talk, got it?” Mary looked past his head, and her father was pumping his hand wildly, waving her over. She was finished anyway. “Excuse me, I gotta go.” She left Mac before he could react.

Wait a minute.
Mary had almost forgotten. The cell phone call that had interrupted the funeral Mass. She should check the message, if she expected not to get fired. She dug into her purse, pulled out the cell phone, and powered it on to check for a message.

On the display screen was a text message that made her heart stop:

call me, it’s important. keisha

Mary hit *86 to double-check if there was a message.

“MARY, MARY! HERE YOU ARE!” Her father came over, shouting because he couldn’t hear himself without his hearing aid. He looped a meaty arm around a smiling, dark-haired man about Mary’s age, dressed in a white shirt, jeans, and no wedding band. “MARE! I WANT YOU TO MEET A REAL NICE FELLA! THIS IS PETE CIROCCI! PETE OWNS THE FRUIT TRUCK WE GET THE LETTUCE FROM! THE GOOD LETTUCE, NOT THE CRAPPY LETTUCE!”

“Great. Please, hold on, Pop.”

“MARE, YOU KNOW THAT LETTUCE YOUR MOTHER LIKES SO MUCH? IT NEVER HAS THE BROWN LEAVES ON THE OUTSIDE? SHE GOES TO PETE SPECIAL TO GET IT, THEY DON’T HAVE IT AT THE AC-A-ME!” Her father turned to shout at Pete, who stood an inch away from him. “MY WIFE HATES THE BROWN LEAVES! YOU GOTTA THROW HALF OF IT IN THE SLOP! THAT’S FIFTY CENTS, RIGHT THERE! SO WHO’S STUPID, AC-A-ME OR ME?”

“Pop, please, gimme one second,” Mary said, gently. She didn’t want to disrespect him in public, even though he couldn’t hear her disrespecting him in public.

“MARE, PETE OWNS THREE TRUCKS! HIS BUSINESS IS GOIN’ GREAT! HE GETS ALL HIS PRODUCE LOCAL FROM JERSEY! HE BUILT THE BUSINESS UP FROM SCRATCH! IT USED TO BE CALLED PETE’S PRODUCE, THEN HE GOT A DEAL ON SOME BROOMS AND HE STARTED SELLIN’ THE BROOMS, AND GUESS WHAT? THE BROOMS TOOK OFF!”

Mary struggled to hear the voicemail response, which came in maddeningly, mechanically slow. “You have three new messages,” she thought it said, but it could just as easily have been, “Boo boo boob boo sages.” She hit the number 1 anyway, to retrieve them. The number of messages didn’t matter, only what Keisha had called about.

“SO HE CHANGED THE NAME TO ‘PETE’S PRODUCE
PLUS
’! AIN’T THAT GREAT? NO FLIES ON THIS ONE, EH? HE’S GOT A GREAT SENSE A HUMOR!” Her father turned to Pete. “MARY’S GOT A GREAT SENSE A HUMOR, TOO! AN’ SHE DOESN’T ALWAYS HAVE THAT THING ON HER CHEEK! SHE GOT IT WHEN SHE FELL DOWN AT WORK!”

Argh!
Mary couldn’t hear the phone message over her father’s shouting and was about to tell him so when Bennie appeared at her elbow with Jeff Eisen, one of the clients Mary hadn’t been able to reach. What was Jeff doing here? Both he and Bennie were frowning.

“Excuse me, DiNunzio,” Bennie said, her blue eyes hard as ice. Jeff Eisen stiffened beside her. “You might hang up and take that call later.”

“MARE! WHO WOULDA FIGURED OUT THAT BROOMS WOULD SELL AS GOOD AS LETTUCE! PETE CIROCCI, THAT’S WHO!”

“Boo sageges,” said the voicemail, and between her father, Pete’s Produce Plus, Bennie, and Jeff Eisen, Mary finally surrendered and closed the phone. She smiled and extended a hand to Eisen.

“Jeff, I didn’t expect to see you here. How have you been?”

“Not so good.” Eisen puckered his mouth unhappily, his back rigid in his expensive suit, fancy striped tie, and shirt with a cutaway collar. “It’s a shame about Frank, murdered like that. We knew each other from the Chamber of Commerce. Frank’s the one that recommended I hire you, when my partner sued me. Last year, remember?”

“Of course.” Mary had forgotten for a moment. She felt off balance, preoccupied by the cell call. She was never that good at multi-tasking, and her father and Pete were waiting to be introduced, so she made introductions all around. There followed a flurry of handshaking, but it was a schizophrenic foursome, half of them loving Mary and half of them looking daggers.

“I was hoping to see you here, Mary,” Eisen continued. “Maybe we can talk about my lawsuit. It’s keeping my wife up at nights. I had my girl call you all last week, but you didn’t call back. They’re taking my deposition on Monday.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
“I’m so sorry, I was out of town.”
And I forgot. Oh Jeez.

“Didn’t you call in for your messages? I would think you’d call in for your messages. I’ve had my deposition taken before, but we only talked about it the one time.”

“WHA?” Her father scowled, and his forehead wrinkled unhappily all the way up, like ripples in a cranky pond. “WHA’D YOU SAY, PAL? SHE’S WORKIN’ AS HARD AS SHE CAN! SHE EVEN HURT HER FACE AT WORK, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! THAT’S WHAT YOU CALL DEDICATION!”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Mr. DiNunzio.” Eisen backed off in surprise.

“SURE YOU DID! SHE SAID SHE WAS BUSY, PAL! WHAT ARE YOU,
DEAF
!?”

Oh, no.
“It’s okay, Pop.” Mary touched her father’s arm, but she couldn’t help feeling touched. He would defend her even when she was totally in the wrong. Especially when she was totally in the wrong.

“YOU DON’T DESERVE THAT, MARE! YOU WORK TOO HARD FOR THESE INGRATES!”

Bennie turned to Mary, only apparently calm. “DiNunzio, I’d like us to take Jeff to lunch
right now
and discuss his deposition. Then you two won’t have to play phone tag anymore and you can mend some fences. Jeff would like that very much. Wouldn’t you, Jeff?”

“I’m free.” Eisen nodded. “No time like the present. I paid my respects here, and it’s only immediate family going to the luncheon after.”

“Okay, sure. Great idea.” Mary gave her father a soft kiss on the cheek, flashed Pete’s Produce Plus a thumbs-up, then found her mother on the way out and said good-bye, introducing her to Jeff Eisen. Her mother took one sniff and hated him. Vita was in the zone today. But walking to the curb and hailing a cab with Bennie and Jeff, Mary couldn’t think of anything but that phone call. How did Keisha get her cell? Then she remembered. She had given the nurse her business card, at Saracone’s door.

Mary would find out why she was calling as soon as she could find some privacy. The restaurant had to have a bathroom.

“How can you
not
have a bathroom?” Mary asked in disbelief, and the tuxedoed maître d’ took cover behind a carved lectern more appropriate at Harvard Law.

“I’m sorry, there was a…malfunction and it’s closed until it’s in working order.”

“When will that be?”

“When the plumber arrives. He’s on his way.”

Go to Plan B.
“I could use the men’s room, I don’t mind. Where’s that?” Mary craned her neck, and the maître d’ sniffed with disdain.

“I’m sorry, mademoiselle. There was only the one water closet.”

Bennie leaned over. “DiNunzio, get over it,” she whispered. “How old are you? Three?”

Nothing but the truth.
“That was Saracone’s nurse on my cell,” she whispered back. “I need to hear her message.”

“Don’t you
dare
. This client is about to fire us.
Focus,
child.”

“Ladies, we can go to another restaurant,” Eisen offered, since he was a gentleman and Mary was evidently having Female Trouble.

“No, this restaurant is fine,” Bennie countered firmly. “This is your favorite place, and she’ll be fine. Won’t you be fine, DiNunzio?”

“I’ll be fine,” Mary echoed, and the maître d’ plucked three impossibly padded menus from their provincial cradle and ushered her, Bennie, and Eisen to a round table in the corner.

The small dining room was softly lit, a converted colonial house in Society Hill, filled with well-dressed diners conversing in low, polite tones. Burgundy paisley drapes blanketed the windows, covered the tables to the ground, and made elegant skirts on the chairs, so the furniture was dressed better than Mary was. She had to find a way to take Keisha’s call. She left her cell phone powered on, and they sat down and opened menus softer than a Sealy’s.

“I love the foie here,” Eisen said, and Bennie nodded.

“I’ll join you, Jeff. In fact, why don’t you order for all of us? We’ve never been here.”

“Terrific.” Eisen smoothed down his shiny tie, and the waitress arrived in the next instant with not one but two bottles of French water, one in each hand, asking if they wanted their water with gas or not. Mary hoped the answer was not. Who
wants
gas? Then Eisen ordered them an appetizer of foie gras, the double-cut lamb entrée with wild rice, and a bottle of red Château Whatever.

“So, Jeff,” Bennie began, sipping some water. “Why don’t we get straight to business, and you tell us what’s keeping your wife up at night? I know that having your deposition taken can be stressful, for everybody, and —” Suddenly she was interrupted by the sound of a ringing cell phone.

Brriinngg! Briinnnggg!
Like Pavlov’s experiment, the entire restaurant responded by reaching instantly inside suit pockets, purses, and belt holsters, but Mary this time recognized her cell.

It has to be Keisha, calling back!
“Excuse me, I’m really sorry, I have to get this,” she said, and before Bennie could stop her, she’d reached for her purse, grabbed her cell, and flipped it open. “Yes?”

“MARE! ARE YOU STILL WITH THAT INGRATE?! PUT HIM ON! YOUR MOTHER WANTS TO TALK TO HIM!” It was her father, shouting so loud he could be heard by the eastern United States, not to mention Jeff Eisen.

Eeek
. “Pop, I have to go. Call you later. Love you both.” Mary flipped the cell closed just as the waitress materialized at her elbow and leaned over.

“Mademoiselle, cell phones are not permitted in the dining room.”

And gas is?
“I’m sorry,” Mary said, and when she looked up, Bennie was glaring at her and so was Eisen. “Sorry,” she added, like punctuation, but she felt like she was going to explode if she didn’t hear that message.

“So, Jeff,” Bennie began again, forcing a smile. “Why don’t we go over the facts of the case? It’s a good idea for you to review them, and then we’ll take it from there and tell you what the other side is likely to ask you in your deposition.”

“Sure. Well, as you know, Marc and I used to be in business together. Partners. We had the furniture stores, three locations, for the past oh, say, eight or nine years, and then all of a sudden last year, we start fighting. Disagreeing. Everything’s a problem.” Eisen threw up his hands, with a heavy gold ring. “First, it’s the inventory. He wants to keep too much inventory, and he develops this
thing
for recliners…”