Murder Under the Italian Moon (25 page)

"Ruby, are you talking about the wrong mailbox key you sent me?"

"Oh, yes. That's the one. Silly mistake." The happy voice was back.

"I figured you accidentally mailed me your mailbox key, so I brought it back."

The anticipation that had lit up her face quickly disappeared. "You brought it back? Where?"

"To your house. You weren't home so I gave it to your neighbor across the street. You know, Mrs. Snoopy?" I watched the rainbow of suspicions color her expression. She bought it. I thought. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop where the phone used to be. I could almost hear her brain churning.
True or false?

"Okey dokey." She let out a sharp giggle. "Let's pay Mrs. Snoopy a visit, shall we?"

"Uh—I can't. See? I can't wear shoes." I lifted my left foot to show her. I saw contempt on her face.

"Give it up. Your 'poor little me' may have done the trick on him, but it's over."

"
Him
?
"
It came out more as a sigh than a question, because somewhere deep in my brain I'd known the answer for a very long time.

"Nick." She said it. Her voice was a sweet whisper, the kind of dreamy awe reserved for idols, heroes…or the love of your life.

It was my turn to take a step toward Ruby.

"You bring sorrow to whoever cares about you."

She hit me with the fist holding the gun. I tasted blood inside my lip.

"
I
bring sorrow? You bitch! You Italian trash! He died because of you. He couldn't leave you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?"

"Ahh!" She lunged, trying to hit me again. I grabbed her hand, attempting to get the gun away. My anger fueled my strength. I wanted to twist her arm behind her back the way they did in cop shows. I was so sure there weren't any bullets in the gun, I felt empowered.

I was wrong.

The gun fired. I heard glass shattering and Flash's cry pierced my ears and my heart. I punched Ruby's face with all my might. She fell back and hit her elbow against the table, "Fuck!" I heard the gun land on the travertine tile. I had my arm around her chest and my other arm firmly around her neck, but she stomped my shoeless left foot with her heel. I screamed and we ended up wrestling on the couch. I don't know who had the upper hand because my front door crashed open and Larry and Bob and God-knows-who-else came rushing in.

We sat in the same waiting room where I had been the day before, March nineteenth. Thinking about all that had happened the past twenty-four hours made my head spin. Kyle was out of jail. Ruby was on her way to jail. That was the most important change of all.

No broken bones, and my bruises would be better in a week, the doctor told me.

I let Larry take me to the emergency room because he said the police would need the report. Fine. I wanted to go home and get some sleep.

"I bet they'll reopen Tom Russell's death investigation."

"You think so?"

"I read the report when it happened, and I'm pretty sure the death was ruled accidental because Ruby claimed she'd never touched a gun before and had no idea how it worked. I don't remember the exact words. It would be interesting to see what kind of life insurance the man carried." Larry smiled and helped me to the car. "The crimes people do for money."

"There wasn't any money involved with poor Aunt Millie. Do you think she suffered?"

"Let it go, sweetie. Even if the story of her fall is true, she would have survived if taken to a hospital. Bonnie was telling me that the trunk and the passenger seat of the Testarossa had been washed with river water. Ruby must have gotten rid of the body, washed the trunk and the car seat, then made a U-turn to Palm Springs to switch cars with Kyle."

We drove in silence for a while. "I used to think she was mentally challenged because of the accident. She was smart enough to take the wig, ID and plant a fake suicide note."

"I have the feeling the note was real. Aunt Millie was getting ready to sign off." Larry put his hand on my knee. "There were sleeping pills in her purse. We found them in Ruby's car."

"We?"

"I was on my way to Santa Ana with Bob when the tip came in—the Ford Focus was spotted in your garage. A security guard made the call. We were lucky—you were lucky. First thing the guys did was take over the Focus. We knew Ruby was in the house because you didn't answer your phone. Before we could come up with a plan we heard the gunshot—"

"And you wrecked my front door."

"Hey, I saved your life." Larry enjoyed the sparring, I could tell.

"I could have saved my own life, thank you very much. Is the police department going to replace my door?"

"What? You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Absolutely!"

"Fine. Tomorrow we go out, get you a new hat and a new door. Will that do it, or am I missing something?"

"I'll let you know after I pick up Flash and see the bill from the vet."

He pulled to the side of the road and stopped the car. His hand cupped my face. I felt the warmth of his breath on my throat and smelled his familiar aftershave. "How long before your lips are ready to kiss again?" he whispered in my ear.

I guided his hand inside my blouse. Before the back of the seat reclined, I caught a glimpse of the moon reflecting on the Pacific.

* * * * *

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Maria Grazia Swan was born in Italy, but this rolling stone has definitely gathered no moss. She lived in Belgium, France, Germany, and beautiful Orange County, California, before settling in her current home of Phoenix, Arizona. Maria loves travel, opera, good books, hiking, and intelligent movies (if she can find one, that is). Her idea of a perfect evening includes stimulating conversation, rich Italian food, and a perfectly chilled Prosecco. Maria has written several novels, short stories, and articles for high profile magazines and blogs taking on life and love … Italian style!

To learn more about Maria Grazia, visit her online at

mariagraziaswan.com

Lella York series:

Murder under the Italian Moon

Death under the Venice Moon

Mina Calvi series:

Love Thy Sister

Bosom Bodies

Other works:

Mating Dance

Medley of Murder

* * * * *

Of the next Lella York Mystery from
Gemma Halliday Publishing
:

DEATH UNDER THE VENICE MOON

by

MARIA GRAZIA SWAN

CHAPTER ONE

Venice, Italy, October

The heavy doors closed with a swoosh. I stopped and scanned the wall of humanity squeezed behind the crowd barriers. Only the eyes of strangers looked back.

My hope to encounter a friendly smile or familiar face faded.

I walked by the crowd of people waiting for disembarking passengers to clear customs, my hand steady on the rolling luggage, my head held high, my heart a heap of shards.

He is not here. What will I do?

I kept on walking. The damn autumn sun reflecting on the fountains outside the glass walls caused my eyes to tear up.

I didn't ask for much. A hug, a comforting word. He promised.

I'd forgotten how small the arrival terminal of Venice Marco Polo airport was. Except for the noise level, it felt like a tea parlor compared to Los Angeles International.

What could have possibly been so important to keep him from meeting me?

"Signora York. Signora York."

I searched for a face to match the voice. A tall woman ran toward me. "Signora York, sorry to be late." She spoke Italian, and for inexplicable reasons, I found it soothing.

Long legs inside knee-high black boots and skintight jeans, a charcoal sweater and matching, loosely quilted vest. Under the terminal lights her hair appeared to be a rusty brown. Who was this woman calling my name as she approached? I had no doubt; I'd never met her before.

"Signora York." Between words she made sucking, gasp-like noises. "Sorry to have you wait. There was an accident on the
autostrada
." She stopped and studied my face. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

I shook my head.

She offered her hand. "Pia. Pia Bartolomei? Surely your son Kyle must have told you? About me—us? No?" It was her turn to shake her head. A smirk replaced the forced smile. "No, of course not. So typical." She tried to take the suitcase handle from me. I resisted.

"Where is Kyle?" I asked.

She fidgeted with her hair, a single braid resting on her right shoulder. "Roma. Cinecitta. Last two days. He had no choice." Her voice laced with resentment.

Resentment for my presence or my son's absence?

We faced each other, this Pia, who stood a whole head taller, and I. Where did my son find these women? Always so tall. What was that thing he said? "Can I help it if I like roses with long stems?"

"Signorina Bartolomei, did Kyle—has my son told you where I should meet him?" Awkward.

"Please, call me Pia. I'm to drive you to the condo. Kyle hopes to be able to come up to Venice in two days after they wrap the interior shots."

"You mean in two days he'll be completely done filming? I had no idea."

"No, not really. A few retakes are scheduled here. That's why he thought it would be easier for you to stay put. Jet lag and such."

We crossed an airport parking lot reminiscent of similar large, generic parking areas in America, like those at Walmart. The wheels of my suitcase made squeaky sounds. While the inside arrival space had been packed with people, the parking lot looked empty.

I had visited Italy two years before, but this was my first time landing at Marco Polo in six years. A glimpse of the Laguna and St Mark's Campanile had delighted my eyes as the plane started its descent. I always felt sorry for first-time visitors when they realized that Venice's airport was actually not in Venice.

I trailed Pia by a few steps. We didn't have a thing to talk about. She stopped beside a two-door, faded green VW and clicked a remote in her hand. The hatchback opened. She waited, her eyes on me. Got it. I slid my suitcase into the back of the car, and she slammed it shut. A weathered
I heart NY
sticker on the back bumper made me smile.

The tension between us—palpable. When I turned to buckle the seatbelt I noticed a lanyard dangling from the rearview mirror, a square badge attached to it. Even without my reading glasses the name stood out: Pia Bartolomei. The word above her name was in even larger print. PRESS. And then I remembered.

"
Mio Dio
, the girl from RAI TV. How silly of me. You were at Kyle's hearing two years ago, in California. You were doing a special about second-generation Italians in America."

She kept her hand on the ignition key without starting the car, and smiled. "He did tell you about me." A long sigh.

I went on. "Yes, he did, and I must say he was quite smitten. Apparently he still is." I smiled back.

We went from silent strangers to gabbing friends thanks to a single word—PRESS. I asked her to call me Lella.

October hadn't affected the trees lining the access to the airport. Perhaps the warm weather accounted for the green lingering on the branches. Anywhere but here such a stately entrance would suit a high-end private school better than an international airport. Then again, Marco Polo was unique, built for modern comfort amongst splashes from the past—a statue here, a fountain there.

"So where is this condo? Is it Kyle's?" I asked

"Lella, I can't believe Kyle hasn't even talked to you about the accommodations. The condo belongs to Cruz."

"Tom Cruise?" I assumed she mispronounced English names.

"Oh, no, no." A short laugh. "Manuel De La Cruz, you know—the actor?" She glanced at me sideways, apparently astonished by my ignorance. The name meant nothing.

"Kyle and Cruz are working together. That's partly why they're sharing the condo. The place belongs to one of Cruz's…friends." Another laugh. More snort than laugh, really. "She hardly ever comes to Italy. Anyway, Cruz plays the long-lost older brother. It would be correct to assume he is the main attraction, as the movie title is
The Lost Heir
. I'm not saying Kyle's part isn't important, but Cruz is well known in Italy, while Kyle is new to the game here."

"Game?"

"Yeah, you know, he doesn't have any major motion pictures in Italy yet. Cruz is a household name. This is not a reflection of talent, only of popularity among moviegoers." The last part was added in a hurry, as if she were making sure not to offend me. "By the way, Kyle sent a
telefonino
for you to use. I'm afraid your phone doesn’t work here."

He did think about his mom after all.

We drove in the opposite direction from the arrows indicating Venezia, entering a busy industrial area with many intersecting roads. Where were we headed? Pia's driving was a little jolting. Each time she changed gears was a reminder the car had a manual shift. The road signs Pia seemed to follow clearly stated Ravenna and Chioggia. That confused me.

"Pia, where is this condo? Isn't Venezia the other way?"

"We are driving to Chioggia, the miniature Venezia, as the locals like to call it. This is no ordinary condo. It comes with its own story, and it's all connected to the film industry."