“You okay?” said Jimi Baker, coming back to the job, slipping his phone into his back pocket. I was speechless. I thought I knew Dana. She was so ultimately knowable, considering how much she talked and how uncomplicated she seemed. Do uncomplicated people have secrets? Maybe so. Maybe even more. Maybe they only seem uncomplicated because they’ve packed away all the things they want to keep from other people.
As I stood there, mute, Jimi patted me absently on the shoulder and got back to work. I slunk along the stockade fence until I was out of sight of that third-floor window, just in case the shade flew back open. When I reached the sidewalk, I realized my heart was pounding because I was spying on a friend. I turned right, toward Sprouts, forcing a smile at the wandering Akahana, who headed slowly toward me in her serpentine way, frowning.
And just past Sprouts, there was a black door in a small alcove that led up to the offices on the upper floors of the Logan Building. A directory listed the tenants. On the third floor was a dentist, a psychic, a photographer, a massage therapist named Henrik Blom, and the offices of Veganopoly, Inc., the parent company of Sprouts.
Well, unless the dentist’s definition of filling cavities had nothing to do with teeth, I could eliminate him. And unless the psychic told fortunes by reading something other than palms, I could eliminate her. And since Veganopoly was probably not in a position to promote Dana, I couldn’t see how they’d interest her in the least.
So either Dana was having sexy shots taken for the smitten Patrick, or coordinating Operation Free Maria Pia had given her a backache that required attention.
I let myself into the building and padded quickly up the marble stairs to the second floor, where I made the turn and—heart pounding—flowed up to the third floor. What if she suddenly came out into the hallway? What was my cover? I darted around the west side of the hall and discovered the offices of Veganopoly and the dentist. That left the psychic, the masseur, and the photographer on the east side of the hallway, closest to Miracolo. Dana was in there somewhere, half dressed behind a drawn shade.
Well, she wouldn’t believe me if I told her I was getting my fortune told. Besides, the sign said Closed.
She knew I already had a dentist down in Philly.
Photos? Massage? Something to do with Sprouts?
Yes, that was it. Just a casual, spur-of-the-moment drop-by at Veganopoly to see whether Sprouts was going to do anything during the annual Market Square sidewalk sale. That was plausible.
But Dana didn’t come out, and pressing my ear to the door didn’t yield a thing.
Until, that is, the door to Massage Mania suddenly opened, and what I can only assume was the beefy Henrik escorted an old bald guy out of the office. I looked at my watch as though I was waiting for someone, and then looked again while Henrik explained to the departing client that a bath with Epsom salts would now rid him of toxins. They headed for the stairs.
So that left the photographer at the end of the hall. Pixie’s Pix. And this had to be the place with the window facing Miracolo’s courtyard. The sign on the door touted graduation, wedding, and commercial photography and gave their hours. A big yellow starburst sticker screamed a half-price special on “glamour shots.”
Since Dana was past the wedding, way past the graduation, and had no commerce that required commercial shots, I decided that she was in there taking advantage of the half-price special. Aside from the fact that glamour shots were weird, and weird often appealed to her, what could she possibly have in mind? And did it have anything to do with what she was really doing the morning of Arlen Mather’s murder?
And what kind of glamour shots are topless? Or better yet, naked?
Was Pixie Pix a front for something …
else
?
*
I discovered I could hang out in the kiddy playground in the center of Providence Park and keep an eye on the black door leading to the upstairs offices in the Logan Building. The benches were still wet from the rain, so I skulked, half hidden by the yellow-and-orange climbing gym. Fortunately, there were enough moms sipping lattes and yakking it up while their kids pleaded for a push on the wet swings or help coming down the rain-slick slide that I blended in pretty well.
At 3:20 p.m., subject Dana Cahill was seen leaving the Logan Building. Fully dressed.
I stayed in the park awhile longer, while she made her way down the street, then I crossed the north side of Market Square and let myself back into Miracolo. Jimi Baker had done a nice job on the new lock. And now there were only two keys—and I had both of them. Life was better than good.
I was halfway across the dining room, where I could never get enough of the cathedral-like silence and cool air, when there was a quick, hard knock at the front door. In walked Joe Beck and Ted the detective. Joe shot me a brief “Hey,” and the three of us stood around in the peaceful semidarkness for a few seconds while our eyes adjusted.
Joe was wearing a French-blue shirt under a light leather jacket spattered with raindrops, what could only be called pussycat-gray pants, and low boots. Patrick Cahill looks like he teaches American history at Exeter; Joe Beck looks like he
is
American history. “How’ve you been?” he asked me.
It struck me I hadn’t seen him around for a day. Maybe he was chasing Kayla through the kale out at the farm. “Fine, fine, getting back to normal. You?”
“Working.” He leaned against the piano that would soon become acquainted with the glorious Mrs. Crawford.
Then I raised my eyebrows at Ted. “What brings you to our fair restaurant?” I crossed my arms, waiting to be grilled about my grandmother or Dana. I kept my face blank, silently coaching myself to give nothing away.
Once the two men left, I’d try to reason my way through the events of the last couple of days. The little voice inside that sours everyone’s dreams was whispering snidely,
You’re a dancer, not a reasoner.
Ted explained, “The forensics report came back a little while ago.”
“And?” Boy, this heart of mine sold me out every time, picking up the beat even while I pretended indifference.
Joe pushed himself away from the Yamaha. “Your grandmother’s boyfriend died of blunt force trauma, so no news there.”
“Right.” I looked back and forth between the two men. What were they getting around to? And when? One of them was wearing an Hermès men’s cologne I recognized from the perfume aisle, where it always made me stop dead in my tracks. It was like hypnosis in a spray bottle. Could it be Ted? If so, I needed to learn his last name.
“Coroner’s putting the time of death around ten a.m.,” said Ted, who swaggered close enough that the smell of garlic and onions took him right out of the running as the Hermès wearer. “Could go as early as nine thirty, but no later than eleven.”
And Dana hadn’t shown up at Cahill Enterprises until 11:30.
There had to be an explanation. One that didn’t include murder. Or sexy time at Pixie Pix.
“Your grandmother can’t account for her movements during the critical time,” the detective continued.
How did he know that? According to Landon, she’d told the cops she dropped Arlen off and went on her way. Had Landon missed the alibi part? Had Maria Pia?
Joe was looking at me a little too earnestly.
I crossed my arms to steady myself. “Well, what did she say?” I asked Ted.
“She
said
she dropped him off sometime after nine and headed for Philly. Something about a dress.”
I shrugged. “I guess she went shopping.”
“Eve,” said Joe, “she’ll need to name some folks who can corroborate her story. Otherwise—”
“—it’s not looking good,” Detective Ted finished.
*
The world was suddenly a place where the choice was between saving a lying, deceitful friend or a lying, deceitful, and annoying grandmother. At the end of the day, crazy blood was thicker than crazy water. But I wanted to protect them both. After Joe and Ted left, I poured myself a grappa, which is great if what you want in a drink is nail polish remover that won’t kill you. Then I slumped over the bar.
Where was Maria Pia tooling around on the morning of the murder? How big and bad could it be? So bad that she couldn’t come clean with Landon, Choo Choo, and me? Not to mention the cops? The more I thought about it, the more nervous I got. My poor mind kept going into those dark corners where nothing lives except fierce-eyed madness, giggling at you in the dark.
What if Maria Pia had joined forces with Belladonna Russo and they were up to major culinary no good?
What if she was opening up a branch location of Miracolo and freezing us all out?
What if she was cheating on poor Arlen, who, to hear her tell it, was practically my stepgrandfather?
The best antidote for raging paranoia was time spent with Choo Choo. Back in college, I came across the word
phlegmatic
in a medieval literature class, where I learned two important things. One was that
phlegmatic
meant someone unexcitable and not quick to display emotion, which right away made me think of my big cousin, and the other was that I could pretty much catch up on my sleep in the back row of the lecture hall.
Choo Choo (Giuseppe) Bacigalupo was the son of Maria Pia’s only daughter, Serena, who married into the Brooklyn Bacigalupo family of rich undertakers. Into this crowd of Bacigalupos, who were surprisingly fun, were born Choo Choo and his younger sister, Little Serena.
Little Serena, who was 5 feet 11 and 220 pounds, had left for Disney World—“I want to live the magic!”—right after high school and had worked her way up to running the Buzz Light-year Space Ranger ride. Due to this thinking outside the Italian bread box, Maria Pia never mentioned her. All the rest of us got tired of correcting her whenever she said of me, “My only granddaughter!”
So, with my muddle over the mysterious misdeeds of Maria Pia Angelotta, I felt greatly relieved when the door to Miracolo swung open, followed by the towering presence of my cousin, dressed in khakis and a roomy black shirt.
“Bella,”
he greeted me.
I jumped off my stool for a Choo Choo hug, the kind that aligns your spine, stimulates your liver, and makes you thankful he likes you. His head had been shaved and oiled and it was topped with a pair of Ray-Bans.
I touched the diamond stud in his ear. “Very nice,” I told him, “very nice indeed.” I looked him over while his pretty hazel eyes narrowed at me expectantly. I stroked my chin. “I think the look is ‘Mr. Clean meets Tony Soprano’ and then they jam together.”
“Too Mr. Clean?”
I spread my hands. “It’s you, Chooch.”
He chewed his lip. “Too jazz musician?”
“Have you seen our new piano player, Mrs. Crawford? I think she sets the bar.”
“Haven’t met her.”
“We’re reopening tomorrow for dinner. You’ll meet her then.”
“Who’s working?”
“Paulette and Vera.” Though God knew what kind of crowd we’d get after a homicide. I stepped behind the bar. “Get you something? A Coke?” His usual drink of choice, which he bought by the case from Sam’s Club.
Choo Choo lifted a mitt. “Nothing for me.” Then he went on: “You should bring in Alma and take Jonathan off wine, put him on tables. We’re going to need him.”
I leaned across the bar. “What are you talking about? After a murder, we’ll be lucky if even the regulars come back.” I never thought I’d pine for “Three Coins in the Fountain,” but there you are.
Choo Choo’s smile pushed his eyes into little crescents. It was the look I usually got from him and Landon when they thought I was being naïve. Needless to say, I got the look a lot. It’s not so much that I’m naïve, it’s that the two of them busy themselves in gossip of all sorts and take it for unimpeachable truth.
If I didn’t believe Brad and Angelina were in trouble, I got the look. If I didn’t believe that was a baby bump on Kim Kardashian, I was being naïve. But they didn’t have a clue about anything truly useful, like local gossip—if they did, maybe they could explain to me what our songbird Dana was doing removing her top on the third floor of the Logan Building. I decided to keep this puzzling little bit of misbehavior to myself for a while.
Choo Choo pulled a rolled-up magazine out of his back pocket and set it between us on the bar. “Eve, murder is good for business.”
“Bah!” I flipped a hand at him in a very Maria Pia kind of way.
Choo Choo gave me a knowing little smile. “Trust your Choo Choo,
bella
; tomorrow night you’ll be thinking we’re a truck stop outside Nashville. Too bad Mr. Mather didn’t meet his maker here in the dining room. The gawkers are really going to get in your way.”
Was he right? I sagged. Were there going to be all sorts of customer ruses to get into my kitchen—to praise the veal, condemn the risotto, equivocate about the snails—in order to eye the Spot? Maybe we should just point to some place close to the piano, I thought, looking around like a wild woman. Mrs. Crawford could handle anything.
“No!” I told Choo Choo. “I refuse!” I declared. “Miracolo will not capitalize on what happened to that poor unfortunate.”
Choo Choo lightly tapped the magazine, then pushed it toward me. I picked up the old issue of
Inside Bucks County,
the local What to Do, Where to Eat, Whom to Envy rag. “Page twenty-three,” he said phlegmatically.
The page turned out to be “County Doings,” the lowdown on fancy parties. And there it was. One of the photos showed the glitterati who attended the Roller Ball, a gala two years ago that raised money for kids with spinal cord injuries. And there was Dana Mahoney Cahill, laughing it up with a martini glass in her hand. On one side of her was Patrick, looking quietly classy in a tux. But on the other side …
On the other side of Dana, the guy she had her arm around, was our very own gawker magnet: Arlen Mather. Only that wasn’t the name in the caption. Under the photo was the caption
L to R: Patrick Cahill, Dana Cahill, and Maximiliano Scotti.
8
I lay sleepless in bed, tangled in the ratty quilt I had had since I was two, trying to figure out what it all meant. Choo Choo had said the dude in the photo sure looked like Nonna’s dead boyfriend, hey? Whereupon I had to grill him: “How do you know what Mather looked like?” He wasn’t around when Landon and I discovered the body.