When it looked as if I had dispelled my beloved Landon’s mysterious anxiety, I told him I knew he had something on his mind that was troubling him, something about Nonna, and that I wanted to know what it was. I reminded him it was me, Eve, asking, and I enumerated all our shared secrets, appealing to the never-ending twosome of Landon and Eve, the couple that no other couple will ever come between.
He got very quiet. Very collected, for Landon.
Yet he just kept shaking his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said in a repressed kind of way. I felt completely stymied. Then he took it one step further. “And you can’t ask me ever again,” he said without a single hint of melodrama.
We stared sorrowfully at each other—I, partly because I felt shut out, but mostly because I couldn’t help him. Then my phone rang, its ragtime ringtone feeling jarring at that moment. As I absently reached for it, Landon pressed my arm, murmured something about having to handle this on his own, and turned on his heel.
“Hello,” I said, and was surprised to hear Patrick Cahill’s voice as I watched my cousin slip away from me.
In more ways than one.
*
Ten minutes later, I was sitting across from Patrick Cahill with a skinny vanilla latte in my hand. Patrick was drinking something with caramel, chocolate, and cinnamon. Dressed in a beige sport coat and brown polo shirt, he set a folded issue of the
Courier Times
between us on the table. His finger tapped the
page 1
photo, and I leaned in. It was the paper from the day after Arlen Mather’s murder: Arlen Mather and Maria Pia having too good a time at the Wine Festival.
“I know this guy,” said Patrick.
He had my interest. “Really?”
“Only it says his name is”—with a quick twist of the hand, Patrick had turned the paper around—“Arlen Mather. Is that right?” He looked at me quizzically.
I gave him the full Italian shrug, the one you need a license to perform.
With a swig of his liquid candy shop, Patrick narrowed his eyes at me. “That’s not the name he gave me.”
“Which was?” I prompted, waiting for Maximiliano to make an appearance.
“Max Scotti.”
And there it was.
I was liking it that Patrick had sought me out with this information.
And I wasn’t liking it that Dana hadn’t.
“Max Scotti,” I repeated.
Patrick was nodding. “Right. That’s what I knew him as. Dana and I almost hired him.”
Now I nodded. “Interior design?” I said knowingly.
Patrick Cahill gave a surprised laugh. “Interior design? I’ve got Dana for that.”
“Right,” I said slowly. Topless, bonking, homicidal Dana.
“You’ve seen our house. You’ve seen my office. All Dana. No,” Patrick went on, “Max Scotti was a financial adviser.”
Now, this was unexpected. “A
financial
adviser?”
“Dana and I were looking to update our portfolio, move some assets around, that sort of thing,” he explained.
My idea of moving assets around involved pushing my geranium pots half a foot to the left. “And you hired Max Scotti?”
“No,” said Patrick, “we met him socially a couple of times, and we interviewed him. Along with several others. At the time, what with Dana’s singing career taking off … ” He shot me a smile, like the rest was totally understood.
I almost choked on my latte. Dana’s
singing
career? We didn’t even pay her. She usually referred to her Miracolo gig as “pro bono” work for the good of Quaker Hills.
Patrick had continued, “—so we decided it was time for some professional advice.”
“So, Max Scotti?” I managed.
“He seemed qualified from his bona fides, but Dana and I went in another direction. Someone more familiar with vocal artists.”
“Of course,” I said faintly.
“But the most interesting thing about Max Scotti had nothing to do with his job. Turns out he was the great-great-nephew of Antonio Scotti, a Metropolitan Opera baritone who sang with Caruso.”
Now he had my full attention.
Patrick picked up the folded newspaper. “Not that it matters,” he said, “but Max Scotti told me he collected opera memorabilia.”
11
Was opera at the bottom of everything happening in Quaker Hills this week?
Murder, saucy photos, disguises, general intrigue, and over-the-top behavior … it sure sounded like opera.
I watched Patrick stride up the street to his office, where, any minute now, his glamorous wife would show up in her nondescript skulking outfit. And he’d still think Dana was the dreamiest gal around.
I was due to meet Mrs. Crawford in half an hour, just enough time to pick up the bamboo I had ordered from Flowers by Beck. Where, as it turns out, the long-haired pretty brunette I had spotted a couple of days ago was on duty. In spite of her name tag (OLIVIA How Can I Help You?), I found her to be strangely unhelpful when I tried to draw out the details of her personal life.
All I ended up with was bamboo.
It went marginally better with Mrs. Crawford, whose hot-pink cocktail dress was so loaded with a pattern of peonies, I expected to see ants. In the forty-five minutes we talked alone at Miracolo’s bar—she had a gimlet, I had a glass of Chianti—her wide-brimmed, white picture hat didn’t come off.
She talked about life as a piano performance student at Berklee.
I talked about life as a dance major at Sarah Lawrence, where Landon’s daddy footed the bill.
Then I tried to get all “girlfriendy” and made some opening salvos about dating. Before I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Crawford wasn’t going to yield any goodies, I had confessed to a flirtation with an art history professor, an anonymous poem-writing infatuation with a couple of famous actors, and a crush on Maria Pia’s Mexican landscaper’s son. All Mrs. Crawford gave me was her empty gimlet glass, which I refilled.
When she excused herself to go back to the employee bathroom, I slipped off my shoes and lightly ran after her. Through the dining room, through the kitchen, into the short back hallway leading to the office. The door to the john was closed, and since the door was a bit too short, there was a generous gap at the bottom.
My plan to solve the gender mystery of Mrs. Crawford was simple, as every brilliant plan should be. Ply her with beverages. Follow her to the bathroom. Perform surveillance of the crack. When I saw where her pumps were located, I’d have my answer.
If I saw toes, she’s a female.
If I saw heels, she’s a male.
I silently stretched out along the floor, and just as I turned my neck into viewing position, I heard a voice right behind me. “What are you doing?”
With all my might, I pushed myself up and opened outward into a side plank, sending my arm skyward. Considering I had never pulled off that yoga pose with anything like grace, I was doing a pretty fair job at it. “Speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” I cast a sideways glance at the voice, which turned out to belong to Joe Beck.
At that moment the bathroom door opened and Mrs. Crawford nearly fell over me. “Oh, my, you surprised me,” she laughed in a breathy baritone way, holding up her hands. “What are you doing there?”
“Side plank.” How much longer could I hold this pose?
Joe gave me a flat look. “I guess that clears up one mystery.”
“But not all the mysteries,” I managed to get out.
The difference in the way we all see things is what makes the world work: we mainly stymie each other just long enough to keep off murder. It’s only when we understand each other completely that we get into trouble—like when we know we both want the same X square miles of land, or the same pitcher who throws 103 mph fastballs, or the same sweet-smelling, day-trading Marlboro Man.
As a tool for peace, human misunderstanding is seriously underrated.
Mrs. Crawford thought Joe was hitting on me. Joe thought I was spying on Mrs. Crawford. (The fact that he was right is irrelevant.) And I thought Mrs. Crawford had made it her perverse mission to confound me.
After our piano player left I headed for the front door, figuring Joe would probably follow. He did.
“Two things,” he announced.
“Oh?”
“Olivia tells me you left your Visa at the flower shop.”
“Olivia?” I feigned disinterest.
“My brother’s wife.”
Once we were on the sidewalk, I locked Miracolo. “What’s the second thing?” I asked.
He rubbed the back of his very lovely neck. “There’s been another robbery in the commercial district.”
Oh no! “Where? Who?”
“Frantiques,” he said with a wince.
Fran Beller was the owner of an antiques shop two blocks south of Market Square. Nice gal, good customer. “When?”
“Sometime last night,” he told me. “The alarm was disabled and the back door was jimmied open. Ted and Sally are still over there.”
“What was taken?” I asked.
“Couple of folk art pieces, couple of Madame Alexander dolls, a Baccarat vase, Victorian necklaces, some candlesticks. I forget what else.”
I shook my head. “I feel bad for Fran.”
“Just keep Miracolo locked up tight,” he said, then tweaked my chin. I was beginning to think he was hitting on me, and I flushed.
He went on, “Actually, three.”
“Three what?”
“Can’t you keep up?” he teased. “Plank get to you, Angelotta? Three things.”
What an annoying man. “What’s the third?”
Maddeningly, Joe started to walk up the street.
“What’s the third?” I yelled after him.
He looked back at me with a grin, but kept walking. “The answer is”—he entered the flower shop—“female.”
*
Which was precisely when my ringtone warbled at me, preventing the enormously clever and witty retort I’m sure I would have thought of.
It was Tony Treadwell, and after our hellos, he got down to business. “I’ve heard back from our field operative, Veronica Gale,” he reported.
“Lay it on me,” I told him, excited.
“She called someone she knows at ASID headquarters and spun some tale about a possible design job for member Arlen Mather.”
“Good one,” I breathed with respect.
“That’s Veronica.”
I prompted him, “And?”
“Well, on this score, at least, your Mr. Mather was not a stand-up kind of guy. According to her source, no one named Arlen Mather has ever belonged to ASID.”
It’s funny how dead ends baffle you when it comes to the information you think you wanted … but then they round out a completely different picture. The man called Arlen Mather was setting himself up in what looked like a new life, credentials or no.
Who was he, really?
And what, besides the obvious, did he want with Nonna?
I thanked him and hung up as the Tri-State Linen Supply truck pulled up, and the driver started unloading our order. Arne was inhumanly punctual. And because he was so Austrian and sincere, I didn’t want to disabuse him of his belief in my reverence for the almighty clock. This was never an easy thing, because we Angelottas run a bit on Northern Italian Time, which is somewhat closer to Greenwich Mean Time than Southern Italian Time, thanks to years of interbreeding with our marauding neighbors from the Tyrol, whose raids, you can bet, went like clockwork.
Arne shouldered the big white cotton bags and traipsed after me into the restaurant, where I stepped aside and let him flop the load onto the booth at the back. Arne was strong and grim and thin-haired, and I often found myself hoping he secretly collected Beatrix Potter miniatures or something. He gave me his deep nod, which signaled that that was it until next time, and held out the clipboard. Neither of us had a pen, so we went into the kitchen.
Arne and Eve. The perfect relationship: ten minutes twice a week. No wine, chat, or love tokens. Arne always made me mist up with gratitude.
Rummaging around in the junk drawer, I found a pen and scribbled my signature on Arne’s neatly clipped paperwork. After I dropped the pen back into the drawer, Arne grunted and headed toward the front door as I looked out the kitchen window.
And saw Dana.
Upstairs at the photographer’s again.
What in the ding-dong doo-wop shim-sham was the woman doing?
At least she appeared to be fully clothed.
While I kept half an eye on her, I pulled the washed, starched, pressed, and folded white table linens out of the oversize cotton bags. Suddenly I saw Dana walk out of sight, so I hightailed it into the dining room, where I piled the tablecloths on the booth and left the empty bags on top.
As she emerged onto the street, I charged through the front door at Miracolo, quickly locked up, and caught up with her just outside Sprouts. She was dressed in a ruffled white T-shirt, black capris, a red leather bag with enough gold chains to give Houdini a run for his money, and gold lamé slides. Just as it was registering with her that I had her by the elbow, I said in a cheery voice, “Okay, Dana, let’s talk.”
She was blinking and smiling. Bad poker player. “What’s this—”
I propelled us both through the traffic on North Market Square and headed into the park. Out of earshot of the Mom Brigade near the playground, I let her go and got pretty much in her face. “What’s going on?”
I expected
Whaddya mean?,
forgetting how formal Dana gets whenever she’s cornered. What I got was, “Whatever are you talking about?” Suddenly the Southern belle who never lived any farther south than Asbury Park, New Jersey.
“I saw you at Pixie Pix.”
“I was—visiting a friend,” she answered airily.
“Topless?” I raised my eyebrows. “Must be a very good friend.”
She blurted, “How did you—”
“You were standing in the window, Dana.”
“I was changing,” she told me with dignity. “In a changing room, Miss Nibby Nose.” Miss Nibby Nose? “I’m having some portraits taken.” I could see the wheels turn quickly. “For Patrick,” she flung at me, practically euphoric at the lie.
I let it sit for a minute; then I hit her with, “Why were you sneaking into Jolly’s?”
She gasped, and turned it into a fake cough. Then the Southern belle was back. “You don’t know all my friends, Eve. Sometimes I visit Roland—”
I gave her a flat look. “Reginald. So you sneak in the back?”