J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 05 - Season for Murder (3 page)

Many a meal had been served in this kitchen. I looked around. Giovanni and I were raised in this neat little Cape Cod style house set on a postage stamp sized lot in an old, working-class family neighborhood of Cranston. We’d hung out with the local kids, and Gio had played ball at the stadium several blocks away.

Gio and I had often been involved in one prank or another, which led the boys-in-blue to frequent my parents’ doorstep with questions. Giovanni managed to come out looking like a saint, while I took the brunt of the punishment. This usually occurred since I couldn’t mind my own business, spoke out of turn, and clashed with my father more often than not. Ah, family, can’t live with them and can’t escape them.

My mind wandered as I noticed the Christmas ornaments and decorations from our childhood displayed everywhere, ones my mother had never replaced. Some looked a bit weary.

Gio and I had made many of them, which meant Mom cherished them above all others. She would brag about them and go on and on about how we’d sat at the table as kids and made these wonderful decorations. God forbid she should mention them to Marcus. I’d be totally embarrassed by it.

Marcus Richmond was a constant in my life. I’d met him during a difficult time. My Aunt Lavinia, my namesake, had suddenly passed away under suspicious circumstances. I had inherited her house in a country village along with a small business in Providence. As my main man, Marcus Richmond, had swaggered into it as only a state trooper can.

The Rhode State Police are listed as the best-dressed and most polite troopers in the United States, needless to say the most handsome, and often ruthless. When I’d met Marcus, he’d come to the colonial to investigate a suspicious package left on the door step. It wasn’t long before he’d become a daily fixture. We didn’t always agree on the way I handled things, but he was a super cop who had to adhere to strict rules.

My inner voice, the one without a shutoff button, often rants and raves over my romantic involvement with any type of law enforcement officer, among other things. I’d managed to stay away from that romantic predicament until I’d met Marcus. The voice insists I’ll be hurt by a relationship with this type of person.

Brought out of my reverie by my mother, I noticed her hand shook a tad when she refilled my wine glass. She sat across the table from me, her face distressed. I waited for her to speak.

Her nervous fingers plucked at her napkin. She glanced at me and then burst into tears. It was difficult to watch my mother fall apart. I waited in silence until she gathered her erratic emotions.

“Lavinia, how do you deal with such things in so calm a manner?”

Me? Calm? Mom was talking to me about being calm? I’m Italian, for God’s sake. We’re never calm. Her question showed me just how badly she was handling this situation. She, above all, knew that calm wasn’t in my repertoire.

When her tears stopped, I smiled and reminded her of our nationality, and that we were far from calm. A smile teetered around the corners of her mouth as she nodded.

The door burst open. My aunt Muffy entered the house like the invasion of Normandy. Mom and I turned toward her at the same time.

“Well, Mafalda, come on in,” Mom said rising to get another glass.

“Make mine Burgundy, Theresa,” Muffy ordered.

With a kiss to her cheek, I waited until Muffy settled at the table before I glanced out the window to see if anyone else would storm the house. All was clear. I resumed my seat.

“Did you know that Iva Lindon passed away? I just got a call from Concetta Fonseca. She said it happened a little while ago,” Muffy blurted.

“I know. I was there when it happened. So was Lavinia.” Mom set the wine glass and bottle on the table in front of Muffy.

My aunt is a strong-minded woman with a mouth that would put a truck driver to shame. She also dated mob connected men. A habit we couldn’t seem to break her of. Muffy had a heart of gold where the family was concerned. She glanced at me and then turned to stare at my mother’s tear-streaked face.

“Don’t even tell me you’re both involved in this unfortunate woman’s death. Good God, can you not stay out of trouble for one minute, Lavinia?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said with hands outstretched to ward off the oncoming lecture. “I was an innocent bystander in all this, Auntie.”

“So, tell me what happened,” Muffy demanded as her jet black eyes became intense and sparkly.

My mother shared our experience. She managed to keep it together when describing the scene where Iva croaked.

“Imagine that,” was all Muffy could say as she glanced at the two of us and gulped the remaining liquor from her glass.

“A policeman arrived, and I think he wanted to arrest me. I’m sure of it. Mrs. Galumpky was very offensive, and if Lavinia hadn’t intervened, I’d have been hauled away in handcuffs.”

Muffy’s dark eyes peered at me when she turned in my direction.

“Did you know this cop?”

“Yeah, it was Nick Pirelli. He patrols that neighborhood. Do you remember him? He lived down the street from us as kids.”

“I do. His father was an ass and his mother was a timid woman who jumped when his father said so, the bully.” Muffy snickered. “I kicked his ass more than once when we were young.”

Chuckling at the idea of my short, stout aunt kicking some guy’s butt, I watched my mother begin to relax. Muffy kept the stream of stories up until my mother had restored her sense of humor. Leave it to Muffy to save the day, I thought with relief.

It wasn’t until my father came through the door that my mother’s nerves became frazzled again. I figured she was about to tell him of Iva’s departure from this world, when Muffy stepped in to the rescue.

“Gino, how the hell are you?”

His gruff chuckle met the question and he nodded.

“I’m fine. What’re you doing here?”

The question took in all three of us, as did his gaze.

“I came to visit my sister,” Muffy answered. “Vinnie was already here with Theresa. Where have you been?”

“To the store for Italian bread.” He held the bag up for our inspection as his eyes lingered on my mother.

“What’s going on, Theresa?” Dad asked her.

“Well, dear, there was an incident at the senior center today while Lavinia and I were serving refreshments.”

He looked at me and mumbled, “I’m sure there was.”

Here we go
. It would take an act of congress to stop the oncoming clash. My father and I tangle over the least thing. He’s sure he’s right while I’m sure he isn’t. He insists that I should mind my own business when I’m certain that I don’t have to. There’s that curiosity thing again.

“Tell me what happened,” Dad said as he tossed the bread onto the counter.

After my mother related the story, his face grew stern and he glared at me. Why? I’m not sure, but I was certain the reason would soon be revealed.

Muffy, quiet for the moment, sipped more wine. I knew she waited for the head butting to commence. When my aunt Lavinia was alive, she never permitted my father to get far in the head butting department. Livvy would usually step in and put a stop to it, though I was capable of handling these affairs with little problem.

When my mother finished the story, my father said, “Lavinia, you did good to protect your mother this way. I’m glad you were there.”

I felt my mouth hang open in surprise. My father actually thought I’d done something right for a change. Mark the calendar, notify the newspaper, and contact the television stations. This was a red-letter day.

“Thanks, Dad. It’s been a difficult day for Mom.”

“You did good,” he said.

I almost couldn’t take those words in. It was an unusual state of affairs for me to receive praise from my father. Mostly, he was on my ass about minding my own business and settling down to raise a gaggle of kids. At the moment, life was good.

Before the conversation could take a sudden turn, I rose from the table and slipped on my wool jacket. Time to leave.

“Aren’t you staying for dinner, Lavinia?” my mother asked.

As much as I wanted some of my father’s wonderful cooking, I knew better than to tempt the fates.

“No, I’d better go home. This sweater is disgusting and I have papers to grade before the semester ends. We’ll break soon for the holiday vacation.” The university took nearly a month off at Christmas. The papers were already graded and ready to return to the students, but any excuse would do to get away at the moment.

My father stood from the chair to get a container for the spaghetti sauce. He ladled the savory contents into the glass jar and plopped meatballs in, as well. Snapping the lid in place with its wire closure, he handed the sauce to me with a smile.

“Make some pasta when you get home and have a good supper.” He sliced a chunk of Italian bread from the loaf he’d brought in. Placing it in a plastic bag, he added it to the sauce jar along with a bag of Mom’s cookies.

I smiled and kissed everyone’s cheeks before I left. I may not have gotten a Christmas tree today, but I’d managed a free dinner and a possible murder. Both subjects were interesting, but only one really mattered to me. The fact that my mother was a suspect in someone’s death weighed me down.

The ride home took longer than usual since the holiday season was in full swing and everyone shopped after work. Darkness had fallen and traffic on the highway was heavy. Troopers and cops abounded. They stopped speeders and assisted those who’d broken down.

I finally parked in the driveway of the massive colonial in Scituate, the small hamlet I’d lived in for some time. My temporary tenant, Rafael, had left his vehicle on the far side of the driveway. The automatic exterior house lights flicked on as I opened the car door to get out. With the sauce and bread tucked under my arm, and the cookies stuffed in my large handbag, I headed into the house.

It had been a long tiresome day, but it wasn’t over yet. As I entered the apartment, my cell phone jingled. I set the bundle of food on the kitchen counter and whipped the phone and cookies from my bag.

“Lavinia speaking.”

“Hey, this is Jack Manera. I wanted to let you know the old broad was poisoned. Some of the cake itself was poisoned, but other pieces weren’t. Whatever the woman ate was laced with the poisonous toxin. How she didn’t taste it is beyond me. She’d imbibed enough of it to kill her and two more like her.”

“She wolfed the cake down, two sizable pieces of it in a flash, Jack,” I stated.

“No wonder she didn’t taste it. I just wanted you to know this is now a murder inquiry, Vin.”

“Thanks, Jack. I owe you. Let me know exactly what the toxin is when that information comes available,” I said and disconnected the call. For a moment or two, I leaned against the edge of the stool at the counter contemplating that my mother was about to become the chief suspect.

Lifting the phone from its cradle, I called the house and got my father on the line.

“Dad, I just got a call from Jack Manera, the medical examiner. The woman who died was poisoned. Call a lawyer for Mom right away. Don’t allow her to speak to the police about anything without the attorney present, understand?”

A grunt of ascent met my request, followed by a heavy sigh.

“You know this wasn’t your mother’s fault?”

“I know, Dad. I know. Just do as I ask, okay?”

“Does this mean you’ll investigate on your own again, Lavinia?” His voice sounded odd, and I couldn’t figure out why.

“Yes, it does. I can’t let Mom be a scapegoat.”

“Fine. I’ll do as you ask, then.” My father hung up.

Wow, this was big. No lecture, no ranting or raving. It was a first in my sorry-ass life when my father didn’t tell me to mind my own affairs and let things take their own course.

Ideas of how to proceed with the investigation took shape in my mind as I showered and changed my clothes to get the vomit stench off. I boiled water for the pasta. In a short time, the pasta was el dente. I strained it in a colander as the sound of footsteps rumbled down the stairs.

A brief rap on the door announced Rafael. His dimpled smile brought one to my face as I greeted him. He eyed the pasta and licked his lips.

“Is that your father’s cooking?” Rafe asked with a sparkle in his eye.

“It is. Want some dinner?” I knew he did, but asked for the sake of it. He and Marcus occasionally ate with me.

After my usual tenant, Aaron Grant, an undercover FBI agent had gone to Washington on a training stint, I’d rented the apartment to a friend of a friend. The departure of the WWF-sized man from my life had been difficult. I hadn’t wanted Aaron to leave, but knew he had to. It was a career decision for him that I couldn’t interfere with.

Rafe’s grin widened. “I thought you’d never ask. Are those meatballs in the sauce?”

“Yeah, my father gave me plenty. What brings you downstairs besides the thought of a free meal?” I asked, placing dishes and flatware on the counter.

“I just heard the news of the death of a woman at the senior center your mother visits. Did you know about that?” he asked.

“We were there when it happened.” I related the story of Mrs. Lindon’s demise, but left out the threats from Mrs. Galumpky and the police interrogation.

“Does this mean you and your mother will be suspects?”

A meatball bounced from the plate across the counter smacking my clean sweater before rolling down the leg of my slacks when the words hit home. I hadn’t considered that we would both be under suspicion. I wondered how stupid I was for not realizing it. I glanced at my clothes and then at Rafe.

“I hadn’t thought I would be a suspect. After all, I had only just arrived when the incident happened.” I dabbed at the sweater and then excused myself. The cashmere top would hit the trash instead of the dry cleaners and this sweater would likely do the same. No way would all the stains come out.

Changed into a sweatshirt and jeans, I strode back into the kitchen. Rafe had put the meal together in the meantime. I smiled at his handiness and we settled at the counter to eat.

The outer door banged against the wall and another rap on the door announced Marcus. The way he always entered my home was similar to a buffalo stampede, especially when something bothered him. With an inward sigh, I realized he’d heard the news and came by to tell me. Sometimes it isn’t easy to be right.