CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
C
ARMINE
“C
HICKIE
” Mancini sank into the leather armchair across from Dr. Bennett. It was his second visit. The second time he’d ignored her offer to recline on the tapestry-covered couch. He wasn’t crazy, he was dying. He was sure of it. The dizzy spells. The heart palpitations. The dreams.
His family doctor, Salvatore Aversi, M.D., had assured him he wasn’t suffering from a fatal disease. However, he was flirting with a heart attack. Tests had verified high blood pressure and high cholesterol. In addition, he was overweight and over fifty. Aversi had prescribed medicine, a healthier diet and exercise. He’d also targeted stress as a contributing risk factor. Obsessing on his eminent death was only hurrying it along.
Obsessing, my fucking ass.
Carmine didn’t believe he could cheat fate by altering his lifestyle. Besides, who wanted to live without living to the fullest? No red meat? No salt? Cut down on tiramisu and sign up at a gym? Fuck that. But that stress thing…That he could not ignore. He’d had an episode during a business meeting last week, although he’d stepped outside before the boys had witnessed the worst of it. His consigliere, Jimmy “Buddah” Cerone, had driven him to the emergency room. From the way Carmine was sweating, gasping for air and gripping his chest, Buddah had assumed a heart attack. Carmine, too. He’d almost pulverized the attending physician who’d diagnosed his condition as an anxiety attack. Mafia bosses did not suffer
anxiety
attacks. Even after Aversi returned his call and concurred, Carmine didn’t believe it.
He’d sworn Buddah to secrecy. He didn’t want to worry his wife or his girlfriend. He didn’t want his nephew, Mario “Turk” Gallo, the acting underboss of the Mancini Family, to sense weakness. He didn’t want word to leak to the commission that he was knocking on death’s door or, worse, falling apart. He didn’t want anyone moving in on him before he’d made things right. In the recent string of prophetic dreams, his mama kept saying,
“You gotta make things right.”
He knew what she meant or at least he thought he did, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to mend that bridge. And what if he was wrong? What if she was referring to some other wrong?
“Do it, Carmine,”
she warned.
“Before it’s too late.”
Just thinking about that dream gave him fucking palpitations. He needed to buy more time. He needed to analyze that dream. To curb this damned anxiety.
Buddah had suggested Dr. Susan Bennett, a psychiatrist with a few shady patients.
She’s discreet,
he’d promised. She also has a stick up her ass, Carmine thought after ten seconds in her company. At least she had nice legs
“So what’s on your mind this morning, Mr. Mancini?”
The same thing that had been on his mind last night and the day before.
He-who-shall-not be-named.
Carmine ignored the flutter in his chest, toyed with his pinkie ring and met Dr. Bennett’s cool blue gaze. “Family.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
J
ACK WAS CONTEMPLATING
his sister’s dilemma and his attraction to Kylie when he walked into the station house an hour behind schedule. Not that he was punching a time clock and Ziffel would’ve called if he was needed, but he was beginning to feel like a slacker. He was used to working a case. Currently, there were no open cases in Eden. The streets were safe. Hard crime was nonexistent. Even though he’d wanted a break from the never-ending bleakness of working Homicide, he needed to keep busy. Otherwise, he’d feel useless. Which probably added to this obsessive need to solve Jessie’s problems and to dig deeper into Travis Martin’s background. He’d bet his badge they were both hiding something.
“You look like you could use something to brighten your morning,” Ziffel said. “Try a cannoli.”
Jack looked to where the deputy pointed. The red-and-white bakery box sat on top of the gray metal filing cabinet, well out of Shy’s reach. Grinning, he reached for the coffeepot. “Thanks, but I already had one this morning.”
“Have another.”
“Maybe later.” If he overindulged in Kerri’s baked goods, in a matter of weeks he’d have a gut. He envisioned the former chief of police—overweight and unmotivated. He noted the desk of the woman who mourned him. “Where’s Ms. Vine?”
“In your office. Organizing.”
Thank you, Jesus.
Ziffel gestured to Shy. “Still haven’t found her a home, huh?”
“Working on it. What are you reading?” Jack gestured to the book in the deputy’s hands. Ziffel wasn’t a pretentious know-it-all, he actually did know a lot. Jack attributed that to the man’s voracious reading habit.
Ziffel flashed the cover in Jack’s direction.
“Omertà—Behind the Scenes.”
Jack barely refrained from rolling his eyes. “You, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night I stopped at Pizza King for a slice. The cook and cashier were comparing notes on season two. Also heard two assistants at the vet’s arguing about an episode from season five.”
“I’m midway through season four,” said Ziffel. “I’d be further along if there wasn’t such a wait. We’ve got two video outlets. Mac’s Video Circus and the library.”
“There’s always Netflix,” said Jack.
“What’s Netflix?”
“Never mind.”
Ziffel stowed the book in his desk. “I’m sensing you’re not a fan.”
“Of the mob?”
“Of the show.”
“I’m not a fan.”
Ziffel brushed crumbs from his tie. “I’m thinking that’s because you’ve tangled with the real deal. Experienced the true crimes. You think the series glamorizes the mafia.”
“Something like that.” Gut tight, Jack refilled his coffee.
Ziffel leaned forward, eyes bright. “Ever meet anyone from the Five Families?”
The infamous New York factions of the Cosa Nostra. “I have.” One of them had been responsible for the grisly death of a woman who’d broken
omertà
(the code of silence). Jack’s last case. Connie Valachi hadn’t been a made man, of course, but she’d been screwing one.
“Are they anything like the mobsters in
Omertà?
”
“Yes and no.”
“I’m sensing you don’t want to talk about it.”
Jack sipped coffee.
“Right-o.” Ziffel sighed and wiped his sticky fingers. He glanced at a file. “Ready for the morning briefing?”
“Hit me.”
“Night shift reported nocturnal activity in McGraw’s Shoe Store. Hooper investigated. Just Travis working late on renovations.”
Jack raised a brow. “How late?”
“At 11:05 p.m.”
“Long shift.”
“He told Hooper they were on a tight schedule. Said he’d be working a lot of overtime for the next few days.”
“What do you think Martin charges for twelve-hour days?”
Ziffel shrugged. “Kylie’s frugal. I’m sure they agreed on a price ahead of time.”
“If she’s frugal, then we’re not talking a lot of money. Why would Martin take vacation time only to work hard for little pay?”
“Maybe it’s not about the money.”
“A favor for a friend?” Jack flashed on his previous thoughts. “Are Travis and Kylie close?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Maybe he’s lending his services in hopes of getting close.”
“You mean in a romantic way?” Ziffel shook his head. “Travis recently lost his wife. Took it hard. According to Hank, his boss, the man’s still grieving.”
Jack didn’t ask why Hank had shared that information with Ziffel. In Eden everyone blabbed about whatever was on their mind.
“On the other hand,” the deputy went on, “Ashe Davis has been trying to
get close
to Kylie for months. Arrogant cuss. He’s certain he can…” Ziffel trailed off, fingered his collar.
Christ, was the man blushing? Jack waited. And waited. “What?”
“You know.”
“Not a clue.”
Ziffel glanced at the chief’s office then nabbed his mug and approached Jack. “Man to man,” he said in a lower voice, “word has it… That is… It’s not like Kylie’s never dated, but she doesn’t—” he cleared his throat “—reciprocate. The only long-term relationship she ever had was with that travel writer. I’m surprised he stuck around as long as he did given…well…a man has needs.”
Jack applied what he knew to what Ziffel didn’t say. The travel writer was Bobby Jones. The guy who’d lived with Kylie for a year. Was he saying the bastard split because Kylie didn’t put out? “Hold up.” Even though Jack wasn’t comfortable gossiping about Kylie’s love life, he was definitely intrigued. From what he’d experienced, she was a healthy, hot-blooded woman, and by her admission, flexible as a bendable toy icon. “Are you saying Kylie’s a virgin?”
“He’s saying she’s frigid.” Ms. Vine popped out of the office with a bulging garbage bag. “So it’s rumored.”
Jack processed that statement while reaching for the trash. “Let me do that.”
“I’ve got it.” She shook her head in disgust as she hauled the garbage outside. “Men are the worst gossips.”
Jack winced when the door slammed. “Don’t think I scored any points just now.”
“She’ll come around,” Ziffel said.
Before Jack could counter that the door slammed back open and his sister stalked inside. She looked more herself today, dressed in a flared skirt and a matching blouse, her long hair twisted into a sophisticated bun, her makeup subtle but perfect. Her manner was familiar, too. Self-absorbed. She didn’t even acknowledge Ed Ziffel’s presence. “I need to speak with you, Jack.”
Ziffel backed away before Jack could comment on her rudeness. Shy must’ve sensed the brewing storm, because she disappeared under Dorothy’s desk.
“Coffee?” Jack asked.
“I won’t be staying that long.”
“Figured. Just thought I’d be
polite
and offer.”
She blinked, then followed Jack’s line of vision. “Oh. Hello, Deputy Ziffel.”
“Mrs. Cortez.”
“Not for long.” She zipped past Jack and into his office.
He closed the door behind them. Was this about the divorce? He knew the court date was scheduled for next week. “Where’s Maddie?”
“In school. Though I got her there forty-minutes late. Why didn’t you wake us?”
“Thought you could use the rest.”
“Life goes on.” Jessie slammed an envelope onto his clutter-free desk. “What’s this?”
“The money I left you for groceries?”
“We don’t need your charity, Jack.”
His back went up. “It’s not charity. You’re a guest in my house. I’m not going to ask you to pay for food. You and Maddie are fussy eaters. Even if I shopped I wouldn’t know what to buy.”
“We’re not fussy. We’re health conscious.”
Jack noted his sister’s frail frame. “Is that anything like anorexic?” Oh, hell. “Sorry.” He caught her bony wrist before she made it out the door. “I can’t help it if I’m worried about you, Jess.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You don’t even like me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Think about it,” she said, then slipped his grip.
Troubled by the accusation, he followed her into the administrative office. “I made a call this morning. There’ll be furniture in the spare bedroom by tonight. Just in case you decide to stay. Nothing, by the way, would make me happier.”
She blew him off and, posture pageant-perfect stiff, blew out the door.
Dorothy passed Jessie on her way back in. “Some are saying she had it coming. Not me, of course,” the woman said with a disapproving glance to Jack and Ziffel. “I’m not a gossip.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
K
YLIE SAT RIGID IN
P
ETUNIA’S
white leatherette styling chair. “Wait.”
Aluminum foil and bleach goop ready, Petunia sighed. “Do you or do you not want me to highlight your hair?”
“I do. I think. I’m not sure.”
“You leafed though four hair magazines. You chose a color and style—”
“I know.” But what if she’d chosen wrong? Faye would know what suited her face and lifestyle best. Unfortunately, Kylie didn’t feel comfortable calling her yet. All she had to go on was Travis’s suggestions, and though he was talented with interior design, he wasn’t exactly a fashion plate. Yes, she wanted to shake things up, but not at the cost of looking like a beauty-school-project-gone-wrong. “Maybe I should postpone.”
“Up to you,” said Petunia. “But just so you know, I’m booked solid for the next two weeks. The only reason you got in was because Mrs. Carmichael canceled. A flare-up with her arthritis.”
“Is she okay?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing. You know Mrs. Carmichael.”
Everyone knew Mrs. Carmichael. A kindly lady who’d been the Sunday School teacher for a bazillion years. She’d also run a day-care service for a spell. Now she was retired, widowed and miserable. Always suffering some hardship, only nothing was ever really wrong. People said she made things up to get attention. Mostly everyone sympathized because they knew she was lonely. Kylie felt sorry for the widow. Her own grandma had gone through a tough time after she’d lost her husband after fifty-five years of marriage, then not long after, her only son. Sally McGraw had filled the void by filling her home with stuff. Stuff she’d purchased on the Home Shopping Network. Cookware and vacuums. Jewelry and handbags. With her obsession turned addiction, she’d shopped herself into deep debt. By the time Kylie learned the truth, her grandma’s financial situation was dire. She cringed just thinking about that bleak time. On the flip side, the crisis had generated a special bond between Kylie and her grandma.
Petunia rearranged a collection of combs and scissors, the impatient clinking analogous to drumming fingertips. “Take me or leave me, Kylie. Time’s ticking.”
“Two weeks, huh?” By then the Apple Festival and the opportunity to impress tourists would be over. She couldn’t unveil the new and chic McGraw’s looking like the old, blah Kylie! Plus, she wanted to impress, okay,
wow
, Jack.
Kylie bolstered her spine and channeled Spenser. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
Petunia smiled. “Let the fun begin.”
Kylie focused on a copy of
Glamour
while Petunia had
fun
. She tried not to think about the end result. She tried not to listen to the gossip flying around the salon. Impossible.
But
she could at least refrain from participating. Instead, she studied celebrity shoe trends and contemplated future orders for the store. She lost track of time, tuned out the gossip. But then something caught her attention.
Silence.
Kylie looked up and saw Jessica Lynn Cortez standing at the receptionist’s desk. As always she was impeccably dressed, her ink-black hair twisted into princesslike updo. She looked sophisticated, uptight and completely out of place at Hairdoodles.
Petunia kept working, as did Becky the manicurist, but all eyes were on the woman whose husband had slept all over town. The woman who’d snubbed places like Hairdoodles and the people who frequented it. The woman bending Loretta, the receptionist’s, ear.
Two seconds later, eyes wide, Loretta scooted over to Petunia. “You’re not going to believe this,” she whispered.
“What does she want?” Petunia grumbled.
“A job.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Told you.”
“Doing what?” Petunia snapped, slapping more bleach on Kylie’s hair.
“She said she’s a skilled makeup artist.”
“That’s true,” Kylie found herself saying. “Must be all those years on the pageant circuit. Her makeup always looks incredible.” She wasn’t sure why she spoke up for a woman who always spoke down to her. Except that she was Jack’s sister and Jack was worried about her. Plus, the woman, though beautiful, looked kind of pathetic just now.
Petunia grunted. “We don’t need a makeup artist.”
“She said she’s willing—”
“We’re not hiring,” Petunia said.
“I told her that,” Loretta said, “but—”
“I’ll tell her.” Petunia plunked her brush in the cup of bleach, then split.
Loretta followed.
Kylie tried not to worry about the time factor and her half-foiled head.
Seconds later, Jessica Lynn retreated from the shop.
Petunia returned and snatched up another square of aluminum foil. “I can’t believe she had the gall to ask me for a job! She’s never set foot in my salon. In fact, she badmouthed me. Called me a
hack
. She didn’t think that wouldn’t get back to me? People talk, you know.”
I know,
Kylie thought. Tonight the town could well be talking about her striped hair. Not that
she
considered Petunia a hack, but she was seriously second-guessing the highlighting process. Mostly because Petunia had blabbed the whole time she’d brushed the goopy dye over chunks of Kylie’s hair, wrapping uneven amounts in aluminum foil. What if she’d used too much or too little?
“Travels two hours to get her hair done by some big-city stylist,” Petunia rattled on as she checked the egg timer. “Heard she pays a hundred bucks for a cut and blow-dry. I provide the same service for twenty-five!”
“She’s a stuck-up nitwit,” said Becky, while filing Mrs. Roper’s nails. “Always has been.”
Kylie couldn’t disagree about the stuck-up, nitwit part. If the shoe fits and all that. Still, she felt sorry for Jessica. She’d led a charmed life. She’d won a scholarship to a prestigious college. She’d had a shot at being Miss America. She’d given up a higher education and a lifelong dream for love. Even though she was self-centered and shallow, she’d devoted her life to her husband.
Only to be betrayed.
Kylie had been devastated when Bobby had deserted her. But they’d only been together for one year, not eleven. And they didn’t have a child. Kylie had never liked Jessica Lynn much, but imagining her pain certainly softened her heart.
“Why do you think she needs a job?” asked Mrs. Roper, admiring her newly polished nails. “Frank’s loaded. Surely she’ll rake in the alimony.”
“Maybe there’s something we don’t know,” said Petunia. “Maybe Frank has something on Jessica Lynn.”
“Even if he does,” said Becky, “it’s not like his butt don’t stink. I recently heard something that would set your hair on fire.”
All of the women leaned forward, except Kylie, who touched her fingertip to her foiled head. She was curious about Frank, but she wasn’t keen on that flaming-hair image.
“Sorry,” said Becky. “My lips are sealed. A young woman’s reputation is at stake. A very nice, very
young
woman.”
“You mean the Cortez’s babysitter,” Petunia said.
Becky gaped. “I can’t believe you broke my confidence!”
Petunia rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I revealed her name.”
Except everyone knew the Cortez’s regular babysitter was Mya Unger. Mya was only seventeen. Frank was in his thirties. Kylie cringed.
“Ick,” said Loretta.
“Pervert,” said Mrs. Roper.
“Here’s my take,” said Petunia. “Frank’s a crackerjack lawyer. Probably knows a ton of loopholes. He’s going to cheat Jessica Lynn out of her due and she knows it. Hence the job-hunting. She’s desperate.”
Becky grunted. “I’d feel sorry for her if she weren’t such a witch.”
The women continued to gossip. Kylie thanked God she wasn’t Jessica, then directly wondered what was so great about her own personal life. Although, she
was
trying to spice things up by attracting Jack. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, frowned. She looked like one of those nuts who donned tinfoil hats to ward off mind-controlling aliens. “Don’t you think this goop has been on long enough?”
Petunia peeked between two layers of foil. “Nope.”
Loretta rushed over. “For you,” she said, handing a cordless phone to Kylie, who hoped for Faye but got Travis.
“Your grandma’s on the other line,” he said.
“What other line?” She only had one incoming line.
“I’m calling you on my cell phone. She’s on your business land line. What should I—”
“Tell her to call this number.”
“I did, but she said she can’t.”
Kylie’s stomach fluttered with dread. She wasn’t supposed to touch base with her mom and grandma until they hit Anchorage, two days from now.
“She says it’s an emergency.”
Kylie flung the cordless at Becky, flew off the chair and out the door. She hopped on her bike and zoomed six blocks, cape flying. Her brain pounded with horrific thoughts. Lungs burning, she exploded over McGraw’s threshold and snatched the receiver. “What happened? What’s wrong? Did you break a leg? A hip? Did mom fall overboard? Did you two get thrown off the ship for excessive bickering?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Grandma McGraw.
“Then, what’s the emergency?”
“The world’s gone topsy-turvy.”
Kylie slumped into the chair Travis shoved under her butt. “What are you talking about, Grandma?”
“Your mom was right. For once.”
“About?”
“She had a bad dream. Woke up feeling like something was wrong at home. Couldn’t shake it all day. I got tired of her pacing a hole in our cabin’s carpet and spoiling my fun. Decided to call ship-to-shore, hang the cost. Thought you could ease her mind by telling us everything’s fine. Same as always. Only it’s not the same as always. I call the store and you’re not there. Mr. Martin, who normally works at the hardware store, is there. Said he’s handling some renovations. Said you’re getting your hair done.”
“I
was
getting my hair done.” Kylie fingered the foil, some of which she’d lost in the wind. Should she pull the rest off? Leave them on? Which was worse?
“You closed the store on a weekday to get a haircut? That’s so unlike you, dear. And what’s this about renovations?”
“Nothing severe,” she lied. She didn’t want to break the news over the phone. What if they freaked? What if she ruined their trip? No way was she going to rain on anyone’s dream trip. “Just some maintenance, Grandma. A little sprucing up.”
“In preparation of the Apple Festival?”
“Yes.” It was the simplest truth.
“Did you have a nice birthday celebration with Faye?” she asked, switching subjects.
“It was one for the memory books. Are you having a nice time with Mom? Strike that. Are you having a nice time?”
“One for the memory books. Except today. Your mom was a real drip.”
“So you said. Where is she, anyway?”
“I sent her on a fool’s errand. Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case something was terribly wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Grandma. Tell Mom…same ol’, same ol’.”
“I’ll tell her exactly that.” The old woman sighed. “Wish you were here, dear.”
Just now, Kylie couldn’t imagine being anywhere but Eden. She always finished what she started, and her homespun adventure was barely off the ground. “I’d only cramp your style,” she teased, then turned serious. “I should go. This call is probably costing big time.”
“Such a sensible girl,” said Grandma McGraw. “Such a good girl.”
They signed off and Kylie battled melancholy. What was that line? Good girls finish last?
Travis gestured to her alien-protected head. “Think you can kiss the same ol’, same ol’ goodbye.”