Killer Summer

by Lynda Curnyn

  Vince Trifelli had become almost a legend in my mind. Imagine my surprise to discover, when I finally met him, just how very human he was.

  Vince returned home from China an exile. His wife greeted him with a divorce, his child hardly knew him. I guess I understood how abandoned he felt. Tom hadn’t left me, but he had abandoned me in every way that really mattered. I felt as alone in the world as Vince seemed when he first came to the apartment on E. 64th Street. Which was probably why I befriended him, invited him over time and time again, fed him meals and listened late into the night while he told me of the pain of losing Gabriella and Sophia. Ironically enough, I fell in love with the way he loved his wife and child. In love with the shadow of pain in his eyes that mirrored the pain I felt.

  Maybe this was what bound us together. Or maybe it was the fact that I discovered, during all those late-night talks we shared long after Tom had turned in, that Vince and I had a lot in common. Like me, he had grown up poor. Like me, he had spent his youth living in the shadow of the city, though his was more of a hard-knock life on the streets of Brooklyn. Like me, he had married into money. Apparently Gabriella D’Ambrosio was the one who held the keys to the kingdom in their relationship.But when Vince told me how he had made his way in New York, starting out in shipping and moving up to start his own exporting business, I understood why Gabriella had fallen in love with him. It was clear to me that Vince was not the type to hang on to anyone else’s coattails. He had his pride, almost too much of it, I sometimes thought. But I suppose I even loved that about him, too.

  Which was why, when he told Tom he wanted to introduce some leather products into the Luxe lineup, I encouraged the idea. Vince had developed relationships with a few tanneries and was eager to expand Luxe’s offerings. Tom was hesitant at first. Luxe had suffered a lean season, and he was wary about growing the business at that point. But when he agreed to allow Vince to develop a few accessories for Luxe—some handbags, belts and even a few jacket styles, it was I who opened the champagne the night Vince came over, triumphant that he had just put through his first contract with the tanneries. Tom wasn’t home yet, so Vince and I toasted together, again and again, until we found ourselves settled together in the living room, drunk on the promise of future success. I remember that night as clearly as the night I died—how Vince looked at me, his eyes growing sad as he said he had hoped to realize this dream with Gabriella by his side.“I guess you never really know someone, do you?” he said.

  Ironic that those were the words he uttered just moments before he kissed me for the first time. He obviously knew me well enough to understand that such tragic romantic talk was the kind of thing 1 lived for. Of course, nothing happened that night. Nothing except for a few heart-wrenching statements from Vince about how he couldn’t do this to Tom, how he had to let me go before it was too late.

  And then he was gone. Off to Italy to pursue his new dream. Leaving me with a longing so deep I could barely live with my illusions about my marriage anymore.

  By the time Vince came back, two years later, I was putty in his hands. When he told me how much he had thought about me while he was gone, I believed him. When I watched him struggle with the idea of betraying Tom, I killed all his arguments with a kiss.

  Thus began the affair that consumed me for the better part of a year. And it wasn’t just stolen afternoons that we shared, but also dreams. Vince wanted to grow the leather portion of the business and began talking about a new urban line of outerwear. Spurred on by the glow of ambition in his eyes, I echoed his vision to Tom. Tom didn’t need much encouragement. The leather goods Vince had already developed had taken off, and Tom had himself been thinking along the lines of expansion.

  When Edge was born, I had the joy of participating in the dream. The sorrow of realizing that that dream would take Vince away from me. Of course, he promised to come back for me, once he successfully got the manufacturing under way. So I was content to wait, even taking a job at Edge just after the first successful trade show with some idea my work there might keep me closer to the man I loved.

  But that’s the thing about romance with a capital R. You can’t get too close to it. Otherwise, you’ll find it to be as fleeting as your last orgasm.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-six

  Zoe

  Last stop: Kismet

  Myles was waiting for me at the dock. I gave myself about thirty seconds to relish that fact, along with the glow of concern in his golden brown eyes. But of course, he was only waiting there because I’d called him in a panic from the train and let him in on all the latest developments.

  “Hey,” I greeted him, feeling an almost Pavlovian urge to kiss him. Isn’t that what one did when one met a loved one at the dock?

  “Hey,” he said, leaning forward to grab my backpack.

  Okay, that was chivalrous. I’ll take what I can get.

  “What the hell do you have in this thing?” he said, holding it up.

  “Stuff,” 1 said. “Never mind that. We have to hurry.”

  He put the pack on the ground. “Hurry where, exactly?”

  I looked at him. “To Donnie Havens’s house.”

  Myles’s eyes widened. “Zoe, we can’t just go over there and starting shooting off accusations. That guy could be dangerous.”

  I smiled. “That’s what you’re here for. You do still practice karate, right? Or did you give that up, too?”

  “Zoe, it won’t matter what I practice if Donnie has a gun. I think we should call the police.”

  I rolled my eyes. “A fat lot of good that’ll do us. They’re still working on the Who Killed Chad mystery. They don’t even realize this is bigger than Chad. Besides, Donnie Havens doesn’t have a gun.“

  “There’s no way you could know that, Zoe.”

  “He’s a coward, Myles. I’ll put money on it that if we put a little pressure on him, he’ll crack.”

  “Zoe, let’s just call the police—”

  “For what? So they can tell me I’m imagining things? We can’t let this guy get away with—”

  “And I can’t let you risk our lives just because you feel a need to play the hero.”

  Now I was angry. This had nothing to do with heroics and everything to do with justice. Two innocent people were dead. I looked him in the eye. “Fine. If you won’t come with me, I’m going it alone.” Picking up my bag, I strode off ahead of him.

  I made it to the Kismet sign before he caught up with me. “I’m not letting you go alone, Zoe!‘

  I fought to keep from collapsing under the weight of the relief I felt. The last thing I wanted to do was face Donnie Havens alone. I started walking again.

  “Wait,” Myles said.

  I turned to look at him.

  “Are you planning on clubbing him with this bag, or can we drop it off somewhere?”

  “Oh, right.” I thought about this a moment. We could drop it off at the house, but I didn’t really want to get involved with Tom or Nick or anyone else who might be there. Besides, Donnie might go out for the evening, and I didn’t want to miss him.

  I turned to look at The Inn, which was already starting to fill up with early evening diners coming to watch the sunset. “Follow me,” I said, marching off to the bar.

  “Hey, Danny,” I greeted the bartender as I approached. Leaning over the bar, I gave him a smile. “Do you think you could do me a favor?”

  “Anything for you, gorgeous.”

  I liked Danny. “Do you think you could stash this bag behind the bar? I’ll come back for it later.”

  “Sure thing,” he said.

  I turned to Myles, who handed the bag over the top of the bar, practically glaring at Danny while he did.

  Oh, wow. Was he jealous, or what?

  “Thanks, Danny,” I said. Then I headed out of the bar, Myles at my heels.

  “You were flirting with that guy,” Myles said once we were outside again.

  “Was I?” I asked, genuinely curious. Maybe I di
d know how to flirt after all.

  “Yeah, you were, all right.”

  I glanced at him as we passed the market. He was jealous!

  Okay, so I felt a little glad about that.

  As we passed the dock, I spotted Donnie’s boat. “Well, he’s on the island. Let’s just hope he’s home,” I said, my eye roaming down the line of boats and falling on the Sweet Sophia, which was parked in the second to last slip, near the hotel.

  I thought of Vince’s daughter, Sophia, and wondered if this might be his boat. Then I realized it couldn’t be. This was a private ship, and I hadn’t seen Vince’s name on the list of private shipowners. Well, whatever. I could only assume Sage’s ship had come in tonight. And if she was enjoying her evening with Vince, I was glad. Not only because I wanted Sage to be happy—and it was clear she thought Vince would make her happy—but it might keep her out of my hair while I sorted this whole thing out.

  “Let’s boogie,” I said, picking up speed as we headed down West Lighthouse Walk.

  “Nice spread,” Myles said as we approached Donnie’s house.

  “Yeah. I guess this is what blood money buys you,” I replied. “Wait till you see the inside. Tacky as hell.”

  “Zoe,” he said, grabbing my arm before I could make my way up the wooden walkway. “We’re not going inside.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said, yanking my arm out of his grip and raising it to knock on the outside door.

  And knock. And knock. No one answered, despite the fact that the front door was wide open. Before Myles could stop me, I swung the door open, stepping inside, leaving him to do nothing but follow me, muttering something about my stupidity.

  Music wafted in from the back deck. Damn, what if he wasn’t alone? I’ll make him come to the front of the house with me, I decided, heading for the sliding glass door.

  I stepped through the door, Myles at my back, and discovered that Donnie wasn’t alone. Far from it. He was in the hot tub with a brunette who looked vaguely familiar.

  And I knew it wasn’t Donnie’s wife.

  Dolores Vecchio, I realized, finally placing her. The broker who sold Tom and Maggie their house. I’d seen her at Tom’s Fourth of July party.

  “Who let you in here?” Donnie said, standing up in the tub.

  I was relieved to discover he at least had a bathing suit on. “Door was wide open, Donnie. You’d think you’d be a little more discreet.” My gaze flicked to Dolores. “Under the circumstances.”

  “You get outta here before I call the police.”

  “You probably don’t want to do that, Mr. Havens,” Myles said.

  Mr. Havens. That was Myles. Always so polite.“Look, Donnie, we need to talk. I’d prefer not to do it in front of your mistress. I, at least, still have some respect for your wife.”

  Dolores narrowed her eyes.

  But Donnie hopped out of the tub, toweling himself off as he stepped past us through the sliding glass doors.

  I followed, and though I knew Myles wasn’t happy about it, he did, too.

  “Now what’s this about?” he barked once we stood in his living room.

  “It’s about Maggie Landon.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “What about her?”

  “I want to know exactly where you were the night she died.”

  He rolled his eyes.“I told you already. I was playing poker with my buddies.”

  “We have a witness who saw you at the Kismet dock the night she died,” I said, hoping he would take the bait. “And it wasn’t Chad.”

  “Chad? Who the fuck is Chad?”

  “The dock boy who died last week.”

  His eyes widened. “I had nothing to do with that. I was at a block party over on Pine. Ask anybody who was there.”

  “And what about the night Maggie died? You weren’t on the dock that night?”

  “Not the Kismet dock, no.”

  “Oh, but you were at one of the docks on Fire Island. Maybe Saltaire? I understand Dolores has a nice little house in Saltaire. Maybe you parked your boat in her slip? So to speak.”

  His face turned beet-red as he realized his error. “Look, I may have been on Fire Island that night,” he said, glancing back at the deck, “but I had nothing to do with what happened to Maggie. 1 loved Maggie.”

  “Did you love her enough to forgive her for going to Tom about your affair? Or the fact that you were skimming profits out of his business?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Donnie, don’t bullshit me,” I said, feeling very glad Myles was beside me. “We know about the jackets you were pulling off all those shipments.”

  “Jackets? I have no idea what you’re—”

  “Look, you animal, don’t play innocent. We have evidence. Shipping invoices with jackets ordered that are nowhere near the number of skins paid for. And the invoices all have your signature on them.”

  He shook his head. “Now you’re talking crazy. I don’t fill out the invoice, and if I alter it, I need to get a signature from my boss to do so. If receivable is showing less coats than the purchase order indicates I should have, then that’s someone in manufacturing. Only they can alter the invoice before the shipment. Not me.”

  “Manufacturing?” I asked now.

  “Yeah, the factory—where they make the coats,” he said, looking at me as if I were some sort of a dimwit. “Whatever happens in China, I have nothing to do with.”

  “China?”

  “Yeah, that’s where the factories are. And that’s where the shipments come from. Only someone in manufacturing has the authority to change an invoice.”

  I looked at Myles and I knew with a glance he was thinking the same thing I was.

  Vince Trifelli.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Nick

  Busted, part two. And this time I think I’m going down.

  It had to be a nightmare. There was no other explanation for the fear that crept over me at the sound of Tom’s voice, shouting my name.

  Dammit. I squeezed my eyes shut, rolling over in the bed and making contact with a soft, warm body. Francesca, I realized, opening my eyes and remembering where I was. In the purple room. Francesca’s room. We’d come here for round two and I must have fallen asleep.

  “Nick, where the hell are you?”

  Oh, shit. This was no nightmare. I sat up, jostling Francesca awake as I did, not sure whether to run for my boxers or for cover.

  I didn’t get a chance to do either.

  The door popped open. “Francesca, have you seen—” Tom began, then stopped, his eyes widening. “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Daddy!” Francesca squealed. I glanced at her. For all her past shenanigans, she looked as scared as I felt. I suppose there was some comfort in that.

  But not much.

  “Get your ass out of that bed. Now!”

  I wasn’t sure who he was talking to at that point, but at least I had the sense to grab on to the top blanket when Francesca leaped off the bed, taking the sheet with her.

  “Francesca, go to your room!” Tom shouted, his face turning a shade redder when he remembered she was in her room. With me.

  He shook his head. “Never mind. You stay here. And you,” he said, turning his gaze on me, which I swear, was like a fucking madman’s, “come with me!”

  He had barely slammed out of the room before I pulled on my shorts, hurrying for the door as I did. I glanced back at Francesca, whose eyes were wide with the first emotion I had seen out of her. And it was genuine fear.

  A curl of protectiveness wound through me. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll get us out of this.”

  If I survive this, I thought the minute I stepped into the kitchen and saw Tom standing by the kitchen island, shaking with fury.

  But Tom wasn’t looking at me. He was rifling through a briefcase he had laid on the counter.

  For a moment, I swear to God, I thought about making a run for it. I’d seen enough Bond movie
s to know that briefcases were the perfect hiding places for guns. But Tom didn’t pull out a gun, just a single slip of paper, which he proceeded to wave furiously in my face.

  “What the hell is this?”

  I leaned in as close as I dared, squinting to make out the writing on what looked like a check. A canceled check. I couldn’t make out the payee, but I didn’t have to. I knew exactly what it was. And who it was from.

  “I can explain—” I began.

  “Oh really?” Tom replied, a sickly smile crossing his face.“Then why don’t you start with a damn good reason why my wife gave you a check for twenty-five thousand dollars not three days before she died!”

  I sucked in a breath, suddenly realizing what this looked like. And it wasn’t good.

  The phone began to ring and I stared at it, praying whoever was on the other end might somehow save my sorry ass.

  “Um, don’t you think you should get that?” I asked, when I realized Tom wasn’t even making a move for it.

  “Never mind that. Now start talking.”

  I stared at his angry eyes as the phone rang and rang, like some kind of death toll. Tom must’ve turned off the answering machine.

  And then it stopped.

  Swallowing hard, I began to babble. “Look, Tom, I know how this looks and all, what with Maggie’s murder and everything—”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”

  Shit. Now I’d really fucked up. “It was just a crazy theory of Zoe’s. This thing between Maggie and me had nothing to do with that. She was interested in my label and wanted to put up a little money so—”

  “Wait!” Tom demanded, holding up a hand. “Back up a second. Zoe thinks my wife was murdered?”

  I blew out a breath. Now I’d really done it. “Like I said, it was just a theory. And I want you to know, I never thought for a minute—not one minute—that you did it—”

  “Me? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.