by Fiona Grace
“That’s the Mason Magic,” he teased, blowing on his fingernails and buffing them on his shirt front. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard it’s legendary. I’m so blessed.”
“Damn straight.”
Nick appeared at the edge of the beach, carefully watching Polpetto, who let out a sharp bark.
“Quiet, boy,” Mason said, snapping his fingers.
Audrey motioned Polpetto to her. She patted his side and turned back to Mason. “I’m sorry I wasn’t very good company tonight. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime, if you don’t mind being with a cursed person?”
He nodded. “We will. And you ain’t cursed. You’re fine.”
Then she thought of G, and her good mood dissolved. She didn’t care what Concetta said about it being fine to date around. It simply felt wrong.
*
They were silent as Mason walked her back to her place.
She swallowed, and her voice a whisper, said, “Mason, I should probably tell you that—”
He held up a finger, pressing it against her lips. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“But—”
“Go.” He pointed forcefully to her door. “Besides, I already know. You think I’m great.”
She burst out laughing. “No!” Then she blushed. “No, I mean, sure, you are, but you already know that, so I wasn’t going to tell you it. What I was going to say is—"
“Girl. It’s late. Let’s not go into this now. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning and see if I can come in and fix that faucet of yours, okay?”
“Thanks, Mason,” she said, smiling gratefully at him before turning and heading inside. As she closed the door, she saw a red blur at her feet. Nick slipped in. She peered into the street and saw Mason sauntering away, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, like he hadn’t a care in the world.
If only I could be that carefree, she thought.
“All right, Bub, I’ll get you that apple,” she said, replaying the date over again and again in her head. How sweet was he? Making her that picnic dinner so that they could eat it on the beach, together? Handy, funny, handsome and the total package. Among men, he was a complete gem. She should’ve been jumping on the opportunity to date him.
And she’d totally blown it. Bad timing, again.
Why did he like her, again? Maybe I shouldn’t worry about the murder and let the police sort it out.
She cut the apple and rinsed it under the faucet, which was now leaking more than ever. Luckily, the bucket under the pipes was only filled about halfway. It could wait until Mason had a chance to look at it. Setting it down in Nick’s tray, she turned and looked around her half-finished wreck of a house.
Since when did I NOT worry about things? It’s in my nature. Besides, the police won’t sort anything out if the mafia’s involved. And I’ll be the one left dangling.
Which reminded her, what Mason had said was true. She needed to find out what she was dealing with. Was Rafael Piccolo part of the mafia?
Tomorrow, she decided, she would go and find out. Somehow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Audrey rolled over in bed and felt a weight on her chest.
The weight of the police, bearing down on her? The mafia, wanting a piece of her? The men in her life, wanting her to make a decision?
No.
Feeling breathless, she cracked open an eyelid. It was the weight of Nick, sitting right on her mid-section. Again.
“Ugh. Could you please try to not crush me so early in the morning, every morning?” she groused, shooing him away. He scampered off, to the open picture window, and climbed out onto the ledge. Little ninja that he was, she didn’t think her rejection was enough to get him to commit suicide, but she still scrambled from the bed and poked her head out, just to be sure.
Sure enough, he was perched on the narrow road outside her house, licking his paws and watching as neighbor Nessa, from across the street, approached, a cameraman in front of her, capturing her every move. She was wearing her jogging clothes and carrying a to-go coffee container, saying, in a sweet voice that Audrey didn’t recognize, “Yes, after my morning 5K, I usually stop by at the local coffee shop around the corner for my espresso. It’s part of my morning routine and keeps me awake so I can handle another busy day of renovations. Today, I’m going to show you how to make your bathroom . . .”
Suddenly, there was a sharp squeal and a “What the . . .” Audrey looked over just as Nick disentangled himself from the cameraman’s legs. Unfortunately, it wasn’t soon enough, because the man stumbled backwards, landing on his backside. His camera went skidding across the street.
Audrey winced.
Nessa, scowling, snapped her glare up to Audrey. “Hello? We’re filming here! Could you please keep that mongrel of yours out of the way, murderer!”
Audrey rolled her eyes. Now that was the Nessa she knew and couldn’t stand. “Sorry.”
She went downstairs to berate Nick, but by the time she got there, he’d already disappeared. Nessa was standing there, hands on hips, talking with the cameraman as she looked at his footage. “I think we need to do another take completely. My nose looks shiny.”
“Well, you were supposed to have gotten back from a run?” he suggested gently.
“So?” She looked around. “Makeup! Where is makeup?”
Her eyes landed on Audrey. “So I heard you murdered a mafia guy, now,” she said with a smile. “You know, Audrey, if you’re trying to become a serial killer, you might want to pick your victims more wisely.”
“Ha,” Audrey said.
“Seriously, though. What were you doing there?”
Audrey’s first instinct was to slam the door and not give Nessa any more of her time. But she decided to humor her. “I got an anonymous call about an injured animal in the orange groves.”
“Right. Likely story. Didn’t you get one of those the last time?”
This time, she actually did slam the door on her. She knew nothing she could say would appease Nessa. In fact, the first time she’d met Nessa, the woman had done everything in her power to get Audrey arrested for a murder. Despite Audrey’s attempts to smooth things over, it had only gone downhill. To say they weren’t friendly was an understatement; now, Audrey didn’t even bother to try.
Besides, she had better things to do than to get accused by Nessa. As she went into the shower to get ready for the day, she thought about the man who’d been murdered. The name clearly hadn’t rung a bell with the police, so he was likely a stranger, unknown to anyone in the area. His dress—the dark suit—seemed wildly out of place for a country town. So why had he come to Mussomeli? What was his purpose? Why would he be traipsing about some orange grove in the mid-day?
Well, why had she been? She’d been called there. Maybe he had been, too.
The police had a flimsy motive for her . . . that she’d just been surprised and pulled a gun? Who would do that? So probably, likely, even if she did manage to get arrested, they wouldn’t have enough evidence. But something told Audrey there was a different reason that they were focusing so hard on her, and practically ignoring Rafael Piccolo, the owner of the estate.
Mafia?
Right. That was the big question. And she needed to find out.
When she climbed out of the shower and put on a robe, throwing her hair in a towel turban, she climbed upstairs to her room and got out her phone. She quickly typed in: Rafael Piccolo.
There were plenty of hits, so she added the word: Palermo.
That gave her more targeted results. There was plenty of old information about some Piccolo family that had possible mob ties, but nothing very recent. She clicked on one article and read:
Sicilians are breathing a sigh of relief that Cosa Nostra’s grip on Palermo is now over. The police have, in recent years, arrested over 4,000 individuals with known ties to the criminal family. Between 1978 and 1983, the Sicilian mafia, notably the Piccolo clan, killed mo
re than 1,000 people. Hundreds were murdered in the early ‘80s. Since the mid-1990s, the number of homicides has decreased significantly. The last five years in Palermo have seen only one homicide attributable to Cosa Nostra. For those who have lived in fear of retaliation by this powerful family, it is a breath of fresh air. But some warn that the mafia’s roots run too deep to ever be fully extracted . . .
Audrey shuddered. Though it was great that they were no longer powerful in Palermo, that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t find other places to do business. Lie low, which was what Piccolo had told her.
And what if that’s exactly what he was doing? What if he had killed that man, then set about framing her for the murder? Maybe that was why he invited her to lunch . . . to get her fingerprints from her wine glass, which he could plant on the body? She wasn’t quite sure how he’d do such a thing, but he was the criminal mastermind. That might have been his entire family’s life’s work. There might have been a very good reason that he’d invited her to lunch with him, which had nothing to do with the fish.
She checked her watch. It was just eight o’clock. She had time to go down to the orange grove and look around prior to opening the clinic for her first appointment at ten.
Dressing quickly, she headed out, doing her best to avoid the camera crews who’d taken up residence outside her house. Luckily, they weren’t there for her . . . yet.
*
Audrey made it down to the grove within minutes, with Nick trailing close behind. Despite how sunny and cheerful the grove was, with its big not-quite-ripe oranges, dotting the trees in the sun, it was eerie, walking around a place where a murder had been committed. She sucked in her breath and walked among the trees, trying to find the place where the body had lain.
She arrived there a few moments later—or at least, she thought it was the right place. There was no crime scene tape, no outline of the body, nothing that one would see on murder mysteries. In fact, there was nothing to show a crime had been committed there at all. It seemed as though the police had concluded their investigations and found everything they needed to.
But had they found the gun? Or anything else?
To Audrey, it seemed premature. Like they weren’t even trying.
Or maybe something, or someone, was stopping them.
She walked around the place where the body had sprawled, moving the grass around with her toe. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but whatever it was, she didn’t find it. Maybe they did do everything they could.
Then she walked around the trees, peering in knots, staring at the ground, trying to find anything of interest. But the place was as clean as could be.
As she was looking around, Nick poked his head up, an orange in his paws. He started to munch on it while he watched her. “You go ahead,” she said to him. “Have your breakfast while I look for clues.”
He did exactly that.
“You could give me a little help,” she complained. “You have that awesome nose of yours. I have nothing.”
He continued to eat.
“All right, thanks for your support,” she said, turning to walk in the other direction. As she did, she realized how close to the house she was. It was right in front of her, rising up from the trees. I’d better get away from the house before the owner notices me and tells the police that I’m here. It could incriminate me. The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime, after all.
No sooner had she started to back away when she heard the sound of footsteps, up ahead.
Before she could even think to hide behind one of the trees, Rafael Piccolo appeared, hands in pockets, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He caught sight of her and smirked. “Couldn’t keep away, eh?”
Her heart caught. Come on, Audrey, think of a good excuse. But nothing came. It was his effect on her—that hypnotizing look in his brown eyes that made her weak. She was left with the truth. “I wanted to see if I could find clues as to who could’ve done that terrible thing.”
“The murder?”
She stared at him. What other terrible thing was there? “Yes.”
He nodded. “It was terrible. I agree. But I think the police might be able to take care of it, don’t you?”
Audrey’s starstruck nervousness from before faded away, and she remembered just what he’d said to the police. “If I let them have their way, they’d arrest me, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to . . .” His eyebrows raised in shock. “What do you mean?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “How could you not know? You told them that I trespassed, I looked suspicious, that I was flustered, and that I’d been coming from where the body was found. So—”
“But all that was true,” he said calmly.
“Yeah, well, maybe, but you didn’t have to—”
“I didn’t have to tell the truth to the police?” He seemed amused by this suggestion.
“No, of course you do, but did you have to make it seem like I was the killer?”
He held up his hands in surrender. “Well. I see. But to tell you the truth, I don’t know you. I don’t know for sure that you’re not the killer.”
She stood there, speechless.
He rubbed his chin as he looked her over. “But I suppose I should give you the benefit of the doubt. You don’t look very much like a killer. Then again, I’m not quite sure if there is a typical killer ‘look.’”
“You could be the killer,” Audrey blurted.
He chuckled. “And why would you think that?”
“Well. It’s your place. And you seemed entirely too calm when you found out a man had been murdered here.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. You didn’t look shocked, you didn’t ask, Who is it? or What happened? You didn’t seem to care at all. It seemed like you already knew Pietro Grinnelli, and you were happy he was dead.”
“Pietro . . . ?”
“Grinnelli.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. It doesn’t ring a bell.”
Her ears burned. Either he was doing a good job pretending, or he really never had heard the man’s name before. “I still find your actions suspicious. But the police didn’t. In fact, the police didn’t find a lot of what you said or did suspicious. It made me wonder what, exactly, you talked about.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, whether you, I don’t know . . .” She looked up, trying to think of the best way to phrase Used your mafia brawn to intimidate them. “Er . . .exerted certain power . . .”
He laughed. “Power? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
She blew out a breath of air. “Your reaction was odd, is all. And the police didn’t seem to question you on it.”
“On the contrary. They did question me on it. And I suppose I passed with flying colors. I guess I don’t find dead people something to get hysterical over. And I didn’t think I would know the man—I don’t know anyone around here,” he explained. “But I guess I’m jaded. There’s quite a lot of crime in Palermo.”
“Is there? But so close to home? On your property?”
His eyes narrowed. “Dr. Smart, what exactly are you implying?”
She sighed. All this beating around the bush was exhausting. Taking a deep breath, she decided to just come out with it. She blurted, “Are you mafia?”
She expected his eyes to widen in surprise, but they didn’t. It was as if he was used to being asked the question.
“No, of course not. That’s ridiculous.”
“There have been rumors . . .”
“Yes. I suppose there are,” he said, nodding. “There always are, in towns like these. But again, whoever’s been talking is mistaken.”
She nodded, relieved. “And you really have no idea who the murdered man is?” she asked, watching him carefully to see if he gave anything away.
But either he was a very practiced liar, or he was innocent. And really, he didn’t look like mafia at all. “None at all. But I suppose that puts us both i
n a bad position, since you and I were the only ones in the grove.”
“Not necessarily,” she said, to his surprise. She laughed a little. “I’m sorry. I was up all night, thinking about it. And my thought is that . . . well, what about your servants?”
“Servants?” He chuckled. “I only have one. Marta. She’s been with my family since I was a boy. And even if she was the type to go around shooting people, I don’t exactly give her much time to engage in such pursuits. Taking care of my needs is a round-the-clock endeavor.”
“Oh.” That kind of ruled out most of her thoughts. “I saw someone else, in the grove, though.”
“Someone else?”
“Yes. I think the person was wearing a hat, white, with red polka dots. Or it might have been a scarf.”
“Scarf? In this heat?”
“That’s why I’m leaning toward hat. Or something.”
He shrugged. “I can’t say I’m fond of polka dots.”
She smiled. That’s what Concetta had said. “I didn’t think so. I—” She froze. Concetta. The clinic. She scrabbled for her phone and checked the display. It was almost ten o’clock. “Oh, no! I’ve got to go. I have an appointment at the clinic in fifteen minutes!”
She started to rush off, but he called, “Dr. Smart. I hope I’ll see you again? Perhaps for dinner?”
“Uh. Sure,” she said, backing away. “But why don’t we hold off on that until after I find out who killed Pietro Grinnelli?”
“You are going to find out?” He sounded doubtful.
“Don’t worry. I’ve done it before,” she called as she left, and then wondered, all the way back to the clinic, if she should’ve said such a thing. If he’d been lying to her, if he really was mafia and had killed that man, the last thing he probably wanted around was a snoop who could spoil his whole operation.
She didn’t need that to worry about, now. Her day was full of appointments.
But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t help feeling, the closer she got to the clinic, that she’d painted a target, right on her own back.
