Perfectly Criminal

by Celeste Marsella

  “Yeah. If you're an asshole.” She walked to the door. “Gotta go. See you later.”

  I walked like a condemned prisoner to Beth's cubicle in the library. Her bag was slung on the back other chair, but I felt a coward's relief that the chair was empty.

  Back in my own office I found an envelope on my desk, on which, in Beth's private-school scroll, was written my name. I opened it and took a deep breath.

  Dear Shannon, I know how hard it is for someone like you to deal with emotion. You need to apologize to Marianna and to me to get past this and learn a healthy lesson on friendship. Apologies are difficult, even for someone like me, but once you do it, you'll be a better person….

  I threw the wretched missive down on my desk and groaned. If I could just get through the damn note, I'd probably be a better person, but I couldn't even do that without wincing. I took another deep breath and picked it up again, forcing my eyes to journey the length of the high-winded sentences until I got to the end, where a calm sunset lulled me to a peaceful shore of relief:

  …so there's no need to apologize. I accept it anyway, and so does Marianna. We love you, and will always be here for you if you ever want to talk about it.

  Always with love, Beth

  I think I would have rather apologized than face Beth after that note, but I suppose one misery was as good as another for bringing me to my emotional knees. I tossed the note in the trash and walked back to the library, where Beth sat huddled in books.

  “Hey, Beth,” I said. “Nice note. Thanks.”

  Before she could spread the lovely smile across her face too wide, I changed the subject. “Virginia Booths funeral is tomorrow at the O'Neill-Hayes Funeral Home on Spring Street in Newport. It was in the obits this morning. I want you to go with me.”

  “Oh, I guess so. Okay. But maybe we should all go.”

  “I won't torture you. You don't need Marianna and Laurie for protection.”

  “Oh,” she thought a minute. “Well, I wasn't even thinking of that. I thought maybe they'll be able to provide some help for us, because… well, is it possible you're not thinking with your usual sharp acuity because of your … .feelings for Scott Boardman?”

  Considering Beth's and my recent emotional skirmish, I was reluctant to air my feelings about her comment on my inability to remain neutral re Scott Boardman. So instead of saying the first thing that came to my tongue, I stifled the expletives and lied through my teeth: “Great idea. We'll all go together.”

  And then I exited the library finishing my sentence out of Beth's earshot: “…all dressed up and clacking around in high heels, drawing the attention of everyone who knows anything about these murders—and we'll learn absolutely nothing.”

  LAURIE AND MARIANNA HAD INDEED WANTED TO attend the opulent and high-brow Newport funeral, so on the appointed day, I offered the suggestion that we refrain from huddling together and dress as differently as possible. Beth chose the typical Newport mourning style of St. John knit dress and midheel pumps. Marianna would don one of her Kate Hepburn trouser outfits; Laurie a linen-skirted suit; and me, my typical Saturday night whoring outfit of short skirt and bateau-necked skintight top. Everyone knew Beth and me anyway, so what was the point in disguising ourselves?

  We agreed to work the scene individually, so we split up after exiting Marianna's Jeep. I knew Beth would be the best of us to accomplish the feat of fitting seamlessly into the crowd and chatting the mourners up. But could she stay tuned on the assigned program and fight the urge to lollygag with her old Newport friends?

  Marianna dropped Beth and Laurie off at the door of the funeral home, where, just as I predicted, no sooner had Beth walked up the garden to the front steps than Lolly Bergen snatched her elbow, looked furtively around for the subject of her intended gossip, and then leaned into Beth's ear. The two remained glued together until they disappeared behind the black-enameled front door.

  Laurie paused at the garden for a minute, waiting for Beth to go inside. I wasn't certain if Laurie was stalling because she thought it best for the two to enter separately, or because she knew that just inside the doors a highly preserved, polished, and prettied Virginia Booth lay cocooned in a satin-lined box. Laurie didn't think death should be displayed like fine jewelry. I agreed with her philosophically, but my religious heritage argued vehemently against letting the departed depart in peace. The old Irish liked to keep their bodies around until they resembled and smelled like aged cheese.

  Marianna and I drove a bit down Spring Street, choosing to park away from the fray of cars and crowds beginning to assemble for the Booth bon voyage.

  “You and Beth get through your shit?” Marianna eloquently asked, looking for a parking spot.

  “Hard to say,” I answered. “Don't park too far away. How far can you walk in those stilts?”

  “Are you kidding me? I bought a size too big and stuffed 'em with padding. They're good for a couple of miles.”

  “Beth's a weird duck,” I said. “Can you be too normal?”

  “I know what you mean. I envy her. And not that she had the most wholesome upbringing either. Her absentee dad was a golf bum who lived off family trusts. Her mother was a pill-popping functional alcoholic. And she had that illegitimate-sister thing going on when she was sixteen.”

  “It's that ‘hearty stock’ stuff Beth was saying to me about Virginia Booth, how the last thing she would expect was suicide from a woman who was always counseling others on how to weather storms while wearing flowered hats. You know what I mean?”

  “Sort of,” she said, not sounding wholly convinced.

  “These old Yankees have a healthy attitude about life—and death.”

  Marianna nodded but remained silent. She paralleled into a parking spot on a side street off Thames, and we exited the car and headed up toward Spring Street in silence until Marianna suddenly stopped and grabbed me by the elbow. “Pig,” she mumbled.

  It took me a second to register that she was referring to our boss. “Vince?” I said.

  “Brooke Stanford,” she answered.

  Up ahead at the corner, ambling down Spring Street decked in his version of a classy suit, was none other than Vince Piganno arm in arm with Brooke Stanford.

  I lowered my head. “Pigs,” I grumbled under my breath, knowing the noun's plural usage wouldn't be lost on my bright and witty friend.

  “Exactly,” Marianna said, nodding. “Different subspecies, but both oinking ungulates.”

  We silenced our heels by keeping mostly on our toes as we continued walking and rounded the corner onto Spring Street. Ahead of us, Vince and Brooke touched shoulders as they moved down the street. I heard her intermittently giggling and chattering in his ear. Vince, not the giggling type, kept facing forward, but his reception to her girlish charms was evident in the way he'd lean his head into her whenever her mouth came to his ear.

  “Altogether, one disgusting sight,” Marianna said in a guttural whisper. “Did you know about this?”

  “I found them in the conference room last week after-hours. They were drinking wine and losing their clothes one sock at a time.”

  Marianna's steps slowed to a stop. “You didn't think it was important to tell me?” I stopped but didn't turn to face her as she continued her questioning. “Apart from the ongoing murder investigation, you didn't think Vince banging an employee in the conference room was gossip-worthy?”

  I started walking again. “Too much else going on. I forgot.”

  “Were they really… I mean, did you see anything—”

  “Through his opened-to-the-third-button shirt, I saw Vince Piganno's bare chest with one of those gold religious medal things around his neck that your people always wear, and trickles of sweat between his surprisingly firm pectoral muscles. Shall I continue?”

  A brief glance at Marianna's sickened faced answered my question.

  “He's got something planned,” she said.

  “His plans with Brooke Stanford stop at his zipper. He does
n't know any more about what's going on with this wily crew than the rest of us.”

  “So are you finally coming around to suspecting Scott Boardman of murder?”

  “I've finally come around to realizing that I'm not perfect and I don't know everything.”

  “You always knew that, Shannon. This is just the first time you've been able to admit it.”

  We had slowed to let Vince and Brooke, and a few others, enter the funeral home before we walked up the front steps. We followed the discreet signs to the Booth service and entered the double doors. Marianna walked directly to the casket, and I remained just to the side of the door, watching others enter, mingle, visit, and then sit. Like Marianna and me, Vince and Brooke separated.

  Brooke joined Beth and Lolly Bergen and what looked to be others of their old chums. I watched Beth receive Brooke warmly. Good girl, I thought. Beth was playing the game well.

  Without pause, Vince had gone straight to Chief Sewell, who was standing in the back of the room in a dark gray suit, looking like the funeral director himself. I had neither seen nor spoken to him since giving him the heave-ho at the Captain Jaynes House on Monday.

  I watched as Vince and the chief shook hands. Was it love or simple animal attraction that made the chief seem to light up the space he inhabited like a celebrity, a single bright star in an ink-black sky of mourners? He was a healthy head taller than Vince, but both were imposing figures in their crisp suits and immaculate grooming. I watched them do their male dance of conversation, one nodding, the other saying a word or two, while both looked straight ahead and multitasked a surveillance of their surroundings.

  The chief finally spotted me where I had remained near the door. His eyes locked on mine. His head rose and his eyes widened. Vince seemed to melt away into the background. We nodded to each other, neither of us smiling, fixing our stares until I felt a soft tap on my shoulder and I watched the chiefs eyes move from me to the intruder at my side.

  “Hey,” Scott said. “Is this like in the movies when the cops go to the funeral of the victim to see if the murderer shows up to gloat at his crime?”

  “Virginia Booth's murderer is in the casket with her. That crime's been solved.”

  “And Muffie Booth's too. I heard Virginia admitted to killing her.”

  “But your wife's murderer is still out there. And Leo Safer's.”

  “But they aren't connected. Muffie and Virginia had their own issues to settle. Or do you think Pat and Leo were a consequence of that?”

  “Specifically I don't know, but generally I do know that money and jealousy are the two prime motives for murder. Seems to me we have both here.”

  The chief and Vince had been watching us from across the room. There they stood, side by side yet separate, a phalanx of disapproval. Something in me was pleased by their audience, and even more pleased that they disapproved.

  “I want to see you again—away from all this,” I said, nodding toward the crowded room. “Somehow I don't think we're finished.”

  Scott's eyes glistened in a smile. “I was hoping you'd say that. I honestly thought you were done with me.”

  “I should be, and I reserve the right.”

  “Tonight,” he hurried to say. “I'll call you on your cell when I'm done here.”

  I saw Scott's head rise out of our huddle. My Chucky had stealthily come upon us. “Senator Boardman,” the chief said, thrusting his hand to Scott. Scott reciprocated the courtesy and they shook hands.

  “Anything new on the investigation?” Scott asked him.

  “Now, Senator,” Chucky crooned, “you know I'm not going to answer that, don't you? Until the handcuffs are ready to go on.”

  “They won't be going on me, Chief Sewell, so don't get your hopes up.”

  The edge in Scott's voice cut through the somber air. Chuck tilted his head. “Don't underestimate me,” he answered.

  “That sounds personal,” Scott said. “You sure this is about a murder investigation and not about a bruised male ego?” Scott looked at me and winked, and in response, I looked away, trying to remain coolly distant from the animosity I could feel building between the two men.

  Chucky's chest began to heave ever so slightly, his rate of breathing increasing. “You're on shaky ground, Senator. I wouldn't be smiling if I were you.”

  “Is leaving someone you supposedly care about in jail overnight on a filthy cement floor your kind of humor?”

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “Brooke Stanford.”

  I glared at the chief. “Your guys must be gloating all over town that they finally tamed me. That's the only way this could have gotten out.”

  The chief looked at Scott, not ready to share any more information with him, but clearly not done with me yet, he pulled me aside. “Ask Vince who told Stanford. He's on a suicide mission with that broad.”

  “And how did Vince find out? I'm not so proud of it that I'm spreading it all over the office. Only the girls knew and they would never say a word.”

  Scott was watching us, intent and focused.

  Chuck took hold of my elbow, gently but firmly, trying to pull me farther away from Scott. I forcefully yanked my arm from his grasp, making his hold on me appear more aggressive than it actually was.

  Scott moved in and stood between Chuck and me. “Sir, may I ask you what the hell you think you're doing? This is a wake”—he looked up Virginia Booths body—“and this young woman”—he nodded at me—“has had enough manhandling and mistreatment by the Providence Police Department.”

  As if the three of us weren't causing enough of a scene, Vince came lumbering over with his chin stuck out to compensate for his diminutive stature among Chucky, Scott, and me, all of whom towered over him. “What's going on here, Lynch? Maybe you'd better get back to the office.”

  Scott then turned me gently toward him. “May I take you out of here?” he said, always the gentleman, asking me but never ordering. “You don't deserve this.”

  While Chucky and Vince waited for my answer, both, for different reasons, hoping I'd decline his invitation, I looked over at Marianna, who was busy chatting someone up. Beth was talking to Lolly while watching me, and Laurie had disappeared, probably to the bathroom, the only sanctuary in which she'd be assured there were no embalmed Christians.

  I turned back to Scott. “I don't know why I came in the first place.”

  I twirled toward the door, avoiding the reactions of Chuck and Vince. Scott followed me and then rushed ahead to pull the door open for me when Brooke appeared in front of us like a bolt of lightning.

  “Scott?” she whispered. She'd taken hold of his sleeve as his hand held the door open. “How can you leave without a proper visit?”

  “Please, Brooke,” he murmured. But she held fast to his arm. He met her eyes. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Let go of my arm and don't make a scene.”

  “A scene?” she said, no longer caring who heard her. “You're the one who has to worry about public scenes, not me. I've got nothing more to lose.”

  Scott took his hand from the door and let it close. He lowered his head and smiled at her. I had backed away enough to visibly remove myself from their little fracas.

  “What do you want?” he now whispered.

  Brooke smiled at her success in his discomfort. “I want you to stay here—with me. And not leave—with her.” Her head made a deliberate move in my direction, and I floated farther away, resisting Brooke's attempt to reel me in to their incipient donnybrook.

  Scott nodded, still smiling at her. “Let's go outside,” he said to her, now taking her arm as he had mine minutes before. With his free arm he pulled the door open again. But Brooke surprised us both by yanking her arm free of his hold. “It isn't going to work, Scott. Not this time.”

  Vince had begun to move toward us as I was moving away. Was he jealous? Did he think he had any control over Brooke Stanford? Didn't Vince realize that she was using him as much as he was using her?

/>   “Brooke,” Vince said, hurrying the last few steps, “let's go.” Vince now took her arm and Brooke let him keep it. Her glare remained on Scott as she allowed Vince to lead her out the door. I looked around the room. Most of the guests had returned quickly to their hushed conversations, having the good manners to pretend they hadn't witnessed the ugly scene.

  Marianna was suddenly at my side. “What the frig is Vince doing?” she asked.

  I was too busy staring at Scott to answer her. He looked confused but still in control. He smiled at me, waited a moment, and walked through the door himself.

  “Let's go,” I answered Marianna. “I've got a feeling…”

  Outside, my feeling proved correct. Vince and Brooke had crossed the street when Scott began walking down the sidewalk to his waiting car. Scott should have waited inside a few minutes more.

  “You can't do the things you do and get away with it,” Brooke hollered from across the street. “You're a liar, Senator Boardman. And I'm going to make sure the whole world knows it before I'm through with you.”

  Vince was out of his league with Brooke. She was an untameable animal, and Vince was used to instant results. Every time Vince tried to quiet Brooke down by stepping in front of her, she pushed her way around him. “I'm going to fucking kill you, Scott. By the time I'm done with you, you'll wish you were dead!”

  Scott took his reprimand rooted in the same spot. He wasn't facing her as she screamed at him from across the narrow street, but neither did he move as she regaled him with threat after threat. She was out of control. So wholly different from her chilling behavior in Vince's office the day he placed her on leave.

  Vince had apparently realized she would have to exorcise her demons by screaming until exhaustion. He stood by as immobile as Scott was across the street from her. Finally she seemed to implode from her own pent-up steam and began walking briskly down the street. After giving me a stern warning look, Vince followed her.

  “What's Vince trying to say to me?” I asked Marianna. “You know him better than anyone. What did that look mean?”