Plateful of Murder

by Carole Fowkes

  Nothing says love better than my aunt’s meatballs and my dad sharing them with me. “Of course. You’re going to have some too, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. A little pasta with it?” He headed into the kitchen with me following.

  “Just a couple meatballs. A girl has to watch her figure.”

  His kitchen wall phone rang, and without thinking, I answered.

  At first no one spoke. Figuring it was a telemarketer who had delayed hanging up, I was ready to hang up when a raspy, chilling voice began to sing. The tune was different than the last time, but the voice, just as familiar.

  “Little piggy.

  Told you before, you’re a piggy.

  Sticking your pig snout

  Where it does not belong, you see.

  Little piggy

  Say it loud you’ll be dropping the case

  Say it not and your life I’ll erase.

  Little piggy.”

  Chapter Eleven

  My hand flew to my mouth and I dropped the phone like it was a hot coal. How had the killer gotten my father’s phone number? How did he know who’d answer the call? My mind spun, at once telling me not to react, not to scare my father. The next second, nothing would do but to curl up on his lap and hide from the world.

  My father spun around. He dropped the wooden spoon he’d been using and rushed over to me. “What’s wrong? Claire, who was it?”

  Although autumn was hanging on keeping it somewhat warm, it felt like an icy wind had blown over me and I shivered.

  He took me into his arms and gave me a Daddy hug, the kind of embrace meant to protect me from every imagined monster. If only it could do the same with this very real one. After a moment he released me. “What did they say to you?”

  My eyes couldn’t meet his dark, worried ones. “Just a very nasty obscene call. One of those random things.”

  “Oh, Pumpkin. I should’ve answered.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” I inhaled deeply and stepped over to the window above the sink, peering out, hoping the killer wasn’t lurking about. My stomach felt like someone had tied it up like you would a pork roast.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Uh, just wanted to see if it was raining.” There wasn’t a cloud anywhere. “Dad, my appetite is gone. Do you mind if I skip the meatballs?”

  He raised one bushy black-mixed-with-grey eyebrow. “That must’ve been one hell of an obscene call. Something else is going on. Is it one of your cases?” Reaching for me, he continued, “Please, for my sake, just tell whoever hired you on this latest case that you can’t stay with it. I lost your mother. It’d kill me if anything happened to you.”

  Tears rimmed my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. It’d be the same for me if I lost him. Terror, along with tremendous guilt, took turns inside me. Hatred for this killer burned through me. It’d break my heart if my father came to any harm, either physically or emotionally.

  It now hit home how vulnerable my father was. The man couldn’t even remember to lock his door. He needed protection, without knowing he had it. Corrigan flashed in my mind.

  My task right now was making Dad believe everything would be all right. “I’ll talk to the client.”

  “If it’s about money, I’ll give you whatever you need. It’s not worth it, Pumpkin.”

  I hung my head, embarrassed, like when Dad caught me kissing Jimmy Sarrotti, the kid who had lived next door.

  He hugged me again. “I told you before, you could move back in with me.”

  The thought of my dad waiting up each time I was out late, checking out my dates horrified me. What if he wanted me to talk about my cases? “Your offer is really appreciated, Dad, but…”

  “But you’d rather not live here again.” He put his hand up to stop my protests. “I get it. But know you’re always welcome.”

  I kissed his cheek, realizing for the millionth time what a great guy my father was. He deserved whatever it took to protect him. A moment passed before I could seize an opportunity. “Forgot something in the car. Be right back.”

  Sitting inside my car, arms pressed hard against my stomach, the tears impossible to shed in front of my father flowed. As soon as my hands stopped trembling enough to punch in his number, I called Corrigan. He picked up on the first ring.

  “What’s up, Claire? You okay?”

  “He called me at my father’s house.”

  “Dammit. Is your father okay? Should I send someone over?”

  I blew out a long breath. “He doesn’t know about the first call or that this second one threatened me again. Still, can you have someone in an unmarked car watch over him? No black-and-whites. That’d just scare him.”

  The sound of shuffling papers. “Okay, I’ll get one over there ASAP. Let me have his address and phone number. We’ll trace the call too.”

  My shoulders dropped and the tension dissipated. I gave him the information he needed and thanked him.

  “No thanks needed. Now your father’s involved, though. It’s time to back out of the case.”

  But it wasn’t. Now that the killer had my father’s phone number and probably his address, the dirt bag might go after him to get to me. I bit my lower lip hard. Fear for my father burrowed in my gut like a worm in fresh dirt.

  “We’ll see.”

  “Claire, you can’t—”

  I pressed the button and ended the call. My father jogging toward my car sent a shock to my heart. “What is it, Dad?”

  He leaned over, a tiny bit short of breath. “Phone call for you.”

  Everything moved in slow motion, like when you know another car is about to hit you. “Who is it?”

  “Wouldn’t give his name. Just said it was important.”

  Getting out from the car, my legs felt like gummy worms. Corrigan needed to know about this current call. “Tell the guy to hang on a minute longer.”

  “You think it’s that sicko again?” The sunburst lines around my dad’s eyes deepened. “Obscene callers don’t ask for someone by name. Or do they? If it is him he’s not gonna get a chance to upset you again.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. It’s probably a business associate.” Every step toward the house reminded me of the last mile a death row inmate takes.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Claire DeNardo?” It was my unhappy landlord. He complained about leaving me messages which went unanswered, finally resorting to calling my father’s number. “Your rent check was late and when you did submit it, you neglected to sign it.”

  A deep exhale pushed the fear out of me. An unsigned check was a simple mistake. Nobody would die from it. I promised to remedy the error that same day.

  After the call and my explanation, my father’s anxious face relaxed.

  “Dad, you really need caller ID on this phone. We’ve talked about it before.”

  He changed the subject. “Did you find what you needed? You were outside for a while.”

  “Um hm.” My turn to change the subject. “You know, a meatball or two would taste good now.” I didn’t know if they’d go down okay, but it was important he not think anything happening spooked me. We were just a father and daughter spending time, eating. That’s what my family does best anyway.

  My father served up the steaming meatballs, wonderful, fragrant orbs of ground veal and pork. We sat down and I cut into one, letting the steam rise. The fork was almost in my mouth when the sound of a motor running stopped it. I sprinted to the living room window, but it was only the beat up truck Mr. Samartano across the street used for business.

  My dad poured more sugo on his meatballs. “You expecting someone?”

  I acted surprised, like my actions had been perfectly normal. “No. Just wondered what that racket was.”

  “Samartano has had that truck since you were in braces. You forget how loud it was?” He motioned for me to sit back down.

  “Guess so.” I shoved some of the meatball into my mouth. Still hot, but so good. The next thing I knew, both o
f them were gone. I wiped the sugo from around my mouth and checked the time. Where was that police car? Out of my chair again. “Need help with the dishes?”

  “What dishes? You heard about this new invention, the dishwasher?”

  I smirked and put my index finger to my temple. “I’ve heard of such a thing. Let me use it. It’ll be a new thrill. Go sit.”

  Dishes done, I joined him in the living room and stood in front of the picture window, scanning the area. Down the street was an unfamiliar car. I checked my phone. A text from Corrigan told me the unmarked vehicle should have arrived and would stay until the morning. Sighing my relief, I sat down next to my favorite guy.

  Twenty more minutes passed before brushing my lips against his cheek. “Have to go see a sick friend. Call you tomorrow. I love you.”

  He returned the hug. “Love you too. Hey! Wanna take some meatballs home with you? Maybe give some to your sick friend?”

  I left my dad’s place carrying a covered dish of meatballs drenched in marinara.

  That roller coaster ride of emotion tired me. Guilt, my frequent companion, took its favorite spot in my head. Lying to my father was the least of it. Putting his wellbeing at risk was unforgiveable.

  My next stop would also take its toll. To add to the bad feelings, I planned on disregarding another of Gino’s rules. “Never let the client see you sweat.” If Gino knew how often I broke his rules with Michael, he’d yank me down to Miami. The only investigating I’d be doing there would be on which suntan lotion let the most rays in.

  Michael must have heard my car’s roar because he was waiting in his doorway. Seeing him, the recently ingested meatballs settled back down in my stomach. I didn’t want to alarm him so forced myself to set my pace at a casual stroll, stopping a bit away from him and speaking in a measured pace. “Hello, Michael.”

  He tilted his head and squinted at me. “Hi.”

  “Can I come in?”

  A flash of annoyance passed over his face, but it disappeared so fast I chalked it up to my imagination. “Oh, sorry. Of course. You’re always welcome.” He placed his arm around me and guided me inside. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two cups of tea and some cookies.

  My hands shook, thinking about what to tell him and worrying the tea would spill all over. “Just going to let it cool a bit.” I set it down on the coffee table.

  He sat across from me and took a sip, but observed me over his cup. “Did you get another call?”

  My playacting crumbled into a wobbly mess. “He knew what I did today.”

  Michael set his cup down and strode over to close the space between us. Bending over he embraced me while I whimpered into his shoulder. He stroked my hair and then my cheek, comforting me with soft murmurs. We remained like that until the uncomfortable truth about us at this time came back to me. I was supposed to be the professional here. He was the client in need. Now with me falling apart, our roles had blurred. If Gino knew about this he would, no doubt, be ripping off his gold chain.

  I pulled away and wiped my eyes. “Sorry, Michael. Shouldn’t have done that.” I picked up the tea cup and took a sip to buy time.

  He straightened. “No. My fault.”

  “You don’t need to apologize for things I do.” My nose ran and I stood up to find my purse for a tissue. “You’re kind and sweet, but you hired me to do a job, not cry on your shoulder.” Wiping my nose is never attractive, but it didn’t deter Michael, who planted a kiss on my cheek.

  “Claire, I don’t want anything to happen to you. Ever.” He looked down at his feet. “I care very much for you.”

  Under any other circumstances, his announcement would have made me tingle. But someone had threatened to kill me. I crossed my arms in front as if to protect myself from any more emotions. “Michael, I appreciate what you’re saying. But shouldn’t we wait to see what happens between us after we find Constance’s murderer?” I cringed, hating to hurt his feelings. It was like when, at the age of nine, Vinnie Raselli asked me to go to the grade school dance. When I refused, he cried. My guilt made me change my mind and suffer the humiliation of going with the only boy who was shorter than me.

  Michael sat down on the sofa and pulled me next to him. “That’s just it. Drop the case. It’s too dangerous.”

  Get off the case. Music to my ears. Let the police do the job. I could be safe, snuggled in Michael’s arms. Just that sweet, cozy thought made me want to rearrange his furniture. But Sister Mary Magdalene, my fifth grade teacher, drilled into our still spongy heads that once you start something, finish it. Although she probably didn’t mean do something that would be the finish of me.

  I gently pulled away from him. “That’s out of the question.”

  He leaned forward. “Then I’m firing you. As of now.”

  “You can but, Sister Mary Magdalene said—”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Invoice me for final payment.”

  “We’ll talk about it after Cannoli’s.”

  Ignoring his frown, I excused myself to go freshen up in the bathroom. On the way down the hall, I noticed the door to his study was open. Two desks sat across from each other and were both so neat it was hard to believe anyone ever sat behind either one. A business card, the only object out of place, lay right on the edge of the desk closest to the door. The ivory-colored piece looked ready to drop to the floor, so I stepped into the room to push it further in. One glance at the embossed card and my eyes shot wide open. George Workosky’s card. Same as the one Sean had. I shifted my body to pick it up, but all of a sudden, Michael was standing right behind me.

  “What are you looking at?”

  My hand flew away from the card. “Oh, just how neat this room is.” Yeah, that was a clever cover story.

  Michael didn’t skip a beat. “My sister and I shared it. It hasn’t been used much since she died.” He pointed to the desk with the business card. “This one was hers.” His face clouded over for a moment. Then he put his arm around my shoulder, escorted me out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time we arrived at Cannoli’s, my aunt looked ready to pull her hair out. Short of breath, she said, “Thank God you came early. Place is going crazy.” She grabbed two aprons, thrusting them both at me, and rushed back to the front counter.

  Michael took one from me. “Looks like it’s time to get to work.”

  We took over the front, and Aunt Lena returned to the kitchen. After thirty minutes or so, she hooked Michael’s arm and pulled him away. “We’ve got some baking to do.”

  That whole time at Cannoli’s Michael and I didn’t see much of each other, which worked fine for me. Without him around, it was easier to think about Constance’s murder and if maybe it would be good for me to back off. Mulling it over, I used my finger to draw a face in the powdered sugar on an empty platter.

  Aunt Lena needed help here. It was sure a lot safer and the only thing to fear was weight gain. At least nobody would say, “Too bad Claire’s dead. But she did stay slender.”

  My mind went round and round, like that powdered sugar face, only to reach the same, earlier conclusion. Staying on the case and helping the police was the only way to ensure my safety. Michael would be upset, but he’d get over that once we caught the murderer.

  Closing time came after the last customers patted their bellies, exclaimed they shouldn’t have eaten all of whatever they’d ordered, and left. Michael still hadn’t come out of the kitchen. My aunt had probably had the time of her life with him, discussing cakes and pies and swapping recipes.

  I’d begun to clean off the tables when my phone vibrated. Corrigan. Guilt cascaded down my body. I should’ve gone back to see him after the second phone threat.

  Before I could take the call, my aunt roared in. She looked like the abominable snowman, except made of flour. “That boy is a marvel of baking genius. Wait ‘til you see wha
t we created. Of course, the honors go to Michael.”

  Corrigan’s call went into voice mail.

  Aunt Lena cupped her mouth with one hand and yelled, “Michael, come out and show Claire.”

  Michael strode out and displayed the most magnificent cake imaginable. At least six layers high, fresh berries covered the top and the edges held chocolate dipped strawberries. Rich-looking dark chocolate dripped down the sides and collided with white swirls and nuts.

  Aunt Lena circled him like a ring master at a circus. “Have you ever seen such a beaut?”

  My eyebrows shot up to get out of the way of my super-wide open eyes. “It’s gorgeous.” I half-smiled and winked. “But does it taste as good as it looks?” My mouth watered so much my taste buds put on shower caps.

  Michael set it down and my aunt whipped out a knife. Getting the plates and forks was my task. After the initial oohs and ahhs, we ate our own cake slices in silence, savoring each bite. It was so delicious if by myself, I would have used my finger to pick up every last crumb my fork left behind.

  When we finished our treat, Aunt Lena clapped her hands like a first grade teacher organizing her young pupils. “Okay you kids, I’ll finish cleaning up. You both go. I appreciate your help.” She practically shooed us out the door.

  We grabbed our stuff and left. My body longed for some sleep. But where?

  As if he read my mind, Michael piped up. “My guestroom is still yours.”

  “Great. But I need to stop home for some things.”

  “No problem.” He bowed at the waist. “It would be an honor to go with you.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I assented.

  To my great relief, my apartment although messy looked undisturbed and, except for Michael and me, empty. I grabbed my necessities for both the night and the next morning, locked up, and we headed out.

  First on the agenda at his home was a glass of wine for each of us. No surprise to me, he started up again about the importance of dropping his case. Not on purpose, but I yawned so much it interfered with any meaningful conversation. Stretching as ladylike as possible, my voice thick and sleepy, I said, “We can resume this when I have at least one brain cell awake.” And excused myself to sleep alone.