by Mary Campisi
“Inconsistencies? Like what?” Okay, he’d thought Stephanie should have told Mason by now, but if it were himself, wouldn’t he wait until the last possible second to tell his child he was dying? Was that selfish? Or was it a show of protection?
Tess looked away, lowered her voice. “She pretends she likes me and really wants me to be Mason’s stepmother, but then she slams me by saying you two shared something special.”
“Bullshit.”
Tess darted a look at him. “She said you’d deny it. And she’s told me other things, too, things I know she says just to upset me.”
“Tess—”
“I’m not imagining them!” She pushed back her chair, stood. “I know what I see and I know what I hear. I don’t want to go. In fact, I want that woman out of Magdalena as soon as possible.”
“So, you’re going to run her out of town, is that it? Form a posse and give her the boot?” He stood, faced her. “You can’t do that, Tess. This isn’t the Wild West.”
Her eyes flashed, burned into him. “What if I told you I didn’t want you going to Ohio either, that I thought it could harm our marriage? Would you stay here?”
He sighed, tried for patience. “A trip to help a dying woman and a boy I recently learned is my son is not going to harm our marriage.”
“You are so willing to do whatever that woman asks.” Her voice shook, wobbled. “Will you do something for me? Just one thing. If you do that, I’ll come with you.”
There was a trick buried in there somewhere, or a land mine. One false step and kaboom. “So, you’re saying if I agree to whatever this one thing is, you’ll come with me and be okay with it? No more arguing?” If he asked a few questions, he might be able to narrow the possibilities and figure out the hidden agenda.
“I wasn’t arguing; I was answering your questions. And yes, if you do it, I’ll come along quietly.”
Come along quietly? She made it sound like a jail sentence. “Will I mind doing whatever this one thing is?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I would hope not.”
Humph. That could mean anything. “Okay, let’s get this over with so we can move on. What do I have to do so you’ll come with me?” He expected an answer, but he did not expect the commentary that went with it, and that’s what would stay with him long after he had his answer.
“If you love me and value our relationship, you’ll do anything to protect us from potential threats. Right now, we’re facing a potential threat with the woman who claims she had your son. The only way we’re going to know for sure if she’s telling the truth or trying to scam us is with a DNA test.” She paused, sucked in a breath and said, “That’s what I want, Cash. A DNA test.”
8
Pop believed in God, angels walking the earth, and miracles, in that order. He swore they could be found every single day and all a person had to do was open his eyes and his heart for the opportunity. Every. Single. Day. He could say this because he’d witnessed it too many times to think otherwise and because he personally knew an angel or two, even had a favorite. Her name was Lily Desantro. Pop smiled at the angel in question and dang if she didn’t light up brighter than a sunrise.
“I’m ready to start measuring,” she said. “When’s the lady coming?”
He’d bet Tula Rae hadn’t been called a lady in a lot of years, and he bet she wasn’t one bit offended. The woman was a tough bird, maybe tougher than he was, with a stubborn streak the length of Route 66. “She ought to be here soon. Now she doesn’t know about pizzelle making and we’re going to dazzle her, aren’t we?” Pop grinned when Lily’s blue eyes sparkled.
“Yes, we are!” She lifted her measuring cup, clicked it against the wooden spoon in Pop’s hand. “We’re going to show her that pizzelles rule!”
But the second Tula Rae walked through the door, braid swinging, tie-dyed exercise suit and sneakers making her look like a fireworks display, Pop knew Lily was a goner. She started with I like your braid, how cool are those sneakers, and even Pop, you should get a T-shirt like this one. And the kicker, Can I get one like that? Talk about forgetting the mission. The blabber continued with Tula Rae taking it all in and Lily so busy studying the woman that she almost forgot to add the vanilla to the pizzelle mixture.
Twenty-three minutes later, Pop handed Tula Rae a warm pizzelle. “Now, take a try of that, fresh out of the iron, and tell me it’s not one of the best things you ever tasted.” Pop nodded, watched as Tula Rae bit into the warm, crispy pizzelle.
Lily leaned forward, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Waiting. “Do you like it, Ms. Rae?”
Three more bites and a tilt of her head. “Name’s Tula Rae. Call me Ms. Rae one more time and I’ll think you’re talking about my mother who would be over one hundred years old if she were still walking this earth.” She lifted a brow. “You sayin’ I’m over a hundred?”
Giggle, giggle. “No, Ms. Rae.” Lily clamped a hand over her mouth, stared at the woman, eased her hand to the side. “I mean Tula Rae.”
“That’s right, darlin’, now you’re making sense. And I sure do fancy these Italian cookies, but I’d like them a mite sweeter.” She tossed a glance at Pop. “How about some powdered sugar? Never can have enough of that.”
Powdered sugar? On his pizzelles? Before he had time to tell her all the reasons the pizzelle was sweet enough, Lily ran to the baking cupboard and removed the silver shaker filled with powdered sugar that he used for French toast—not pizzelles. Never pizzelles.
“Here you go.” Lily handed Tula Rae the silver shaker. “Mmm. That looks good,” she said. “I think I’ll try one like that.”
Traitor.
Pop slid a glance at Tula Rae, caught her eye, and shrugged. Lily Desantro knew what she liked and for some reason, she liked the woman with the gray braid and Southern accent who dressed like fireworks and had a fondness for pizzelles sprinkled with powdered sugar. Why would you want to ruin the dang thing with powdered sugar? And it wasn’t like the woman used a quick shake from the container. Nope. She covered the dang thing like it was snow in a snow globe. At least she’d forgotten the Tabasco sauce she’d threatened him with the other day. Tabasco pizzelles? Good Lord. Pop sighed, went about the business of stacking the cooled pizzelles and found comfort knowing Tula Rae wouldn’t be a permanent fixture in Magdalena. Let Lily ooh and aah over the woman, giggle when she heard the Southern drawl. Didn’t matter; the woman wasn’t staying, and when she packed up and drove out of town, Pop would still be here, sharing grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with Lily, trying to beat her at checkers, and using pizzelles as the winning pot. And there would be no powdered sugar on any of them, even if he had to hide the dang shaker.
When Lily went to check on the garden and see if she could spot any green beans or cherry tomatoes ready for picking, Tula Rae turned to him and said, “What’s the story on this Casherdon boy and his Baby Mama? Sounds awful suspicious to me.”
“What do you mean?” What did she know and how did she know it?
Tula Rae gave him one of those don’t-try-to-fool-me looks that said she had a whole lot more smarts than he did—and a big supply of common sense. “Why is it that a woman he hasn’t seen in almost ten years pops up in this small town and gives him the blast about a son and then drops in the ‘and I’m dying’ just in case the first didn’t stir enough emotion?” She thrust her bony hands on her hips, pitched her chin in the air, and tapped a foot. Lots of agitation flowing through that wiry body and he was dang glad he wasn’t at the center of it.
Pop scratched his head, considered the possibility that the boy might belong to Cash but that the woman wasn’t dying. “You think she’s not dying?”
“I think there’s a lot of forgiveness in tragedy, kinda like a new bride trying to make an apple pie. The crust could be too tough or too gooey, the apples half raw, the mixture too sweet or too tart. It could all be a mess and nobody’s going to say a word because the young lady’s a bride and she’s giving i
t her best for her man.” Tula Rae nodded, worked up a small smile. “Give that same lady another try three years from now and the crowd might not be so forgiving. I’m guessing they’ll pick apart that pie and the pie maker faster than you can say à la mode.”
Another head scratch and a squint from Pop, followed by, “So, you’re saying Cash is too caught up in the woman’s illness to take a look at why she approached him in the first place?”
“Indeed I am.”
“How do you know about this situation? Did you meet the woman and the boy? Or Cash?”
“I seen the woman and the boy, and Tula Rae has a keen ear. Plus, Mimi gave me a bit of background on it.”
This mess must be causing real turmoil for Mimi if she confided in someone other than Pop, seeing as Mimi was usually close-mouthed about such things. Maybe she’d needed to get another set of ears and eyes on the woman and the boy, and who better than another guest? Pop couldn’t say he disagreed. Cash and Tess needed help, and Pop couldn’t do it alone. While he hadn’t seen Tula Rae in years, her reputation as a hard-nosed woman capable of ferreting out the truth faster than a pig sniffing for truffles said she was the best choice. If she agreed. “So, what are we going to do about it?”
“We?” The woman looked around the room, crossed her arms over her round middle. “You got a friend hiding in your pocket, because I don’t see no other person in this room and I sure as heck know you’d never ask me for help.”
The woman was the most cantankerous creature he’d ever met. “The boy’s in trouble, Tula Rae. His marriage is shaky right now and he might be on the verge of a major hoodwink. I don’t want to go this on my own. It’s too big and the suspect might be too crafty for one person.” He rubbed his jaw, held her gaze. “Will you help?”
“So, you need my help.”
The dang woman didn’t even say it like a question, but spit it out like a statement full of hot air and too much self-importance. “Call it what you will. Don’t matter to me.” That was not exactly true, but he’d be danged if he’d let her see his annoyance. “So, do you want to help or not? Just say yes or no, but say it now.”
Tula Rae gave him a smile so wide it pulled line after line of wrinkles from her cheeks like a cracking glacier. “I’d be happy to help, Angelo. All you had to do was ask.”
Asking was the hard part, especially when the “askee” was a person full of her own ideas of right and not right, most of which did not coincide with his. Still, this wasn’t about him or Tula Rae; it was about finding the truth and protecting a couple’s marriage. “How about we put aside our differences and the past this one time and find out more about Stephanie Richmond? I’m game if you are.” It hurt his lips to smile, but he did it.
Tula Rae plopped on a kitchen chair, fiddled with the long braid that reminded him of a horse’s tail he once saw at a county fair. “We need a person to go deep and investigate the woman.” She eyeballed him with a look that said everybody needed a good investigator now and again and there was no shame admitting it. “You got anybody we can use?”
“Hmm.” Pop rubbed his jaw, pondered the question. “Never had need for one of those seeing as most of the people I consorted with were trustworthy, straight shooters.” Implying she hadn’t kept the same type company.
“Keep those snippy words coming and you’ll be figuring this out alone, old man.”
He clamped his mouth shut and said a quick Hail Mary for strength. Lucy would not like his petty behavior. In fact, she’d be downright disappointed and wouldn’t mind telling him either. One more Hail Mary, a deep breath, and Pop blew out an apology. “Sorry. I’ll do my best to keep my comments on a leash from now on.”
“You do that.” She grabbed another pizzelle, bit into it.
“I do know of an investigator, somebody I’d say is mighty thorough and bent on exposing the truth. Never had use for him myself and never met him personally, but he almost destroyed a lot of lives in this town with his snooping around.” Pop thought of Gloria Blacksworth’s notebook tucked away in his nightstand beside the liniment and rosary beads. “And the heck of it was, the man infiltrated this town and nobody suspected he was anything other than some medical supply salesman passing through every now and again.”
Tula Rae nodded, a slow smile inching across her face. “Those are the best kinds. You think you can get in touch with him, find out what this Stephanie woman’s been up to these past several years?” She held his gaze with that beady stare. “We’ll make up a list of questions, including health history. If the woman’s been sick and if she’s dying, you can bet there’s a trail. But if she’s not, you can bet there’s a trail in that direction, too.”
“This could get messy and ugly.”
“Oh, indeed. Human nature can be messier and uglier than a garbage truck on pickup day.” When Pop wrinkled his nose, she laughed, lifted a bony shoulder. “You don’t agree?”
Pop couldn’t help himself. He did agree and that pulled a smile from him. “You hit it head on, but that is one nasty image.”
“Yup. Sure is.” She slapped her knees, sat up straight. “How about you get me a pen and paper and we’ll get a plan going? What’s the name of this investigator and how soon can you get him on the case?”
The answer to her first question was easy. “Name’s Lester Conroy.” It was the second that would take a bit of time, a conversation with Nate and Christine Desantro, and permission to contact the man whose picture taking almost destroyed their marriage. “I don’t have a phone number or an address, but don’t you worry.” He pictured Nate going head to head with Lester Conroy and giving him a piece of his mind. “I got a contact who’ll know how to get in touch with the man.” He scratched his jaw, nodded. “This is gonna get real interesting.”
NOBODY COULD DENY a request from Pop Benito, but this latest one almost made Nate do it. “Look, Pop, I know you’re trying to help Cash and Tess, but Lester Conroy isn’t the only investigator around. Christine can do a search on the computer and come up with a list for you before lunchtime.”
“Don’t count on it, Nate. Those reviews don’t mean nothing to us because we don’t know those people.” He scratched his head, squinted like he could see the truth right in front of him. “But we do know the people this Lester Conroy investigated because you’re one of them.”
Nate cursed under his breath. “Don’t remind me.” He’d never known the name of the investigator who gave Gloria Blacksworth her information, but Pop said it was all laid out in the notebook with the man’s name and phone number, and all Nate and Christine had to do was call. But it was a lot more involved than a simple phone call and Pop knew it. Hell, what about the sick-in-the-gut feeling and the ache in the chest at the reminder of Natalie Servetti’s fake seduction photos? What were the chances Lester Conroy had been the photographer? Nate clenched a fist, sucked in a breath, and turned to Pop. “How do you think I’d be able to keep my cool in front of the man who almost ruined my marriage?” He didn’t wait for Pop to answer because this was not a question that required one. “I’ll tell you. I wouldn’t. I’d want to rip him apart, and I’d want to take my time about it.”
Pop didn’t seem surprised or disturbed by Nate’s comments or the accompanying visual. In fact, he smiled. “I’d expect no less from a man like you, Nate. Loyal to the end, stands by your word, and don’t have no patience for lies and tricks. But this man could help us seeing as he knows how to fight dirty.” He held up a bony hand when Nate started to object. “Just hold on a minute and let me finish. I know the pain Gloria brought to you and Christine, from the time she hired on this Conroy fella until she came up with the half-baked idea of seduction.” He chuckled, shook his head. “As if you’d look at another woman. That’s one thing about men like you: when you find the right woman, nothing and nobody can turn your head. Same with Ben Reed and Gina, Roman Ventori and Angie…Grant Richot and Maggie.” He tapped a finger against his chin, added, “Pretty sure Bree’s new man is a keeper, too.”
>
Nate had to agree. Any man who could get Bree Kinkaid to sit through a two-hour movie without interrupting every five seconds had his vote. He’d never have believed the woman could sit still and be quiet so long if he hadn’t witnessed it last Saturday at Ben Reed’s birthday celebration. “Cash calls Adam Brandon Bree’s personal tranquilizer.”
Pop grinned. “Sure enough that’s a good description and a true one, too.”
“What about Cash and Tess?” Not that Nate wanted to poke around in Pop’s categorization of relationships that were “going to make it” but the man had a knack for foreshadowing and the Casherdons were the reason Pop had called Harry for a ride to Nate and Christine’s.
“Their story is a real romance.” His eyes misted, his voice turned rough. “So full of hope, love, and tragedy. Seems there’s always one thing or another that stops them from finding their happily-ever-after. JJ’s death, Tess not being able to get pregnant, and now a woman who claims Cash is the father of her child.” His words suffocated the quiet in the room, bounced off the walls, and settled in Nate’s brain. “But something’s not sitting right this time and we can’t stand by and watch Tess and Cash torn apart again because this time they might not make it out.”
Nate dragged a hand over his face, sighed. “You know what you’re asking me to do, right?” He didn’t wait for Pop to answer, just in case the Godfather of Magdalena had any doubts about the magnitude of his request. “You want me to ask my wife to relive one of the worst times in our lives. She thought I betrayed her and it almost destroyed us. And I don’t want to talk about what it did to me because that’s only going to lead to anger and a rage you can’t imagine.” He picked up one of the pizzelles Pop brought, studied the intricate designs. “I promised Christine I’d work on letting go of grudges.”
“You did, huh?” Nate didn’t miss the old man’s attempt to hide a smile. “How’s it working out for you?”
