This woman was really starting to annoy me. If she was going to check out my fiancé, did she have to be so blatantly obvious about it?
Pepe came hurrying in from the back room with another china plate that held a piece of red velvet cake with white frosting. He placed it in front of Alexandra and bowed again. She stared down at the cake and then at Pepe with a look of annoyance.
"I don't want this kind."
Pepe bit into his lower lip. He must have wanted to smack her across the face—how could he not? Instead, he smiled politely. "But signora, this is the cake that you ordered."
She thrust a finger at the untouched raspberry torte on my plate. "I want to sample that kind."
Pepe looked pained. "Please, signora, I do not have any more of the raspberry torte ready for you right now."
The poor man. If this had happened in my shop, Josie would have thrown Alexandra out on her butt by now. I picked up my plate and offered it to Alexandra. "I didn't touch this piece. I don't have much of an appetite today, so please feel free."
She looked at me like I had offered her arsenic. Then to my surprise she grabbed the plate out of my hands. "I hope you didn't breathe on it."
My patience had worn thin with this woman. "What exactly is your problem? I was only trying to be nice."
Alexandra took a bite from the cake and glowered at me. "I don't do nice, so suck it up, cupcake." She closed her eyes and made a moaning sound. "Oh, yes. This is the one I want."
There must have been steam coming out of my ears. People like her with their arrogant and condescending attitude sickened me to no end. Alexandra gave new meaning to the term bridezilla, and I pitied her fiancé.
A man in a white jacket who I assumed was the pastry chef stuck his head out of the double doors. "Pepe, I need to have a word with you."
Pepe looked from me to Alexandra nervously. "Ladies, please excuse me." He bowed and hurried away, leaving me alone with her royal bitchiness.
Alexandra devoured the rest of the piece within seconds. She brought her napkin to her face and dabbed at her lips daintily. When she stared out the window at Mike again, I could have sworn I saw a bit of drool trickle out the side of her mouth.
"My word," she said in a low, breathless tone. "How did someone like you wind up with someone like him?"
Heat rose in my face. "Excuse me?"
"Sorry, honey," Alexandra purred. "You're okay, but that man is so hot that I'm melting just watching him." As if to illustrate the point, she rose from her seat and walked in front of my table, blocking my view of Mike as she stared unabashedly out the window at him, hands on her hips.
Alexandra waved a hand in front of her face. "If I wasn't engaged myself, I'd go outside and wrap my—"
She never finished the sentence. A loud popping noise filled the air, and the front window shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. The shock caused me to jerk back in my chair which then toppled to the floor, forcing me to smack my head painfully against the tiles. I uttered a groan and had a brief glimpse of Alexandra crashing into a nearby table.
Terrified screams filled the air as I lay there too stunned to move. I tried to make sense of what had occurred, but my brain was a mass of jumbled confusion. When I attempted to scream, no sound came out. What had just happened? Had someone thrown an object at the window?
The sound of the bakery bells jingled merrily as the door slammed open into the wall with a deafening sound. In seconds Mike was by my side, his face white as powdered sugar as he stared down at me. He sank to the floor and pulled me into his arms. I tried to sit up, but he threw his body over mine.
"Don't move. Stay down, Sal!"
Pepe was screaming in Italian, and a woman was crying—probably the young lady who had been working behind the display case. I couldn't see her from where I lay, so there was no way to tell for sure.
"Call 9-1-1!" a man's deep voice yelled—maybe the pastry chef?
Mike ran his hands over the sides of my face. "Are you all right, baby?"
"Wh-what was it?" I asked, my entire body trembling.
"Someone shot at the shop. Stay down," he ordered.
I turned my head toward the wall, still in shock, and that was when I saw her. Alexandra was lying on her side underneath an upended table, the lower part of her body hidden from my view. Her dark hair had chards of glass embedded in it. The effect was alluring and mesmerizing as the sun settled on the pieces, making it seem as if she was wearing a veil of sorts. A bridal veil. Her icy blue eyes were wide open and stared vacantly into space.
Then I spotted it—the perfect round hole in the middle of her forehead. Blood was seeping down the side of Alexandra's face. She was pale—lifeless, in fact.
I glanced down at my arms and saw blood. There was no pain, so I was unsure where it was coming from. I whimpered aloud and clung tightly to Mike who whispered reassurances in my ear. Despite the blackness that was closing in around me, I forced myself to turn and stare at her one last time—the silent face of a bride who would never see her wedding day.
CHAPTER THREE
DeAngelo's Bakery resided on a multiuse street in a quiet neighborhood on the outskirts of Colwestern. An upscale apartment building was situated across the street and a private school located on the next with some charming homes surrounding it. I'd always enjoyed passing through this area to view the elegant homes and glorious changes in scenery during the four seasons of the year.
Mike and I leaned against the brick side of the building and watched the bedlam in front of us play out. The street was lined with police vehicles, EMT trucks, and even a television van parked next to the medical examiner's vehicle. Curious neighbors and onlookers were being held back from the crime scene tape by a policeman who told them "there's nothing here to see." Spectators gathered across the street in front of the apartment building, and a few even hung out of the windows, pointing and gawking at the scene below.
Alexandra's body was still inside the bakery. The medical examiner and police were with her, including one cop in particular that Mike and I knew fairly well.
"Unbelievable," Mike said in a low voice as he watched the perky blonde television reporter chatting amiably with Pepe, almost as if she were hosting a game show. Pepe was talking half in Italian and part in broken English, visibly upset. His hands whirled around in the air frantically as he stopped every few seconds to wipe tears from his face with a handkerchief while gesturing at the shop.
"How do they find out about this stuff so fast?" Mike wanted to know.
I didn't have a reply. An EMT had cleaned my arm, which had a cut from the flying broken glass. I'd been examined but refused additional aid when they suggested going to the hospital to get checked out. I hated hospitals, and fortunately Mike hadn't insisted I go. He held me closely around the waist, and neither of us said much, still startled by what had happened. I'd had brushes with death before but never in this manner.
The technician said it was a miracle that I had not sustained any serious injuries and gave me a blanket to wrap myself in. Despite the warm day, I was chilled and suspected it might be from some degree of shock. Police had already taken our statements, but we had not been told we could leave yet.
Mike crushed me tightly against him. "You don't look well, baby. I'm going to get you out of here as soon as I can."
Up until that moment, I had been proud that I'd managed to maintain a calm demeanor, shock or no shock. However, when I looked into those beautiful midnight blue eyes of his that gazed at me with such concern and love, the tears started to gather in my own. That was when the realization hit me.
"You were outside walking past the window when the shot came," I whispered into his shoulder. "What if they'd—I mean, what if you had gotten—oh God…"
Mike said nothing as he kissed the top of my head. When I looked up at his face again, I noticed that his eyes had clouded over as well. He gave me a small smile, blinked, and then I officially lost it. So much for my cool exterior. Tears rolled down m
y cheeks, and I started to shake from head to toe.
"We're okay, baby," he spoke softly into my hair. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay? Not ever."
"Sally and Mike, can I speak to you for a minute?"
At the sound of the familiar voice, Mike tensed against me. Officer Brian Jenkins stood there, nodding cordially at the both of us. He was a cop in Colwestern that I'd first met when I'd returned home from Florida after my divorce about a year ago. We'd become fast friends, and he'd made it perfectly clear that he had wanted to be something else as well. It hadn't taken me long to realize that I would never stop loving Mike, so Brian had never really stood a chance. He'd recently started dating an old high school acquaintance of mine which made me both relieved and happy for them.
Like Mike, Brian was easy on the eyes but a complete opposite of my fiancé as far as looks went. While Mike was dark haired and possessed a rugged, tanned face, Brian was fair, with thick, dirty-blond hair, an aristocratic-looking nose, and a Greek godlike profile.
Mike was aware of Brian's former interest in me, and I knew how difficult it was for him to maintain civility. When we'd first dated in high school, Mike had been very insecure and insanely jealous of any man I'd talked to back then. This had helped contribute to our breakup. He'd come a long way since then, and while Mike and Brian would never be friends, they at least treated each other with courtesy and a certain amount of respect these days.
"Jenkins," Mike greeted him. "Have you guys found out anything yet?"
"We're working on it." Brian was wearing his cop expression—similar to that of a poker face—totally unreadable. His eyes were serious as he glanced at me. "Are you okay, Sally?"
I nodded, and Mike's arm tightened around me. "Was this a random shooting, Brian? Do you think someone was targeting her?"
Brian gave a palms-up. "No way to know yet. The Walston family is very prominent in the area and all of New York State. The victim's father, Arthur Walston, owns some major commercial businesses. We did manage to notify her parents, who were in New York City for the day. They're on their way back of course. They in turn were going to reach her fiancé."
I was at a loss for words. I couldn't imagine how horrible it must have felt to receive a call that your child had been murdered.
Brian ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Did you talk to her at all? Was she acting nervous, like maybe someone was following her?"
I shook my head. "Not that I noticed. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but she didn't strike me as a very nice person."
"She basically told the owner that if he didn't wait on her within the next couple of minutes, she was canceling her order," Mike put in. "It seemed like she enjoyed watching him grovel at her feet. If she treated everyone like that then she must have made at least a few enemies during her lifetime."
"We'll be questioning her parents and her fiancé," Brian said. "Right now we're trying to determine where the rifle shot came from."
"How do you know it was a rifle?" I asked, trying to erase the vision of Alexandra's lifeless face from my mind.
"The coroner's office confirmed it as soon as they saw her," Brian explained. "The bullet exited her head on impact. There were also pieces of bone and brain spattered on the wall."
I put a hand to my mouth, afraid I might be sick. I had noticed blood and other substances on the wall but didn't realize what they were—up until now.
Mike glared at Brian. "You don't need to get into all the gory details. I think Sal's been through enough today."
Brian's face flushed. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't pleasant, and it had to be terrifying for you. Was she sitting next to you when it happened?"
Mike took a step forward. "We've already been questioned by one of your fellow officers."
I laid a hand on Mike's arm. "It's all right. She crossed in front of me at the very last second and was looking out the window." My voice quivered. "If she hadn't—it would have been me that got—"
Mike blew out a long ragged breath. "I don't want to think about that anymore. Jenkins, are we done here?"
Brian's bright green eyes with gold flecks continued to search my face for a moment, but he said nothing. I knew him well enough to surmise that he was forming his own theory about the shooting. What it was though, I had no idea.
"Jenkins?" Mike repeated, more impatient this time. "I want to take Sal home."
Brian blinked. "Uh, sure. Yeah, go home and try to forget about this mess."
Like that was even possible.
"I need to go back to the bakery and relieve Gianna," I told Mike.
He shook his head. "You're in no shape to go back to work. I want you to rest, and if you're feeling up to it, we'll still go to your parents for dinner tonight. Your mother wants to talk to you about last-minute wedding plans, and I think it would be a good distraction from all of this."
Brian nodded his approval. "I forgot your wedding is next week. Mike's right. You need to think about more pleasant things. If we have further questions, we know where to find you."
Mike snorted. "Yeah, you're good at that."
Brian ignored the remark and gave me a reassuring smile. "I'm glad you're okay, Sally. You've had an uncanny amount of brushes with death lately. You must have an angel watching over you."
As he said the well-meaning words, there was something in his face that made me nervous. He hadn't spoken in a lovelorn manner—it felt more as if he was keeping something from me instead. A small chill ran down my spine, and I tried to shake it off, telling myself I was letting my imagination run away with me again.
* * *
"It must be karma," my father announced. "Out of all days for this to happen. It's a sign of things to come."
I glanced at my father, who was seated at the head of the cherrywood dining room table. The entire family was gathered around it for one of Grandma Rosa's sumptuous dinners—my mother, father, Grandma Rosa, Gianna and Johnny, Mike and me. We all waited expectantly—or perhaps with dread—for my father to continue.
"Here it comes," Gianna mumbled as she refilled her wine glass.
Domenic Muccio was unique in many respects. He was an old-school Italian and thirteen years my mother's senior. Since his retirement a couple of years back, he'd kept himself busy with a variety of different projects. He was obsessed with death in any shape or form. He'd gone from planning his own funeral to driving a hearse and currently was planning to become a mortician. He even had a casket set up in the living room, claiming that it helped with his studying process.
My mother, sitting to his left, giggled as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Have you ever met a smarter man in your life?"
Gianna rolled her eyes while Johnny put his head down and grinned. He'd been raised by Mrs. Gavelli ever since his mother, Sophia, Mrs. G's only daughter, had died from a drug overdose when he was five. Growing up next door to my family, Johnny was used to our original brand of wackiness.
Gianna and Johnny were still in the early stages of dating, but it was obvious how crazy he was about her. I adored Johnny, even though he had been a wicked little boy who once upon a time had enjoyed luring me into his darkened garage to play doctor. I'd always suspected he had a crush on my sister and was thrilled to see them so happy together.
Mike continued eating as if he hadn't even heard my father. I sighed and spoke up since I knew my father was waiting for someone to answer him. "What do you mean, Dad?"
My father sprinkled Parmesan cheese on his rigatoni. "Don't get me wrong, bella donna. What happened today was a horrible tragedy for that young woman and her family."
My mother made the sign of the cross on her chest. "Rest her soul." She was a devout Catholic who at the age of fifty-three, had recently landed a modeling contract for a magazine. Much to my and Gianna's chagrin, she was going to be an underwear model. She had a perfect size-four figure, long lithe legs, shoulder-length dark hair, a tiny nose, and teeth she whitened religiously.
It was a sad
state of affairs when your mother looked better than you did most days. Despite her giggling school-girlish attitude and the embarrassing way she and my father carried on in public, I loved her dearly but wished fervently that she'd be wearing more clothes in front of the world.
"It's so tragic that she was going to be married the same day as you and Mike," my mother put in.
My father shoveled pasta into his mouth and then chewed thoughtfully as he stared at me. "I hope you don't mind if I use this as a new topic for my blog."
Gianna groaned, and Johnny held a napkin in front of his mouth, but I could still see him laughing behind it.
I stared at my father in disbelief. "You have a blog?"
He puffed out his chest. "Doesn't everybody? Yep. I set it up yesterday, and the first post goes online tonight. The blog is called Slow Down—You're Killing Me. It's my original take on life and death."
Mike snorted back a laugh while Johnny doubled over at the table and let out a howl, as if he was in pain.
Gianna nudged her boyfriend in the side. "I don't think this is funny."
"Sorry, sweetheart," he managed to say with a straight face. "I really do enjoy mealtimes with your family."
I looked across the table at my sister. "I think you're worrying for nothing. What's the harm? It's not like anyone's actually going to read it."
My mother gasped. "Sal, that's kind of harsh."
I finished off my glass of water. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Dad. But there are a million blogs out there." Plus my father typed with one finger, so it would take him a year to write a post. The thought that people would take the time to read his odd ramblings on life and death was almost comical. "What makes you think they'd read yours?"
"You're breaking my heart here," my father moaned. "It's going to be a huge success. I'd bet my life on it!"
"Stupido," Grandma Rosa grunted as she pointed at the china tureen which held my favorite dish, braciole. Braciole was tender, thin slices of beef pan fried with a filling of herbs and cheese then dipped into her rich tomato sauce. She stared at me with disapproval. "Cara mia, you have not eaten anything."
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