Cozy Christmas Shorts

by Halliday, Gemma

  As I reached into my purse for my Versace sunglasses my phone began to ring. I saw Veronica's name on the display and pressed answer. "Any luck on the limos?"

  "Nothing," she replied. "And I've called every company in the book."

  I slid my sunglasses onto my face. "Based on what I found out at St. Mary's, I'd say the man in black is a private driver."

  She gasped. "He was at the church?"

  "This morning. Nonna went to mass, and one of the priests saw a guy dressed in black pick her up in a limo. I'm sure he brought her there too."

  "Apparently, he also took your nonna to the deli yesterday afternoon. Anthony called your mother a few minutes ago and said that a customer mentioned seeing your nonna at the deli with a man wearing black at around two o'clock."

  When the lunch rush is over, I thought. "Did she get the customer's name?"

  "Larry from the drycleaner's," she replied. "He's waiting for you at the deli. Your mom told Anthony that she would have you go over there to question him."

  "I'm on my way," I said as I started the engine. "Now, why don't you go home? I know your mom could use your help."

  "I've already talked to her, and my whole family agrees that finding your nonna is far more important than our Christmas Eve dinner."

  "Listen," I began, pulling out of the parking lot, "between my dad, Michael, and me, we've got this covered. If I need you, I'll call."

  "Well, all right," she conceded. "But are you sure you're okay?"

  "I feel a lot better now that I know my nonna went to church this morning," I said. "Whatever mess she's gotten herself into, we can handle it."

  "You call me the minute you hear anything, you understand?"

  "I promise. Talk to you soon." I tossed the phone into my bag and hooked a right onto Rice Boulevard.

  As I drove past the eclectic shops, restaurants, and pubs of the Rice Village shopping center, I noticed a lot of people in the vicinity of Amato's Deli, which wasn't all that unusual. Houston had a large Italian-American population but no Little Italy, so a lot of older Italians had been hanging out at my parents' place since they'd opened its doors in 1979. My family had gained credibility with the community after it became known that my father, Joe Amato, had gotten his start in the deli business at New Orleans' Central Grocery, a famous Sicilian-owned establishment and the home of the legendary muffuletta sandwich.

  When I pulled into the parking lot of the charming red brick building, a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. My mother's best friend, Rosalie Artusi, was addressing a crowd of about twenty or so of my parents' regular customers, who were gathered around the two sets of tables on either side of the front door. Now, it was known clear to Galveston that Rosalie dished gossip like old Italian women dished ravioli. And one look at her round, red face and shifty eyes told me that the dish du jour was none other than my nonna.

  I charged from the Taurus like a bull from a pen and stomped up to the entrance, ignoring the curious looks of the customers. When I tried to go inside, Rosalie took an expertly executed sidestep to block the door—and I do mean block. The woman was built like a beer keg, and her tacky Christmas sweater only accentuated her girth. It had an actual fake tree on it complete with tinsel, flashing lights, and glass decorations. It was hideous, but even I had to admit that it was a vast improvement on Glenda's model.

  "Oh, Franki," she began, contorting her face and wringing her hands. "We're all just devastated about your nonna's disappearance." She shot me an inquiring-minds-want-to-know look. "Has there been any news?"

  I gave her a cold stare. "Please step aside, Rosalie. Larry is waiting for me."

  She harrumphed at my slight to her spokesperson status and jutted out her chin. "I can tell you everything he knows."

  I was sure she could. By now she'd worked him over like a crack CIA agent at an interrogation. I reached around her for the doorknob and jabbed my elbow into her side. "I'd rather hear it from the source."

  She gasped and leapt to one side, causing her ornaments, among other things, to jiggle and jingle.

  I slammed the door behind me and turned the lock to the surprise of twenty-something sets of prying eyes.

  Anthony's head jerked up from his phone. "Yo, sis!" he exclaimed in faux New Jerseyese. "I didn't know you was in town."

  Unfazed by his obliviousness, I said, "Um, Mom told you I was coming here to talk to Larry?"

  "Oh, right, right." His head bobbed up and down, but his blowout didn't budge. He opened his muscle-bound arms wide. "But first, c'mere and give your big brothuh a hug."

  While I submitted to his signature squeeze, I smirked at the "Forza, Itala!" in red and green ink on his bicep. Not so much because it was a tattoo, but because the artist had forgotten the second i in "Italia." So, instead of having "Go, Italy!" on his arm, my brother had a tattoo urging some random Italian woman named "Itala" to go for it. "So," I began, wresting myself from his embrace, "which one is Larry?"

  "He's the one in the cornuh," Anthony replied, pointing to a surly looking old man wearing a gray flat cap. "Yo, Larry!" he boomed. "This is my kid sistuh, Franki."

  Larry frowned as he looked up from his prosciutto panino. "I know that," he said in a defensive tone. "I met her at her Sweet Sixteen." He gave me the once-over. "She was a lot thinner back then."

  Anthony doubled over with laughter. "You know them Italian women. They're like pizza dough—they sit and expand."

  I bit my lip to keep from saying something I'd regret. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Plus, I knew from years of experience that older Italian-American men were notoriously direct and that my brother was notoriously dense, and there was nothing I could do to change any of that.

  Forcing myself to be civil, I approached Larry's table. "I don't believe I've ever known your last name."

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Del Bel Belluz."

  No wonder my family called him "Larry from the drycleaner's." "Well, Mr. Del, uh, Larry," I began, taking a seat, "I heard you saw my nonna here yesterday."

  "That's right." He popped a potato chip into his mouth and proceeded to stare blankly at me.

  This was going to be harder than I'd thought. "Could you elaborate?"

  He shrugged his shoulders and opened his arms. "What do you want me to say? She came to the deli."

  I looked away in frustration and caught sight of Rosalie peering in a window and scrutinizing my face. Certain she was trying to read my lips, I turned my back to her. "Well, I heard that you saw her arrive in a limo and that the driver was wearing black. Can you describe his appearance?"

  Larry blinked. "He had black clothes on."

  When it came to detail, this drycleaner was no Father Ryan. "What about my nonna? Did she say or do anything in particular?"

  He wrinkled his mouth. "She took a few twenties from the register."

  Now it was my turn to stare blankly at him. My nonna was fiercely independent. She lived with my parents, but I'd never known her to take money from them. Ever.

  "And that ain't all Nonna took," Anthony chimed in from behind the counter. "She copped a salami too. Right, Larry?"

  "A salami?" I said, shocked.

  Larry nodded. "A whole Genoa salami. Still had the green, white, and red wrapper on."

  Leave it to the old Italian guy to know the salami specifics. "But Nonna would never eat salami from Genoa. She only eats Sicilian brands."

  Anthony smacked himself in the forehead. "True that! Yo, sis, this is whack."

  "Speaking of whack," I said, giving him the Clint Eastwood eye, "where were you when all this happened?"

  He scratched his temple. "Uh, I was in the back. Sweepin'."

  You mean, sleepin', I thought. I rested my chin on my hands and contemplated the significance of the salami. It was one thing for my nonna to take cash. If she were on the run, she'd need money. But deli meat? As hard as I tried, I couldn't come up with a single reason she would take a salami—unless, of course, the mysterious man in black was Italian
.

  Whatever her motivation, I was starting to get the feeling that something was rotten in the state of Texas. And it wasn't the Genoa salami.

  * * *

  I peeled out of the parking lot as Rosalie rounded the corner of the deli with her game face on. It hadn't been easy, but Anthony helped me sneak out the back door to avoid the clamoring customers. As I sped away I was euphoric, like Rocky Balboa running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. My elation faded, however, when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Rosalie giving me a Mike Tyson–style stare down. If there was one thing I was certain of it was that this match wouldn't be over until she delivered the final blow—and probably in the form of a sucker punch.

  Easing the Taurus to a stop at a red light, I pressed the power lock button just in case. I glanced at the time on my phone—four thirty. Then the name Bradley Hartmann appeared on my display.

  As always, my stomach got fluttery when he called. "Hey, babe," I answered, but all I heard was static. "Bradley?"

  "Hey, honey," he said, sounding far away, "any news on your nonna?"

  My stomach went from flutter to free-fall. "I have some leads but nothing conclusive yet," I said, dejected. "Where are you? The connection is terrible."

  "That's ironic because I'm in Houston."

  The flutter was back. "You're what?"

  "I finished up some things at the bank and then flew standby. I didn't want to mention it before because I wasn't sure I'd be able to get a flight out."

  "I can't believe you would do that," I said, and I wasn't just referring to the romantic gesture. Bradley had met my family back in April, and after that grisly experience, I was genuinely surprised that he would want to come back.

  "I want to help you look for your nonna. And besides," he added in a low, sexy tone, "it wouldn't be Christmas without you."

  I started to reply, but my voice caught in my throat. That was the most wonderful thing he'd ever said to me, apart from I love you, of course. I instantly fantasized that we were in a fancy downtown hotel suite curling up on a comfy couch in front of a fire with a glass of brandy. Then reality came crashing down on me like a fully decorated Christmas tree—my nonna was still missing, and even if we found her, my mother would insist that Bradley stayed at the house. "Please tell me my mom doesn't know you're in town."

  "Actually," he began in a sheepish voice, "I called her before I flew out to ask whether it would be all right if I came. I couldn't crash your family Christmas, especially under the circumstances."

  I put my forehead on the steering wheel. There went that hotel suite. Bradley and I would be spending the holidays at my parents' house, curling up on their lumpy old sofa in the humid Houston heat with a glass of iced tea.

  A car horn honked behind me. The light was green.

  I hit the gas. "Do you want me to come pick you up at the airport?"

  "I rented a car so that I could help search. I'm already on my way to your parents' house."

  I sighed. He was so good to me, and thanks to me and my crazy family, he was about to have the worst Christmas ever. My phone buzzed against my cheek, and I looked at the display. "Bradley, my dad is calling. I'll see you at the house."

  "I can't wait," he said softly.

  "Me neither." I smiled and tapped the accept call button on my phone. "Hey, Dad. Have you found out anything new?"

  "Not about your, nonna," he snapped. "But I'm here at the house with your mother, and she just got a call from Rosalie Artusi."

  "Oh yeah?" I feigned nonchalance, but my body tensed in anticipation of that punch.

  "She said you tried to run her down with your mother's car at the deli a few minutes ago—right in front of a crowd of our regular customers."

  Round 2 goes to Rosalie. "You know how she blows things out of proportion, Dad. I would never do anything like that." At least, not unless I thought I could get away with it.

  "Well, you need to watch your driving, young lady," he ordered in a gruff tone. "One of these days, you're going to get yourself killed."

  "I'll be more careful, I promise," I said as I floored the gas pedal to try to make a yellow light. "Anything else?"

  "I'm afraid so. I got a call from VISA a little while ago, and it appears I've been the victim of credit card fraud."

  Could this holiday get anymore hellish? "Oh, Dad. I'm sorry. VISA will decline the charges, right?"

  "Yes, and it's a good thing too. Whoever took the card went on a shopping spree at The Galleria. They racked up four grand at Gucci, Prada, and Tiffany's."

  "Well, at least the thief has good taste," I quipped.

  "This isn't a joke, Franki."

  "I know that. I was just trying to lighten the mood."

  "With your nonna missing?" he barked. "When I think of my poor, helpless mamma hurt or being held against her will—" His voice broke.

  I felt awful for my father, but the truth was that my nonna was anything but helpless. As a teenager during World War II in Sicily, she'd single-handedly chased a team of drunken German soldiers from her village brandishing a prosciutto bone. When it came to his mamma, though, my dad was like all Italian men—he put her on a pedestal, oblivious to her flaws. And, like all Italian mothers, not only did she keep him tied to her apron strings, but in the fine tradition of Sicilian puppetry she also manipulated the man like a marionette. "She's going to be all right, Dad. You know she's a tough lady. And," I added, thinking of that prosciutto bone, "she's very resourceful in a crisis."

  "I hope you're right," he muttered.

  I took a left onto Rice Boulevard. "What are you going to do now?"

  He cleared his throat. "I'm going back by the police station. Your mother thinks I should tell them about my missing credit card."

  "Wait," I said, stunned. "Your credit card is missing? As in, from your wallet?"

  "Yes. Your mother thinks it could be related to your nonna's disappearance."

  I was thinking the very same thing. "Dad, is there any chance that Nonna could have taken it?"

  There was a stony silence on the other end of the line. "Do you really think she would take her own son's credit card and treat herself to a luxury shopping spree?"

  When he put it that way, it did sound improbable. But then again, it was Christmastime. And my nonna did have a strictly Made-in-Italy or Made-in-the-USA purchase policy, which fit those credit card charges to a T. "I'm not accusing her of—"

  "Hang on a minute," he interrupted. "VISA's calling again."

  While I waited, my mind was working a mile a minute. It was one thing for a thief to steal your credit card information—it was quite another to steal your credit card. Whoever took my dad's VISA must have done so at the deli or at the house, because all he did was work and sleep. And when he was at the deli, he kept his wallet in his back pocket. That left the house, which meant my nonna or a burglar had stolen the card. So, either my nonna's sweetheart swindler had snuck into the house and stolen the VISA while my father was there, or she'd taken it from her unsuspecting son. I was banking on the latter.

  "Franki?" he asked, returning to the line.

  "I'm still here. Is everything okay?"

  "The card was used again before the fraud department could put a hold on the damn thing," he grumbled. "This time at The Westwood Hotel."

  "The thief charged a hotel room?" I knew criminals did stupid things, but renting a room at an upscale hotel with a stolen credit card was ludicrous.

  "It looks that way. I'm going to call the police and then head over to The Westwood. With any luck, we'll catch this SOB at the hotel. In the meantime, pray that your nonna is with him."

  I considered telling my father that he might be siccing the cops on his own mother, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. He wouldn't believe me, for one thing. And, for another, I figured the old woman had it coming to her for all the hell she'd put my family and me through—and I didn't just mean her disappearance. "That sounds like a good idea, Dad."

  I ended t
he call and pulled a U-turn in the middle of the street. Bradley would have to wait. I was less than fifteen minutes from The Westwood, so I could get there before the police or my father. On the off chance my nonna really was in some kind of danger, I wanted to be there to help her. And if she wasn't, well, then I had to stop her from assaulting a team of officers with a salami.

  * * *

  I hurried over to the middle-aged male clerk at The Westwood registration desk. "Can you please tell me the room number for my grandmother?" I rasped, short of breath from the thirty-foot jog. "Her last name is 'Montalbano.'"

  He lifted his brows in a haughty stare. "This isn't some cheap motel," he replied, ogling my Hook 'em Horns sweatshirt with disdain. "We don't give out that information."

  I slid my private investigator card across the counter, and in a Dirty Harry-like voice I said, "She's been reported missing to the authorities, and she's slightly deranged. So you'd be wise to believe me when I say that you don't want her—or me, for that matter—in your fine establishment."

  A muscle twitched in his jaw as he studied my face, and then he typed her name into his computer. After scrutinizing the screen, he looked down his nose at me. "We don't have anyone listed under that name."

  I leaned over the counter and narrowed my eyes for emphasis. "Try 'Amato.'"

  "Oh. Her." He grimaced. "Room 222."

  I forced a smile. "You've been very helpful."

  As I entered a waiting elevator, I pushed the button for the second floor and fired off a group text to my father, Michael, and Veronica informing them that my nonna was safe and that I'd have her home soon. Now that I knew she'd checked into the hotel using her married name to match my Dad's credit card information, I was certain she'd orchestrated this whole stunt. What I didn't know was why.

  When the elevator doors opened, I marched down the hall to her room. "The jig is up, Nonna," I shouted, not bothering to knock. "Let me in."

  She opened the door immediately, as though she'd been standing on the other side waiting for me to arrive. "What means-a this-a 'jig?'"