Cannoli to Die For

by Peg Cochran

  Lucille quickly got out of the tub and was about to grab a towel when Frankie opened the door.

  He stood open-mouthed for several seconds staring at her.

  “What?” Lucille said finally.

  “You . . . you . . .” Frank stuttered.

  Lucille looked down at herself. She’d forgotten all about the Brazilian wax job.

  Frank let out his breath in a rush. “Holy smokes, Lucille, you look hot!”

  • • •

  When Lucille woke up the next morning, Frank was already in the shower. She stretched luxuriously and rolled over onto Frankie’s side of the bed. She buried her face in his pillow and breathed in his scent.

  She felt as giddy as a young honeymooner, and she hummed as she slipped into her robe and went down to the kitchen to make coffee.

  Lucille was cracking some eggs into a bowl when Frank came up in back of her. He smelled of soap and hair tonic, and Lucille inhaled deeply. He put his arms around her waist.

  “Oh, baby, last night . . .” He nibbled on the back of her neck, and Lucille dropped the egg she was holding as memories of the previous evening came flooding back. She felt heat rushing into her face.

  “I wish I hadn’t said I’d go bowling with Ralph. But I’ll try to get back early, okay? And then we can . . .” Frank whispered in Lucille’s ear as he continued to nibble the side of her neck.

  “But what about Ma?”

  “She’s practically stone deaf—don’t worry about her.”

  Lucille poured the eggs into the waiting pan on the stove and scrambled them with more vigor than usual.

  Frankie was running late and ate his breakfast in record time. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair where he’d left it the previous evening, and instead of kissing the air somewhere in the vicinity of Lucille’s cheek, grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to him and kissed her thoroughly.

  With Frankie out of the house, it would give her time to do a bit of housework—run the sweeper, a bit of dusting and maybe throw a load or two of laundry into the washer.

  She was sorting through the clothes in the laundry basket when the telephone rang.

  It was Janice. She sounded breathless.

  “Lucille, I really, really hate to ask you this, but could you do me another favor?”

  “What is it?” Lucille said, eyeing the sweeper parked in the hallway.

  “You did such a wonderful job at the open house . . .”

  Lucille knew Janice was saying that to butter her up—she wasn’t dumb—but she did feel a glow of pride nonetheless. She had done a good job at the open house.

  “One of the couples that came through yesterday was most impressed with the house. And with you,” Janice added hastily. “They want to see it again in an hour. I’m up to my eyeballs in paperwork—I have a closing tomorrow on that house on Essex Road, the big one with the swimming pool out back. And I was wondering . . .” Janice paused coyly. “I was wondering if you could possibly show Felicity’s house to this couple again.”

  Lucille sighed. It was Sunday. A day of rest, it said in the Bible. And later, there would be Sunday dinner to cook and all those dishes. She was tired just thinking about it. But her career had to come first if she had any hope of getting ahead.

  “Sure, sure, no problem. I’ll be glad to help out.”

  All the articles Lucille had read in Redbook magazine said you needed to be ready and available when needed.

  She hung up with Janice and ran into the bathroom. The hot bath she’d had last night had left her hair limp and shapeless, but she’d have to wait until tomorrow to see if Rita could fit her in for a set.

  Lucille washed her face, dabbed on some powder and lipstick and back-combed her hair to give it a little lift—you always wanted a little lift around the face when you got older—and went to stand in front of her closet.

  He wardrobe hadn’t gotten any bigger overnight. She pulled out a pair of black slacks that were a bit shiny in the seat, but with a black over blouse, no one would see, and the blouse would hide her stomach, which seemed to get bigger with every passing year. Sheesh, she could remember back when she was young and pregnant with Bernadette—she hadn’t been this big until her fifth or sixth month.

  Lucille pulled on her clothes and went to stand in front of the mirror. The black made her look sophisticated—like a city person. She frowned. Or like a cat burglar. Either way, she didn’t have no choice. She had to get going.

  • • •

  Lucille plugged her Little Richard recording of “Lucille” into the tape deck and backed out of the driveway. There was a crispness to the air and the leaves were turning brilliant colors. Mr. Dorfman down the street was raking his leaves into the gutter, where they would be picked up by the leaf loader that the town swept the streets with once a week.

  Lucille felt her spirits rising—it was a beautiful day, she had a good start on a new career and she and Frankie . . . she felt herself blushing. The only thing that made her sad was the fight between Frankie and Tony and Bernadette. She didn’t want to think about Sunday dinner with hardly no one at the table except her and Frankie, Father Brennan, Ma, Flo, Richie, Angela, Loretto, Gabe and Cousin Millie. And the ghost of cousin Louis.

  Someone had raked the lawn and leaves were piled in the gutter in front of Felicity’s house when Lucille got there. There was a planter outside the door with a bright yellow mum in it. Lucille picked off a couple of dead blossoms before opening the lockbox and going inside.

  The house was pristine as usual. Lucille thought about the sweeping and dusting she’d meant to do—she’d have to get to it later. She knew career women didn’t always have the cleanest houses so she was going to have to get used to it.

  Lucille checked out the kitchen. It looked like Felicity had already polished the sink and everything else was in perfect order—there was even a vase of fall leaves and flowers in the middle of the table. Lucille flicked on some lights so the kitchen would show to the best advantage.

  She thought she heard footsteps on the path outside and paused, listening, but it must have been the wind. She glanced at her watch—she still had time to check the other rooms.

  She was about to leave the kitchen when she noticed a small white bakery box sitting out on the counter. It wasn’t from a bakery she’d ever heard of—The French Oven. She wondered what was in it because there weren’t any calories in looking, was there? She lifted the lid and inhaled as the scents of yeast, butter and sugar rose from the box. But when she looked inside, it was already empty.

  Probably for the best, Lucille thought—just the scent was tempting her to go by the A&P on her way home and pick up a little something.

  Lucille walked into the dining room, where the table was polished to a high shine without a speck of dust visible. Lucille thought of her own table—more often than not it was piled with the day’s mail and a week’s worth of newspapers. She cleaned it off every Sunday for dinner, but it never seemed to stay that way.

  She peeked into the living room. The cushions on the sofa were perfectly plumped except the one on the end, where it looked like someone had been sitting and had put a dent in it. Lucille went over and gave it a good shake until it was as fat and round as the others. Odd that Felicity had missed that. That woman didn’t seem to miss nothing. Lucille didn’t know how she did it.

  She glanced around the rest of the room. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly in the silence. The buyers should be here in five minutes—she might as well go into the kitchen and sit down.

  Lucille was turning around when she noticed that the upholstered green velvet swivel chair in the corner was facing away from the room. She tut-tutted under her breath. That wasn’t right. She was surprised Felicity had missed that, too. Good thing there was still time to fix it.

  She put her hand on the back and turned the chair around to face the room.

  For a moment Lucille stood still, her hand over her mouth stifling the scream t
hat eventually escaped and echoed around the room.

  Chapter 15

  Jack “Jack the Ripper” Garibaldi was slumped in the armchair, his throat slit and a cannoli stuffed in his mouth.

  Lucille didn’t have one of them cell phones so she ran to the kitchen to use the one in there. She heard herself whimpering as she dialed 911 with shaking fingers, but she couldn’t stop it. The dispatcher promised to send a patrol car around as quickly as possible.

  Lucille pulled out a kitchen chair and sank into it. The room was kind of swirling around, going in and out of focus. Maybe she was going to faint? She’d never fainted before. She remembered reading somewhere you were supposed to put your head between your knees, and she figured she’d better try it.

  That was a little better. Lucille felt the blood rush into her head as she stared at the floor. There was a spot on the floor—looks like Felicity didn’t mop too well. It was a black smudge slashed with what looked like tread marks. Maybe somebody had a pair of those shoes with the rubber soles. Lucille had tried them once but they kept sticking to the floor, stopping her abruptly and pitching her forward.

  She was about to grab a paper towel and clean up the smudge when she wondered if maybe it was a clue.

  Before she had time to think about it anymore, there was the wail of a siren outside the house. Lucille jumped up and ran to the front door. A squad car was in the driveway and an unmarked car was pulling up in back of it.

  Lucille stood at the door and watched as two policemen emerged from the patrol car and Sambucco got out of the unmarked one.

  “If it isn’t Typhoid Mary,” Sambucco said as he approached the front door of Felicity’s house.

  “What do you mean?” Lucille said, stiffening her back. “I don’t have no disease—I’ve had all them vaccinations. And so did Bernadette. Right on schedule—just like the doctor ordered.”

  Sambucco chomped down on the toothpick in his mouth. “Want to show me where the body is?”

  “He’s in the living room,” Lucille said as she led the way. “And before you ask, I didn’t touch nothing.”

  “You’re getting to be an expert at this.”

  Lucille shot Sambucco a dirty look. “I watch them shows on TV. Me and Frankie like Law and Order.”

  “A little different finding a body in real life, isn’t it?” Sambucco said as he surveyed the scene.

  He walked closer to the armchair and squatted down to examine the body.

  “Do we know who he is?”

  “Yeah. That’s Jack Garibaldi. It’s his wife who was murdered at the church the other day.”

  Sambucco leaned closer to the body. “It looks like our killer used the same MO as the other murder. His throat’s been slit with a jagged object. They must have kept that . . . what did you call it?”

  “A melon baller.”

  “Yeah, that.”

  Sambucco straightened up and looked around the living room. “Do you know who owns this place?”

  “Her name is Felicity Schmidt. She and her husband are getting divorced so they’re selling.”

  “She have a grudge against this guy and his wife?”

  What Felicity’s neighbor had told Lucille went through Lucille’s mind. She figured it was what they called hearsay on them TV shows so it wasn’t worth telling Richie about it. If it was something important, he would find out himself. That’s what being a detective meant, after all—going around prying secrets out of people.

  Sambucco gestured toward Jack’s corpse. “What’s with the cannoli, I wonder?”

  “Maybe it has something to do with that weight-loss program they was running? Dotty started it but her husband, Jack”—Lucille motioned toward Jack’s inert form—“took over when she died.”

  “Hmmmm, could be. An unhappy customer, perhaps?”

  Lucille figured everyone at Weigh to Lose was unhappy. Eating was what made you happy—being on a diet only made you crabby and miserable.

  “Are you a friend of this Felicity?” Sambucco said.

  “Not really. I mean, we know each other from Weigh to Lose, but I’d never met her before that. I’m only here to show her house to this couple who might want to buy it.”

  “I never figured you for the career-girl type.”

  “I’m only filling in for Janice Karpinsky—she’s the real estate agent from Dingledyne, Mingledorff, Hoogerwerf and Rumble. I got a job there answering the phone but Janice asked me to do her a favor and show Felicity’s house on account of she had another appointment.”

  “It still doesn’t seem likely that the owner would commit murder here, in their own home, but you never know. Usually the simplest answer is the right one.” Sambucco pulled the toothpick from his mouth and stuck it in his pocket. “It could have been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.” He circled the chair studying Jack’s body again. “Or maybe there was an argument. A fight broke out and . . .” He drew a finger across his neck.

  Lucille suddenly felt like she was going to be sick. Sambucco looked at her in alarm.

  “You’re not going to puke on me, are you?”

  Lucille shook her head and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “Look, there’s nothing more you can tell me so why don’t you go on home,” Sambucco said, putting a hand on Lucille’s shoulder and turning her toward the door.

  “What about that couple that was supposed to come look at the house?”

  “Don’t worry about them. I have some patrolmen outside who will send them on their way.”

  Lucille wasn’t about to argue. She grabbed her purse and headed for the foyer.

  The two patrolmen were busy stringing up crime scene tape across the door. One of them held it up so Lucille could duck underneath.

  She scurried to the Olds as the wind swirled dry leaves around her ankles. She glanced up at the sky. It looked like rain.

  Felicity’s driveway was wide enough for two cars, and Lucille was grateful that the police hadn’t parked in back of her Olds. Now that she was out of the house, shock was setting in, making her teeth chatter. She got in the car, turned up the heater and backed out of the driveway.

  She couldn’t wait to get home.

  • • •

  “I’m sorry, Flo,” Lucille said, twirling the phone cord around her finger.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table with her feet propped up. She’d made herself a cup of tea and had helped herself to a sliver of coffee cake. She needed something to steady her nerves. She had to put the water on the stove to boil for the pasta for their Sunday dinner.

  “What are you sorry about, Lucille?”

  “With Jack dead, I’m afraid it looks like maybe your cousin Joe really did kill Dotty.”

  “Why would he kill Jack though?”

  Lucille hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”

  Lucille poked at her piece of coffee cake, extracted a pecan chip and popped it into her mouth.

  “What if Jack gave Joe some bad investment advice like he gave Felicity? Felicity and her husband—I guess he’ll be her ex-husband soon—lost a ton of dough on account of Jack.”

  “Did Jack and Joe even know each other?”

  Lucille licked her finger and picked some crumbs off her plate. “It makes sense they would, don’t it? I mean, Joe worked with Dotty and Dotty was married to Jack.” Lucille took a sip of her coffee. “Joe loses money on this investment Jack told him about. So he borrows money from some bad guys and now he needs to pay it back. With Dotty out of the way, he can move in on that big commission on that house that was being sold. And then, seeing as he’s still mad at Jack, he decides to kill Jack, too.”

  “You could be right, Lucille.”

  “Maybe he didn’t even plan to kill Jack. Maybe they had a fight like, and things got out of control. Richie thought maybe there’d been a fight.”

  “It makes more sense than Felicity killing either of them. She doesn’t look capable of swatting a fly, let alone wielding
the business end of a melon baller.” Flo sighed. “But enough about this murder. Let’s talk about my bachelorette party. I’m going to have a margarita fountain and a chair massage station. I want my guests to be nice and relaxed so we can really party. Do you think it would be too much if I hired a couple of male strippers?”

  Chapter 16

  Another Sunday. Lucille shuffled around the kitchen in her bedroom slippers. For the first time her heart wasn’t into preparing dinner for her family. She couldn’t imagine everyone sitting down to eat without Bernadette, Tony and Lucy. It would be one thing if Tony had taken a job far away—like California—but they lived less than five minutes away. They should be there.

  If Frankie wasn’t so stubborn . . . the glow Lucille had been feeling was quickly wearing off. She’d tried talking to Frankie again, but he wouldn’t listen.

  She blew a lock of hair off her forehead and stirred the meat sauce simmering on the stove.

  Lucille’s mother wandered into the room. She was wearing black slacks and a black-and-gold sweater shot through with metallic threads, and her hair was done.

  Lucille looked down at her worn pants and her sweatshirt with the bleach spot on the elbow. Maybe she should make more of an effort herself.

  “You look nice, Ma.”

  “Thank you.” Theresa preened. “I miss living in that retirement community. We gals used to dress for dinner every night. It was like being on one of them cruises.” She frowned. “It’s too bad you got me thrown out, Lucille.”

  Lucille opened her mouth then snapped it shut again. There was no point in arguing with her mother—there never had been. Her father, may he rest in peace, used to turn his hearing aid off and walk away when they got into one of their arguments.

  Lucille peered into the pot again. The sauce was spitting a little—she’d have to wash the stove later. She turned down the heat and grabbed the salt and pepper shakers out of the cabinet.