Most, but not all. The town had supported at least two thriving speakeasies. The current Town Hall had been a four-story hotel back then, with a secret saloon and gambling den on the top floor. The building that now housed the Historical Society had been a boardinghouse and brothel, with an illegal watering hole located in the basement. Both buildings had been owned by Hannigan, whose family had donated them to the town after his death. According to less-than-reliable local lore, there was an old tunnel connecting the two buildings, to store and transport booze and as an escape route during raids. I’d heard it was in danger of collapsing and that the entrances had long ago been sealed.
Far from being embarrassed by her notorious relative, Nina basked in her connection to the town’s shadier past. She was rumrunner aristocracy, as it were. Several years ago she’d turned the Historical Society’s basement speakeasy into a Prohibition museum, displaying such charming period pieces as a battered still, antique whiskey bottles and beer taps, a tommy gun, and framed newspaper articles about Hokum Hannigan—a blowhard with a fondness for spewing pretentious BS, hence the nickname. The display was set against the background of the original crudely painted wall murals and scarred mahogany bar. I had to wonder how many of the “historical artifacts” had been lugged out of her parents’ attic.
“I was so sorry to hear about Irene.” She patted my hand and gave Patrick a sympathetic shake of her elegantly coiffed head. “First Colette, now her.”
Nina was always impeccably dressed, even to run errands around town. Today it was a pink cashmere sweater set and pinstriped slacks. Her glossy black hair was cut in a stylish shoulder-length bob with bangs, and her makeup defined understated elegance. She was at least my age but looked a good five years younger. Nina Hannigan Wallace always made me feel like I should be living under a bridge, eating billy goats.
“Well, I gotta get back to work.” Patrick rose and offered Nina his chair. “Can Cheyenne get you something, Nina?”
“I just came in to pick up some almond flour, but you know, maybe I’ll have a cup of veggie chili—it’s so raw out.” She parked her trim butt as Patrick joined his daughter behind the counter. I watched Cheyenne ladle chili into a small stoneware bowl on a saucer.
“I need the almond flour for gluten-free cookies I’m making for the poker tournament tomorrow,” Nina said. “What is it about gluten nowadays? It seems like half the players are claiming allergies. Anyway, Maia Armstrong is taking care of everything else,” she added, naming a popular local caterer. “You know, I so used to enjoy baking for the Poker Posse.”
She shook her head again, and I wondered whether she grieved more for the regular Thursday-evening game or its dead hostess. Certainly there was no love lost between Nina and Irene after last week’s gladiatorial election for president of the Historical Society, and it was no secret that Nina and Colette had been bosom pals. Privately I’d wondered how long it would take Irene to find an excuse to revoke Nina’s membership in the Posse.
“I saw in Irene’s obit that her memorial mass will be held at the end of the month,” she said. “The thirtieth.”
“She wanted to be cremated,” I said, and wondered whether that process had already been completed. In truth, I didn’t want to know precisely when it would happen. As many cremated remains as I’d handled in my career, still it was hard to think of that lively, crabby, autocratic woman being reduced to ash. “So there’s no need for a speedy funeral.” I tipped my cup to suck down the last of the smoothie.
“At least she died doing something she loved,” she said. “Watching Jaws, of all things. I for one can’t see the appeal, but if it gave her some comfort at the end...”
I lowered my cup. Feeling a frown trying to form, I sandblasted my expression with a deep, calming breath. “Where did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“About Jaws.” No one knew that except me and Jonah, and I couldn’t see him going back on his promise not to spread it around.
Nina drummed her nails on the table. Her hands always appeared freshly manicured, the nails invariably painted a tasteful sheer beige-pink. “I don’t remember who told me.” She placed a hand on my arm, deftly redirecting the conversation. “I know you’re the one who found her, Jane.” Her tone oozed sincerity. Or something. “That must have been terrible for you.”
I murmured something appropriate.
“I hope Irene didn’t suffer too much,” she said. “That kind of death can be quite painful, from what I understand. And the poor woman was all alone. Well, except for that ugly little dog— Ah!” Nina leapt out of her seat with a yelp of pain.
Cheyenne’s hand had slipped as she’d set down the cup of steaming veggie chili, and half of it had landed on Nina. I pulled a wad of napkins out of the dispenser and glared up at the careless girl, prepared to see her usual sulky puss. What I saw brought me up short.
Never before had I witnessed such raw, soul-crushing misery. The girl trembled, eyes brimming, features contorted by an anguish too overwhelming to hold in. I sat paralyzed for a long moment, transfixed by the unexpected sight. My cell phone chose that moment to ring.
Nina frantically wiped her sweater and pants. “Get me some water at least!” she barked at the girl, without so much as glancing at her.
Patrick was nowhere in sight. I stood and touched Cheyenne’s shoulder. “Honey, what’s wrong—”
My hand might have been a cattle prod, the way she jerked from it. She turned and bolted for the door to the back rooms, overturning a chair and knocking down a display of rice crackers.
“This is just great.” Nina tossed the soiled napkins onto the table. She stood with arms wide. “Where did that girl go? Is she bringing water?”
“I don’t think so.” I glanced at my ringing phone. Sten again. I dumped it. “The ladies’ room is over there.” I pointed.
“She did it on purpose,” Nina hissed.
I didn’t agree. The accident looked like just that to me, a result of Cheyenne’s inexplicable emotional turmoil, perhaps, but in no way a deliberate act. I said nothing, not wanting to get Nina even more riled. She stomped into the john as Patrick emerged from the back. Noticing the spilled chili, he grabbed a towel and joined me at the table.
“What happened?” He lifted the dishes and started wiping up the mess. “Cheyenne ran out to the car and took off. She was bawling like a baby. Wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure.” I picked up the scattered boxes of rice crackers and restacked them. “Nina and I were talking about Irene. That seemed to be what triggered it.”
Patrick pondered this. “Could be it made her think of her grandma. She didn’t seem all that broken up at first, but at the funeral yesterday, that’s when it hit her. Maybe I shoulda let Cheyenne stay home today, but I thought it’d be good for her to get back to her regular routine.” He sighed and returned to the counter.
Could it be that simple? A delayed reaction to Colette’s death? If so, it was the most dramatic emotional turnaround I’d ever witnessed, and in my business I’d witnessed a few. I’d seen Cheyenne at her grandmother’s wake. If she was suppressing her grief, she did an outstanding job. To go from that to her current crippling despair… Something about it didn’t ring true. I saw no reason to share my observation with Patrick.
A pedestrian on the sidewalk held the door for a young mother pushing a twin stroller the size of my Civic. Okay, my Civic had a bigger trunk. One of the toddlers snoozed peacefully while the other bucked against his restraining straps and screamed for carrot juice. Carrot juice, I kid you not. Had this poor kid even tasted Coca-Cola? I thought they both looked burly enough to stroll into the store under their own steam, and maybe laugh at the No Smoking sign and light up a couple of stogies, but nobody asked me. Hey, wouldn’t you ride around in a souped-up rickshaw all day if some poor schmuck was willing to do the grunt work?
I recognized the good Samaritan who’d held the door for her. I should, I was ma
rried to him for seven months a million years ago.
7
Got Serial Monogamy?
DOM WALTZED INTO the store like he owned the place. That’s a joke.
Patrick greeted him and began juicing carrots for the screamer. Dom’s expressive features softened when he saw me, and I got the same stupid, giddy thrill I’d experienced in his presence since I was thirteen and he was the new boy in Mr. Bender’s eighth-grade Spanish class. Buenas tardes, Dominic Faso, usted es muy guapo. Before that first class bell rang, my overstimulated young mind was rolling around the words Jane and Faso, just to see how they sounded together.
In truth, Dom was never classically guapo, then or now. His strong, pleasant features got an aesthetic boost from the fact that his natural facial expression was a smile. And not just any smile, but a smile that made you feel as if you were the center of his universe—at least at that particular moment. His bottomless brown eyes were the same dark shade as his thick, curly hair. And he had height in his favor, being a quarter inch shy of six two. Today he wore jeans and a white dress shirt, open at the throat, under a casual sport coat.
He hugged me. “How are you doing, Janey? Better?”
The last time I’d spoken to him had been the night Irene died. I was tempted to say no, no better, just to prolong the hug. Instead I nodded and stepped back. I glanced at Patrick and led Dom to the table I’d recently vacated. We sat.
I lowered my voice. “How long has Patrick O’Rourke worked here?”
“I hired him six months ago. He’s doing a great job.”
“Since when do you personally choose store managers? I thought your human resources department took care of that.”
“Well… this one was a favor for a friend,” he said.
“You’re such a soft touch, Faso.” I gave him a crooked smile. “Who’s the friend?”
“I’d rather not say. It was kind of hush-hush.”
“What, you can’t even tell me?” Colette was the only person I could think of who’d make such a request, and to my knowledge, she and Dom hadn’t kept in touch after that fateful poker game nine years earlier.
I could see the mental debate being waged behind those expressive dark eyes. “Well, what could it hurt now?” he said. “Irene’s gone.”
I blinked. “You don’t mean that Irene asked you to hire Patrick? Why on earth would she do that?”
“Mine is not to wonder why…”
“But it makes no sense,” I said. “That would be like doing a favor for Colette, and Irene would have moved heaven and earth to avoid doing a favor for Colette. Did you ask Irene why she wanted you to take him on?”
“The man needed a job,” the nice guy across from me said. “He’s had a lot of bad breaks.”
“No, I know that. But why Colette’s son? A lot of people have had bad breaks. What made her choose him?”
“That, I can’t tell you.”
Clearly Dom did not share my ferocious curiosity about the matter. “And I see Patrick hired his daughter,” I said.
“Yeah, where is Cheyenne?” He craned his neck to look around the store. “I thought she was working today.”
“I think she’s doing something in back,” I said, unwilling to rat out the kid to her boss. I didn’t think Dom would fire her, but her departure in the middle of her shift would be a mark against her, and this job seemed to be a key component in Patrick’s plan to keep his daughter out of trouble. “She seems to know what’s what,” I added. “She made me a really yummy smoothie.”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Dom’s signature grin was out in full force. “Jane Delaney willingly consumed a beverage with zero caffeine, artificial coloring, or high-fructose corn syrup?” He grabbed my wrist and pretended to check my pulse. I made a Ha ha, very funny face but didn’t pull my hand away.
“I ordered the same flavor you were bringing Irene,” I said. “Papaya-ginger.”
He looked bemused. “What would Irene do with a smoothie? I could see her rubbing it on her face as a night cream, but drink one?” He pretended to consider the matter. “Maybe if it had enough vodka in it.”
“No, really, Maria said you were bringing them to her.”
He touched his chest. “She said I was bringing them?”
“Well…” I thought back to my conversation with Irene’s housekeeper. “She said something like, ‘He’s always bringing her those orange drinks.’ I guess I assumed it was you.”
“Wasn’t me.” His grin widened. “She must’ve had a secret admirer with exceptional taste in smoothies.”
Nina exited the ladies’ room, wearing a murderous glower and an elegant ensemble that was now wet as well as stained. She made a beeline for the counter, obviously intending to give Patrick an earful, but changed course for the exit when she saw him juggling several customers who’d just arrived. I was grateful Dom had his back to her. If she’d noticed him, I have no doubt she would have demanded he fire Cheyenne. She left without the almond flour she’d come in for. The players at tomorrow’s tournament would have to live without homemade gluten-free cookies.
“So what brings you in here today?” Dom asked me. “Dare I hope we’re winning you over to the dark side? Today a papaya smoothie, tomorrow a tofu scramble wrap.”
“Stop, you’re going to make me upchuck.” In fact, the mental image his words conjured put me in mind of something that had already gone up the down staircase. “I had to talk with Patrick about something.” I leaned in close. “Why didn’t you ever tell me about that poker game where Colette won the mermaid brooch from Irene?”
Dom’s dark eyebrows rose. “You know, I hadn’t thought about that thing in years, then I go to Colette’s wake on Tuesday—for old times’ sake, the Poker Posse and all that—and what do you think she’s wearing. The mermaid pin!”
“Yeah,” I said glumly, “I know.”
“I didn’t see you there.”
“I, uh, stopped by for a few minutes on Wednesday. Answer the question, Dom.”
“How did you find out Colette won it?” he asked. “Irene made us take blood oaths.”
An image of Irene slicing the palms of her Posse pals flitted through my mind. Dom’s words were hyperbole, but a part of me wouldn’t put it past her.
“Never mind how I found out,” I said. “I can’t believe you’d keep a juicy tidbit like that from me. You know you can trust me to keep my mouth shut.”
I suspected he was only half joking when he said, “I was scared of that woman. We all were. She says don’t any of you blab…” He shrugged.
I shook my head in disbelief. Irene McAuliffe had been a little old lady living in the suburbs. To hear big, strong guys like Dom and Jonah talk about her, you’d think she was in the cement-overshoes business.
“Who’s watching Sexy Beast?” he asked.
“At the moment, my folks.”
“I stopped by their place last week,” he said. “Brought them an Easter gift basket.”
“I saw.” The thing was gigantic, more like an Easter gift bathtub. What kind of man kept in touch with his ex-wife’s parents, for decades and with no grandkids in the picture, bringing them birthday and holiday gifts, sitting and chatting for hours, fixing the occasional leaky faucet? Oh, and? Inviting them to all his subsequent weddings.
Only the Nicest Guy in the World, that’s who. A guy whose deep sense of family connection didn’t evaporate with the end of a marriage. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he did the same for Svetlana’s and Meryl’s parents. Where did he find the time? But I knew where. Dominic Faso does not rest. He doesn’t believe in it.
“So now that Irene is gone,” he said, “you can finally get that dog groomed.”
I groaned. “SB’s not ready for that. It’s too soon since he lost his mommy.”
“It’s unhealthy, Janey. It’s bad for his skin, for starters. What does the vet say?”
That it’s unhealthy and bad for his skin, for starters. “Nothing.”
His smi
le twisted. It’s so inconvenient that he can read my mind. He pulled out his phone, a state-of-the-art smart phone like Cheyenne’s—I should think about getting myself one of those, perhaps when I win the lottery—and tapped the screen a few times. He turned it toward me.
It was a photograph, a side view of a dog. And not just any dog, but a big, tall standard poodle, a majestic-looking beast with a shiny, even coat of curly hair that was disconcertingly close to my own reddish blond. The ears were long and sleek, the snout neatly trimmed, the undocked tail long and feathery. This was the Nina Wallace of dogs. Or it would be if it were a bitch. Clearly this was a boy poodle. Which made me realize I’d never even glimpsed SB’s little winky beneath all that matted undergrowth.
“This is Frederick.” Dom handed me the phone. “He belongs to Bonnie.”
Well, that was just perfect. Dom’s fiancée owned a poodle that was the polar opposite of my poodle. I mean Irene’s poodle. Oh hell, I didn’t even know whose poodle SB was now. Frederick’s imperious top-dog stance said, Sniff my princely butt, mongrel hordes. Your alpha has arrived.
“Very nice.” I tried to hand back the phone. He made me hold it and watch while he scrolled through shot after shot of Frederick.
He paused at a picture of a little girl hugging the dog. “Frederick chased off a pack of feral dogs that tried to attack Bonnie’s niece. He saved her life.”
Of course he did.
“Oh, and here’s Frederick at the agility trials.” Dom glowed with pride. “He came in first place.”
I hated Frederick. When the next photo appeared, I brought the phone closer to my face. “Is that a pheasant in his mouth?”
“Frederick is a champion retriever. You should see him take off after game.”
Dominic Faso was the only person I knew who was both a committed vegetarian and an unapologetic hunter. He donated the meat to soup kitchens, natch.
Undertaking Irene Page 9
