“Ooh.” Sidney cringed.
“Three months and two surgeries later, my choice was desk job or new career.” He grinned at Sidney. “Now instead of a precinct that has ten men to every woman, I have a matched set of lovely servants.”
Giulia and Sidney burst into speech at the same moment.
“Frank, you sexist pig!”
“Mr. Driscoll, how can you say that?”
Frank didn’t answer right away, possibly because he was laughing too hard to catch a breath.
“You—you should see—your faces.”
“Sidney, I vote we stage a walkout right now.” Giulia stalked to her desk and took her purse out of the bottom drawer. “Ready? We’ll see how he does without his ‘lovely servants’ for the rest of the day.”
Frank spread-eagled himself across the door. “Insubordination. You’ll regret such willful actions.”
Sidney hovered by her chair, shifting from one foot to the other.
Giulia sat in her chair and crossed her legs. “You might be more imposing if you didn’t try to threaten and laugh at the same time.”
“All right—all right.” Frank took a deep, shaky breath. “But you both looked like something out of a silent movie. Righteous indignation and the rights of women.” He bowed to them. “I throw myself on the magnanimity of my invaluable—and equal in all human senses of the word—assistants.”
“Should we draw upon our innate nobility and relent, Sidney?”
“Um, I guess, um, if you say so, Ms. Falcone.”
“Very well. Frank, you are pardoned. Although a little groveling would have been preferable.”
He straightened, giving his leg one last knead. “You would’ve had to help me up. I did want to retain my last shred of dignity.”
Giulia returned her purse to the drawer. “Where’s a video camera when you really need one?”
Frank stopped in the middle of the room. “Camera. Deliveries. We have to check something. Come in here, Giulia.”
He dug his Pennsylvania atlas out of the bottom file drawer in his office and opened it to Cottonwood. “Blake lives on Fairfield. That’s here. Pamela lives on Hunter’s Court. That’s six miles southwest, if you could travel in a straight line. If I believe Blake,” he pulled a folded sticky note out of his pocket, “he found his box at 5:25, and Pamela’s cook found hers at close to 6:00.” He frowned. “If she drove, she could have used the Turnpike. These times are before the morning rush, which would be perfect for someone not used to a daily commute. That is, if we keep to our idea that one of the exes is making the deliveries.”
“Who else would one of them trust? I can’t picture Isabel taking her sister away from her wedding plans to deliver rotting pomegranates.”
“Or Sandra calling her manicurist for help dressing the Barbie.”
The image made Giulia chuckle. “They must have done it on their own. I’m sure the cars they possess are powerful enough to make it door to door in plenty of time.” She looked at her box. “Wait. What about a delivery service?”
Frank’s head snapped sideways at her. “Yes. No. A delivery service would keep records. She wouldn’t risk it.”
“But Mingmei was sure that a messenger delivered the Barbie doll.” Giulia stopped herself. “Not thinking. She could’ve stolen—I mean surreptitiously borrowed—the clothes from one of the servants. Would someone of their social class stoop to theft?”
“Someone of their social class is slicing snakes and perverting childhood dolls.” He made notes on the collage of Giulia’s enlargements taped to the wall. “Did I tell you that making these copies of the case documents is a good idea? It’s like a tactile flow chart.”
“Thanks. I wanted to see everything together—spreadsheets, notes, Bible verses, everything. It helps me think.”
“Damn, I’m good. Hiring you, I mean.”
“Frank.”
“Giulia, someday I’ll hear you swear—and the six o’clock news will announce that Hell has frozen over.”
Giulia tried to think of something neutral about the Barbie as the house lights blinked to signal the end of intermission for Friday night’s performance. She’d taken the doll home to study it after Frank had compared it with the dolls Blake and Pamela received.
Okay, she shouldn’t lie to herself. She’d taken it home to obsess over.
It festered. Not so much the blatant falsehood of the twisted Bible verse, but the idea that the stalker was trying to handcuff her by distracting her with false accusations. Because that’s what she decided the handcuffs meant: I’m smarter than you, neener, neener.
Not if she had anything to say about it. At its heart this note-and-gift delivery was a childish game of wanting what you couldn’t have. Giulia hadn’t been a teacher for eight years for nothing; she could outwit this mentality. It was only Friday night. She had all weekend to work on it.
The Second Violin’s black T-shirt looked even tighter tonight. He must’ve upped his workout. What if he wasn’t gay? How would he react to her wearing lingerie like...
She nearly missed her cue.
Give it up. You could never wear that kind of wanton underwear. You’re a repressed ex-nun. God didn’t want you. Men won’t want you. Too much baggage. Get used to it. And pay attention before you miss another cue.
_____
The bus let her off at 11:10. People were still strolling arm in arm, enjoying the balmy June night. She could hear a late football game in the park—probably the guys from the dollar store against the mechanics from the corner gas station.
A little tea, some TV, and then bed. News of course, but an easy penance to endure to get to the late-night talk shows. Commercials blared at her when she turned on Channel 11. Back in the kitchen she stared at the Barbie until the kettle whistled. Plain green tea tonight. Nothing with caffeine.
She dunked the tea bag. Plain. Like her. Not like Blake’s women. Not like the perfect plastic woman in front of her.
She’d never be good enough for someone like Blake. Ha. Who cared about a shallow pretty boy anyway? She’d never be good enough for someone like Frank. Decent, hard-working, honest, handsome. She wanted to be good enough for him, and a big part of her didn’t care that he was her boss. But she was rejected goods. Like sniping little Sister Mary Hezekiah said the day she turned in her habits: God was better off without her.
She slammed down the tea, splashing the Barbie. She’d been repressing thoughts about that day for months. But you can only cap a boiling kettle for so long before the lid blows off.
Trapped in this apartment. Trapped in the work-home-cook-sleep rut. Day after day after day. Like today: another Friday night with the TV and a cold bed.
She had to get out. The galley kitchen walls looked like the tiny “cell” she’d had as a Canonical Novice, trapped like a cloistered Poor Clare for a year and a day. She hadn’t known then she wasn’t good enough. She hadn’t known yet that the wedding ring she’d received at Final Vows would be a lie.
A quick snatch to transfer her keys from her purse to her jeans pocket and she was out the door and down the stairs. All the blocked garbage spewed into her head. The old nuns watching every move the Novices made. The backstabbing. The passive-aggressive power plays.
She couldn’t run fast enough. Didn’t matter. She couldn’t get away. It was trapped inside her. It was part of her. Panting, she stopped in the park. Late—near midnight by now. No sounds of football. No happy girl on the arm of her man.
“I hate You!” There. She said it. No one to hear but Him. “Why didn’t You tell me I wasn’t good enough for You?”
She paced around the broken water fountain and up the path. “I wasted ten years on You, and You dumped me like a no-good boyfriend!” Tears dripped off her chin and her swollen nose. “You said You’d be closer than any lover and I believed You. You ruined my life!”
Thank God—ha ha, funny—no one was around to hear her. If she had to break down, at least she embarrassed no one but herself.
>
“Why did I ruin myself for everyone else?” Stop dancing around it. Ask Him. “Why did You dump me?”
A thin, strong hand clamped over her mouth and another grabbed her around the waist. “Shut up.”
The hands dragged her off the path into the barberry bushes. The light from the old-fashioned path lamps barely reached here.
He said in her ear, “Stupid idea, walking alone at night.”
His marijuana-and-garlic breath fogged around her and she gagged. Thought fragments slugged through her brain. What did he... Jesus, help... No one around...
She jerked forward, but he yanked her back. “Think you’re smart, don’t you? Think you’re better than other women.”
He shoved her forward, and she fell to her hands and knees. Thorns from old branches gouged her palms. A shoe kicked her stomach. Her lungs emptied and she dropped onto her back
His hands grabbed her collar and ripped. Her breasts bounced and her bra’s front hooks popped open.
Get him— She clawed his head but his hoodie blocked her nails.
“Bitch.” He slapped her and she tasted blood.
Get him off— She dug her heels into the grass and bucked her hips.
“Begging for it, smart slut?”
He dug his hands into her breasts and pushed his tongue into her mouth. She gagged and bile choked her.
“Shit!” He released her breasts and spat on the grass by her head. Then he grabbed her hair. “I’m gonna hurt you now, bitch. Warriors show no mercy.”
What? Get away! Get him off!
She spat at his face, and he punched the side of her head. Her ears rang and her eyes blurred. He dropped her head to the grass and yanked at her jeans. The zipper ratcheted apart and air brushed her legs.
Now! Get away!
But he planted a foot on her chest and pulled down his shorts. Then he dropped to the ground and pushed his knees into her armpits. She twisted away. He punched her temple. She gasped and he thrust his erect penis down her throat.
She bit.
He screamed and rolled off her, clutching himself.
She scrambled up, snatched her jeans, and ran.
“Bitch!” Distance muffled his high-pitched voice. It was lower a minute ago.
She heard a woman’s giggle, high and on edge, and realized it was hers. Then she was crying and clutching her jeans over her bare breasts and unlocking the front door to her apartment building. She stumbled down the hall, one hand keeping her shirt closed. Her other hand shook so much when she tugged her keys out of her pocket that she dropped them.
“Come on, come on.” Tears blurred her eyes, but she found the keyhole at last and fell into her foyer. On her knees, she slammed and locked the door and huddled on the carpet, sobbing.
“Oh God oh God oh God.”
Eventually a burst of applause from the television distracted her. She stood and stumbled into the bathroom, ripped off the rest of her clothes, and stuffed them into the small trash can. Then she put her face into the sink and puked.
When nothing was left but dry heaves, she groped for the mouthwash and drowned her mouth in cinnamon. She gagged on that, but kept gargling until she emptied the bottle and her mouth blazed like a bonfire.
Shower. Get his touch off you.
You’ll wake up the teacher next door.
Too bad.
She turned the spray on as hot as she could stand and scoured every inch of her skin twice over. She had to pull barberry thorns out of both hands, and the soap kept getting stained with blood.
When she faced the shower head to rinse her face, the spray stung her chest and she looked down. Red crescents from his fingernails circled her breasts. Several dribbled blood.
She sank against the far side of the tub and hunched over herself, sobbing louder than the noise of the spray hitting the shower curtain.
When the water grew too chilly to stay there, she shut it off and wrapped herself in her towel. Shuffling like an old woman, she inched her way to the couch. She pressed herself into the corner and stared at hours of mindless late-night sitcoms without really seeing them.
The conductor tapped his baton on his stand and waited through the applause. “Remember, people, no matinee tomorrow. I’m not a comedian, so I won’t suggest you run through your music anyway.”
Giulia stepped around her music stand to the First Cello’s chair. “See you Monday, Frank.” She dug into her wallet and counted out exact change for the bus ride home. She hadn’t needed bandages for the thorn-pricks, and her hands weren’t injured anywhere near enough to interfere with her flute-playing.
Frank scanned the theater seats as the Saturday night audience exited. “Yeah.” His frown disappeared when he looked at her. “New shirt? Aren’t you hot?”
Giulia glanced at her high-collar, long-sleeved henley. “Not really.”
“Mmm.” Frank tapped his cello case as the usher kicked the doorstop away and the swinging door closed. “Where is she?”
“Have a date?” She’d have to haul to make the 10:12 bus—the crowded one. Safety in numbers.
“With Yvonne and the new pizza joint on Main Street. The one with the unpronounceable name. It’s supposed to have authentic Sicilian pizza—the thick kind.”
“Have you asked an authentic Sicilian? What kind of sauce do they use?”
Good. Her light post-performance conversation sounded almost normal. She had all day tomorrow to get her act together for Monday morning.
“Dunno.” Frank checked his cell phone. “No messages. Where is she?”
“Maybe she’ll call tomorrow. ’Night.” Giulia picked up her flute case.
“Giulia, wait.” Frank put a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched hard enough to knock against a music stand. “Yvonne threatened to stand me up, but I didn’t think she’d really do it. Would you commit a huge breach of professional etiquette and get pizza with me? I want to pick your brain.”
Bad idea. She was still a walking freak-out. “I have to catch the bus.”
“I’ll drive you home. Please? I promise not to mention Barbies or the Bible. Besides, I’m hungry. Are you part Sicilian by any chance? Can you pass judgment on the pizza?”
He’ll wheedle till I cave. I’ve got no reason not to go with him; he won’t come on to me.
She hoped her smile looked genuine. “I’m all Sicilian. Twenty generations of women make me qualified to judge any pizza. Let’s go.”
_____
“Yvonne is hot, you know? But that’s about all she is. She doesn’t read anything in the paper besides the lifestyles section, and she only watches chick flicks.” Frank swallowed a quarter of his beer. “And she gossips.”
Giulia sipped Chianti. “Then stop seeing her.”
“It’s not that easy.”
The waitress set the pizza between them. Frank dug out slices with a miniature spatula and set them on their plates. Without smiling once, Giulia looked the pizza over with one eyebrow raised, measured the height of the crust with finger and thumb, and tasted the sauce. Then she bit through cheese, sausage, and green peppers and chewed. Slowly.
Aglio e Olio—quite an ethnic name choice for a new restaurant—certainly piled on the Old World charm. Empty Chianti bottles on red-and-white checked tablecloths held candles with artistic wax drippings. Waitresses dressed in “authentic” peasant costumes. Sinatra and Dean Martin crooned from ceiling speakers. And, of course, bunches of plastic grapes on dried grapevines hung from a trellised drop ceiling.
Why, of all places Frank wanted to try, did he pick a restaurant with “garlic” in its name? She knew she’d have to deal with garlic again sometime—she loved garlic, always bought it fresh and chopped it herself. But too soon, too soon.
Stop. Focus on not making Frank suspicious. Swallow this pizza and say something clever.
“It’s a presumptuous little offering, but it has merit.” She’d heard that on a wine-tasting show once.
Frank’s worry lines faded, and he laughed. His
first bite took half his slice. “This is great. Don’t be such a pizza snob.” He drank more beer and finished the slice. “See, Yvonne is like a tenth cousin twice removed. When I break up with her, a couple relatives won’t speak to me anymore.” He took another slice. “Maybe that won’t be so bad.”
Story of her life for the last year. “Frank, think of her rather than yourself. Call her tomorrow and then break it off in person. Not over the phone.” More wine. “If I had a buck for every junior and senior who cried on my shoulder because their boyfriends texted their breakup...”
“Yes, Sister. You’re the soul of fairness and decency, Sister.”
“I’m not a nun anymore.” She clipped the words and bit into more pizza. Don’t lose it. She should have caught the bus. She wasn’t fit company for anyone, let alone her boss. And she wasn’t decent anymore. Her mouth hadn’t formed a prayer since he’d stuffed his...
“Giulia.”
Her eyes focused on her white-knuckled hand around her wine glass.
“Want to tell me what’s been bugging you all night?”
“No.”
“I could see it in the orchestra pit. You—”
“Frank, my personal life is my business.”
“Of course it is.”
“Then let’s talk about something else. Where did you find Sidney?”
_____
Frank parked two spaces from her building’s front door.
“Thanks for the ride and the pizza, Frank. See you Monday.”
“Giulia, how long have you lived in this neighborhood? Do they issue a can of mace with your house key?”
“It’s not that bad. We all look out for each other. Besides, it’s affordable.”
“It’s two derelict buildings away from becoming a slum. That punk on the corner’s radiating attitude. Let me walk you to the door.”
Was it Pot-Breath? She had to get out of the car. She had to put a good face on it. If it wasn’t him, was that other guy near the doorway the right height? Could she get down the hall and lock her door before Frank drove away?
Force of Habit: A Falcone & Driscoll Investigation Page 8
