by Неизвестный
“You remember that home invasion in the West End last week? They didn’t release the family name at the time. According to the story, the daughter was in Acapulco with her boyfriend when it happened.”
“What a thing! She must be devastated. What was her name again?”
“Angelina,” I said.
“She had an older brother, right?”
“Apparently he was one of the victims. Mother, father and brother. Police haven't released all the details, but it sounds like it was particularly brutal.”
“Murder always is,” Aunt Rachel said. “And to lose everyone... the poor girl.”
“Yes.”
***
That night I dreamed I was alone in the store. I rang the bell for service, but no one came. I had a shopping basket full of chocolate bars and Twinkies.
I rang the bell again, frustrated. Looking for the owner, I wandered to the back where they kept the milk. I spied the door on the right, the one that led to the storage area behind the tall coolers.
Suddenly I was tiny, even smaller than I am in real life. I had to reach up for the door handle. I turned it, but no one was in the storage room. The family lived in an apartment above the store, so I went to the door on the left, opened it and called upstairs, hoping to rouse someone.
Still no one came.
In a hurry to leave that disturbing place, I pulled out a twenty and set it on the counter, under the bell. I reached across the counter for a plastic bag, intending to fill it with my purchases.
But when I looked in the basket, there were no chocolate bars, no Twinkies.
Instead, staring up at me, was a head.
My own.
I woke, unable to shake a sense of horror. My inaction years earlier had obviously planted seeds of guilt.
It was too late to help the child Angelina. Whatever she may or may not have suffered back then, those days were gone.
So was her immediate family.
Still, I felt an urge to seek her out. To help the adult, if there was any way I could.
As a private investigator, maybe I could call on my rather tenuous contacts to gather the details the police were holding back.
What good was it having friends on the force if a girl couldn’t get the ‘inside scoop’ once in a while?
It was probably that kind of reasoning that made me so popular with Toronto’s finest.
Hell, why stop being objectionable now? I had a reputation to protect.
Detective Darryl Francis answered on the first ring. He sounded tired.
“Got time for lunch today?” I said.
“Maybe. What’s it about?”
“I’m hurt, Darryl. Can’t I just buy a cop a donut now and then without having my motives scrutinized?”
He didn’t laugh. Not everyone gets my sense of humour.
“I’m kind of busy today, Penelope. Is it important?”
“It’s about the Salvaggi case.”
“Oh.”
***
We met at the Courtyard Restaurant in Yorkville. Darryl is fond of Schnitzel and I like the owners, even though it’s usually too much to eat and they bring soft drinks in cans.
I usually get three meals for my money.
“What’s your interest in the case?” he asked.
“I used to know the family. Not well. I grew up in their neighbourhood. They owned the corner store.”
“Have you heard from them lately?”
“Not for years. But I’d like to help the daughter, if I can. She was a nice girl.”
He chewed on that for a minute.
Finally he said, “So you’re not on tab?”
“No. Just a citizen, hoping to help a former neighbour.”
“In that case, I think you should stay out of it.”
That caught me off guard, and I looked at him, with noodles dripping red sauce down my chin.
“Seriously, Penelope. If you’re not already in it, mind your own business.”
I thought again about that little girl. I remembered the way she avoided looking at me, the way she trembled as she hurried out of the store.
I hadn’t helped her then.
“I think she needs my help,” I said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because of what you’re not saying. I get the feeling she’s a suspect.”
He looked at the door, a classic “getaway” shifting of the eyes, and I knew I was right. Even though Angelina had supposedly been in Mexico when her family had been murdered, she was being considered a suspect.
While I sucked back noodles, a case was being built against her.
“But she was in Acapulco,” I said.
“Penelope, let it go. I can’t talk about this anymore.”
I knew better than to press him. He hadn’t told me anything, hadn’t shared any of the details I’d hoped to gather, and yet he’d told me the thing I most needed to know.
Angelina Salvaggi needed my help. Again.
***
The family phone number was listed, but rang without being answered. I guessed it would be too hard for her to stay there, after everything that had happened. More likely she was staying with her boyfriend, Kevin McNeil, but there were too many McNeils listed in the City Directory.
The paper said Angelina worked at an optometrist’s office on St. Clair. I narrowed it down to three with easy streetcar access, and found her working reception at the first one, within walking distance of the store on Wayburn.
She greeted me immediately, with only a hint of a smile.
At twenty-four, Angelina was now much taller than I was. In fact, she could have been a model, with her height, lean angles and general poise. High cheekbones and large dark eyes decorated a classic Roman face.
Still, there was a softness about her, despite her slender features.
“Are you Angelina Salvaggi?” I asked.
She looked alarmed, and for a moment I thought she might run away.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“We used to be neighbours,” I said.
“Then you knew my family.”
“I did. I’m so sorry to hear about your tragedy.”
“Thank you.”
When she looked away, I realized she took me for a curiosity-seeker, so I thought I’d better pretend to buy some glasses. In fact, my eyesight is perfect.
“I need some good quality sunglasses. Can you recommend a brand?”
“Your face is small,” she said without looking at me.
“Yes. I don’t like when the frames are too wide.”
“I think I might have something for you.”
She went into the back. I thought again about that storage area in the corner store, the one behind the coolers. I had to fight the urge to follow her.
She returned a few minutes later with a Chanel frame, perfectly suited to my face. The kind of thing I’d never wear. Too expensive. Far too tasteful for me.
“It’s perfect,” I said. I looked at the price – $450. Kept a straight face.
“It comes with the case,” she said.
“Good.” For a moment there, I thought I might not be getting much of a bargain. But hey, it came with the case.
“Is that all you need?”
“Yes.” I pulled out my Visa, hoping and not hoping it would clear.
It did.
“Have a good day,” she said.
“Angelina, take my card. I’m a private investigator. If you need anything, give me a call. No charge. I’d like to help a neighbour.”
She looked startled. I instantly regretted my boldness. However, as my Aunt Rachel would point out, it’s part of me, for better or worse.
In any event, she allowed me to press the card into her open hand.
I think she said ‘Thank you’, but it was hard to be sure. She was already turning away, and her voice tripped on a sob.
***
Some good deeds are totally selfless. Others, less so.
I’m
afraid this one was largely about how it made me feel, and not so much about what I could or couldn’t do to help Angelina Salvaggi.
I didn’t hear from her for weeks, but during that time I had the sense of a wrong being righted. As if at least one black mark had been removed from my personal ledger of deeds.
By the time she called, I hardly thought about her anymore. My conscience felt absolved, and therefore cleared.
So it was a surprise to hear her voice on the other end of the line.
“Is this Miss Canon?”
“Please, call me Penelope.”
I waited. It’s a trick I learned awhile back. Don’t prompt the caller. Let her tell you the reason for the call.
The seconds seemed to stretch, but finally she said, “I need your help.”
We met at a Panzerotti place on St. Clair, near where she worked.
She told me the story leading up to her trip to Mexico. Her parents had been against it. They were a Catholic family with strong ties to the neighbourhood Church. They felt Angelina would hurt her reputation by going off with her boyfriend.
“Our last words were angry,” she said. “I felt they never let me have any fun. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. I loved them, you know.”
Guilt. Something I could relate to. If possible, I felt even more sympathetic to Angelina knowing she had regrets of her own to live with.
“We all say and do things we’re sorry for. No one would think you didn’t love them, just because you had an argument. The timing is unfortunate, but….”
“The police think I arranged it all.”
The words were dispatched without inflection, emotionless. Even her voice sounded disconnected, like the electronic voice that tells you the subway doors are about to close.
I looked at her, a thought worming its way into my mind. I tried to stomp on it, but it squirmed anyway.
Never being one for subtlety, I said, “Why do they think that? I mean, you were out of town.”
She thought for a moment, and when she spoke her voice was back to its usual soft, sad timbre.
“I’m not sure why. But I could tell they thought so. They questioned both me and Kevin. They went easy on him, but when it came to me they were pretty harsh.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Well, I was hoping you could ask some questions around the neighbourhood. I don’t think Kevin or I should be seen doing that. But you could. You never know – maybe you’ll find out who did this to my family.”
“So we could bring the killer to justice.”
“That’s right. And clear my name. So the police will know it wasn’t me.”
She moved her folded pizza around on her plate.
“I have money,” she added.
“I wouldn’t charge you.”
“That’s very kind.”
She met my eyes directly then, for perhaps the first time, as if trying to study my motivations.
“I remember you,” she said slowly.
“From the store.”
“Yes.”
Something about her eyes told me she remembered not only me, but that day as well. And that she understood, at last, why I felt I owed her.
“So you’ll help me?”
“I’ll do my best.”
But I already wondered how much help I’d be to her. Something felt wrong about the whole thing.
Why would the police suspect a grieving young woman who’d been out of town at the time of the murders?
She didn’t look like an addict, didn’t behave as if she had no morals.
She was a nice girl, to all appearances – raised on Holy Wafers and family.
My early sojourns to the neighbourhood were unproductive. Everyone was horrified about the home invasion that had occurred in their midst. People were watchful, suspecting each other.
The community threw its support behind the sad young woman who’d lost her family.
The third time I rode my bike to Wayburn, I parked it outside our old house and walked up the street to the store. The sign still said Salvaggi’s Convenience, but it needed fresh paint.
A group of teenagers were smoking in the small lot beside the store. They looked like young people in any urban centre – lean and mildly intimidating – but I knew from experience these were good kids. They snuck a smoke around the corner from time to time, but didn’t dare get up to any great mischief, aware of being watched by neighbourhood Nonnas who knitted on porches up and down the streets.
On a whim, and feeling youthful in my skimpy leather bomber jacket and biking boots, I decided to join them.
I pulled out my card by way of introduction, handing it to the biggest boy.
“My name’s Penelope Canon. I’m investigating the crime that took place here a couple of months ago.”
“You’re a Private Eye,” he said, handing my card to the next kid. “Cool.”
“Do you guys hang here often?”
A general shifting of eyes and shuffling of feet.
“Sometimes. Not all the time.”
“What about on March 10th. That was a Saturday.”
“Yeah. We were here. But we didn’t see anyone strange. We talked about it afterward. Nothing happened while we were here.”
“What time did you stay till?”
“The store closes at 9:30. We usually hang till around 10.”
“But that was a Saturday,” another boy said. “We stayed till 10:30.”
“That’s right.”
“Did you see anyone in the family that day?”
“Just the father. He was working the store. We went in for pop around 9.”
“Did he seem normal?”
“Yeah. He was his usual self. A real nice guy. The whole thing really sucked.”
“Did the police question any of you?”
The five boys looked at each other before shaking their heads. The big guy said, “Nah. We didn’t see anything that would help. Otherwise we’d’ve told them.”
“What about the daughter?” I let that hang, allowing them to interpret the deliberately vague question however they chose.
More shuffling of feet.
“She was in Mexico,” one of the boys said.
“With her Inglese boyfriend,” another added.
One of the boys snorted.
“What do you think of him?” I asked. I was taking this purely on instinct.
“Her father didn’t like him, that’s for sure.”
“Neither did her brother.”
“Had they been seeing each other long?”
“Nope. Only since she dumped Jimmy right around Christmas time.”
Wait a minute. Jimmy?
“Who’s Jimmy?”
“Jimmy Leone. He was engaged to Angelina for three years. Then she dumped him and started going out with the English prick.”
“How’d he take it? Was there any bad blood between them?” This was getting interesting.
“Like a lamb,” the oldest boy said. “He never made any trouble. Anyway, her family and his were close. They pushed her to get back together with him.”
“She didn’t deserve him,” the only girl in the group said.
“Jimmy’s a saint.”
I thought it might be a good idea to track down Mr. Leone.
***
Jimmy Leone pulled a deck chair off the stack and placed it near his own – too close for comfort. I moved it a few feet away before sitting.
I looked up in time to see a hint of a smile.
He was full of muscle and energy. Blue eyes couldn’t help their sparkle, despite the circumstances of our meeting.
I would not have described him as a saint.
A god, perhaps, but not a saint.
The kind of guy who could sell corn to farmers in Kansas. So long as they were women.
He looked to be around twenty-eight, only a few years younger than me. A fact that wasn’t lost on me.
“They tell me you and Angelina were engaged.
” I threw that out with my usual subtlety.
“By-gones. Still, I feel bad for her. She didn’t deserve that.”
I studied his face, the perfect blend of sorrow and regret.
“Have you seen her since you broke up?”
“Once in a while we’ll bump into each other. In the neighbourhood. Other than that, no. We’ve talked a couple of times on the phone. I saw her at the funeral.”
“So you’d say you’re still friends?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Like I said, I felt badly for her.”
“You seem like a nice guy, Jim. Why’d she dump you?”
His eyes turned cold. “We went our separate ways.”
“I heard she dumped you for another guy,” I persisted. “Some English prick.”
“Hey, it’s her decision. And anyway, I wouldn’t call him a prick.”
“What would you call him?”
The smile returned. “I don’t know. Maybe a sciocco.”
I wracked my brain for my half-remembered Italian phrases from when I lived in Little Italy.
“A fool. Why?”
“Because he doesn’t see it coming.”
“Like you didn’t see it coming?”
“Maybe.”
The porch door opened and a middle-aged lady stepped out. She saw me and decided, out of politeness, to use English.
“Jimmy,” she said, “Angelina just called.”
“Ok, ok, I’ll be right in.” He looked alarmed, as if this was an unexpected revelation he would have preferred to avoid.
“No need to get up. She said to tell you she’d be here around 6 as usual.”
As usual? What did that mean?
And suddenly it hit me. Just like that.
“She’s leaving Kevin, isn’t she. That’s what you meant by sciocco. You and Angelina are getting back together.”
He waved a hand, as if the answer was irrelevant. “Our families were friends, that’s all. Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me.” He stood, his patience having reached its limit.
“Did it ever occur to you, Jimmy, that maybe Angelina has a thing for scioccos?”
“Get the hell out of here!”
“I’m going, Jimmy. But just so you know, I think you’ve been played, just like Kevin.”
I turned to go, was about to plant my foot on the first veranda stair when I felt more than saw him lunge toward me.
