Triple Shot

by Sandra Balzo

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. If I’d known, I would have stayed.’ Tien had colored up at Sarah’s teasing, but now she seemed to relax, knowing that while I might not be a good influence on Sarah, I was at least a mitigating one.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Sarah said, settling back into the couch. ‘We just found a corpse in the bathroom of a secret room under the loading dock.’

  Tien’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Was that what the horrible smell was?’

  ‘T’would seem so.’ Sarah took a sip of the vodka and then, just when I thought the booze might be muddying her sense of discretion, set it back down. ‘Our dead “rat” was my former apprentice, Brigid Ferndale.’ Sarah closed her eyes.

  Hastily I said, ‘The sheriff thinks it might be connected to the other recent attacks on realtors.’

  ‘Then the police believe she was murdered?’ Tien asked, eyes wide. ‘And why under the . . . did you say loading platform?’

  How to explain? Tien was gone by the time Chitown and his entourage had arrived. She knew nothing of the ‘Treasure of the Brookhills Massacre’.

  Which I personally thought was a lousy name – sort of a Treasure of the Sierra Madre meets The St Valentine’s Day Massacre. But then, maybe that was what Chitown – or the station grubstaking him – was looking for.

  I filled Tien in on the mob ‘loot’ story, ending with the discovery of the waiting room. ‘There was even a shower down there.’

  ‘Probably for cleaning up after whacking people,’ Sarah said.

  ‘That was what I—’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Luc exploded. ‘No one was “whacking” anyone. Where do you get this stuff?’

  As for me, mostly from The Godfather trilogy and The Sopranos. But it did seem like Luc was overreacting.

  He went to a mahogany sideboard with a decanter of amber liquid centered on an old-fashioned white, lace doily. His back to us, Luc poured himself several ounces of the liquid. As he raised glass to lips, I remembered.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Romano’s Ristorante.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘What about it?’ Luc had turned abruptly, glass in hand. The drink slopped over the rim, due more to anger than nerves, I thought.

  But I also felt cold radiating both from his tone and his face. ‘Ward Chitown told me the massacre occurred inside Romano’s Ristorante. It’s the building on Junction Road and Poplar Creek, just south of the slaughterhouse.’

  ‘The storefront that’s been empty for years?’ Tien looked at her father, puzzled. ‘But isn’t that where Pop-Pop’s old restaurant and market were, Daddy?’

  Sarah: ‘Pop-Pop?’

  ‘It’s what I call Daddy’s –’ now Tien was coloring up – ‘my grandfather. I never knew him because he died before I was born.’

  Tien was looking at Luc. When he didn’t contribute, she went on. ‘My grandmother didn’t have the heart to continue with the restaurant after her husband died, so she moved the market to Milwaukee to be closer to her family.’

  ‘Until your dad and mom moved it back to Brookhills,’ I said, knowing the story.

  Tien’s mother, An, had been born in Vietnam. She and Luc, an American soldier, had fallen in love and returned together to the US at the end of his tour of duty. Tragically, when Tien was barely a one-year-old and just after the move to Brookhills, An Romano had been killed in an accident.

  Tien’s father roused himself. ‘My mother gave us the market as a wedding present. I felt badly moving it, but—’

  ‘The business was dying where it was,’ Tien chimed in. ‘No one was interested in a specialty/butcher shop when they had big chain supermarkets. Daddy decided to bring the store back to Brookhills, where it started and would still be respected.’

  ‘Good place to raise a family,’ Luc said, like he’d chanted the maxim a million times before.

  ‘Nona didn’t think so,’ Tien said.

  I said, ‘Do you think it was because of –’ no need to use the word ‘massacre’ – ‘what had happened there?’

  Luc hadn’t budged from his spot within arm’s length of the sideboard.

  Sarah said, ‘You mean the massacre?’

  So much for . . .

  ‘Is that why Nona never wanted to come to Brookhills, Daddy?’ Tien turned to Sarah and me, by way of explanation. ‘We always went to Milwaukee. She never once visited us, even at Christmas.’

  ‘Figures,’ Sarah said. ‘The family business was mobbed up. She didn’t want to return to the scene of the crime.’

  God, I thought, The US of A was lucky that Sarah never entered our diplomatic corps.

  Now Luc shook himself the way my sheepdog Frank would after being out in the rain. ‘My father was not a gangster.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Despite myself, I was intrigued by what had seemed like ancient history just this morning. Ancient history that had intruded big-time on our current business-plan. ‘But from what I understand, a lot of good people have been . . .’ Again, searching for the right word.

  ‘Suckered?’ Sarah suggested.

  As fitting as any, evil one. But I was Maggy, the Good Bitch of the Midwest. ‘Or drawn in, maybe against their will.’

  Luc sighed and finally moved, sinking into the chair across from us. Overstuffed and covered with a floral print, it looked as incongruous in the room as Luc did sitting in it. Like a shirt someone dear had bought for him: it didn’t suit his taste, but the man simply couldn’t bear to give away.

  Tien perched on the arm of the flowered chair. ‘Is that what happened? Did Pop-Pop get in bed with the mob?’

  To her, it was probably like finding out you were related to Billy the Kid. An unknown and thrilling, if infamous, family history.

  To her father, though, the past wasn’t quite so . . . past. ‘Don’t be melodramatic, Tien. Your grandfather—’

  But Sarah couldn’t let Tien’s comment pass. ‘In bed? Like Marlon Brando with the horse’s head?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Actually, in The Godfather it’s the movie studio’s boss, played by John Marley, who finds the severed—’

  ‘Anyway, Tien,’ Luc said, leveling a glare at Sarah and me, ‘your grandfather owned a restaurant that some reputed Mafia—’

  ‘Reputed?’ Sarah said. ‘Reputed enough to die in a hail of—’

  ‘Members –’ another dirty look from Luc, this time sparing me, but still skewering Sarah – ‘unfortunately chose to frequent.’

  ‘Were you there the day of the raid?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘No, I’d just landed in Vietnam.’

  Tien said, ‘But Nona and Pop-Pop would have been, right? And customers, of course.’

  ‘It was a Monday. The restaurant was never open on Monday.’

  ‘But the mobsters were there anyway?’ Tien followed up before her face changed. ‘Oh, I see. That was the reason Pop-Pop closed that day. So nobody would see them.’

  ‘The other way around,’ Luc said. ‘I think the group chose that day to meet because we were closed. It wasn’t unusual in those days.’

  ‘Did you know what was going on?’ I asked.

  Luc shifted uncomfortably. ‘My senior year of high school, I got a whiff of it. My dad going to work, even though the Ristorante wasn’t open. I asked why.’

  ‘Did he tell you?’ Tien asked.

  Luc looked up at her. ‘No. And both your Nona and Pop-Pop started to discourage me from stopping by the restaurant on any day.’

  ‘They were trying to keep you safe.’ Sarah was staring at her glass.

  Luc looked surprised. I was, too, but at Sarah’s sensitivity more than the thought that ‘Nona’ and ‘Pop-Pop’ wanted to keep their son away from whatever was happening at their place of business.

  But Luc had to have seen his parent’s motive, too, if only in hindsight. ‘It was about then my mom started to encourage me to join the army. The draft was over, but . . .’ His eyes had a faraway look.

  I said, ‘She must have been very worried about what was going on
at their restaurant.’

  Tien cocked her head at me. ‘Why do you say that, Maggy?’

  She deserved an answer. ‘A mother suggesting her son enlist while their country’s in a shooting war? Sounds like she thought you’d have a better chance at life in Vietnam than at home, Luc.’

  ‘I have to say, I didn’t think of it like that back then,’ Luc said, patting Tien so she’d shift and he could get up.

  He moved to the sideboard and poured himself another drink from the decanter. ‘I figured she and my father thought I could use some toughening up.’

  Nothing like dodging bullets to put starch in your shorts. But I was thinking along a different line. Tien had said her grandfather died before she was born, but he apparently had been alive back when Luc enlisted.

  ‘Another question?’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ Luc settled back into the chair with his refilled glass. ‘I think I’ve answered plenty. Sure more than I ever hoped to.’ He gave his daughter a weary smile.

  I said, ‘You told us the restaurant wasn’t open the day of the FBI’s raid. But you also said your father started working on Mondays. So . . . was he there?’

  ‘Did Pop-Pop see what happened?’ Tien asked. Like me, she seemed intrigued by this new window into her heritage.

  ‘I only know what your grandmother told me.’ Luc’s hazel eyes meeting those of his daughter’s. Exact same color, but Tien’s with an Asian lift at the corners. ‘Your grandfather was killed that day by an FBI bullet.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘But you said Pop-Pop wasn’t in the Mafia.’ Tien’s beautiful eyes teared up. ‘Why did they shoot him?’

  ‘It was an accident, sweetie,’ Luc said. ‘The authorities kicked in the door and guns on both sides started blazing. It could just as easily have been one of the mob lieutenants who fired the round that killed my father.’

  Probably hard to tell the good guys from the bad, under those circumstances. And, though I wouldn’t say it aloud, Tien’s father had harbored criminals in his restaurant. Knowingly, repeatedly and, from what Luc had said, without anybody putting a gun to his head.

  ‘But the bullet did come from an FBI gun?’

  Luc shrugged. ‘According to my mother, though I’m not sure how reliable she ever was on the subject. She’d only talk about it when she drank homemade wine and had filled up the jelly jar enough times to get morose.’

  Jelly jars made into glasses. I remembered a tiny hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant in Milwaukee that had made their own wine and served it in Welch’s Flintstones jelly jars.

  ‘Did your mother resent the FBI?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’ Luc alternatingly clenched and relaxed his free hand.’ She resented my father for getting involved with somebody called Little Mo, one of the gangsters killed that day.’

  Tien, who had retaken her spot on the arm of his chair, twisted to regard him. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about the Mafia. Are you sure—’

  ‘Don’t worry, sweetie. I just did some research because I was curious.’ He punched her lightly on the arm. ‘As you should understand.’

  ‘Like father like daughter, I guess,’ Tien said, then her eyes darkened. ‘But have you told me everything? No more surprises? I won’t find out my great-great-great grandfather was Attila the Hun or something?’

  ‘Promise,’ Luc said, holding up his free hand. ‘Now is everyone ready for dinner?’

  ###

  It was after nine when we’d finally sat down to eat, Sarah having taken a little snooze as the rest of us put dinner on the table.

  ‘That was delicious,’ I said to Luc as he passed me my jacket. ‘I think the Chicken Francese will be a perfect addition to our Prepared Food section.’

  ‘We just have to make sure we don’t overcook it,’ Tien said. ‘Otherwise it will dry out when it’s reheated.’

  ‘Maybe we should put instructions on it,’ Luc said to his daughter. ‘It really would be best sautéed just enough to crisp up the breading and heat through.’

  Sarah, who had her hand on the doorknob, snorted. ‘Sauté it? Please, if you can’t order it fresh – or at least nuke it back to life – nobody’s going to eat it anyway.’

  ‘That’s you and me, Sarah,’ I said, pushing her ahead of me out the door. ‘Takeout and microwave dinners. Most people in Brookhills have gorgeous gourmet kitchens.’

  I waved goodbye to Luc and Tien, who was staying behind to help her dad clean up.

  ‘Doesn’t mean those people cook in ’em.’

  Sarah being a case in point. Lovely house, beautifully appointed kitchen, layer of dust on most appliances.

  I said, ‘Are you all right to drive?’

  ‘Of course. I had just the one vodka and that was three hours ago.’

  Not to mention a big meal and nap, though not in that order. We had reached the sidewalk. ‘Were you drinking because of . . .?’

  ‘Brigid?’ Sarah had her key out and was walking to her yellow 1975 Firebird, yet another item dating from the mid-seventies. ‘No.’

  She stopped and turned. ‘Not that I’m letting myself off the hook. Brigid was my responsibility as surely as Sam and Courtney are.’

  ‘You are those kids’ legal guardian.’

  ‘I had a legal responsibility to Brigid, too.’ Sarah examined the keys in her hand. ‘Thing was, Maggy, the kid looked and acted more mature than she really was. I guess I just bought into it. Let her make decisions that should have been mine and mine alone. Partly because I was older, but mostly because I was the fully-accredited and licensed boss. I screwed up.’

  ‘It’s not your fault she’s dead. You didn’t—’

  ‘You’re right, I didn’t.’ My partner stuck her key in the door of her classic car. ‘I didn’t teach her how to stay safe. I didn’t show her the articles on the broker websites about dangerous situations.’

  ‘You told her not to show houses alone.’

  ‘But, like you said, who would she have taken? Who would have called her to make sure she was OK?’

  Now Sarah was using my words to make her point.

  She swung her door open and slid in. ‘I never met any of her friends and she was all alone in the office. I fired everyone else, remember?’

  ‘You are not a bad person,’ I protested.

  She turned her key in the ignition. ‘Maybe, but I’m not a good one, either.’ Then Sarah slammed her driver’s door shut, gunned the engine and drove away.

  ‘You are, too,’ I said to the receding tail lights. Maybe not a nice person, but Sarah in her own way was good-hearted. She just . . . well, buried it under a load of defensive crap.

  I tweet-tweeted the Escape’s key fob to open my door and got in.

  I was worried about my partner. ‘Bipolar disorder’ was jargon for what once was simply and descriptively called ‘manic depression’. Thanks to the meds, Sarah’s manic phase seemed controlled, but I wasn’t sure what accumulation of grief would tip her over into depression.

  Pavlik hadn’t liked that Sarah’s employee was found dead, and under Sarah’s building. It wouldn’t take him long to discover the complaint Brigid had lodged with the state against her employer.

  And then what?

  When Sarah had opened that envelope – Brigid’s corpse practically beneath our feet – she’d been shocked. Blindsided.

  And even if Sarah had been aware of the complaint before then, she certainly wouldn’t kill somebody over it and stash the body on her own property.

  Ridiculous. I knew it and I’d make sure Pavlik did, too.

  I started the Escape, feeling more confident. Of course, I could help my friend. I was capable, I was responsible. I . . .

  ‘Yoo-hoo, Maggy?’ Tien was in the doorway. ‘You forgot something.’

  Frank came bounding toward the car.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning I was bouncing around the tiny house like a pinball, but it was just habit. Out of bed and into the bathroom, down the hall to the kit
chen to start the coffee, back to take a shower, then half-dressed to the laundry room in hopes of finding a clean Uncommon Grounds T-shirt, quick detour for coffee on the way to the bathroom to redeem a ‘gently worn’ shirt from the hamper, back to the kitchen to fill Frank’s food bowls and my travel mug, a search of the living room for my keys.

  And every time I entered a room, Frank left it.

  ‘I told you I was sorry,’ I said as he pushed himself up from the floor in front of the unlit fireplace and walked stiff-legged into the hallway.

  ‘Not that you shouldn’t share some of the blame,’ I called after him. ‘If you hadn’t scarfed down all Tien’s meat loaf, you wouldn’t have become so logy that you fell asleep on Luc’s bed.’

  I still didn’t see how the plus-sized sheepdog had made it up the circular staircase. Though it might explain Frank’s creakiness – in addition to his crankiness – this morning.

  The big galoot probably pulled something.

  ‘Fine, sulk if you want,’ I said, catching sight of my car keys on the chair by the door. ‘I have to get to work. Someone in this house needs to do more than eat and sleep.’

  OK, add pee and poop, though I always remained hopeful that, at least for Frank, these last two would be exterior operations.

  Walking out into the cold morning, I thought about how my life had changed from three years ago, when I had a husband and a son, a prestigious job in corporate PR and a big house.

  And no pets.

  Today I was divorced, with my son away at college and my fledgling shop struggling. My house was small and my sheepdog was large.

  Oh, and I talked to him. A lot.

  Not that I wasn’t happy, you understand. It was just . . . yeah, ‘different’ captured it well enough.

  I had a sudden surge of loneliness and thought about calling Eric at the University of Minnesota. As I turned the key in the Escape, the time flashed 8:09. Nope. Just into his third year, my son had one early class on his schedule and the last thing I wanted to do was make him late for it.

  The last couple of years had been tough on Eric, both because of Ted and my divorce and Eric’s own realization that he, himself, was gay. Our son had told me and then his father and, relieved that we loved him and life wasn’t going to come crashing down around him – at least, more than it already had with the divorce – Eric had gone back to the ‘U’.