by Triss Stein
Mrs. Conti smiled warmly. “Did I know you from Bishop Loughlin? I used to see so many coming in and out, sometimes I miss a few names. No, wait. Your kids would be too young to be there before I retired, and you…are you from the parish?”
“Annabelle, the whole world does not think in parishes. Erica is not from around here and is not even Catholic.”
She smiled cheerfully. “This neighborhood is so full of newcomers, and why not?”
This warm woman was not the bitter ex-wife I had expected. I did not know how to raise the touchy subject of her ex-husband’s murder in this ever-so-homey setting, where she was ordering pancakes with a side of sausage.
Mrs. Pastore had no such scruples.
“Annabelle, so listen…have you been watching the news?”
“You mean about Mike? Poor man.”
“Don’t tell me you still have warm place for him!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. But he was the father of my child.”
I tried to say how sorry I was and she looked at me with a faint smile.
“Any feelings I once had died a long time ago, dear, but still, it was, and it is, a shocking event.”
“Young Erica was there when it happened.”
Annabelle turned a strange expression on me, curiosity and steel combined.
“I’d like to know what happened.”
When I was done, she nodded. “Sounds like his life caught up with him somehow.” She looked first at me and then at Mrs. Pastore. “Oh, don’t look so shocked.” She pointed at me. “You told about that meeting. Well, that was the way he behaved to everyone. Hasn’t spoken to his brother in decades, and they were in business together once. And our own daughter? That’s a whole story in itself.”
Her face and voice were as placid as a pond in June. “To tell the truth, I always figured if anything like that happened to him, Jennifer would be involved.” She winked at Mrs. Pastore. Winked, talking about a murder. Had I strayed into Through the Looking Glass?
“I knew it.” That was Mrs. Pastore, very excited. “I can see it all. She wasn’t that cute cupcake anymore and he got restless and they must have had a pre-nup, so she…”
Not a Wonderland story. A soap opera.
Mrs. Conti said it. “Honey, you watch too many soap operas. I wasn’t talking about Jennifer for real. Good grief.” She turned to me. “I meant it like ‘I could kill my husband, he forgot we had dinner plans.’ Like, it’s an expression. And I know she’s said it. She’s said it to me.”
Mrs. Pastore put her coffee cup down with clattering emphasis. “Now that, I could never get. Not the part about killing him, the other. The two of you talking.”
The waitress brought Mrs. Conti’s plate, my corn muffin, and Mrs. Pastore’s toasted bagel with double butter.
Then Mrs. Conti went on, “I grew better acquainted with Jennifer over the years. You could almost say we have become friends.”
Mrs. Pastore shook a disapproving head.
“Because Mike and I split up so long ago! I admit, I was deeply shocked at the time and then I was angry. I mean, to me, marriage is marriage, a Blessed Sacrament and lasts forever. Being happy?” She made a dismissive gesture. “I knew lots of unhappy marriages. So what? God joined them.”
“Well, then…?”
I couldn’t wait to hear the rest.
“So when he came to me and announced ‘I want more, before I’m too old,’ his bags were already packed! It took some time to sink in that I didn’t miss him. Not even a little. I like living alone. Who knew? I redecorated my house to my own taste, and played the music I liked, and I lost the complaints, the bossiness, the tantrums.”
“She isn’t making it up.” Mrs. Pastore’s face had turned grim. “I saw the tantrums a few times. Everyone at Loughlin did.”
“In public? He threw tantrums in public?”
Annabelle nodded slowly. “My daughter used to say, ‘Mom, why do you let him?’” She shrugged. “I was brought up to be a good wife. The suits to the cleaner, taken by me, and the cotton underwear, ironed by me. The cooking, oh my God. The porchetta or the sausage and peppers on the table at six on the dot, whether he made it home or not. Every. Single. Night.” She shook her head. “It took me a while to learn I could have scrambled eggs for dinner.”
“What did you say to her then, to your daughter?” I had to ask.
“Then? I said, you show respect for your father, like I was brought up to do! So she did, except for a few screaming fights of their own over the years. But she married the opposite type of man, someone who thinks she’s the cat’s meow. She wears the pants in that house and he is fine with it.”
She laughed and after a surprised moment, so did we.
“Were they…did they…your ex and your daughter…”
She flung a dismissive hand in the air. “After a while—and a few heated discussions, I admit—her and me, we agreed not to talk about him.”
“And now?”
Mrs. Conti shrugged. “She had kids. He is the grandfather.” She paused. “Was the grandfather. He wore her down and she let him see them. But she had lots of limits, lots of rules. She didn’t like him much and didn’t trust him at all but he knew better than to bully her. ’Cause then, you know…” She made a scissors gesture. “She would cut him off the kids. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Tough broad, my little girl. And Jennifer helps with that, too.”
Mrs. Pastore gave her a shocked stare. I might have too.
“That hussy? Now come on. I remember how you cried and cried when Michael left. She made a fool of you, stealing him like that.”
She shrugged, then smiled. “That was then. Now we have a lot in common, it turned out. Because…” She paused dramatically. “Because, she found out her big-shot lover was not such a bargain as a husband. Ha.” She shook her head. “And who understood that better than me? Silly girl that she was, she thought he’d always want her, because she was the ‘not Annabelle.’ Ya know? Not old, not skinny, not Italian, not Brooklyn. Not a housewife. But down the road, the wrinkles outran the Botox.” She shook her head. “She was young and, oh, ambitious! I did hate her then. Today? Life is too short.
“Strange, isn’t it? And now he’s gone. I can’t say I even feel anything. Jennifer doesn’t either.” She caught Mrs. Pastore’s sharp look. “Yeah, yeah. I talked to her last night.” She threw her hands up. “Ah, enough about that old s.o.b. And you can be sure, I never would have used that phrase in the old days, either, any more than the big D word, divorce.”
She summoned the waitress, ordered more coffee and an assortment of Danish pastry for the table. Then she turned to me and asked a barrage of questions about my time in the neighborhood and what brought me here, and where Chris went to school. I explained about the financial aid that kept her in private school and how I had needed the after-school care when she was little.
A change of subject had been processed.
It wasn’t until we were leaving, collecting scarves and gloves, that she murmured, “The old bastard had it coming. I’m surprised no one did it sooner.”
Before we separated, Annabelle gave me a warm hug, “Call me if you need to know more about his career.” She shrugged. “I don’t have to watch what I say anymore. And after all those years at Loughlin? It became a habit, helping young people.” She patted my arm. “Now you can be one of my youngsters too.”
I was a long way from being a youngster, or a Catholic high school student, but I took the offer for what it was, kindly meant.
As soon as she was out of hearing, Mrs. Pastore exploded to me.
“I can never decide if she is a saint or an idiot!”
“What?”
“She could be both. I would find her crying in the staff bathroom sometimes. He had the nerve to show up at his daughter’s graduation with that floozy. And they weren�
�t even divorced then. Annabelle had to sit there and smile in front of everyone. They all knew her, of course, because she worked there.” She shook her head, then added, “She wore a little tiny skirt and high, high heels.”
I gave her an astonished look.
“Not Annabelle! Don’t be ridiculous. The second Mrs. Conti. Future second at that time.”
His private life made for an interesting story in itself but it would not help my work. I continued to think about it as I walked home, though. The first Mrs. Conti was very different from what I had expected. I wondered what the second Ms. Conti might be like, but that was idle speculation. I had no reason to ever meet her or even to follow up this area of his life. I was writing—trying to write—a scholarly dissertation, not a soap opera, I reminded myself sternly. I might even have ordered myself to get a grip.
Chapter Eight
I kept thinking about that Lieutenant Ramos. His refusal to tell me what he might learn about the mysterious Mary irritated me more each time I thought about it. I had found her for him—all right, she had found me—and he could be a little more generous. I needed to know more. Or wanted to, anyway, and I couldn’t do it on my own.
Finally, I imagined telling all of this to Chris and immediately knew what her response would be. Something like “Mom, seriously? What century are you living in?”
I did what should have been obvious from the start. I went on Google and had her unlisted phone number information in perhaps ten minutes. A name: Mary Patricia O’Neill Codman. An address, in a boring stretch of Manhattan’s East side with lots of modern, anonymous brick apartment buildings.
I could hardly believe it. And though I had an afternoon with responsibilities, there was nothing that I could not postpone or ignore. I would not let Chris get away with that attitude, but fortunately, I make the rules in our house.
My hands were gathering up my materials and jacket while my brain was still deciding. And on the subway I would write a list of questions, all the things I had been wishing I had said the other day. No more mystery woman. How phony was that? She liked the drama, I thought.
Deep underground, in the tunnels of the subway system, there was no cell phone reception. I didn’t get Lisa’s calls until I was out on the street, walking the three long blocks from the station to Mary Patricia’s apartment. Two messages, three texts. If she was that excited, it might be worth stopping in a quiet spot to see what was up.
“You’ll change your mind about working together, because I found something about Conti I bet you don’t know.”
“Oh?”
“See. Now you’re interested.” I was, though I wasn’t admitting it yet. “What do you know about his family?”
“Lisa, I am not writing a gossip column! I need to focus on his work and how it played out in the history. Ya know?”
“I also know you, old pal. And you will definitely want to know what I learned. So give. What do you know about his family?”
“An ex-wife.” I didn’t say I had met her. “A current wife. Maybe a girlfriend or two. One grown daughter.”
“Yes, yes, all very public. And there’s gossip that the new young girlfriend might be auditioning as wife Number Three. You knew that? But.” She paused dramatically. “Did you know about the brother? And their feud? And that they haven’t spoken in decades? I dug up that little tidbit, about someone who hated him, from one of the many other people who hated him.”
I had to give in and discuss because I wanted to know more. A tidbit? Oh, yes.
“I heard something. It sounds like…I mean, he was a man with lots of enemies. So there is one more. Is that where you’re going with this?”
“Sort of. But this brother, he fell out of sight. One of many questions I need to try to answer.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “Working on it now. So, was that good enough for a trade?”
She nailed me. It just popped out. “You might have one more person who hated him, but I might have met the only person who will miss him.”
“You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did.”
“Tell. Tell now! Wait? Any chance your phone is bugged? I don’t want anyone else to pick this up.”
“My phone? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then tell. This could be big. I’m recording, okay?”
So I told her about the mysterious Mary, the little that I knew.
“A secret lover in this gossipy day and age? Damn. She’s a source no one else knows about! She left out a lot, though, didn’t she? How come you didn’t pin her down more?”
“It was, let’s say, quite unnerving. But I am going to learn more and, yes, I’ll trade for whatever you dig up about the brother.”
“What are you now? I hear traffic.”
“I found this woman’s address. I’m on the way to talk to her.”
“Again, where are you?”
When I told her, she responded, “I’m coming, too! Where exactly? I’m not far. Don’t move! I can be there in twenty minutes. Maybe less.”
“Lisa, no, I need to…”
“I’m already out the door.” And she was gone.
I waited. It did occur to me that another set of ears and eyes, especially her sharp, trained ones, could be helpful with this evasive woman. And she was there in fifteen minutes.
Wouldn’t Lieutenant Ramos be surprised if we learned anything new?
We walked up to exactly what I expected, a mid-twentieth-century white brick apartment building, clean and modern and so very anonymous. Just what you’d want for a love nest, I supposed. There were perfectly trimmed plants in front and a bright lobby with a reception desk and a uniformed attendant. He politely asked for our destination.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Codman. Lovely lady. Who may I say is calling?”
“Say it’s Ms. Donato. She’ll definitely want to see us.” I thought Lisa’s confidence was unwarranted.
He checked on a house phone and told us to take the left elevator to the twelfth floor. We hustled to it before minds could be changed. At her door, I heard the bell ring, footsteps, someone peeking through the security peep hole. Finally, locks turned and she opened the door a crack.
“So it is you. I wasn’t convinced. And you have more to tell me? But who is this?”
Introducing Lisa to a woman we could barely see was more than a bit awkward.
Finally she muttered, “I suppose you should come in. You seem harmless enough. I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
She was in a terrycloth robe, her hair disheveled, a cigarette in her hand. The elaborately furnished apartment had newspapers all over the living room.
“Sit. You can move those papers. I was looking for anything about Mike. Why are you here?”
I started with, “Now I have your name and where you live. It’s very nice, by the way.”
“It’s a few blocks from where Mike had his office. Very convenient for those little visits.” Her voice shook. “That was the best part, but he liked his luxury too. He helped me buy it and furnish it. He used to come…” She wrapped her trembling hands tightly around a glass. I was close enough to smell the alcohol.
“You came to tell me more about Mike. So what was it?”
“I, uh, well, I just wanted to know more about him. That’s all. I’m writing a scholarly chapter about the Navy Yard and he was there through everything. I thought you probably know all about his career.”
She looked at me with disbelief and some hostility. As if, why should she talk to me?
I was about to tell her Annabelle had offered to help—it would either get me thrown out or she would compete with Mike’s wife—when Lisa jumped in.
“I’m writing an article about him, about Michael Conti. And I want to get the other side. You must know lots of people didn’t like him, but you did. So what is the other side?”
She closed her eyes, shook her head, and looked at us again.
“I didn’t always like him, either. Damn straight. But we were true soul mates. It took us too long to figure that out. And he wandered. Me too.” She stabbed her cigarette out with a lot of energy, as if she was crushing something. “Believe me, I did my share. But he always, always came back. With flowers. Sometimes fine jewelry. That painting over there. Making up was always great. Thunder and lightning.”
“You knew him better than anyone?”
“Damn straight, I did. I knew everything about him.” She leaned in. “Lately he’d come to see me, and he wasn’t himself. We liked to play cards. It was relaxing, honeymoon bridge or gin rummy. We’d play for silly things. Pennies. M&M’s. Strip poker.” She looked at us steadily, as if daring us to be shocked at that. For the first time she smiled a little when she said it.
“And he couldn’t keep his mind on the game! I won everything, even when I was trying my best to lose. Now I have a jar of pennies and big dish of candy.” She started to sob, but stopped herself. “It’s right there. Help yourself. I don’t need the reminder of him.”
“But what was he afraid of? I bet you know.” That was Lisa, sounding as cozy as if she was talking to a dear friend. Boy, she was good at this.
“He told me—me! not that WASP cupcake he married—that he was afraid, that someone was threatening him. Trust me.” She slammed her hand down on the sofa cushion for emphasis. “My Mike wasn’t afraid of anyone, not even mob guys in the unions. Hell, he grew up on the docks. He was a fighter. So this was…it was strange. More than strange. Unheard of for him to say that, and remember, I’ve been hearing him say things for a lot longer than you girls have been breathing.”
“Did he tell this to the police? Did you?” My head was swimming. “They need to know. I mean maybe that threat is what came after him.”
“I know. I know that.” She whispered it. “But why would I go public now? No one ever knew about me. To tell the truth, it kept things exciting, to be so secret. I’m going to tell someone now?” She grabbed my arm. “Besides, maybe they would come after me too. I know all the good things Mike did for this city, and believe me, he did plenty. And all the bad he did, too. Someone could come after me too, to keep me quiet.”
