by Triss Stein
“How are you doing, honey?”
“Okay. I guess. Did you know he had a pre-planned funeral? So I don’t even have to do that. Do you want the information?”
“Hell, no. Only if Nicole wants me to come. But you need to tell her.”
“I would, but she hangs up on me. Guess I’ll mail it to her.”
“It’s not right for her not to be there.”
“Agreed. The absolutely right thing to do now is show the outside world we are united over his death. I can fake that as well as the next Park Avenue bitch. I don’t intend to give them anything extra to gossip about.”
Annabelle was nodding her head. “Absolutely right! Nicole will be there, I promise, and I will be too.”
“Ha, ha. We can receive together.”
“And maybe get some of the girls on the side to stand in line with us.” Jennifer smiled at Annabelle, and they giggled.
“That is so ridiculous, it is funny.”
The giggling was rising into laughter with an undertone of hysteria. Even Mrs. Pastore joined in, and Annabelle was hitting the table, gasping, “Oh, oh. The very thought of all of us lined up…”
“Together! Graciously accepting condolences!” Jennifer reached for the tissues, laughing so hard she was crying..
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Then we heard Mr. Pastore bellowing from upstairs.
“What is going on there? Why are you having a hen party at the crack of dawn?”
We all looked at each other, silenced but bursting.
“Crazy broads! I’m going back to bed. Keep it down.”
Then we did start giggling again, me included, but very softly.
Jennifer picked up her fur coat. “Come on, Mrs. Conti Number One. I’ve got a car and driver waiting. I’ll take you home.”
“Wait.” I needed to speak up for myself. “Wait. I have questions. Annabelle, you seem to think being questioned was my fault but I can’t keep secrets about it. It’s a murder. Don’t you both want to have it solved?”
“Actually, I don’t know if I care. It is horrible but…”
Jennifer interrupted. “And your other question?” She sounded profoundly uninterested.
“Is it true that there was a brother? And a feud?”
Annabelle sat down so suddenly the chair squeaked. “Another piece of the past. How did you learn about that, anyway?”
I kept my mouth shut.
Now Jennifer looked angry and grim too. “I thought that was long buried.”
“You know, Jen, my father-in-law—sorry, our father in-law—hated these family feuds. His wife and her sister had a fight over their mother’s cameo brooch and never spoke again. He made me promise to keep the family together, but…” She had tears in her eyes. “I felt so guilty that I couldn’t.”
“I never knew that. But no one could have. It all blew up so long ago. About a boat business.”
Annabelle nodded. “They were in a boatworks together, out in Sheepshead Bay. They had a knockdown fight.” The two women were talking to each other. I was forgotten but I was listening to every word. “They were punching and rolling around on the rug. The business was going under and he blamed Mike.
“You know he used to come see me for awhile? After Mike left? But then he stopped, and he stopped calling and then he moved out of his little place and no one knew where he was.” Annabelle’s voice shook. “I don’t even know if he is still alive.”
“Stupid old men. “ Mrs. Pastore said it out loud. “Stupid old men, to let hate poison their family.”
“I prayed plenty for them. To St. Jude, for hopeless causes.” Annabelle smiled sadly. “And to St. Anthony of Padua.”
“For things that are lost?” Mrs. Pastore looked startled and then seemed to realize it was a half-hearted joke.
Mrs. Pastore poured another round of coffee and with a defiant glance at the clock, poured some Sambuca into each cup. She lifted her cup. “Salut!” Then we all did.
Annabelle put her coat on and pointed an angry finger at me. “But you. Don’t get any more cops in my life. They remind me of all I want to forget. Did forget. Now they make me think about it all over again.”
***
I went home and curled up under my warm comforter, happy that I had no place to be in the rapidly approaching morning. Only my desk.
I was awake soon, against my will, unable to sleep any more. I found Chris in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go, munching a piece of toast as she zipped her jacket and looked for her gloves.
“So long, Mom.” She kissed me before she left. “Have a great day. Got to run.”
When I was sufficiently caffeinated, I sat down and tried to think about, well, everything. To unwind some of the tangles. I made a list. My own work—I had to get that chapter on the Navy Yard neighborhood written. And soon. My part-time museum job-I’d had a break at the end of a project, but starting tomorrow, I owed them two or three days a week. Plus that meeting with the HR department. And Chris’ family history. How was she doing and did she need my help? Right now it looked like more fun than my dissertation. Joe’s suddenly complicated life—how could I help him? Did I want to help him? Yes, I did. I should. Did he want me to? That part was not at all clear. And Phyllis’ questions about her aunt.
And I should share my new knowledge with Lisa.
I looked at what I had written and thought there was enough for two lives on that sheet of paper.
Chris came home early and found me in her room, looking at her walls, now even more decorated. Propped up on every surface were boards with pictures
“These are memory boards, Mom.” My expression must have been quizzical. “Come on, Mom. You’ve heard about these. It’s a thing. Like, I don’t know, scrapbooks. You can buy them all set up but I made mine. You, like, record events or work out ideas or whatever. Put up what you love best to remind yourself.” She stared at me again, “Mom! Come on! It’s not that hard.”
It looked like a big waste of time to me. So does scrapbooking. But Chris was excited, so I tried to pay attention.
“I thought if I was going to write about Philomena, this would be a good way to get organized. See? One for when she worked at the Navy Yard, one for her career after, one for family.”
She was so proud of her work, I had to take a good look. Styrofoam boards covered with dainty fabric and crisscrossed ribbons to hold the photos. On one she had reorganized the ribbons to create a family tree, starting with Philomena’s parents and ending with Chris herself in a tiny baby picture I recognized. Above it was a photo of Jeff and me in our prom clothes. Where had she found that? And there were Jeff’s parents, in their wedding photo. I hadn’t seen that one in a long time. Phyllis in her wasp-waisted, bouffant wedding gown and veil with a sparkly crown. So 1950s.
So. A memory board, it seemed, was a tarted-up bulletin board, but with a theme. It still seemed silly, but it did not mean I was not caught up in the oldest set of photos. Arranged for connections, they certainly were more evocative than when I had last seen them, tossed into a shoebox.
Chris took me on a guided tour, pointing out her favorites from the first boards, especially the one of Philomena tightening rivets with a scary-looking tool. And the jokey one, taken with what must have been a simple box camera, of Philomena holding up her first federal paycheck. It was too tiny to read, but it was labeled. Her smile was a yard wide, and the triumphant raised-fist bicep-flexed pose made me laugh.
“This next board isn’t so interesting. It’s all committee meetings and stuff.” She was right about that. No charm and no nostalgia. Nothing but boring people in boring suits. “But here’s one…” Philomena in a line with a group of men, arms linked in solidarity, leading a crowd of protesters. They were protesting the closing of the yard.
I looked again. Was that Michael Conti whose arm was linked with Philomena�
��s brother?
“Chris, are there any others like this one? I have a reason.”
“I think. Maybe.” She dived for the floor and pulled a box out from under her bed.
If only I could get this blown up, or look at it with a magnifying glass.
“You can take this. So what do you think of my plan?”
I came back to the moment with a start.
“I can’t tell if it is brilliantly inspiring or a complete waste of time.” I smiled after I said it.
“You will know which when I get the best grade possible on my project and you hear how brilliant I am. So there.” But she was smiling too.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Chris. I’m right here.” I was still looking through the box to see if there were other photos that might include Conti.
“Well, it’s about my birthday.”
“A long way off.”
She removed the box from my hands. “Please pay attention. I’m going to be sixteen.”
“Yes, I was there when you were born.”
“That is a beyond-lame joke. I am being serious.”
“Ok. I’m listening.”
“Well, so we need to plan a party.”
“We do? I thought you’d want your usual sleepover, movies, games, up all night, waffles and ice cream in the morning.”
“You haven’t thought about it at all!” She looked very stern. “It’s my sweet sixteen. We have to plan something.”
Her birthday was many months away. I was not even close to being ready to think about it. But, yes, she had been to some elaborate parties, with catering and a band, and they cost a lot of money I did not have. Was it time to panic?
“Chris, I can’t manage a party at a restaurant. I just can’t. You have no idea what it would cost.”
“But! But, we can’t do pizza and a sleepover, like it’s nothing. Mom, we just can’t.” Her voice rose with each word.
“Chris, calm down. It’s only a party….”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.” I should have known better, after fifteen plus years as a parent. “And it’s not ‘only’ a party. How can you say that? It’s my sweet sixteen. Everyone talks about them. Everyone! Before and after. I can’t embarrass myself in front of my whole class. I can’t.” She threw herself facedown on her bed. Only being in her own room prevented her from running out and slamming the door.
I must keep calm, I told myself. Two hysterical women in a room is at least one too many. “Chris!” I snapped it out to cut through the drama. “We will think of something, okay? Something affordable that will be fun and do you proud, okay? Not a hotel and a live band, but…”
“Not? Oh, no.”
“We can’t get into a competition with your wealthy classmates. Not in the plans. That’s the way it is, end of story, but we will find something we can do that will make you happy. You have to trust me on this.”
She nodded, but her face was still buried in her pillow. And, I thought as I left, that’s what I get for sending her to private school. My own sixteenth birthday party was dancing to a boom box in the basement family room, and pizza and sodas for refreshments. Maybe some of the boys sneaked in something stronger. I wasn’t telling Chris that part.
***
When the call came, it was from a personal phone with caller ID, not the masked number on a work phone. Lieutenant Ramos. I thought, What now? I don’t want to talk to him again. Not now. Not ever. I’m busy. And there is nothing more I can tell them. Not one thing.
So of course I answered it.
Detective Ramos had something to tell me. “We might’ve located that woman you met so mysteriously. Not that the first Mrs. Conti was any help in finding her, or the second one either.”
“And?”
“We need you to confirm she’s the same woman you talked to. I think we can start by sending you a picture. You have a computer?”
“Of course I do.”
“Tell me your e-mail and we’ll send it. You write back right away, okay?”
This all seemed very strange.
“There were pictures of Michael Conti in her place. That’s why they called me. But she lived in Manhattan, near his office.
“I’ll need to go over every single thing you told us about your meeting with her and we need to do it today.”
I looked at my unfinished page on the screen, my messy office, my calendar reminding me of everything else I needed to do. But I was already dressed. I’d eaten.
“If you must.”
He didn’t acknowledge my rudeness.
“There’s a, um, a thing.”
“One more thing?”
“You could say that. She’s dead.”
“What are you talking about?” I’m sure my voice went up an octave.
“Sorry. I forget not everyone thinks like a cop. Yes, she’s dead. Her cleaning lady found her yesterday morning.”
“Did she…? Was she…heart…?”
“Only in the sense that people are dead if their heart stops beating.” He paused, as if he was thinking. When he went on, it was softer voice. “Hers may have a bullet in it.”
I sat down hard. “I don’t believe it.”
“I’m a cop. Would I lie to you?”
Was he serious? There were lots of ways to answer that question, many of them hostile.
“Let me start again.” I had a feeling he had heard his own words. “She was shot, probably…”
“Shot? She was murdered?”
“Looks like it. We’re pretty definite it’s not a suicide.”
Chapter Eleven
“She told me she was afraid.” I could barely say the words. “I didn’t believe her. I thought she was only being melodramatic.”
“And when was this? It’s not in what you told us. If she had given you any actionable information, perhaps we could have helped.”
“But why are you…? I don’t understand…? How did you…My phone number…?”
“Nope, we never found a cell phone. And we did look. But we have her name, partly the same as the one you had. And with the Conti photos it didn’t take a genius to guess.”
“And you came to me.”
“Yes, since we seem to have a relationship now.” He stopped. “Just kidding on that. I’m still on the Conti case, of course, so I’m following those connections.”
“I am having trouble taking this in. Any of it.”
“Give it time. It will sink in eventually, probably while we go over every single word of what you told us. We might need a sworn statement, too, if there is anything that impacts on this. Later today? Will you be home? I’ll come by. I’m helping canvass her apartment building this morning. We don’t believe no one heard or saw anything.”
“Conti helped her buy it, she said.” My mouth moved, saying whatever came into my head. My brain was too shocked to be working.
“Hold that thought, and any others you have.”
By the time he arrived, it was late afternoon and I had, in fact, forced myself to do some of my own work. I thought I was more relaxed. And more focused. I hoped Chris would not be home before we were done.
I offered him coffee or a soda and sucked up some caffeine myself.
He had the notes of what I had told him.
“I know her full name now,” I offered. “Mary Patricia O’Neill Codman. I guess you do too.”
“Of course. But how did you get it?”
“I did a little research myself.”
“Oh? Same place you learned she was afraid? I’ll want to get back to that interesting topic. First, tell me again what she said to you when you met her.”
I tried to tell it again, exactly as I remembered it. Then he played a recording he had made the first time I told him. “Not bad. You’re saying pretty much the same thi
ng.”
And then it was time to tell him about my second conversation with her. He didn’t look too happy about what I had done, or Lisa’s role, but he listened intently.
“Think. Think very hard. This part about Conti being afraid? Was there anything else at all?”
“No! Honestly, there was nothing. Was she….do you think it was the same gun as the one that killed Michael Conti?”
“You are not asking the questions here. I am.” His expression was not as hostile as his words. “Did she say anything else about Conti? Anything else you left out before? Think hard.”
“No. No! But Mrs. Conti did. The first Mrs. Conti. She said they went back to when they were kids. They were all from the same neighborhood. Carroll Gardens? They called it South Brooklyn then, I think. Or even Red Hook.” I saw no reason to tell him the names Mrs. Conti called her. “Is that a help at all?”
“Maybe. We have to follow up on everything. What else did she say, the first Mrs. Conti? I bet there’s more.”
How did he know? “She didn’t like her at all.”
He nodded. “And how did you learn all this?”
“She was over at my neighbor’s, very angry about your visit, by the way, and blaming me for it.”
“Too bad. We would have come to her anyway. She’ll talk to us again, too, like it or not. How’d you meet her?”
I told him about Mrs. Pastore and our two meetings. He listened, not saying a word until I was done.
“Mrs. Conti Number Two was there too?” By then he was almost laughing.
“It was a somewhat, um, let’s say, surprising morning.”
“I bet it was. And did Mrs. Conti Number Two have anything to say about this mystery woman?”
“No. It seemed like it was before her time in his life. Though it wasn’t, as it turned out.”
“Okay. Something bothers me, though. It’s not clear to me how you have become so involved with the story of the late Mr. Conti.”
