As though she could read my mind, she laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not a crazy woman. In fact, I’m the perfect person for the job. I have lots of experience with art; it’s a passion of mine. I’m on several boards.” She rattled off the names of several prominent galleries. “I realize you don’t want to hear my resume,” she said, pausing in midstream, “but I do know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m sure that you do, Mrs. Boyer, but—”
“Call me Elizabeth, dear. Now, I understand your hesitation; you’re not used to people bulldozing their way into your life, are you?” She patted my arm. “Sometimes Fate just waltzes in and takes over and the only thing you can do is hold on tightly and enjoy the ride.” She laughed at the look on my face. “Now that I’ve got you completely flummoxed, why don’t I take a peek at your work?”
“Well, I’m not ready to show anything publicly yet,” I stammered.
“Nonsense.” She waved away my reticence. “Whatever you have available right now will do just fine. I’ve an excellent critical eye. I’m perfectly capable of weeding the good from the bad, and I’m not afraid to let you know exactly what I think.”
No doubt about that.
“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the door. I stood by dumbly while she walked past me into my house, her spine straight and proud, her designer dress worn with ease, her hair pulled back and a scarf wound around her waist like a sash. From the moment she followed me down the hallway into my studio, I understood that life as I knew it would never be the same.
It took me some time to warm up to Elizabeth. I told myself I resented her attitude and her pushiness and unsolicited opinions, but all the while I let her into my house and, more importantly, let her into my studio and listened to her advice over coffee. Some mornings I would mutter about her overbearing behavior... and then I’d find myself watching the clock wondering why she was late. It wasn’t long before I realized that her arrogance was actually a kind of idealism—a strong belief that people could achieve whatever they wanted with a little grit and determination and elbow grease. So it was only natural that Elizabeth detested my tendency toward laziness. What can I say? Sometimes I got tired watching all that boundless energy.
“Snap out of it, Maggie. Get your butt into the studio and begin.” Her voice rang in my mind loud and clear, even now as she lay in her grave. Following orders, I bent over my sketchpad and began.
Four hours later I straightened and looked up at the clock. Damn, it was five-thirty and I was sweaty and smeared with smudges of charcoal and remnants of clay. Stepping back a few feet, I studied the unfinished sculpture. Nothing clear had emerged, but I felt calmer and stronger than I had in days. I wasn’t surprised to find myself taking refuge in my work. I gently wrapped the sculpture and left the room.
Jumping into the shower, I dunked my head under a stream of hot water and scoured my mud-crusted arms and hands with a soft bristly brush. My body was tinged pink when I was done. I turned off the water and toweled myself down. Standing in front of my closet, I reached for my favorite summer skirt in a light floral pattern that skimmed my thighs and fell a few inches above my knees. I pulled on a white, scoop-necked t-shirt with cap sleeves, cinching it with a thin leather belt. I ran a brush through my hair and left it alone, knowing from past experience that if I played with it too much, it would stick out like a mushroom cloud. On a lark, I swiped some mascara on my lashes, brushed on a little rouge, and painted my lips with a flesh-toned color. Slipping into a pair of strappy sandals, I studied myself in the mirror. I wasn’t going to win any fashion awards, but at least I wouldn’t embarrass myself.
At the brisk knock, I ran down the hallway, knowing it was Villari. He was right on time—nothing less than I expected.
“Hey,” I said as I pulled open the door.
He stood perfectly still. The only things that moved were his eyes, which swept up and down my body.
“You really should do this more often.”
“Do what?” I asked, confused by his intensity.
“Dress like a girl,” he responded, his eyes twinkling. “Mom is going to love that I’m bringing home a pretty lady.”
I groaned and leaned against the doorframe. “I should have known you would revert to a fifties’ version of male chauvinism.”
He leaned over and ruffled my still-damp hair. “Come on. I told my mother I’d be there around six-thirty. Besides, I’m starving and I’m fairly sure you’re not going to offer me a drink and a small appetizer... something simple you whipped up this afternoon.”
“I don’t do appetizers,” I said, closing and locking the door behind me, “unless it comes already prepared. I do a mean can of peanuts. Besides, I’m not feeling particularly fond of you right now, given the way you’ve shanghaied me into this dinner.”
He dropped his arm around me and chuckled. “You’re going to like my mother, you’ll fall in love with my dad, and the food will be so good you’ll be begging me to bring you back.”
“I seriously doubt it,” I muttered.
“Trust me,” he said, opening the passenger door of his 1990 black Bronco.
“That won’t be happening anytime soon,” I said under my breath, my hands fidgeting in my lap, while he walked around the car and got in. He took one look at my face and started chuckling.
“Relax. You look like I’m taking you to meet some kind of medieval Dragon Lady.”
I rolled my shoulders. “Is this a date?”
Turning on the ignition, he glanced over at me. “Well, given that you put on a dress and I changed my jeans and slapped on cologne, I’d say it constitutes a date.” He paused a moment, trying to gauge my reaction. “Is that a problem?”
“Not really. I’m just surprised that a detective is allowed to date a suspect. Seems kind of odd to me... sort of a conflict of interest.”
“I told you this afternoon you were not a suspect, Maggie,” he said quietly.
“But I’m still on the official list, right?” I persisted.
“So is the Pope,” he said dryly, “until the murderer is caught.
“But you’ve still got some unanswered questions, don’t you? The septic tank is in my yard and there’s still the lack of footprints you keep mentioning.”
His eyes met mine. “There are a lot of ways to cover up footprints.” He shifted into reverse. “There’s a fairly good chance they’re underneath the tire tracks made by the Waste Management truck.”
“Then tell me, Villari, why do I keep bumping into you every time I turn around?”
“Because I’m trying to keep you safe.”
Goose bumps rose up on my arms. “Because of the phone call?”
He nodded. “Because of the phone call, because of your close friendship with Elizabeth, because the murderer dumped her in your tank,” he said bluntly. “There’s a connection somewhere, Maggie.”
I must have blanched, because he put his hand over mine. “Look. Despite your less than agreeable personality, you’re starting to grow on me. I don’t want anything to happen to you, and if I have to stick to you like a leech to keep you from going off on some wild-ass goose chase, I will.”
On that note, he backed out of the driveway.
He was right about one thing. The Dragon Lady could cook. The pasta was to die for, obviously homemade. I could imagine her afternoons, flour up to her elbows, hands hidden in a deep round ceramic bowl, kneading enough dough to feed an army, while her spicy red tomato sauce, redolent with garlic and basil, bubbled in the background.
No doubt there were similarities between Villari’s family and that of my ex-husband, Michael. As soon as the front door opened, I remembered the same round of rambunctious kissing and squeezing that used to suffocate me in its blanket of goodwill. I was always uncomfortable with that initial greeting and got into the habit of leaving something in the car so I’d always be rummaging in the backseat when Michael’s mother teared up at the first glimpse of her son. By the time I finally climbed ou
t and shuffled to the front door, some of the steam would be gone, and the hellos would have simmered down to a level I could handle.
Villari must have felt my discomfort because he reached for my hand as we walked up the sidewalk, less out of affection than to keep me from bolting as the clan swooped down. He held fast as they crowded around us and at one point, curled his arm around my waist.
And then, like Moses parting the Red Sea, the group of aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, and neighbors split in two, quieted down to a whisper, and lined the sidewalk like soldiers readying for inspection. Standing at the top of the stairs was a petite lady with a strong dignified posture, gray-white hair, and warm mocha-colored eyes. I let out a small sigh of relief. There was no rush to pull my cheeks like taffy and no big bosoms.
Proceeding down the stairs as regally as a queen, she stopped in front of me. A small grin played at the edges of her lips.
“So you are giving the Italians a second chance?”
A slow flush crept across my face. In disbelief, I turned to Villari. “What did you tell her?”
He shrugged. “Only that Italians were your least favorite ethnic group.”
I could have sworn a collective gasp went up in the peanut gallery.
“You didn’t.”
“No, he didn’t.” Mrs. Villari reached up and gently slapped her son’s cheek. “Stop teasing.” She turned back to me. “Actually, he said that you had a bad experience with your first marriage.” She tucked my hand into the crook of her elbow and started up the steps, glancing over her shoulder.
“Turn her loose, Samuel. I won’t let her get away,” she said, winking at her oldest son.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, but one thing for sure, I didn’t have any choice but to follow his mother past the line of people and into the house. We walked through the living room—a small area comfortably dwarfed by a large, worn leather couch the color of brandy with colorful throw pillows. Then she guided me down a hallway lined with varying framed photographs of relatives and children at different stages of growth. Without being told, I knew where we were heading. A thick, rich fragrance floated through the air, hooked my nose and tugged me into the kitchen. Along with Villari’s mother. She pulled out a wooden chair and gestured for me to sit down.” Would you like tea or coffee?”
“Whatever you have would be fine.”
She turned towards me, a smile softening her face. “Let me tell you a little secret, Maggie. It is Maggie, right?”
I nodded mutely, feeling like a child set in a time-out chair waiting to be lectured.
“My Samuel does not often bring his women friends home.”
I started to object to the term, but thought better of it.
“He says it’s because I wouldn’t approve of them, but I think it’s more that he doesn’t approve of them himself. Anyway, the point is, he brought you here because he likes you and he wants you to get to know us and for us to get to know you. That can’t happen if you hide behind politeness. So,” she repeated, “What would you like to drink? Tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble, please.” She raised her eyebrow. Villari had obviously inherited his expressive eyebrow from his mother.
“Okay, okay,” I said, holding my hands up in surrender. “Make that definitely coffee. The truth is, I hate tea, any kind of tea, especially healthy tea from the herbal family with weird names like raspberry zinger, or something soothing like chamomile or even plain green tea, which sounds like someone is boiling up a bucket of grass.” I tried to stem my nervous rambling, but the words had a mind of their own and kept tumbling out.
Crap. I was doing that babbling thing again. Not that I was surprised—it’s been the bane of my existence since I was a child. The worst part is the lousy timing. A torrent of words spews out of my mouth at the most inconvenient times—like at the end of a sad movie when the main character utters her dying words. While the rest of the audience is bawling into wadded-up tissues, I’m blathering on about movie trivia. Whenever the situation calls for a respectful silence, I can guarantee that somewhere in the background my voice is providing an irritating drone. I fully suspect that if I ever succumb to the lure of marriage again, a very big if, I’ll be too busy chattering incoherently to make it through the vows.
Mrs. Villari chuckled as she placed two heavy mugs on the table and filled them with coffee. “No one can accuse you of not being honest.” She slid the pot back into its holder, lifted a small pitcher shaped like a Holstein cow out of the refrigerator, and placed it on the table. “Help yourself,” she said, pointing to the cream. “Sugar’s in the bowl.” She sat down next to me, leaned back against the chair, and closed her eyes.
“This is the first opportunity I’ve had to sit down all day,” she said, cupping her hands around the mug.
“Mrs. Villari, I could come back another day if you’d rather not have company tonight.”
She opened her eyes. “Are you kidding me? This is my only chance to get any rest around here.”
I must have looked dubious, because she put down her coffee and laid her hand on my forearm. “Honey, the family thinks I’m in here grilling you, asking questions about whether or not you’re good enough for Sammy... whether you’re strong enough to bear healthy children,” she added, the gleam in her eye twinkling like crazy. “They won’t put one foot into this kitchen until I give the signal. Until then, they’re in the living room interrogating Sammy and making his life a little bit miserable.”
“The signal?” I repeated dumbly.
Blowing across the top of her cup, she took a sip. “As soon as I start pulling out the plates and banging the lids on the pots, everyone will come running in to help... and to find out whether you survived the interrogation.”
I pushed my hair off my face. “Isn’t this a little old-fashioned, like putting the cart before the horse?” I asked, a kernel of anger taking root in my stomach. She looked at me questioningly.
“Well, I’m not dating your son, you know. Not really. Not in the normal sense. I mean, I just met him the other day,” I said emphatically. “The truth is, Villari has been a regular pain in the, uh... behind, if you really want to know the truth, practically throwing a half nelson around my neck and dragging me over here to see if you recognized me from church this morning.” Another avalanche of words threatened to descend. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate being invited to dinner, but your son is less than subtle when he wants something. He has been a monkey on my back since the death of my neighbor, which I’m sure he told you about, scaring me to death by practically accusing me of being the murderer.” I took a deep breath. “So ‘grilling’ me is totally ridiculous, because Villari and I can’t bear to be in the same room with each other longer than five minutes.”
“A good sign,” Mrs. Villari said quietly. “A very good sign.”
“What?” I asked incredulously.
“There’s a strong fire in you and that’s what Sammy needs. He’s very used to running the show, especially at work, and he brings that home with him, and before you know it, he’s bossing the family around. That’s bad enough, but then he never lets go of his work, he never relaxes because there’s no difference between his job and his home. He needs someone that will force him to leave his work back at the station.”
My mouth gaped open. Was the woman completely deaf? “I’m not the girl for him, Mrs. Villari. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She stood and smiled and patted my shoulder. “Mm- hmmm,” she murmured. “I think the lasagna is ready. Hungry?”
As if on cue, a dark shadow filled the doorway. “You’ve hidden the girl out here long enough,” a booming voice proclaimed.
A large, broad-shouldered man with gray hair and sparkling dark eyes stepped into the kitchen and filled it with his energy. He reminded me of Santa Claus—large and robust, with a laugh that warmed the room. The room seemed to shrink around him. He walked over to the stove and patted his wife’s bottom as s
he bent over to check the lasagna in the oven. She swatted his hand away as she shut the oven door and then twisted around, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek. Chuckling, he turned to me. “No wonder Sam brought you home. You’re pretty as a picture. Let me get a look at you.” Bending at the waist, he grabbed both of my hands and pulled me out of the chair.
“She’s too skinny, Sammy.”
Startled, I looked over my shoulder to see Villari leaning against the doorjamb. “I keep telling her that, but the woman claims she can’t cook, and judging by her weight, I think she’s telling the truth.”
“May I say something?” I asked, defensiveness edging my voice.
“Stop her now, Dad,” Villari said, coming into the room. “I’ve been on the end of that tone before and it’s not a pleasant experience.”
Papa Villari, or whatever he was called, looked knowingly into my eyes and gently squeezed my hands. “So have I, son... from your mama.” He smiled down at me. “Don’t take offense, Maggie. All this noise and bluster is just our way of telling you that we’re glad you’re joining us for dinner.”
I had to smile. “You’ve been charming your way out of difficult situations for a long time, haven’t you?”
He grinned back. “Pretty damn good at it, aren’t I?”
“The best I’ve ever seen.”
He chuckled again, a deep rumble in his chest. “Sammy, you’d better take her into the other room to talk with the rest of the family. If you don’t leave soon, I may have to divorce your mother and marry this one.”
Dinner was loud and noisy and crazy with people talking all at once and becoming miraculously quiet whenever I spoke. I was definitely being scrutinized, and Villari—or “Sammy,” as they called him—seemed to love every minute of it. I tried sneaking looks at him from the corner of my eye, but the man had that damned sixth sense and caught me every time. In between bites of pasta or laughing with his relatives, he’d turn his head and send me a quick wink.
It wasn’t until the tiramisu` was served with coffee that the evening took a turn for the worse.
Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) Page 12
