Betrayed: A Rosato & DiNunzio Novel (Rosato & Associates Book 13)

by Lisa Scottoline

  Aunt Barb asked, “Iris, is something the matter? You can take that call if you want to?”

  “No, no,” Iris answered, but she was obviously worried and the phone went silent. She jumped to her feet and hoisted her tote bag to her shoulder. “Barb, I go work now.”

  Aunt Barb blinked. “But you don’t have to be there until three thirty. It’s only two, isn’t it?”

  “I go, Barb.” Iris forced a jittery smile and waved at the table, backing away. “Bye, nice meetin’ you.”

  “You, too!” Judy gave her a wave, wondering what was bothering her.

  “Good-bye!” Aunt Barb called after her. “Let me know if you need anything or if I can help.”

  “Bye-bye!” Iris turned and hurried from the backyard, and Judy waited until Iris was gone to turn to her mother.

  “What a story, huh, Mom?”

  Judy’s mother answered, “She’s illegal.”

  “Undocumented,” Aunt Barb corrected, bristling.

  “Semantics.” Judy’s mother scoffed. “You can go to jail for employing an illegal. I know, I looked it up online.”

  “Aunt Barb, Iris works for you?” Judy asked, newly confused. She had assumed that Iris was her aunt’s friend, not hired help. Her aunt was a landscape architect and didn’t earn that much, and since Uncle Steve’s death, she’d had to sell their big house in Unionville and downsize to the rental she lived in now.

  “Yes, she works for me part-time.” Aunt Barb turned to Judy, touching her arm. “Sorry, honey, I kept it private, I guess because of her status. She used to clean houses, but now she works at one of the mushroom growers.”

  “How does she work for them if she doesn’t have any papers?” Judy started thinking like a lawyer, an occupational hazard.

  “The big mushroom growers like Phillips hire only workers with papers, but some of the independents don’t. There’s a lot of undocumented workers in Chester County, in the mushroom industry and horse farms.”

  “When did she start working for you?”

  “As long as you’ve known about her.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “When your uncle got sick, I hired an agency to clean house and she came, every week. One day she mentioned to me that she could weed for me, too. I hadn’t gotten to it, taking care of your uncle.” Aunt Barb frowned, pained. “I thought that was so nice, that she noticed the garden was being neglected. I hated looking out the window and seeing the weeds popping up. She began to care for it, and she did a wonderful job, and during chemo, she brought me chocolate milkshakes and cheese goldfish because I had a craving for them. There was a time when that was all I could keep down and—”

  “She’s not even a nurse,” Judy’s mother interrupted.

  “I don’t need a nurse. I just need someone I can rely on.”

  Judy’s mother scoffed. “You could have called me, Judy, or any one of your friends from work, like Colleen Connor. We would have helped.”

  “Colleen’s busy with young kids, and Iris has become a friend.” Aunt Barb gestured at the platter of chocolate chip cookies. “She baked cookies because she knew I was having my family in. She cares about me.”

  Judy’s mother rolled her eyes. “Stop paying her and see how much she cares.”

  Aunt Barb pursed her lips. “I pay her, but she cares.”

  “She doesn’t pay taxes, none of them do. They burden the system.”

  “She’d love to become a citizen, but she can’t. She’s not a political issue, she’s a person.” Aunt Barb raised her voice, though it sounded reedy and thin. “She goes to church every Sunday, and actually, I go with her. I began going when Steve got sick, and it comforted me.”

  “What?” Judy’s mother arched an eyebrow. “You go to a Spanish church?”

  Judy cringed. “Mom, don’t—”

  “Judy, please, stay out of it,” her mother shot back. “This is between Barb and me.”

  Judy clammed up, torn between disagreeing with her mother and upsetting her aunt, their sisterly disagreements in the very DNA of sibling rivalry.

  Aunt Barb pursed her lips. “Yes, the congregation is mostly Latino, but so what? Both priests, Father Keenan and Father Vega, have welcomed me. They’re kind and wonderful people.”

  Judy’s mother frowned. “So you’re not a Protestant anymore? You’re Catholic now?”

  “Do you have to label it?” Aunt Barb shot back, angering. “Nothing gets you to church like a cancer diagnosis, and now I have one of my own. Are you seriously blaming me? And why is it any business of yours, how or where I pray? It’s a very vibrant congregation. In fact, they performed 467 baptisms last year, the most in the Archdiocese.”

  Judy’s mother pursed her lips. “Sorry if I’m not overjoyed that they have so many children, because they’ll be in the schools, which I’ll have to pay for.”

  “That’s not what’s bothering you, Delia. Not really.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Bull.” Aunt Barb turned to face Judy, her thin skin mottled with emotion. “Your mother and I had a fight before you came today, because I would like Iris to help me recuperate after my mastectomy. Your mother wants to do it instead, but I think she should go home after the mastectomy.”

  Judy’s mother pursed her lips. “Iris isn’t family.”

  Aunt Barb frowned. “She’s a friend.”

  “Stop saying that. Friends have things in common.”

  “We do.” Aunt Barb threw up her hands. “We’re about the same age, both widows, no children, and we love to garden and bake. She’s teaching me Spanish, and I’m teaching her English. We have fun, and I can depend on her.”

  Judy’s mother snorted. “You can depend on me, Barb. When have you not been able to depend on me?”

  Judy couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, enough, let’s not fuss. Aunt Barb, I think we can all help, but either way, we should make a truce right here and now. No more quarreling. We need to pull together. Don’t you agree, ladies?”

  Judy’s mother fell stone silent.

  Aunt Barb only looked worriedly away, where Iris had gone.

  Chapter Four

  After dinner, Judy ducked out of the kitchen to make some phone calls, leaving her mother and Aunt Barb at the kitchen table over mugs of tea. The afternoon had passed without event, and their interactions had been limited to getting ready for the hospital and making the small talk that came easily to blood relatives. Judy couldn’t help but sense that Aunt Barb’s illness loomed over their heads all day and she had learned from her experience with her uncle that a cancer diagnosis changed the very air in a room, present but invisible. She’d learned, too, that for all the upbeat chatter about clear nodes and early detection, cancer could be cruelly unpredictable; her Uncle Steve’s lymphocytic leukemia had been in remission when it morphed like a shape-shifter into the deadly Richter’s Syndrome, striking him down within weeks. She prayed she wouldn’t lose her aunt to the disease.

  Judy tried to shake off her anxiety but couldn’t, and she headed into the living room for the couch, seeing Aunt Barb’s hand everywhere. The living room was tiny but super-cozy, with a loveseat and an easy chair with faded chintz slipcovers, piled with woven jacquard blankets that she collected. Her framed floral needlepoints covered the walls, which were of white plaster, and her gardening books filled the white-painted shelves. A rustic brick fireplace with a blackened surround left a permanently charred, woodsy smell in the air.

  Judy slid her phone out of her back pocket, scrolled to her phone log, and pressed the number to return Linda Adler’s call. It rang and rang, but the call went to voicemail and she left a message. Next she pressed in the number for her boyfriend Frank, whom she had already called on the drive to her aunt’s, but he hadn’t called back. He liked Aunt Barb, and Judy knew he would be upset by the news about her cancer, which was why she hadn’t left it on his voicemail or sent him a text.

  “What’s up, babe!” Frank shouted, when the call connected. The ba
ckground was noisy shouting and laughing, punctuated by the thwap thwap thwap of basketballs hitting a gym floor.

  “Where are you? Did you get my messages?” Judy tried to swallow her annoyance. He hadn’t listened to her messages, because he never did, which drove her crazy.

  “I can’t, I’m filling in on a round-robin tournament!”

  “You’re not supposed to be playing basketball.” Judy didn’t bother to disguise her dismay. Frank had broken his hand on the job and was wearing a cloth brace for two more weeks.

  “Don’t sweat it, babe! It’s not a problem!”

  “Frank, think. Of course it’s a problem. It’s crazy.”

  “Don’t worry! I know what I’m doing! I shoot with my right hand!”

  “Are you serious? What if your hand gets bumped? Or you fall? What about your brace?”

  “I removed it! That’s why it’s removable!” Frank burst into laughter, which got drowned out by wild cheering. “It’s an emergency!”

  “A basketball emergency?”

  “Relax, Mom!”

  “I am relaxed.” Judy tried not to act like his mother, but it was difficult when he acted like a child. “And what about the dog? Could the vet dip her?”

  “I couldn’t take her because the guys needed me, Joey got sick! I can’t talk now! We’re about to hit the court! Call you later!”

  “No, wait, listen.” Judy worried she would be overheard by her mother or Aunt Barb, so she got up and walked around the couch, cupping her hand over her phone. “I won’t be home tonight. I’m staying at Aunt Barb’s—”

  “What did you say? I can’t hear you!”

  Judy went to the front door, twisted the knob, and went outside, closing the door behind her. It had gotten dark and cold, but she hugged herself. “Aunt Barb’s cancer is stage II—”

  “Babe!” Frank shouted, impatient. “Can’t you talk louder? There’s too much noise! I can’t hear you, I gotta go!”

  “This is important!” Judy gritted her teeth. “I want to talk to you about—”

  “Sorry, babe, I really gotta go! We’re up! Text me!” The line went dead.

  Judy pressed END, but wasn’t ready to go inside. She sank onto the front step, holding on to her phone while Frank’s photo faded from the screen. She eyed the sky, in thought. There was no moon tonight, only a starless black blanket that illuminated nothing. She’d learned today that life really was short, and it wasn’t just a cliché. Her biological clock was ticking, and she wondered if she was as happy as she used to be with Frank. He was so terrific and fun when times were easy, but in the rough patches, he seemed to fade away. She didn’t know if he was selfish or if she’d just trained him wrong, being basically independent. And she didn’t know if she had to do anything about it, necessarily.

  Suddenly, her attention was drawn by a black police cruiser driving slowly down the street, its high beams on. It paused at the houses, then stopped in front of her aunt’s house.

  Judy straightened up, surprised. The cruiser’s powerful engine rumbled into silence, and two uniformed officers emerged, alighting from the driver’s side and passenger seats. The cops met in front of her aunt’s house, then walked up her walkway toward the front door. Judy couldn’t see their features in the dim light, but they made similar silhouettes, about the same size and build. She rose to greet them. “Hello, Officers, can I help you?”

  “Good evening, I’m Officer Bart Hoffman, and this is my partner Officer Paul Ramirez of the East Grove Police Department. Are you Barb Moyer?”

  “No,” Judy answered. “That’s my aunt.”

  “Is she here?” Officer Hoffman’s jaw set in a grim line, but that was all Judy could see of him under the patent bill of his cap.

  “Yes, she’s inside.”

  “We’ll need to talk to her.”

  Chapter Five

  The policemen stood in front of the couch, their black Windbreakers and thick black gun-and-radio belts incongruous in the chintzy vibe of the cottage. Both men had taken off their black caps and held them almost identically, in the crook of their elbows.

  Judy gestured. “Aunt Barb, this is Officer Hoffman and Officer Ramirez. Gentlemen, Barb Moyer, and my mother, Delia Carrier.”

  “Ladies, pleased to meet you.” Officer Hoffman was the older of the two, forty-something with cool slate-blue eyes and a skinny face, his hair buzzed into an old-school cut. Officer Ramirez was much younger, with warm brown eyes, a wide-open face, and light acne scars pitting his cheeks. He was bald but it looked as if he shaved his head, not came by it naturally.

  “So, Officers,” Aunt Barb said, blinking. “What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to talk to you for a moment or two.” Officer Hoffman nodded. “Do you mind if we sit down?”

  “Not at all. Please, have a seat.” Aunt Barb eased into the club chair, and Judy stood next to her, hovering protectively at her elbow.

  Officer Hoffman cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but we have to inform you that we found Rita Lopez deceased this evening, in her vehicle in East Grove. The coroner hasn’t yet determined the cause of death, but it appears that it was a natural death, a heart attack. Please accept our condolences.”

  For a minute, nobody said anything. Officer Hoffman looked tense. Aunt Barb blinked. Judy didn’t recognize the name, so she stood mute next to her mother.

  “This is awkward, Officers.” Aunt Barb frowned slightly. “I don’t know anyone named Rita Lopez. Are you sure you have the right house?”

  Officer Hoffman pursed his lips, which were thin. “Your name and address were listed as her emergency contact in a card in her wallet.”

  “I was?” Aunt Barb asked, taken aback. “May I see the card?”

  “Sorry, we don’t have it with us. Hang on a sec.” Officer Hoffman extracted a skinny notebook from his back pocket, then produced a ballpoint pen from inside his Windbreaker. He flipped through the pages of his notebook, then read off a phone number. “Is that your cell-phone number?”

  “Why, yes, it is.”

  Officer Hoffman made another note, then looked up. “The deceased had a Pennsylvania driver’s license in her wallet, under the name Rita Lopez. The photo was a match, but grainy.” He flipped back a few pages in his notepad. “The vehicle she was found in had Pennsylvania plates, TAJ 3039. Is that your friend’s license plate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Officer Hoffman flipped a few pages back again. “The vehicle was registered in Arizona under the name of Anna Martinez, 387 Canary Lane, in Mesa. Do you know anyone by that name, Ms. Moyer?”

  “No, I don’t.” Aunt Barb tugged on her head scarf.

  “It’s possible that Rita Lopez isn’t her real name or the name that you know her by.” Officer Hoffman checked his notebook. “The deceased is a Hispanic female, mid-fifties, with short dark hair. Height about 5'1", weight about 150 pounds. She was wearing an Eagles T-shirt and jeans.”

  “Iris?” Aunt Barb recoiled, her hand flying to her cheek.

  Judy gasped, horrified. She flashed on Iris, wearing her Eagles T-shirt and jeans, then looked over at her mother, whose mouth had dropped open, her lips parted in surprise.

  “Officer. No, wait.” Aunt Barb was shaking her head. “It can’t be Iris. She’s at work now.”

  Officer Hoffman consulted his notebook again. “The deceased was found this evening, at about 8:05 P.M., in a vehicle by the side of the road, on Brandywine Way, facing west. The vehicle was a brown Honda, two-door, 1984.”

  Aunt Barb kept shaking her head. “That’s Iris’s car, but it can’t be her. Somebody must’ve stolen her car.”

  “What is Iris’s last name and her address?”

  “Wait, hold on.” Aunt Barb paused, flushing. “I’m not sure I should tell you that. That’s her personal business.”

  “Did your friend enter the country legally or illegally?”

  “Why?” Aunt Barb pursed her lips.

  “If she entered legally and we know the p
oint of entry, we could check her fingerprints, on file there. Usually the undocumented carry a MICA or a matricula, an identity card from the Mexican consulate, but she didn’t.” Officer Hoffman paused. “Ms. Moyer, we’re not Immigration, we’re the East Grove Police. Our only interest is identifying the deceased, notifying her next of kin, and liaising with the county coroner to return her body to her loved ones.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Judy swallowed hard, listening. She didn’t like Aunt Barb’s lying to the police, but she understood that her aunt was just protecting her friend. She hoped Iris was alive, but even if somebody had stolen Iris’s car, there was no explanation for how they got her clothes, too. Plenty of people in the Philadelphia suburbs wore Eagles’ regalia, but it was too coincidental that her aunt’s name, address, and cell number were on a card in the wallet.

  Judy’s mother returned with a glass of water and offered it to Aunt Barb. “Here we go, honey. Have some.”

  “Thanks.” Aunt Barb set the glass down on the wooden coffee table, untouched.

  “We do need to get a personal ID.” Officer Hoffman hesitated. “We have an email photograph of the deceased, taken at the scene. We can show it to you.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Aunt Barb held out her hand. “Let me see that picture. We can settle this here and now.”

  Judy squeezed her aunt’s arm. “Aunt Barb, let me look instead. You don’t want to see that.”

  “I’m okay.” Aunt Barb faced Officer Hoffman. “Please, let me see the photo.”

  Officer Hoffman exchanged a look with Officer Ramirez, who pulled a BlackBerry from his Windbreaker pocket, hit a few buttons, and presumably downloaded the photo, pausing before he handed it over.

  Aunt Barb accepted the phone and looked down. “No,” she whispered, hushed. “No, it’s not possible. Iris?”

  “Aunt Barb, I’m so sorry.” Judy put an arm around her aunt’s shoulders, feeling a wave of sympathy.

  “Oh no, no, no. This can’t … be.” Aunt Barb burst into tears and buried her face in her hands, dropping the phone.