Cheddar Off Dead

by Julia Buckley

  “If this were a reality TV show, I would watch it,” I murmured to Rosalie.

  Rosalie nodded solemnly. “I do watch it, every two weeks. Since she was about three.”

  The girl and her grandfather were oblivious to our discussion, because now they had descended into a full-blown argument in Italian. It went on for about five minutes, at which point Giovanna burst into stormy tears. Nonno appeared at my shoulder, shoving Giovanna’s stylist out of the way and hugging his granddaughter around the neck. Then suddenly she was laughing, and so was he, and they pretended to strangle each other while they watched their reflections in the mirror.

  I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Serafina appeared on my other side and settled into her chair. “See, Lilah? We provide everything, including the theater!”

  Then everyone in the place was laughing. Apparently Serafina was seen as quite the wag in their circle. I laughed, too, and then Rosalie’s gentle hands were persuading my eyes to close gently, gradually, and I didn’t open them until she had started her blow dryer. “I put in some layers,” she said. “Nothing short—just something to give you bounce and fullness. This way, even if you wear it straight, it will be fluffy. You see?”

  I did see. It was transforming under her hands into movie star hair.

  “And then, if you want to curl it slightly, or put little kinks into it, it will fall perfectly into place.” She moved deftly with a curling iron, her hand darting in and out of my hair.

  “I could never do that,” I said. “I just let my hair drip-dry.”

  “Hmm,” Rosalie said, her face disapproving. She kept at it, clicking and clacking with the curling iron, moving with great speed and dexterity. “You should come to me always,” she said. “I understand your hair.”

  “Okay.” I looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized the blonde woman who looked back at me, perfectly coiffed and elegant, but sexy, too. “Thank you, Rosalie. I will definitely be back. My current hairdresser makes me look like a dandelion.”

  “Hmm,” said Rosalie. “Okay. You wait now while I do Serafina.”

  “Sure.” I moved to the bench and sat next to old Nonno. He had returned, mollified by his Giovanna, who had sworn a few more times that she loved him.

  “Your granddaughter is beautiful,” I said.

  He turned to smile at me; his face was slightly grizzled with gray hair, but he had surprisingly arresting eyes, which were also gray. “Yes, she is a beauty. Like a rose—full of thorns and pain, but so beautiful and irresistible.”

  “I heard that, Nonno.” Giovanna stuck her tongue out at him in the long mirror.

  Nonno shrugged. “You see?”

  “Families can be complicated,” I said.

  “Yes. You have a big family?”

  “Just my parents, my brother, and me. And now Serafina, who married my brother.”

  Nonno nodded. “And no husband for you? Why is this?”

  I did not like the direction of the conversation. “I don’t need a husband.”

  He smiled. “A woman as beautiful as you? You should be on your fourth husband by now. Like Elizabeth Taylor.”

  In spite of myself, I giggled. “I do not aspire to be like Elizabeth Taylor. Although she was lovely. And so was Richard Burton.”

  “Yes. The man she could not do without, but she could not live with him, either.”

  “I get that.”

  “You have a Richard Burton?”

  I sighed. “Long story, Nonno. Is it okay if I call you that? I’ve never heard that name before.”

  “It means ‘Grandfather,’” he said. Then he stuck out his hand, which I shook automatically. “My name is Rick. I own the salon here”—he waved his hands vaguely at the room—“and I live on the top floor—at least at this time of year.”

  That explained the slippers. “That’s a good setup. You can check on your business without really leaving your house.”

  “Yes. It is handy. But only one of my businesses.”

  “Wow. You are an entrepreneur. I guess that’s how you’ll pay for the wedding,” I joked.

  He threw his head back and opened his mouth, but no laugh came out. It was a pantomime of a laugh. Then he was serious again. “You live in Chicago? Here in the building?”

  “No—I live in Pine Haven. I’m just visiting my brother.”

  “Ah, lovely Pine Haven. I also have a residence there.”

  “My parents would just love you. They’re Realtors. They’d probably try to get you to upgrade.”

  He nodded, as though he had already discussed this with my parents. “That’s not a bad idea. Always something to consider. Do you have a card for them?”

  “Uh—yes.” I retrieved the purse I had set at my feet and found a card in my wallet. “Here you go.”

  He studied it with impressive attention. “Daniel Drake. And you are?”

  “My name is Lilah Drake.”

  “Lilah Drake of Pine Haven.” He smiled at me with avuncular charm. I caught a whiff of scented tobacco. The phone rang at the front desk, and Balbina answered.

  “I don’t know—I would have to ask our owner, Mr. Donato. Please hold.” Then she launched into a question in Italian, which began with, “Enrico, per piacere . . .”

  He answered her in Italian. A feeling of unease began to spread through me. Enrico. Mr. Donato. Someone had just used that name. . . .

  “Oh no,” I said aloud.

  He raised a thick pair of salty eyebrows. “Is something wrong?”

  “You—I—nothing. Serafina, may I speak with you?”

  She met my eyes in the long mirror and saw my distress. “Nonno, don’t frighten Lilah with your war stories. She witnessed a terrible thing yesterday.”

  I opened my mouth, shocked at her comment, and for the second time I was surrounded by women, this time firing questions at me, some in Italian, some in English. The gist of it was that they wanted to know what I had witnessed.

  Serafina seemed to realize for herself that she had said too much. She called the women to her and spoke in soft Italian, apparently trying to downplay her comment. Enrico Donato, the very man that Parker had told me to avoid, was looking at me with shrewd eyes. Moments earlier I had seen him as a cuddly grandfather. Now all I saw was the intelligence in his face, the largeness of his hands.

  He spoke to me, so low that no one else could hear. “You are from Pine Haven, and Serafina says you saw something. I think I can guess what you witnessed. I have seen the local news. Something that happened yesterday, right in the open, right in that town. A shooting, was it not?”

  I was trapped; my only defense was offense. “What would you know about it?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing, I am afraid.”

  “I just realized who you are. So I may as well say this: from what I understand, the dead man owed you money. Perhaps a great deal.”

  He sat up straighter in his seat, his face weirdly interested—almost pleased. “I am sorry? Did you not just meet me? I am curious to hear how you would know this.”

  “I didn’t know you until Balbina said your name. I was told that you were a gambler and that Brad Whitefield owed you money.” I looked into his gray eyes and saw significant surprise, with a tinge of respect.

  “And who might have told you that? And why would they have told you, a pretty young lady who was, what—in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “Never mind. How did you happen to think about the shooting just now? Is it because you were there?”

  Now he looked extremely amused. “My dear, calm yourself. Your little hands are shaking.”

  I slid my hands under my legs. “Answer my question.”

  He feigned seriousness. “I’m not sure what you heard about me, but I assure you that I was not near young Brad yesterday. I was most sorry to hear of his death. Certainly i
t had nothing to do with me.”

  “Did he owe you money?”

  “I suppose that is between him and me.”

  I nodded. “Well, just so you know, I didn’t see anything yesterday. Only the aftermath.”

  Now he really was serious. “You are so convinced that I was in this place, doing this terrible thing. Why? Who has convinced you?”

  Now it was my turn to shrug. “I suppose that is between him and me.”

  Enrico Donato laughed. “You are a spirited woman, like my granddaughter there. But perhaps you will pass on a message to your informant—I do not involve myself in these things, not anymore. I am an old man now, no? I live in quiet retirement. I leave gambling and quibbling over debts to the young.” A brief shadow passed across his face.

  “Do you have a son, Mr. Donato?”

  He stood up and put out his hand. I shook it, mainly out of politeness. “This has been a most interesting conversation, Miss Drake.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  Giovanna appeared in front of us, her hair a glorious red halo around her curious face. “I’m finished, Nonno. What are you guys talking about? Are you boring her with your war stories?”

  “I am not boring her, no.”

  His face was placid as he took out his wallet, apparently in preparation for paying at the front counter. “Miss Drake, I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me, nor do I know what happened to our friend. I hope that you have a lovely Christmas.”

  I nodded, and he moved away with Giovanna, who was whispering something in his ear. I kept my eye on him until he was gone, then whipped out my phone and texted Parker: I just met Enrico Donato.

  About thirty seconds later I got one back that said, What? There in half an hour.

  Then Serafina was standing and fluffing her even-more-gorgeous hair, and the two of us moved to the front to pay, as Donato had done minutes earlier.

  I promised Rosalie that I would, indeed, be returning, and then we left Rosalie’s and traveled back toward the elevator, at which point I began hissing at Serafina, asking why she had mentioned my traumatic day, and had she known that Nonno was Enrico Donato?

  “Oh! I suppose I have heard his first name before, but I didn’t know he was the man Parker spoke of. I’m sorry, Lilah! But old Nonno is harmless as a fly. He’s very sweet—and he dotes so much on Giovanna, his youngest grandchild.”

  “I don’t even know what to say. Parker is going to kill both you and me, assuming that the mob doesn’t kill me first,” I huffed.

  We had reached the door of her apartment; she turned to me now and said, “Did you get the impression that he would harm you?”

  “No,” I said.

  Serafina nodded, turning the key and letting us in. “He is just a nice man. The police, they—what is it called? Jump to ideas.”

  “Jump to conclusions.”

  “Yes. Parker is too busy, anyway, to—”

  “He said he’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “Oh.” She set down her purse and took off her coat, which she slung carelessly on the couch. If I knew my neat brother, he would hang it up when he got home. “Lilah, before he gets here, could you do me a favor?”

  I was still feeling upset with her. Mick loped up to me with his usual friendly greeting, and I petted his ears. “I suppose,” I said.

  “I have a couple of dresses that I don’t want anymore. I will give them to someone at work, or to Goodwill, unless you want them. Would you try them on for me?”

  I sighed. I wanted to call work, find out what was happening, and get in touch with some of my secret clients. “Um—okay, really quickly.”

  She clapped her hands and disappeared down a hallway where, apparently, they had a clothing closet. Then she returned with the dresses. She handed me the first one—a winter-white pullover made of soft mohair. I eyed it dubiously. “I don’t think this would look so great on me,” I said. “And I’d have to pull it over my nice new hair.”

  She was already pushing me toward the bathroom. “I think it will look amazing on you. Just try it on.”

  With a loud sigh I went into their large white-walled loo and stripped out of my jeans and sweater, then pulled on the dress and fluffed my hair back into place. The shade of white looked surprisingly good against my blonde locks. “I can’t really see it,” I said.

  “Come out here; I have a full-length mirror in the hallway.”

  I emerged, and Serafina gasped. “Oh, I love it! It is so perfect on you, Lilah!”

  I moved to the mirror she pointed out, and my mouth dropped open. Never had I realized how many curves I possessed until I slipped on the white dress. I turned this way and that, admiring my form and the lovely softness of the material. “Wow. Where do you shop? Sexy Women R Us?”

  Serafina tinkled out another happy laugh. “I like feminine things. Wait, don’t take it off. I have a necklace that is so perfect.” She jogged away. She needn’t have worried; I had no intention of removing the dress, perhaps ever. Between my new hairstyle and this amazing clothing, I was feeling like a new woman.

  A knock sounded on the door; I knew it was probably Parker. “I’ll get it,” I called, and I jogged to the door, peeking first through the peephole to see Parker’s somber face. I would have thought the man never smiled if it hadn’t been for that one evening in the distant past. . . .

  I opened the door, and Parker blinked at me. “Lolla,” he gurgled.

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Lilah. Are you going out?”

  “What?”

  “I said you need to stay in, Lilah. I wasn’t joking—”

  “I am staying in. Do you mean this?” I pointed at the dress. “Serafina just asked me to try it on. And I got a new hairdo.”

  He was glaring now. “I told you not to leave; where did you go?”

  “We didn’t leave the building. The salon is on the first floor. What do you think of my new look?”

  Parker’s eyes flicked away from me, but not before I’d seen some admiration. “Very nice. Tell Serafina you want to keep—that dress.”

  “Thank you, I will. Come in. It’s just Fina and me for the time being.” I led the way into the little living room.

  Serafina emerged, smiling, and I said, “Do you two remember each other?”

  Parker nodded, giving Serafina a brief wave, then taking off his coat and hanging it over a chair. He looked from her to his little laptop bag, from which he took his ubiquitous computer. He did not glance my way again.

  His face had gone back to its scowling norm, and he said, as he opened up his computer file, “Now would you two like to explain to me how you ended up talking to the very man I suggested might be dangerous?”

  Serafina and I both rushed to explain, taking turns, how we had merely wanted our hair done, and how Fina had not realized that old Nonno, whom she knew only as a customer’s grandfather, was the man of whom Parker had spoken.

  Parker typed and glared. “It seems like more than a coincidence.”

  Fina shook her head. “He owns the salon; it is one of his many businesses. He has a home here in this building. He sits down in his place of business every two weeks, watching his granddaughter get her hair done. And some other times he goes down there, as well. He likes being around all the ladies, I think.”

  I leaned toward him. “I thought you said you were going to talk to some FBI guy. What did he say?”

  “It was a she, actually. And she said that in fact, despite their suspicions of Donato, he seems to have retired from active involvement, shall we say.”

  “He said that, too. He said he leaves these matters of gambling and money to the younger generation. I asked if he had a son, and he looked sort of disturbed. It made me think that if someone related to him did this, he was not aware of it. But it bothered him that I already knew h
is name. That really threw him.”

  “Did you tell him the police were investigating him?”

  “No. I said I wasn’t going to tell him my source because he wouldn’t tell me his.”

  Parker’s lip twitched momentarily. Then he typed something.

  “He told me I had nothing to fear from him,” I said. “I suppose I can believe that. He was just this little old grandfather. He was wearing slippers.”

  Parker’s expression said he wasn’t convinced that Donato was harmless.

  I was about to protest some more, but my cell phone rang. “Oh geez,” I said. “It’s probably Esther calling. I was going to call this morning.” I grabbed my purse, retrieved the phone, and clicked it on.

  “Hello?”

  “Lilah, la mia bella!”

  “Angelo?” I cried. My ex-boyfriend had not called me on the phone in more than a year. I wasn’t sure how I felt about hearing his voice. We had spoken briefly a couple of months earlier, when he came to my house to discuss the murder, and the fact that he was seemingly under police suspicion. His visit had been almost pleasant, and we had managed to be civil to one another, almost like friends. Perhaps that was why he had felt emboldened to send me the article about his new television show. Perhaps we had become friends.

  Parker, upon hearing Angelo’s name, stiffened next to me, but continued to type.

  Angelo’s voice was relatively urgent. “I need to talk to you. You have some time now?”

  “Uh—not really. I have the police here; it’s a long story.”

  “Still about that lady who died at your church?”

  “No, unfortunately. This is a new person who died. Anyway, I should probably call you back, unless you can give me the gist of why you’re calling.” I tried to sound brisk, not wanting to encourage Angelo or anger Parker.

  “Quick, then. I have an opportunity for you to expand your business. I want you to appear on my show tomorrow. Make one of your sweet little recipes—something for the holiday.”

  “Tomorrow? I can’t be ready tomorrow, Angelo!”

  “But think what it would do for you. You can advertise for yourself, or for this new catering company. My show already has the high viewership, and good reviews. Don’t pass it up!”