Cold Moon Dead

by J. M. Griffin

  My day was headed down the toilet . . . into the crapper . . . no doubt about it. Geez, I hate when that happens. Without any further thoughts on the route my life had taken, I stuffed the paint palette, bottles of colors, brushes, and water bin onto the ladder. Once settled on the next-to-the-top rung of the ladder I had dragged to the French doors, I started to paint the final leaves on the wall.

  In my angst, I slopped color down the front of my jeans. Thankfully, it didn’t matter since they were clothes I only used when I painted. A towel hung over the edge of the top step on the ladder. I wiped the paint away and slapped the towel back in place. Would it be too much to expect that, for one day, nothing catastrophic would happen? I considered this while I continued to add detail to the design.

  Not that being in Jabroni’s house was catastrophic in itself, but one never knew what could happen next. I finished the leaves and vines over the top of the door before I added a few more flowers to it.

  Angry words, a man’s and a woman’s, filtered down the stairs from the kitchen above. Voices rose, though I couldn’t make out the words. It must be Mr. and Mrs. Wonderful, I thought, as I heard a door slam shut and a car drive away.

  Within minutes Jabroni came downstairs with a tray that held a cup of coffee and a pastry on a plate. He set it on the coffee table and pointed to it.

  “I brought this sfogliatelle and some fresh coffee for you. My wife just left for her bridge game, and I’ll be leaving soon. How much longer you gonna be?”

  “Not that much longer. About two hours, maybe less.” I eyeballed the clamshell-shaped pastry and my mouth watered. Among Italian pastry, this was my all-time favorite. It had a thin crust ridged in layers similar to that of a clamshell. I knew there’d be a dry filling of ricotta cheese inside, delicately flavored with vanilla. The outside shell would be crispy and crunchy. Powdered sugar topped the delicious confection. I stared at it like it was the only food I’d seen in months.

  Jabroni laughed at my expression and motioned for me to come down off the ladder and enjoy the fare. After his gruff treatment of me upstairs, this was a turnabout in his behavior toward me. I became suspicious over his reasons and what he offered. But let me not be the one to ask a mobster if he were about to poison me. Hell, I wasn’t that stupid.

  “I can see you got good taste in pastry. You also got sense enough to keep your mouth shut, too, eh? Glad to see your father raised a bright kid.” He teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet while I pulled the pastry apart with fingers that shook a tad.

  “Mmm, this is delicious,” I said around a mouth packed full of confectionery splendor.

  “Good, I’m glad you like it. I picked it up this morning on the Hill. You must know the bakery near the club, eh?”

  I nodded and kept chewing.

  “They got the best pastry in Rhode Island. You gotta come up sometime and stop by there. Tell Giuseppe Corelli that I sent you. He’ll treat you right.”

  I nodded and continued to chew.

  Tony flexed his injured arm and then left me alone in the middle of the room with a mouthful of pastry.

  Chapter 8

  Another hour or so passed while I worked quietly. Nothing but silence filtered down from above. I wasn’t sure if Jabroni had left or was taking a nap. The house was so large he could have been anywhere.

  As long as it wasn’t in close proximity to me, I was happy.

  The flower petals were almost finished. Swishing the brush back and forth in the water basin, I cleaned the paint from it. To get a good look at the design, I walked to the back of the room. Overall, it was a lovely floral border with both leaves and vine straggling down onto the door casing and over the French doors.

  This might work in my kitchen, I thought, as I admired my handiwork. Even though I had painted the design that Larry had worked up, I could envision something similar in my own home. I sipped the now-cold coffee and nibbled the last of the sfogliatelle while I glanced around the room. Colors from the draperies, the furniture and wall coverings had come together on the palette. What I’d started painting resulted in a complementary look throughout the room.

  Within minutes, I was back on the ladder to tweak the entire layout with a touch of metallic gold here and there, just enough color to complement the design. As I put the final touch on the last leaf, I heard muffled voices rise in the stillness. I couldn’t tell if they belonged to Jabroni and his doctor or what, but the sounds grew louder.

  After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the yelling stopped and all became quiet once again. I wasn’t alarmed since most Italian families do a lot of yelling. It’s called conversation.

  Unlike the so-called normal families in America, Italian families thrive on a steady diet of passion. This passion includes food, joy, anger, and a host of other stuff. Even watching a football game can evoke mass hysteria that includes lots of yelling, swearing, and sometimes the pounding of fists on the furniture. No big deal for those of us who were brought up that way. It is acceptable behavior, the norm, so to speak.

  The paint had dried, the brushes were clean. I had managed to pack most of the equipment so Larry could pick it up once his health returned. Hefting the aluminum ladder, I carried it across the room to lean it against the closet door.

  With a few feet left to go, I stopped in my tracks when I heard loud shouts, followed by the sound of gunfire. Hell. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The ladder crashed onto the marble-tiled floor. It clanged so loudly the noise rang in my ears, competing with my heartbeat.

  Footsteps slammed against the wood floors above. I could hear feet pound through the house toward me. Luckily, the French doors were handy. I struggled with the slide locks at the top and bottom, fearful that I wouldn’t get out before the gun-toting nutball reached me.

  The footsteps were drawing closer when the French doors suddenly gave way.

  I scrambled outside and raced along the rear of the house, around the corner toward a neighbor’s yard. A fence blocked my passage as I bolted across the space between it and Jabroni’s house. Looking it over, I realized the fence was lower than shoulder height. If I gave it my all, I might vault high enough to get over the top. Glad that I had been graced with long legs, I stopped and backed up.

  The French doors crashed open. I took off as though shot from a cannon. In a matter of seconds, I had flung myself against the high fence with enough lift to get a leg up and over the top. I scrambled over completely and fell into the next yard with a thud.

  The landing was less than spectacular, since a gymnast I will never be. On the ground and puffing hard, I listened intently for sounds of my pursuer. No footsteps could be heard. Instead a low growl caught my attention.

  The noise brought my head around so fast I thought my neck would snap. Damn, just what I needed was for some humongous dog to mistake me for a snack. The thought had just entered my mind when the beast rounded the corner of the house. The creature was fast on my heels as I propelled across the lawn toward the gated fence. The Doberman’s jaws snapped closer and closer as I ran. The material from the edge of my cotton shirt tore as fanged teeth closed over it. I flew through the spring-loaded gate and left the beast behind, along with a strip of my shirttail.

  Fear for my life eliminated any other coherent thought. I couldn’t get to the MINI Cooper without being seen, and I had left the car keys behind anyway. Hiding out in the development was the only possibility.

  Straightening my shoulders, I pulled the torn shirt into place and hurried through the next unfenced yard that came along. Sounds of an approaching car reached me as plump shrubs came into view. Aware that it was the only place to hide, since most of the lawns and yards were well manicured and treeless, I folded myself as tiny as possible and crouched down behind the squat shrubs, directly under the windows of the house.

  The car crawled along the street. I couldn’t make out the driver, but the car was similar, if not the same, to the one that had picked up Jabroni from the police station t
he day before. My adrenaline rush was over. My body sagged, but fear remained.

  I knelt in place until there was no sound except that of the wind. It sighed through the pine trees that bordered the neighborhood. Thank God nobody was home in this development—other than the people who lived across the street from Jabroni, that is.

  Although I worried that my assailant might come back, I stood up on shaky legs and headed back to Jabroni’s house, not sure what else to do. I had no keys with me, no way to get home without Lola’s car, and I was scared—scared shitless, as a matter of fact. It was another stellar day in the life of Lavinia Esposito. Good God, why me?

  These, and more thoughts like them, filtered through my mind as I went back to the scene of the crime. Maybe there was no crime, I thought, or hoped might be a better word. Maybe there had been no gunshot, but only a sound similar to it. “Yeah, get a grip on yourself, Lavinia,” I said out loud, trying to reassure myself. Still, I started to shake again as I reached Jabroni’s house.

  I scooted along the side and rear of the house, planning to enter through the French doors, the same way I had exited. All was quiet, unnervingly so. My curiosity was hard at work though. I couldn’t resist a peek upstairs.

  In stealth mode, I tiptoed across the floor and up the steps. When I reached the top, I stopped to listen before I peered around the corner. Not a sound could be heard from anywhere on the first floor.

  As I passed through the kitchen, I listened intently. The first floor was empty as far as I could tell. Then I reached the study. I could see the top of a man’s head above the rim of the armchair that sat in front of the television showing a picture but no sound. There was no other movement, only figures on the screen moving in silence.

  My heart thumped loudly enough to wake the living, never mind the dead. With slow deliberation and determination, I moved toward the armchair. It was apparent to me what I was about to find. I clung to the hope that the guy was asleep, although I strongly suspected he was dead. What a drag to be right so often.

  When you’re dead, you’re dead. It doesn’t get any simpler than that—or more definite either. The man faced the wide plasma screen, his eyes wide open. A gaping hole in his chest had leaked blood everywhere, my all-time most dreaded sight. It had managed to soak and coagulate over the shirt front of Louie-the-Lug, doctor for the mob. I stared, mesmerized by the sight, as my pastry threatened to make an unannounced return.

  In a flash, my face hung over the kitchen sink where I lost the scrumptious snack Tony Jabroni had brought me. Cold water rushed from the faucet while I splashed my face and rinsed my mouth. This had happened way too often lately for my comfort. I stumbled to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  The guy on the other end of the phone asked for the usual information. I said I had heard a shot fired and left it at that. It was true, sort of. Wiping the phone and the kitchen sink, I realized my prints would be on all the supplies in the lower level of the house. I didn’t really want to take the time to wipe the entire downstairs free of prints. Panic blew my common sense out the window. With my teaching background, I knew I shouldn’t leave the scene, but I simply couldn’t stay and face the questions that would be asked.

  Sirens blared as Lola’s car rolled slowly through the quiet development. There was no sense drawing attention to myself. I had turned the corner onto the next street when a police cruiser flew past with lights on and siren at top volume. I drove away and didn’t look back. It was wrong to do so, but I’d already had a bad day. I saw no sense in making it worse.

  The street turned onto the western end of Scituate Avenue, the country end of Cranston. People wanted a touch of country life, so they moved out to this area and promptly turned it into city surroundings with homes packed thirty feet or so from one another. Then they whined that there were no stores or malls in close proximity. It amazed me.

  In Scituate, three acres is the norm on which to build and there are few developments, thank goodness. I traveled until I hit the Scituate town line and scooted along densely treed roads that bordered the Scituate Reservoir, a body of water that looked more like a group of lakes than the gigantic reservoirs found across the nation. It was beautiful, serene, and peaceful.

  My pulse slowed and tense nerves relaxed a bit as I drove toward Lola’s house.

  Once in her driveway, I cut the motor and sat in silence. When I left the car to climb the stairs a crisp wind chilled my face. I sniffed the fresh cold smells of winter. It was good to be alive. Very good.

  The door swung inward, and I entered the sweet domain. Lola’s house was perfect for one or two people. She had a decorator’s flair. The kitchen decor was food related, which made a person want to eat all the time. Stainless steel pans gleamed where they hung on the walls, their copper bottoms shone like mirrors. Counters glowed in the sun and the kitchen table glistened—except for one or two crumbs of food.

  I grabbed the sponge from the sink and moistened it with water. In a second the spots were gone and the table was pristine, as it should be. I didn’t remember the slop marks from the night before, but then I hadn’t looked real close either. I washed the pan and fork that I’d noticed the night before and put them away. With a shrug, I walked around, checked window locks and the furnace in the cramped basement.

  Nothing was out of place, other than a dirty glass in the living room. The living and dining areas opened into one another with an arched double-width doorway between. The décor, in autumn shades of rich reds, dusty oranges, and deep plums pleased the eye.

  Sofa pillows were dented as though someone had leaned against them. I fluffed them and set the room to rights, though there wasn’t much to do. Again I shook off the feeling that something was amiss. The house was quiet . . . and truth be told, there wasn’t a whole lot of space in the quaint home.

  I washed the glass, dried it, and tucked it into the cupboard. My eyes briefly roamed the rooms before I shrugged once more and left. The lock clicked into place as I swung the door closed behind me. The sound was reassuring. I scooted down the angled flights of stairs.

  The cell phone in my pocket jingled as I settled into the car. The Cooper was spacious for a little vehicle. Even though I was tall, I fit inside easily. I withdrew the phone, saw Free’s name on the screen, and flipped it open.

  “Hey, Freedom, what’s up?”

  “Vin, I got that sketch from the FBI this morning. You’re not gonna believe this. The old broad has pulled a couple of those robberies in the past few weeks. I took the drawing around to the victims who’d been robbed at gunpoint by an old woman. They ID’d her as the perp. I’ve turned it over to Detective Bellini. He’ll have his guys follow up.”

  “Any sightings of her or my car?” I asked, hopefully.

  “No, but we’re working with the state troopers on the car theft end of things. Marcus called me this morning and said he’d mentioned them to you. He’s so hot . . . it’s a good thing I’m married.”

  Now that was a thought. With her attitude and hot temper, there was no way Marcus or Free would survive a relationship. Marcus had enough of both of those things himself. I laughed and mumbled something crude. Free chuckled and disconnected, with a promise to keep me posted.

  * * *

  I turned into my driveway. Aaron’s truck was parked in front of the garage. It was unusual that he’d be home during the day, but then I really didn’t know if he worked a regular schedule since he was undercover most of the time.

  The Cooper squatted next to his enormous Yukon. I went to get my mail from the Post Office. It only took a minute or two to cross the street, open the post box inside the building, and get the stack of envelopes. My new ATM card had arrived along with some other junk mail. I flipped through the remaining stuff as I walked up the driveway. I turned into the back entry of the house and stumbled into a broad chest. Mail scattered in all directions.

  Strong hands grasped my arms as I stumbled backward. Once Aaron had steadied me, I retrieved the mail and stood up with a ques
tion on my lips. I opened my mouth, but got dragged further inside and shoved up the stairs. Astonished at his behavior, I struggled with him slightly.

  “What are you doing?” I asked with a flare of temper. Aaron never manhandled me, not ever.

  Inside the apartment, he thrust me toward the counter while he ordered me to sit down. Anger sparked in those usually calm, warm eyes. Today they were darker in color. Worried over his anger, my heart pounded and my nerves tightened. I took a deep breath and waited for him to speak.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “Working at the job for Larry and then at Lola’s. Why?” Shit, somebody must have seen me at Jabroni’s.

  “Where was this job located?” His arms folded over his massive chest, his muscles rippled. Yikes.

  “In western Cranston. I finished up and then left, why?”

  “There was a shooting out there today.” His eyes narrowed as he glared at me. “Know anything about that?” he demanded.

  “Um, well, I might have heard a shot fired.” Damn.

  “Uh huh, what else?”

  “Nothing.”

  His voice rose another octave when he said, “You’re such a liar. Come clean, right now.”

  “Like I said, I went and painted the lower level, finished up and left.” It was kinda true.

  “There’s just another thing or two that you left out. Spill it, Lavinia.”

  Oooh, he’d called me by my given name. That meant I was in real trouble.

  “What exactly is it you want to know? That might make it easier for me to enlighten you.”

  He didn’t smile, didn’t react, just glared and waited for a few seconds. Then he started to pace. It was what Marcus did when he was aggravated.