Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series)

by Susan Fleet

  “Gramma Robinson.”

  “We better get going then. Want to stop for a shake so you can drink it on the way?” Bribing the kid now, Jamal skipping along beside him, bouncing the ball left-handed.

  He stopped at Friendly’s, bought a chocolate shake for Jamal, a black coffee for himself, and got back in the car. He caught a red light at the corner of Melnea Cass Boulevard and Mass Ave, a major choke-point on weekdays, not bad on a Sunday. He glanced at Jamal, happily drinking his milkshake.

  His cell rang. He checked the ID. Maureen. This could be bad news.

  He punched on and said, “Hi, that you, Mo?”

  “Yes, and I’m very upset.”

  Worse than bad. The light changed and he swung left onto Mass Ave.

  “I talked to Mom and she said you’re getting a divorce!”

  “Let me call you back. I’m in traffic right now.” And a ten-year-old kid is listening to every word I say.

  “She said you’ve got a girlfriend. Is that true?”

  “Mo, I know you’re upset, but I can’t talk while I’m in traffic. Let me call you back.”

  “Okay, fine.” His daughter ended the call.

  He glanced at Jamal, drinking his chocolate shake, not looking at him.

  How did his life get so complicated? Problems swarming at him like angry hornets.

  _____

  Vicky curled up on the loveseat in her living room with a chocolate donut and the Boston Phoenix. An article about Nigel in the Arts Section had a picture of him conducting a Pops rehearsal. Nigel would be pleased. Ten minutes ago he’d called from the airport to say he’d be here soon. Absorbed in the article, she nibbled on the donut. The telephone on the end table rang.

  When she answered, her father’s voice boomed in her ear. But they’d barely begun to talk when her door buzzer sounded.

  “Hold on a second, Dad. Someone’s at the door.”

  She went to the kitchen, pressed a button on the intercom beside the door. “That you, Nigel?”

  “Right-o, luv.”

  She buzzed him in, opened the door and heard the downstairs door slam. By the time she got back to the phone, Nigel had entered the living room, smiling broadly. She motioned him to be quiet and picked up the telephone: “Gotta go, Dad. I’ve got company. I’ll call you back later.” To his inevitable question, she replied: “Just a friend.”

  Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Problem with your father?”

  “No, Dad calls me almost every Sunday. He’s my biggest fan.”

  “Count your blessings. All mine ever did was tell me to practice more.”

  “Sounds like my mother. She keeps telling me I should get married like my sister.”

  “House in the suburbs and six kids?” Nigel said, giving her a bear hug.

  “Wow! I guess you’re happy to see me.”

  “You have no idea!” He gave her a long lingering kiss. “Missed you.”

  “I missed you, too. How’d Music Man go?”

  “Bloody awful! The lead singer couldn’t carry a tune in a steamer trunk. How was your week?”

  “Great, actually. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  He perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and lit a cigarette. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked tired, she thought, but ever so sexy in his blue Oxford shirt. The sleeves were rolled up and ginger-brown hair curled over his forearms. “Hungry?” she said. “I’ve got leftover chicken.”

  “No time, luv. Got to check into the hotel before I go to the hall. Could do with a coffee though.”

  She poured two mugs of coffee, brought them to the breakfast bar and sat beside him.

  “What’s your surprise?” Nigel said.

  “I went condo shopping and found a gorgeous unit on Gainsboro Street near Symphony Hall. Actually I found two, but the other one had a major drawback.”

  “What’s that?” He blew on his steaming coffee and took a careful sip.

  “A woman got murdered there.”

  “Bloody hell, you don’t say!” He put down the mug and stared at her.

  “Back in the sixties the Boston Strangler was killing women all over town. One of them lived in the condo on Symphony Road. I don’t think I’d want to live there.”

  “Can’t blame you for that. What’s the other one like?”

  “It’s gorgeous, a big bay window in the living room, two bedrooms, an updated kitchen and a bathroom with a shower.” She sighed. “It’s expensive, though. I’m not sure I can afford it.”

  Nigel started to laugh. She looked at him, puzzled. “What’s funny?”

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, too.” He pulled a dog-eared USA Today out of his suit bag and set it on the counter. Then he took a lottery slip out of his wallet and set it beside the newspaper. “No need to fret about paying for a condo, Vicky. Our money worries are over. I hit the lottery! Check it out.”

  She did. All six numbers matched. Her heart began to race.

  “Nigel! Is this real?”

  “Bloody hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “Wow! The Megabucks?”

  “Twelve million dollars,” he said, his face wreathed in a huge smile.

  “But I thought you weren’t gambling anymore. Nigel, you promised.”

  “I only bought one ticket. What’s the harm? Now we’ve got plenty of money!”

  She stared at him. “We? You’ve got plenty of money.”

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Us, Vicky. You and me. But I’ve got a favor to ask.” He puffed his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke. “I need you to claim the prize. Then we’ll split it, fifty-fifty.”

  “Me? No way! Face all those cameras and reporters? Why do you need me to do it?”

  His expression changed, eyes serious, no more smile. “If I claim the prize, it will be all over the news. When Joanna finds out I won twelve million bucks, she’ll have her lawyer haul me into court and take me for every cent she can get. Lord only knows how much. And Hale will take a chunk, too.”

  “Why should they? You’re not married to Joanna anymore, and Hale isn’t your relative, he’s your agent. It doesn’t seem fair. You’re the one who bought the winning ticket.”

  “Might not be fair, but they’ll both want a big chunk of the money, no doubt about it. And then there’s the Pops gig. The publicity would be a bloody disaster, might kill my chances.”

  She shook her head dubiously. “I don’t know, Nigel. This is crazy. I need to think about it.”

  Crestfallen, he put out his cigarette. “I shouldn’t have brought it up before the concert. Got to keep our heads straight for the Gershwin. I’d best be going.” He put the ticket in his wallet.

  “Wait. There’s a great article about you in the Phoenix. Don’t you want to see it?”

  “Not now. After the concert. I’ve got another surprise for you.”

  “Oh yeah?” She nuzzled his neck. “Is it a big surprise?”

  He smiled broadly. “Very big.”

  She laughed. “Wow. I can’t believe it, Nigel. Winning the Megabucks?”

  “Our secret, luv. We’ll do a bang-up concert, champagne afterwards to celebrate and . . . you’ll see.”

  _____

  Frank finished packing his clothes in the large suitcase he used when he went on long trips. No telling how long this trip would be, maybe a week, maybe forever. He tossed in a few of his favorite CDs, zipped it shut and looked at the orange glow of the setting sun outside the bedroom window.

  His bedroom, damn it. Hell if he knew where he’d sleep tonight, but it wouldn’t be here. Evelyn was downstairs, waiting for him to leave. Maybe he could talk her out of it. The other day he’d seen anger in her eyes, but pain and uncertainty, too. But he didn’t want to argue with her.

  He cared for Evelyn, but he cared more about Gina. When he talked to Gina, he didn’t feel like rats were chewing his stomach.

  He went to the closet, pulled a rolled-up sleeping bag off the top shelf and slung it over his shoulder. Wors
e came to worse he’d sleep on the floor of his office. He towed the suitcase to the stairs and muscled it down to the living room. Every lamp was on and the curtains were drawn. He shut off one lamp, heard Evelyn call from the kitchen, “Don’t turn off the lights, Frank. It’s getting dark.”

  And after dark the scary bogeymen come out.

  Seated at the kitchen table, she ignored him, pages of the Boston Sunday Globe Living Section spread over the table. When he dropped the sleeping bag on the floor, she looked up. “What’s that?”

  “My sleeping bag. Maybe I’ll sleep under the Expressway with the rest of the homeless people.”

  She said nothing, gazing at him, her eyes full of resentment. He knew that look.

  Fueled by the head of steam he’d worked up while he was packing, he said, “I can’t afford an apartment. I’m paying the mortgage and the utility bills on this house, making payments on the car I bought for you.”

  Evelyn shot him an angry look, got up and leaned against the counter, arms folded over her chest.

  “Why did you tell Maureen I had a girlfriend?” he said, still devastated by the phone conversation they’d had after he dropped off Jamal. Maureen in tears, saying “How could you, Dad?” Breaking his heart.

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “You want truth? You’re the one who filed for divorce, Evelyn. There’s no need to go into the details with our daughter, telling her things she doesn’t need to know.”

  “You should have thought about that before.”

  “DON’T LECTURE ME!”

  She reeled back as if he’d hit her, her expression stricken.

  He took a deep breath, puffed his cheeks and blew air. He’d never hit a woman in his life, never yelled at one either, except for a few times on the job. But telling Maureen about Gina was a low blow, a deliberate act intended to harm their relationship. What if he’d said: It’s not my fault your mother turned into a nun after we got married. He wouldn’t, of course.

  Maureen might be a freshman in college, but he had no intention of discussing the problems he and Evelyn had, in bed or out. Not now, not ever.

  “Will you be okay, staying here by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said tersely. “Just go.”

  He slung the sleeping bag over his shoulder and towed his suitcase out of the house.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gina set aside the article she was trying to read and checked her watch. 9:35. Where the hell was Ryan? Now that she’d made her decision she wanted to tell him and get it over with. She tried to imagine his reaction. He’d be contrite and try to sweet-talk her. Bullshit. He’d be furious.

  Earlier, she’d cooked his favorite meal, Fettuccini Alfredo, but he just gulped it down and left. Three of his buddies had invited him to play golf at their exclusive club in Milton. Tee-time was 3:00. It pissed her off. If he’d told her last night, she wouldn’t have bothered cooking.

  Franco lived in Milton, not that Ryan would run into him.

  Franco hated golf.

  But nobody played golf in the dark. They were probably talking business in the club house, Ryan nursing a bottle of near-beer, while his buddies belted down cocktails.

  Ryan never drank alcohol, something she didn’t know when they met.

  One Thanksgiving her two brothers had dragged her to the high school football game, the big rivalry between East Boston and Southie. At halftime she bought a coffee at the hotdog stand. Ryan was next in line and bumped her arm, spilling her coffee. He apologized and asked if she’d been a cheerleader for Eastie, she was pretty enough. Not a cheerleader, she said, editor of the school newspaper, co-editor of the yearbook. He said he’d played fullback for Southie, ogling her boobs.

  A portent of things to come. If only she’d known.

  Looming over her, six-three and built like a boxer, he asked for a date, acting like he’d be shocked if she turned him down. Six months later, she invited him home to meet her folks. Ryan declined a glass of wine, saying he never drank alcohol. Her father raised an eyebrow and her brothers exchanged looks. Having a glass of wine with dinner was normal in the Bevilaqua household.

  Her mother thought Ryan was great, a handsome young man with a college degree. But Ryan’s father was an alcoholic.

  “His name’s perfect,” Ryan had said when he’d told her, his eyes cold, his mouth set in an angry line. “Tom Collins, get it?”

  A few years ago she’d told Franco that Ryan didn’t drink, not even wine with dinner. Franco’s take? “Sounds like a dry-drunk. Doesn’t touch a drop, thinks about it every minute of every day.”

  Franco didn’t know the half of it.

  She heard Ryan’s Porsche rumble into the driveway. Her hands dampened with sweat and her mouth went dry.

  A minute later he strolled into the living room. “Sorry I’m late, but one of the guys gave me a lead on this belly-up company in Delaware.”

  Damn. If Ryan was hot on a business deal he’d be distracted, and she wanted his full attention. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him.

  Grousing as usual, he said, “I got stuck in traffic on the way to the golf course. Big accident on Route 128. I was late. The guys were waiting for me.” He sat beside her on the couch, put his arm around her and stroked her hair, as if she were his pet. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

  The moment of truth. Her heart fluttered, a ragged tattoo beating her chest. She took a deep breath and set her wine glass on the coffee table. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”

  Eyeing her nearly-empty wineglass, he said, “About what?”

  “About us.”

  He gazed at her, an icy stare, his eyes cold. “Yeah? You been talking to Orchid? Your pal with the purple hair, so full of angst she’s gotta talk to some highbrow Cambridge shrink twice a week.”

  “Maybe you should see one,” she snapped, “and figure out why you’re so touchy about my friends.”

  “Hey, that’s my blue-collar roots, first one in my family to go to college, and a cheap state school at that. You went to a big-name university. I don’t know why you waste your time writing touchy-feely articles for shit money. You should do television news. You’re ten times better looking than Jane Pauley and way sexier.”

  A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. The only time Ryan ever complimented her was during an argument, a bone he threw to distract her.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not interested in doing television.” She tried to remember if she’d hidden any cigarettes in the kitchen. She rarely smoked, but sometimes in a crisis, a nicotine hit calmed her nerves. She picked up her wineglass and drained it.

  Ryan snapped his fingers. “Let’s play shrink. Did you tell Mama Bevilaqua about your first kiss?”

  She glared at him. Forget discussing serious issues with Ryan. All he did was parry them with jokes or idiotic comments. She started to get up, but Ryan grabbed her arm and pulled her closer.

  “Come on, tell me. You know I love you.” He stroked her cheek. “Big brown eyes, luscious lips, boobs bigger than Pamela Anderson. Man, you were hot last night!”

  She clenched her teeth. His love-making revolted her, calling her names—cunt, bitch, whore—to get himself off. She pulled away and retrieved her empty wineglass. Why didn’t she just tell him?

  A lump formed in her throat and tears misted her eyes. Because Ryan had a temper and if anyone crossed him . . .

  “Let’s watch the ten o’clock news.” He grabbed the clicker and turned on the television.

  She stared at him, incredulous. “Damn it, Ryan, we need to talk.”

  “We can talk during the commercials.”

  The news jingle blared, then a three-story tease: a hit-and-run in Cambridge, a drug bust on Cape Cod, a Megabucks winner. Oblivious to her, Ryan gazed at the screen. She took her wineglass in the kitchen and filled it to the brim. Ryan didn’t give a damn about her. All he cared about was impressing his boss at the oh-so-prestigious financial firm he
worked for and making big bucks. She searched the drawers for a stray cigarette. Didn’t find one. In the living room, the newscast droned on.

  She went back and perched on the sofa. Ryan gestured at the screen. “This guy couldn’t report his way out of a paper bag. Interviews some cop about a drug bust and all he gets is a two-second sound bite.”

  As Ryan continued his derogatory comments, she sipped her wine. Before the commercial break, another tease ran about a big lottery win. When the commercial came on, Ryan hit the mute button and turned to her.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Another time, Ryan.”

  “Come on, babe. Don’t tease me.” He took a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger.

  She pushed his hand away. “You’re the one that wanted to watch the news.”

  “Hey, you’re the news junkie, always looking for stories to write for that cheap tabloid.”

  Baiting her. Ryan wanted to argue. Sometimes she thought he did it to get himself sexually excited. Well, he’d better not try that tonight. Tomorrow, he’d be in Texas.

  The news came back on and the anchorwoman, clearly excited, said Wednesday’s Megabucks drawing had produced one winner, but no one had come forward to claim the prize. The winning ticket, purchased at Marie’s Variety in Boston’s North End, was worth a cool twelve million dollars.

  Who was the winner, Gina wondered. The winning ticket had been sold in the North End, an Italian enclave she knew well. Her grandparents had lived there. Suddenly telling Ryan she wanted a trial separation didn’t seem that important.

  “Maybe I’ll interview the winner and do a series on gambling.”

  Ryan turned on her, his face a mask of anger. “Jesus! All you think about is that stupid job. I’m gone all week, come home and I gotta beg you for sex. I’m the one that makes the bucks to pay for this house. You care more about your job than you do about me.”

  That’s right, Ryan. I care about Franco. Franco loves me and he’s twice the man that you are.

  “Who gives a shit about this house? It’s cold and sterile, just like you.”