by J. D. Griffo
“What children?” he asked, taking off his sunglasses.
“The ones waiting for you,” Alberta answered.
She immediately realized her vague reply was not going to satisfy Sal’s curiosity or get him to understand that he was part of a ruse. Sal might not have been a true member of their makeshift group of detectives, but he’d been around them long enough to know when they were investigating a crime. He knew they were trying to solve this string of murders and he knew their trip to Brooklyn wasn’t a joyride, so he should’ve understood that Alberta’s comments were nothing more than a means to an exit. Watching his confused expression, Alberta simultaneously felt sorry for the priest while resisting the urge to slap him on the side of his head. Frustrated, Alberta did what she typically did when she didn’t know what else to do—she looked to her sister for help.
“Helen, would you like to remind Sal of our mission?” Alberta asked.
Helen glared at her sister for a few long moments, but finally turned to face Sal with a fake smile plastered on her face.
“The children at Sacred Heart Academy, Sal,” Helen said. “They’re expecting you to bless their pets today. So let’s get a move on, because a room full of third-graders and gerbils can go off the rails quicker than you can say Saint Eligius, and you don’t want him to find out the truth about why you were late, do you?”
Alberta watched a transformation take place as Sal morphed from bewildered to obedient. “Oh no, Helen, we mustn’t have that,” Sal said, rising from his chair. “Will you be okay on your own, Owen?”
The temporarily blind man turned toward Sal and smiled. “I am now, thank you.”
“Should we call for someone to stay with you until you get your sight back?” Alberta asked. “Maybe Veronica next door.”
“No,” Owen said, his voice stronger than it had ever been. “I’ve been on my own a long time, I’ll manage. I know how to use the voice commands on my phone if I need any help, but there’s really nothing I can do but ride this out.”
“Speaking of rides,” Helen said, “I’ll start the car. Feel better, Owen.”
“Thank you, Helen,” Owen replied. He reached out to his right where Sal stood and, understanding the reason for the gesture, Sal grabbed it. “I don’t know that one very well, but I get the sense you shouldn’t keep her waiting.”
Despite her misgivings about the man, Alberta was impressed. Owen might not be able to see, but he was insightful.
In the car, as Helen crossed the Tranquility city limits, Alberta was eager to learn what cryptic clue Helen sprinkled into her dialogue to make Sal understand they were lying and simply needed to make a hasty exit.
“St. Eligius,” Sal replied.
“The patron saint of animals?” Alberta asked.
“That’s just it, St. Eligius has nothing to do with animals or pets, he’s the patron saint of clockmakers,” Sal informed her.
“There’s a patron saint of clockmakers?” Alberta questioned.
“Berta, you’re Catholic,” Helen said. “You should know there’s a patron saint for everything.”
“Once I heard Eligius’s name, I knew I was being a stunod and you were trying to leave without giving Owen a hint as to where we’re going,” Sal said. “By the way, where are we going?”
“We told you, Brooklyn,” Helen answered.
“I know that, Helen, but where exactly in Brooklyn?” he asked.
“To your old stomping ground,” Helen replied. “Get ready to return to your past.”
* * *
During the ride, Alberta explained that they were heading to Brooklyn to search for more clues into the murders, since both Teri Jo and Dominic grew up there. She also conveyed the importance of keeping their road trip a secret from Owen, and even Veronica, because the Tranqclockery was somehow involved in the mystery surrounding the murders. They weren’t sure if Owen was a willing or unknowing participant, but until they found out some more details they couldn’t risk him finding out they were suspicious.
Sal understood that the facts pointed toward Owen being involved in some way, but he said that for as long as he’d known Owen, he’d been an upstanding citizen. “His only crimes are that he’s odd and aloof,” Sal said. “Owen likes to keep to himself. He isn’t the social butterfly inside and outside the pulpit like I am.”
Definitely not, Alberta thought, but he could be masquerading as an innocent man when he’s really a homicidal maniac. She and the others would dig deeper into Owen’s history later. First she was hoping to find out more details on the background of Bettina Rizzoli, aka the owner of Veronica’s Diner. With Sal’s help, of course.
The priest, however, didn’t understand how he could aid them in uncovering the truth about a woman he barely knew, until he saw St. Ann’s Church looming in the distance.
“You think this Bettina person was once a member of my old parish,” Sal deduced.
“Since Rizzoli’s Diner is around the corner, we figured it’s a very good chance this was the family’s church,” Helen said.
“I was only the pastor here for a few months,” Sal reminded them. “When Father Timothy passed away so suddenly, the archdiocese transferred me to Tranquility and St. Winifred’s. I don’t remember any of the parishioners, and I doubt anyone is going to remember me.”
The moment the rectory door was opened the priest was proven wrong.
“Ah Madonna mia!” the woman cried. “The prodigal son has returned.”
Evidently, Helen had been right about Father Sal all along.
Filomena Sammartino had been the rectory housekeeper at St. Ann’s Church for the past thirty-six years. It was her first and only job and one that she never applied for. When her children were in nearby St. Ann’s High School, Filomena had extra time on her hands, so she started volunteering at the rectory. After a while she began keeping regular hours, and after a few months she was finally put on the books. Father Sal was the first pastor she worked for in an official capacity, and a woman always remembered her first.
“I can’t believe you remember me, Filomena,” Father Sal gushed. “It’s been so long.”
“Besides being my first boss, you’re the only priest I’ve ever met who wears such flashy eyeglasses and shoes,” Filomena said. “Come in, I just put a pot of coffee on the stove and I have a bottle of Sambuca to top it off the way you like.”
As they entered the rectory, Helen whispered to Alberta, “I think we hit pay dirt, Berta. If she can remember that, she’s got to remember Bettina.”
Looking around the kitchen, all Alberta could think of was her childhood and the countless happy memories she had of spending Saturdays in her grandma Marie’s kitchen, watching her cook and learning what it meant to feed a family. This kitchen, like Marie’s, was spotless, not a trace of dirt, grease stains, or the remnants of spilled food could be found anywhere, and yet it had the lived-in quality of a well-worn and well-loved room.
They sat around the chrome and Formica table and it was like sitting down for dinner in 1955. The rectangular tabletop was a raspberry color, in a cracked-ice pattern with a white stripe going down the length of the table. The soft vinyl chairs matched the vibrant color, but were imprinted with a white floral design on the backs. Even though the set was decades old, it looked like it came out of the store yesterday; there wasn’t a scratch on the table or a tear on the seat cushions.
The cabinetry was all white with simple black hardware, and one of the cabinets over the counter had a glass sliding door so it could be used as a display case. Mixed in with some religious pieces, like a chalice and a beautifully carved Ankh cross that Alberta remembered were popular in the 1970s, were knickknacks you’d find in a typical home.
A small stuffed bear holding an American flag, crystal vases and decanters, but it was a blue and white porcelain clock that brought Alberta back to the present day and the reason they were sitting in the Brooklyn kitchen drinking coffee with a stranger. Well, at least Filomena was a stranger to
Alberta and Helen—the way she was chatting with Sal it looked like they were lifelong friends.
“Do you remember Father Augusto?” Filomena asked.
Sal took a long sip of his Sambuca-laced coffee and contemplated the question. “Was he the one who wore the hot water bottle underneath his robes?”
“One and the same!” Filomena howled.
“Why on earth would he do that?” Helen asked.
“It was during a freezing cold spell and the pipes burst, so we had no heat,” Sal explained. “Augusto was from Brazil, so he wasn’t used to the cold. He thought a hot water bottle would stop him from shivering during mass.”
“He was standing in front of the entire congregation when the bottle broke and from the pews it looked like he was peeing himself,” Filomena shared. “Le persone possono morire, ma i ricordi persistono per sempre.”
The Italian proverb was like a light bulb that went off in both Alberta and Helen’s minds. They mentally translated the phrase and agreed that people may die, but memories linger on forever. It was time to find out what other memories were still dawdling in Filomena’s mind.
“You seem to have an excellent memory, Filomena,” Alberta said.
“I’ll be seventy-six next month and the old noggin still seems to be working,” she replied.
“When one does the Lord’s work, one is rewarded,” Father Sal said as he poured a tad more Sambuca into his half-drunk cup of coffee.
“Truer words were never spoken, Father,” Filomena said, crossing herself three times before kissing her fingers and offering them up to the heavens.
Unimpressed with what she considered to be an ostentatious display of devotion, Helen wanted to zero in on more practical matters. So she went in for the kill.
“Prove it,” she said. “Do you remember a woman named Bettina who lived in the neighborhood years ago?”
Sal almost choked on his coffee trying to respond to Helen’s query. “Holy Virna Lisi! How’s Filomena supposed to remember a woman from over thirty years ago?”
“She remembered you,” Alberta offered.
“I’m memorable,” Sal declared.
“So’s Bettina Rizzoli.”
Alberta and Helen couldn’t believe what Filomena just said. She confirmed that Veronica really was a fake persona and the woman running the diner was Bettina Rizzoli and was somehow related to the two murder victims who were found dead on her property. Suppressing a huge smile, Alberta felt excitement and energy travel throughout her body. Once again, she, with the help of her family, had followed the clues and wound up with answers. All she had to do was follow where this road led and she might discover who murdered the victims.
“Why is Bettina Rizzoli so memorable?” Alberta asked.
A chatterbox by nature, Filomena didn’t detect an ulterior motive in Alberta’s question and was more than happy to answer.
“Because Bettina was the only person on this block who left and never came back,” the housekeeper stated. “This place is like a boomerang, you can leave, stay away for a few years, but eventually you come back, everyone does. Except Bettina.”
“How long ago did she leave?” Helen asked.
Filomena leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and gazed up at the ceiling. “I think it was the early eighties, because Bettina was about eighteen years old and the last time I saw her she had really big, teased-up hair, blue eye shadow, and was wearing an overcoat with those huge padded shoulders.”
“God, I miss the good old days,” Sal declared. “People knew how to make a statement with fashion back then.”
While Sal mused about the styles of the ’80s, Alberta did some quick math in her head and confirmed that Bettina would be the same age as Veronica. No doubt about it, they were one and the same. But why?
“Do you know why Bettina left?” Alberta asked.
“Do you even have to ask?” Filomena replied. “It’s the same sad story from the beginning of time, because of a man.”
As Filomena told the story of Bettina’s sorry past, Alberta was enveloped by a strange sense of déjà vu. When Bettina was still a teenager she was supposed to marry a man—not an Italian, which would have been expected of her, but a foreigner. Filomena couldn’t remember if he was Scottish or Irish, but he spoke with a brogue.
Whatever the boy’s nationality, he was a good, respected kid, but had one major flaw: He wanted to please his family.
“How could that be considered a character flaw?” Helen asked.
“Family is a beautiful thing,” Filomena said. “Until it suffocates you.”
Alberta felt heat rise in her cheeks. It was like Filomena was speaking directly to her. She took a bite of the crumb cake to avoid having to speak. Luckily, Filomena was delighted to keep on sharing her story.
“The fact was that Bettina couldn’t have children. She had the same problem my sister Rosie had, but Rosie and her Joe adopted,” Filomena conveyed. “Bettina never had the chance.”
It turned out that Bettina’s boyfriend came from a large family who wanted each member to have their own large family, and the only way to do that was to reproduce. Infertile women need not apply. Once the boyfriend’s family found out that Bettina couldn’t have children, they wedged themselves in between the couple and refused to allow them to marry. To ensure they would be victorious in their quest, they pooled their money and paid Bettina to leave town.
“I guess Bettina saw this as an opportunity to start over, and she took the bribe, left Brooklyn, and never came back,” Filomena said.
“I can’t believe a young girl would choose to leave her family,” Alberta muttered, shaking her head.
“It’s sort of what I did,” Helen said.
“Entering the convent, Helen, is completely different than taking the money and running off for parts unknown,” Sal declared.
While Filomena got up and refilled their coffee cups and put some more cookies on the table, Alberta suddenly remembered a dream she’d had recently about an old family painting and its link to a piece of Ferrara family history. Bettina and her boyfriend reminded her of her ill-fated relative, Viola, and her paramour, Marcello. Just like Bettina, Viola was jilted and it altered the course of her life forever. Alberta then realized she had this dream the night before Teri Jo was killed and before this mystery began. Had she had a premonition? She would have to ponder that later when she was home with Lola and a nice cup of citrus green tea. For now, she needed to concentrate on what Filomena was saying about Bettina’s family.
“The Rizzolis aren’t what you’d call amorevole. No one’s ever accused them of being loving and affectionate,” Filomena explained. “Criminals, sure, but not one big happy family.”
“Do you know what happened to the boy?” Alberta asked.
Sitting down, Filomena responded, “No, he was from another part of town, so he didn’t go to St. Ann’s. Plus he was studious and didn’t play stickball, so he didn’t pal around with the other boys on the block. The only reason he ever came around was Bettina, and when she was gone so was he.”
Alberta caught Filomena looking at the clock next to the door, and she realized that as hospitable a hostess as Filomena was, they may have overstayed their welcome. It was nearing lunchtime and she did have work to do. But so did Alberta. As they were collecting themselves to leave, Alberta had one more very important question to ask.
“Since you seem to be the memory keeper of the neighborhood and not just the rectory housekeeper, I wonder if you know of a man named Umberto Bottataglia.”
Filomena’s olive complexion turned white and she fumbled with the cup and saucer she was carrying to the sink.
“Please don’t ever say his name again,” Filomena urged.
“Why?” Alberta asked. “It’s only a name.”
“There are good men and there are bad men and then there are men like Umberto Bottataglia,” Filomena said. “You need to all promise me that you’ll stay away from him.”
Alberta and He
len mumbled a promise to Filomena that neither one of them had any intention of keeping. Father Sal thanked her for her sharing her time and memories with them, and blessed her. His invocation seemed to return her to her good spirits, but it wasn’t enough to allow her visitors to remain.
“This has been a lovely diversion, but I’m behind schedule now and have to get back to work,” Filomena said. Just as she was about to close the door, she paused to address Alberta, and added, “Please remember what I said and don’t go near Umberto.”
Before Alberta could respond, Filomena closed the door.
“At least you didn’t have to lie to her,” Helen said, fishing for her car keys in her pocketbook.
“What do you mean?” Father Sal asked. “Alberta’s sensible, she wouldn’t go against such a stern warning as that.”
“Just when I thought you weren’t as dumb as you look,” Helen groused. “Umberto is the key to this whole mystery. If you think Berta, or any of us for that matter, are going to stay away from him, you don’t know us very well.”
Alberta grinned from ear to ear when she got into the Buick. She had no idea how dangerous the situation was going to be when she met up with Umberto, but she knew she’d be safe because her sister and the rest of her family would be by her side.
CHAPTER 19
Sono solo soldi.
A few days later, when Alberta and Sloan entered Joyce’s house, it felt like a frigid wind accompanied them despite the crisp fall temperature outside. Joyce examined their expressions and surveyed their body language and came to the only possible conclusion: The happy couple had had their first fight.
“Do I have to play marriage counselor for you two?” Joyce asked.
“Why would you ask that?” Alberta scoffed, hanging her coat on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
“Because the two of you look like you came in from the battlefield,” Joyce replied.
“It was only a skirmish,” Sloan said, his voice cheery. “Nothing like the Battle of Chickamauga.”
“Chicka who?” Joyce asked.
