Murder at Veronica's Diner

by J. D. Griffo

  “One of the deadliest battles during the Civil War,” Sloan said. “And one of the few victories for the Confederates.”

  Joyce placed a pitcher of iced tea and carafe of coffee onto the table and asked, “Who’s the victor of this civil war?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” Alberta said. She didn’t look at anyone, but poured coffee into her cup. “Everything I say is apparently stupid.”

  “Alberta Marie Teresa Ferrara Scaglione!” Sloan cried.

  “Watch out, Sloan’s using your full name,” Joyce joked.

  “I never said any such thing,” Sloan said.

  “You told me this running around after a criminal was a stupid idea and I should stop entertaining such thoughts,” Alberta said.

  “Yes, I did,” Sloan agreed. “Because it is a stupid idea, but I never said everything you say is stupid nor would I ever say such a thing, you know that.”

  Alberta did know that, she was annoyed because nothing Sloan had said to her was wrong or unjustified. Her pursuit of Umberto was stupid. He was a dangerous criminal, and a woman she hardly knew had begged her to steer clear of him. What was her response to all this advice? Ignore it.

  “Alberta, if you want to track this Umberto down, I’ll help you,” Sloan said. “I think it’s the dumbest idea since New Coke, but I’m not going to let you investigate him on your own.”

  This time when Sloan spoke, Alberta listened to every word he said and then she replayed it silently in her mind, and she was stunned. She couldn’t recall another man in her life speaking to her in the same way. He disagreed with her and yet he wasn’t forbidding her to do the thing she wanted to do. He wasn’t berating her for what he considered to be a foolish action. Every time she looked a little closer at Sloan McLelland, she liked the man that much more.

  “I have a compromise that I think you’ll both like and will go a long way to saving your relationship,” Joyce said.

  “You really need to audition for the next Tranquility Players production, Joyce,” Alberta said. “You are a total drama queen.”

  “I have several monologues already prepared,” Joyce replied. “Until I get my big break, why don’t we e-mail Umberto? We have his e-mail address from the documents you photographed, and I spent last night setting up a fake e-mail account.”

  “You did?” Alberta and Sloan asked in unison.

  “Once we discovered a way to communicate with Umberto, I knew it was a matter of time before we would want to contact him,” Joyce explained. “So last night it was me, a bottle of rosé, and my laptop. Within an hour LizGargiulo@gmail.com was born.”

  Once again Alberta and Sloan asked a question simultaneously. “Who’s Liz Gargiulo?”

  “My husband Anthony’s girlfriend before he met me,” Joyce replied.

  “Oh my God, Joyce, is she still alive?” Alberta asked.

  “Does it matter?” Joyce replied. “I figure if Umberto somehow tracks her down—dead or alive—I won’t lose any sleep over it. I’ve never forgotten that she made some rather unsubtle plays for Anthony while we were engaged.”

  While Alberta cracked up laughing, Sloan’s jaw dropped. Noticing Sloan’s shock and mild discomfort, Joyce tried to put him at ease.

  “Don’t worry, Sloan, revenge is more of a woman’s thing,” she said. “Isn’t that right, Berta?”

  Before Alberta could reply, Sloan interrupted her. “I don’t think I want to hear your answer.”

  “Then let’s summon up the spirit of Umberto Bottataglia the twenty-first-century way,” Joyce declared, “with technology.”

  Joyce led Alberta and Sloan into her living room, and as usual Alberta was struck by the tasteful décor. It wasn’t her style, but it suited Joyce perfectly, and Alberta always felt more sophisticated when she was in her sister-in-law’s home.

  The gray wool couch was set against a navy wall on which hung a huge gold-framed mirror. On either side of the couch were two small gray leather club chairs, and on the opposite wall hung a sixty-inch flat-screen television. A glass cocktail table was in the center of the room atop a rug in a navy, gray, and yellow abstract design. A triumph in minimalism, and a place Alberta loved to visit, but wouldn’t want to live in.

  On top of the cocktail table was Joyce’s opened laptop. She sat in the middle of the couch with Alberta and Sloan on either side and typed in her password until an e-mail account appeared on screen. Not Joyce’s, but the newly created one for Liz Gargiulo.

  Joyce hit a few keys and a blank e-mail message popped up onto the screen. She typed in Umberto’s e-mail address in the To line, and Hello in the Subject line, but after that she turned to Alberta and Sloan with a blank stare.

  “What do I say to a possible three-time murderer?” she asked.

  “I’ve actually been thinking about this,” Alberta replied, “and we have to concoct a story to make it look like we need fake documents.”

  “I don’t know if I’m impressed or scared, but that’s a terrific idea.” Sloan beamed.

  “Thank you,” Alberta said, all thoughts of any discord between them already forgotten. “How about this? I’ll dictate and you type.”

  Joyce positioned her manicured nails over the keyboard. “I’m ready when you are.”

  As Alberta spoke, Joyce typed, and Sloan stared at his girlfriend, smiling in disbelief. He couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of her mouth so effortlessly as if they were truth.

  She had created a story about her Aunt Regina living in Isernia, Italy, and in need of a fake passport. Regina needed to travel to Lowell, Massachusetts, in the United States to take care of her dying mother. Regina’s sister, Carla, lived nearby, but was useless and only thought of herself, so their mother was not getting the attention she deserved. The problem was that in her youth, Regina did a lot of dumb things and got into trouble, eventually getting arrested. As part of her plea deal, she had to give up her passport so she couldn’t travel outside of Italy.

  Joyce finished the e-mail, adding that her close friends here in New Jersey told her that Umberto could help her and had a solution to her problem, so she hoped to hear from him soon, as she didn’t know how much longer her mother could hold on.

  “Sincerely, Liz Gargiulo,” Joyce said.

  “Would she sign off using her last name?” Alberta asked.

  “I do when it’s a formal e-mail,” Joyce replied.

  “I’m not sure an e-mail to a man who’s an expert in forgery and murder can be considered formal,” Alberta said. “Sloan, what do you think?”

  Momentarily speechless, Sloan’s jaw dropped for the second time in less than an hour. “I have no idea. This, I am very happy to say, is uncharted territory for me.”

  “For me too,” Alberta said. “I hardly ever write e-mails.”

  “I think he means who we’re writing this e-mail to,” Joyce clarified. “I’m going to go with formal. And I’m hitting Send . . . and it’s sent.”

  Like three Pavlovian dogs in an experimental lab waiting for a light to flash to indicate a door would open and a treat would be revealed, Alberta, Joyce, and Sloan sat transfixed by the computer screen. They had just e-mailed Umberto—why hadn’t he e-mailed them back?

  “Did you use the right address?” Alberta asked.

  “Yes, I checked it three times,” Joyce replied.

  “Maybe he’s busy,” Sloan suggested.

  “Killing someone else?” Alberta asked.

  Her question floated uninterrupted in the air for a few moments until they all realized the seriousness of what they had just done. They had willingly reached out to a man who they suspected had killed three innocent people.

  “Are we crazy?” Alberta cried. “Umberto is dangerous.”

  “Alberta, calm down,” Sloan said. “It’s only an e-mail.”

  “Also too, it’s a fake name and a fake account,” Joyce reminded her.

  “What if he tracks down Liz Gargiulo and kills her too?” Alberta questioned.

  “Th
en she’ll get what she deserves for trying to sleep with my husband,” Joyce asserted.

  Alberta let out a gasp. “Joyce Perkins Ferrara! You say a dozen Hail Marys right now for that comment.”

  “You know I’m only kidding,” Joyce said. She took a dramatic pause that would definitely land her a role with the Tranquility Players and added, “Sort of.”

  Energized by the rash, reckless action they had taken, the three of them began to pace around Joyce’s living room. Alberta thought it was lucky that they were in Joyce’s house instead of her own because Joyce had less furniture than Alberta, which meant there was more room to walk around. They all stopped moving the second they heard Joyce’s laptop chime, indicating that a new e-mail had been received.

  Screaming like schoolgirls, they ran to the couch, resumed their positions, and screamed even louder when they saw that Umberto had indeed returned their e-mail.

  “Dio mio!” Alberta cried. “It’s an e-mail from the killer!”

  “What does it say, Joyce?” Sloan asked. “I can’t see that far away without my glasses.”

  Leaning closer to the laptop, Joyce read aloud, “‘Dear Liz, I understand your situation and I can help you. Please send me a photo of Regina and wire ten thousand dollars to the below account. Once I receive the money I can give you the documents in forty-eight hours. At which time I’ll send you information on where we can meet.’”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” Sloan asked. “Who has ten thousand dollars to spare?”

  “I do!” Alberta shouted. “I have lots of ten thousand dollars that I’m dying to use for a good cause, and I think I just found one.”

  “Are you sure about this, Alberta?” Joyce asked. “I know you have millions now, but ten thousand dollars is still a lot of money.”

  “Sono solo soldi,” Alberta said. “It’s only money. Plus, if this will get us closer to finding out who killed Teri Jo, her brother, and that innocent Rosales woman, it’ll be money well spent.”

  It took less than an hour for Joyce to open up a bank account in Liz Gargiulo’s name, transfer the funds from Alberta’s bank account into Liz’s, and then transfer the money again into the account Umberto gave them. Alberta was stunned that nothing Joyce did with her money was illegal.

  “What we did was all on the up-and-up,” Joyce declared. “Now the only thing left for us to do is wait for Umberto to e-mail us instructions on where to meet and pick up our documents.”

  “I feel like this is going to be a long twenty-four hours,” Alberta said.

  “I don’t know about you ladies, but all this skullduggery has made me hungry,” Sloan announced. “Let’s go to that new Japanese restaurant in Sparta, my treat.”

  Joyce closed up her laptop and started to clear things from the cocktail table. “You two go. I’ve got some of Alberta’s leftover ravioli in the fridge.”

  “Nonsense. When do you choose leftovers over a free meal?” Alberta asked. “Never!”

  “Thank you, but I’m too old to be a third wheel,” Joyce declared.

  “You’re half right,” Alberta said. “You’re too old, but you could never be a third wheel.” Alberta grabbed Joyce by the shoulders to prevent her from walking into the kitchen, and looked her in the eyes. “Do you hear me?”

  Joyce felt tears unexpectedly well up in her eyes and she blinked several times in a failed attempt to stop them from running down her face. “I hear you loud and clear, Berta.”

  Sloan held out his hands and each woman took one. “Now let’s go prove to the world that three is never a crowd.”

  * * *

  The next day in the offices of The Herald, that lesson had not been properly learned.

  Fingers flying over her keyboard, Jinx was banging out a quick follow-up article to Inez Rosales’s murder. It was part profile on Inez and her struggles after illegally immigrating here from Guatemala, and part exposé on how violence against illegal immigrants goes largely unreported.

  As she took a pause to review what she had already written, she was interrupted by Eric, the new intern, who was well meaning but not incredibly bright and only got the position because he was Wyck’s nephew. Jinx had no problem with the hire because she understood and believed in nepotism, but she did have a problem with the fact that he always delivered the wrong mail.

  “Eric!” she cried from her desk.

  She was going to continue her tirade, but Eric never returned. Looking through the mail she saw that she had four letters for Wyck, three for Calhoun, and one for her. She opened up the letter addressed to her and it was, of course, from a manufacturer asking her if they could help satisfy her fax machine needs.

  “Yes, you could . . . if this were 1987!”

  Furious, Jinx grabbed the rest of the mail not addressed to her and marched to Wyck’s office. It was her lucky day because he and Calhoun were having a meeting, so she would only have to make one stop to deliver both men’s mail.

  She knocked on the door, but didn’t wait for either man to acknowledge her presence before entering. “Excuse me.”

  Calhoun whipped around in his chair and scowled at Jinx. “Can’t you see we’re busy in here?”

  He placed his cell phone on top of some files and nervously switched the pencil holder and the stapler on Wyck’s desk.

  “You’re having a dumb-jock conversation about fantasy football,” Jinx replied. “I can see the stat card you shoved underneath your cell phone.”

  Calhoun and Wyck both looked at the cell phone and had completely different reactions. Wyck howled with laughter, Calhoun just howled.

  “You need to learn to knock, Maldonado!” he cried.

  “You need to learn to close the door, Calhoun, if you’re going to play games at work,” Jinx cried back.

  “Like you don’t play games all day with your grandma, trying to solve murders!” he shouted.

  “We do solve murders!” she shouted back. “Which I then write articles about.”

  “And those articles have increased our circulation,” Wyck added. “Jinx, you’re welcome in my office anytime.”

  “When there isn’t already a meeting in place,” Calhoun corrected.

  “Simmer down, Calhoun,” Wyck placated. “Don’t take it out on Jinx because she’s got the most read articles online. Your turn will come.”

  “This should be my turn! I have seniority,” Calhoun yelled.

  “She’s got the gift,” Wyck said.

  “What gift?” Jinx asked.

  “She’s always in the right place at the right time—no matter where Jinx goes, tragedy strikes,” Wyck explained. “Keep it up, kiddo.”

  “I’ll, um, do my best,” Jinx said, turning to leave.

  “Wait, what did you come in here for?” Wyck asked.

  Turning back around, Jinx tossed Wyck’s mail onto his desk. “Your nephew needs to learn how to read. He keeps giving me the wrong mail.”

  She handed Calhoun his letters and the both of them began to leave the room. “Ever since you became a father, you’ve gotten a lot crankier,” Jinx said.

  “It’s because I never get to sleep,” he replied. “Then I get here and I have to take your hand-me-downs.”

  Just as their fight was positioning itself to explode, a literal explosion took place behind them. They turned around and saw that Wyck had flipped over the back of his chair and was sprawled out on the floor. On his desk was an open envelope with smoke still emanating from the inside.

  “Call the police!” Jinx said as she rushed around the side of Wyck’s desk. “Wyck, are you alright? Can you hear me?”

  Slowly, Wyck opened his eyes and started to move from side to side, grabbing at the floor in an attempt to stand up.

  “Take it easy, try and sit up,” Jinx said.

  “The police are on their way,” Calhoun advised.

  “The police? Why did you call the police?” Wyck asked.

  “Because someone sent you a letter bomb,” Jinx said.

  Inexplicably, a gr
in appeared on Wyck’s face and his eyes twinkled with pride. “I’ve never gotten one of those,” he declared. “I owe it all to you, Jinx.”

  “Me!”

  “Yes, you!” Wyck cried. “What was I just saying, wherever Jinx roams, danger will surely follow. You’re not going to tell me it’s a coincidence that you deliver my mail and one of the letters explodes when I open it. It’s proof. You’re a jinx, Jinx, but a good one, at least for our readership numbers.”

  He grabbed on to the edge of his desk and with Jinx’s help pulled himself up until he was standing. For a moment it appeared as if he was going to collapse on the floor again, but he held his hands in front of his chest, palms up, and didn’t teeter.

  “Look, Ma, no hands,” Wyck said. “Now leave me alone so I can write this article.” He started typing on his keyboard and read his words out loud. “Editor-in-chief attacked by an anonymous bomber. Just listen to that, it writes itself.”

  Vinny arrived while Wyck was finishing up his article, and he brought with him an unlikely sidekick.

  “Freddy!” Jinx cried. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was doing some business with Vinny when he got the call, so I hitched a ride with him,” Freddy explained.

  “What kind of business?” Jinx asked.

  “Background checks on new employees,” Freddy said. “Vinny’s helping me out with that stuff.”

  Freddy looked around the office and couldn’t immediately see why the police had been summoned. Until the policeman in the room explained.

  “I’ll have them examine this closer, but it looks like a simple c-lock bomb,” Vinny said.

  “What’s that?” Jinx asked.

  “A cylinder lock, c-lock for short,” Vinny explained. “Not very powerful, but still lucky it didn’t hurt anyone.”

  “No chance of that with my good luck charm a few feet away,” Wyck said. “Isn’t that right, Jinx?”

  “You are so right, Wyck,” Jinx replied sarcastically.

  “She’s brought more action to this paper than we’ve had in years,” Wyck boasted. “We never had random acts of violence like this before she got here.”

  Freddy tugged on Jinx’s arm and pulled her to a corner of the room. He turned his back on the rest of the men in the room so only Jinx could see his face. He was scared.