by Peg Cochran
“Hey, lady, everyone in here is looking for some guy. Know what I mean?”
The bartender grabbed a rag from the counter behind him and began swishing it along the bar.
“He’s a young guy. Named Taylor Grabowski. He’s supposed to be at St. Rocco’s right this minute marrying my daughter, although he didn’t show up and we don’t know where to look.”
“Taylor?” The bartender paused in his swabbing. “Haven’t seen him today. He’s a good guy. Always buys a round when he comes in.”
Sure, Lucille thought. Spending his parents’ money like it was water. Like his father didn’t work long and hard for that dough. She’d be sure to tell Bernadette to keep an eye on his spending once they was married or she’d end up like Sandra Talifarro—her husband spent them right into the poor house, or at least right into a third-floor walk-up apartment over on Railroad Avenue.
“So in other words, Taylor hasn’t been here at all today. You haven’t seen him.”
“That’s right,” the bartender called over his shoulder as he moved down the bar to serve a customer who had just come in.
Lucille glanced over to where Flo was waiting for that fellow to bring her a rum and cola. She hoped Flo wasn’t going to be too long because they still hadn’t found Taylor, and she didn’t have no more ideas of where to look.
Lucille watched as the young man, who was dressed in jeans, a plaid shirt and them things cowboys wore over their pants, handed Flo her drink. Flo’s eyelashes were going a mile a minute. Suddenly she hauled off and slapped him hard.
Flo put her drink down on the nearest table, bore down on Lucille like a force-five tornado and grabbed her arm.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m so pissed I could spit.”
“What happened? Did he try to get fresh?” Lucille had been watching the whole time and hadn’t seen nothing, but maybe it was something the guy had said that had Flo in such a tizzy.
Flo pushed open the door, and they both stood for a moment blinking in the light. They were heading toward the car, Flo making astonishing progress in her stiletto heels, when Lucille grabbed her arm.
“Out with it. Tell Auntie Lucille what happened.”
Flo’s face crumpled, and she began digging in her handbag for a tissue. She pulled one out and dabbed at her eyes, smearing her mascara under them so that she looked like she’d just surfaced from the depths of a coal mine.
“Was it something he said?”
Flo shook her head and said, “Yes,” as she held the crumpled and lipstick-stained tissue to her mouth.
“What did he say?” Lucille was tempted to glance at her watch. They were losing time here.
“He said . . . he thought . . . he thought I was one of those men who like to dress up as a woman. You know, in drag like. A transvestite.” And Flo burst into renewed tears.
Chapter 7
Flo sniffled all the way back to the church. Lucille figured she couldn’t see none too good on account of the tears in her eyes, what with her nearly sideswiping a bright red truck she swore she didn’t notice, not to mention the red light she blew through and the pedestrian who was forced to make a mad dash back to the safety of the sidewalk.
“Looks like Taylor doesn’t have no alibi for his mother’s murder,” Flo said as they turned onto South Street.
“So? That don’t mean he had anything to do with it.”
“Come on, Lu. Surely you don’t want Bernadette marrying that little creep.”
Lucille’s jaw jutted forward and she clenched her teeth. “Well, what can she do, seeing as how your son,” Lucille put a heavy emphasis on the words, “refuses to make an honest woman of her.”
Flo gave Lucille a dirty look, stomped on the gas, and they rocketed into the parking lot. The lot was full and they could hear music drifting out the open door of the church hall. Lucille was surprised to see that police cars were still parked in front of the church itself. She thought they’d be done by now.
“This is the first time I’ve been to a wedding reception without a wedding,” Flo said pointedly as they entered the crowded room.
“Don’t remind me.”
The band was playing and everyone was dancing the tarantella. Lucille watched for a minute. Her mother was dancing with Mrs. De Stefano—it was considered bad luck to dance the tarantella without a partner—and Frank was spinning Rose, his second cousin once removed, around. Steering was more like it. Rose was more than a little overweight.
“You know,” she said and turned to Flo, “I don’t think an Italian wedding is legit unless the couple dances the tarantella. It’s like the final blessing. I just wish Bernadette and Taylor were dancing it together right this minute.” Lucille wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
A group of women came out of the ladies’ room. “Boy, do I feel better,” one of them said. “That girdle was killing me.”
“You must be starved.” Flo put a hand on Lucille’s arm. “Why don’t you get something to eat. I could use a drink myself.”
“Good idea. I might be getting that low blood sugar they’re always talking about, seeing as how I haven’t had anything to eat since this morning.”
Lucille made her way to the buffet table but all she found were a bunch of bare plates and empty lasagna pans. Everything had already been eaten. She felt her stomach rumble. Maybe she ought to start that new diet today—today could be her fasting day. Surely the pancakes and coffee cake this morning didn’t add up to the 800 calories you were allowed. She bet there was even room for a slice of wedding cake and a cannoli before she went over the limit. This diet was going to be a lot easier than any of the others she’d tried.
“Can I get you a drink?” Frank came up behind Lucille and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Sure. I could use a highball.” She figured that a highball didn’t have enough calories to make a difference. Tomorrow she could eat normally—she was thinking about making stuffed shells—and then she’d pick another day in the coming week to fast. Maybe when she’d dropped a few pounds, Frankie would go back to being his normal self—getting turned on by just a glimpse of her bare shoulder or the touch of her hand.
“No sign of Taylor, huh?”
Lucille shook her head. “Looks like Bernadette’s been stood up.” Lucille glanced over to the table where her daughter was demolishing a cannoli, her feet propped up on the chair next to her.
“You know, I’m not really sorry. There was something strange about the guy.”
Lucille thought about the Peacock and the fact that Taylor frequented the place. She could put two and two together as well as the next person. But she didn’t want to tell Frank about that right now. There was only one thing on her mind.
She turned toward him. “What do you mean? Our daughter is going to give birth as an unmarried woman.”
“That don’t mean so much these days, Lu. Not like when we were younger.”
Lucille set her jaw. “I still don’t like it.”
Lucille looked up to see her sister, Angela, bearing down on her like a locomotive run amok. Lucille rolled her eyes. She knew Angela well enough to know she was going to have something to say about this whole nightmare. She sent up a prayer to St. Monica, patron saint of patience. Because the way Lucille was feeling, she didn’t want no one to give her any grief.
“Lucille!” Angela exclaimed as she got closer. She looked Lucille up and down, one eyebrow raised.
Lucille tilted her chin. So she never had the chance to change into her dress and was still wearing the T-shirt and pedal pushers she’d put on that morning—what was it to Angela anyway?
Angela grabbed Lucille’s arm. “Where have you been? It was awful!” She put a hand to her chest dramatically. “They had to call the paramedics for Maria, Donna’s sister, when she heard the news. She wouldn’t stop wailing.” Angela looked slightly disproving. Lucille knew she didn’t hold with making a scene in pub
lic.
“Yeah, well, it must have been a shock. You can hardly blame her.”
“It’s been a shock to everyone, I can tell you that.” Angela nibbled the end of the cannoli she was holding. It reminded Lucille again that she hadn’t yet eaten. She patted her stomach. She felt thinner already.
“I took Louis and Millie back to your house, by the way,” Angela said, wiping a bit of cream from the corner of her mouth. “Poor Millie was actually shaking, she was so upset.”
Why couldn’t Angela have taken them to her house instead? Lucille wondered. She had a spare room now that Gabe had finally gotten an apartment of his own—even though Angela had begged him not to. Angela couldn’t imagine him living all on his own with no wife to take care of him. Of course, he still went home for dinner every night except Thursday, when he and a bunch of the guys went to the Office for burgers and a beer and Sundays when he came to Lucille’s house for family dinner.
Angela pointed over Lucille’s shoulder. “See those two guys? Who are they?”
Lucille looked over to where Angela was pointing. Two stocky men in dark suits stood at the back of the hall, their arms crossed over their chests, their eyes scanning the crowd.
Lucille shivered. “I don’t know. They look like a couple of goons to me.”
“What are they doing here? This is a private party. I don’t like the looks of those guys.”
Lucille glanced over her shoulder again. “I think they’re leaving. Maybe they just came to the wrong place.”
Angela shook her head. “I don’t know. It looked to me like they were searching for someone.”
Lucille headed to the buffet table, where they’d put out the wedding cake and the Italian pastries. Sambucco suddenly appeared at her elbow.
“Any sign of the groom?” He picked up one of the cannolis and licked the cream from the end.
Lucille shook her head. “Nah. No such luck.”
Sambucco sighed. “No sign of Alex Grabowski either.” He took a huge bite of his pastry. “Maybe the kid offed the two of them and is on his way to some non-extradition country even as we speak.”
Lucille shook her head so vigorously she could feel the curls Rita had created bouncing up and down. “No. No way. Taylor is a good kid.”
Sambucco gave Lucille a penetrating look that made her face burn. Okay, so she wasn’t fooling him. In reality she didn’t have a clue whether Taylor was a good kid or not. All she knew was that he had arrived on the scene, like one of them princes in shining armor, to rescue Bernadette from being an unwed mother, and that was good enough for her.
Sambucco let his breath whistle out through his teeth. “This is a strange case. I’ll say that much for it. Mother of the groom is found dead. Both the husband of the victim and the groom are missing. And it’s the kid’s wedding day, for chrissake. I gotta admit, I don’t know what to make of it.” He shook his head. “And motive? What motive could there possibly be? Unless”—he pointed his cannoli at Lucille—“as I said, the kid offed them both and is taking off with the family jewels. Especially seeing as how everyone says he didn’t appear to have none of his own.”
Sambucco snickered at his own joke and looked at Lucille.
Lucille glared back at him. “I gotta go see to my daughter now.” And she stepped around Sambucco with as much dignity as she could manage.
The band, a couple of guys Frankie knew from the Knights of Columbus, was packing up their instruments now. The accordion gave a last wheeze as Sal, who worked during the week selling windows, stuffed it into its case.
Bernadette was still at the table, her feet propped up, her cell phone in hand.
“I guess we’d better get going.” Lucille looked around the room one last time in case Taylor had materialized in the past five minutes.
“It’s about time,” Bernadette grumbled as she struggled to her feet. She made a face and grabbed her stomach. “Ouch,” she wailed. “That hurts.”
“What? What hurts?” Lucille put a hand to her chest. Here she’d had hardly nothing to eat, and still she was getting heartburn. Or maybe it really was her heart? Maybe Maria DeLucca wasn’t going to be the only one exiting the church hall on a stretcher.
“I got a pain, right here.” Bernadette scowled and pointed to a spot on her stomach.
“Like a cramp? Is it like a cramp?”
“Yeah. And it hurts.” Bernadette’s voice rose to a wail.
Lucille sent up a prayer to St. Leonard, who had prevented the premature birth of the child of Queen Wisigarde. This baby couldn’t arrive until they’d hunted down Taylor Grabowski and he and Bernadette were hitched.
Lucille made Bernadette sit down again and had her pant until the cramp passed. She didn’t want to call it a contraction, not even in her own head. Finally, Bernadette took her hands from her stomach.
“It’s gone.”
“Good. Let’s get you home then. You put your feet up and everything is going to be all right.”
“Fine by me.” Bernadette poked around for her sandals, which she’d discarded under the table.
“Listen,” Lucille said as they walked toward the door, the images from her visit to the Peacock still in her mind. “Did you and Taylor ever . . . you know . . . I mean, have you . . . with Taylor, that is . . . ?”
Bernadette stopped and looked at Lucille, her eyes round and a look of horror on her face. “Ewww, gross!” she cried before stomping off toward the car.
Chapter 8
Lucille woke up the next morning more tired than when she’d gone to bed. But Sunday was Sunday, and everyone was coming for dinner as usual. She’d hoped to get to early Mass but must have shut her alarm clock off without realizing it. Being at the church half the day Saturday would have to count instead. But to be on the safe side, she sent up a prayer to St. Monica, patron saint of lapsed Catholics, asking for her to intercede for forgiveness on Lucille’s behalf.
Lucille stretched out an arm and a leg but encountered nothing but cool sheets. Frankie must be up already. She frowned. It wasn’t like him to be up before her. And here she was hoping for a bit of a snuggle. She really didn’t understand what had gotten into Frankie. The thought gave her a burning sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Bernadette was sitting at the kitchen table when Lucille got downstairs.
“Are Millie and Louis up?” Lucille asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee. It was left over from yesterday, but she could heat it up in the microwave. She set the timer, opened the fridge and began to rummage around. She knew she had a package of bacon in there somewhere. Seeing as how yesterday was her fast day on her new diet, she figured she might as well have a good breakfast today.
“Dad took Cousin Louis and Cousin Millie to the Old Glory for breakfast.”
“Oh?” Lucille paused, half in and half out of the refrigerator.
Bernadette didn’t raise her eyes from her cell phone. “Yeah. He said he wanted to give you a break. So you wouldn’t have to make breakfast since everyone is coming for Sunday dinner later.”
A break? Lucille thought. Frankie had never done that before, and Louis and Millie had been living with them for a couple of months now. Was he avoiding her? That was it. He had to be avoiding her.
Another thought struck Lucille and she slammed the refrigerator door so hard the bottles on the shelves rattled. What if he was after that Betty again? She was still waitressing at the Old Glory as far as Lucille knew. Even though Frank swore last year there was nothing between them, maybe now . . .
Lucille didn’t want to think about that.
“Hey,” she said and turned to Bernadette. “You get any more of them cramps?”
Bernadette rubbed her stomach and shook her head.
“Good. That’s good. We don’t want this baby to come early.”
Bernadette shifted in her seat. “It can’t come soon enough if you ask me.”
Lucille put the strips of bacon in the frying pan. “Any news from Taylor?”
“No
,” Bernadette said without looking up from her phone.
“I just can’t imagine what got into him. He seemed like a nice young man. Not like someone who would leave his intended at the altar. You’d think Donna would have done a better job than that of raising him.”
Bernadette grunted.
Lucille turned around, her hands on her hips. “What do you know about your future in-laws anyway? They get along okay—Alex and Donna? Anything strange about them?”
“If you want to know if they were into kinky sex, I can’t tell you.” Bernadette kept her head bent over her phone.
Lucille felt herself blushing. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Miss Smarty Pants. I’m just trying to figure out why anyone would want to kill someone like Donna Grabowski—an ordinary housewife and mother. Sure, she’s got a massive diamond ring, fancy-schmancy earrings and drives an expensive car, but bottom line, she’s a housewife and mother like me or your Aunt Angela. And then the husband disappearing when he’s supposed to be at his only son’s wedding. I don’t know what to make of it.” She turned the burner off under the bacon, opened a cupboard door and pulled out a plate. She whirled around to face Bernadette. “Don’t you want to know what kind of family you’re marrying into?”
Bernadette looked up from her phone, her two thumbs still poised over the keyboard. “I’m not marrying Taylor.”
“What? Don’t start with that again.” Lucille slammed the plate down on the counter. “As soon as we find that little so-and-so I’m getting Father Brennan to perform the ceremony.”
“I’m not marrying Taylor, okay?” Bernadette jumped up from her chair. “Tony is coming home”—she waved her phone in front of Lucille’s face—“and we’re getting back together.”
Lucille felt a rush of gratitude and quickly sent up a prayer of thanks. “You and Tony are getting married!” she called after Bernadette, who was already out of the room.
Bernadette spun around. “Of course not. We’ve decided we don’t believe in marriage. It’s an artificial rite created by man.”
