2 Unholy Matrimony

by Peg Cochran

  Lucille thought about it as she put away a plate of hash browns, scrambled eggs and sausage—today was a regular day, not a diet day. So far this diet had been a breeze to stick to. Lucille wasn’t sure she’d lost any weight yet, but she knew she had to be patient. Slow and steady wins the race, her grandfather used to say.

  She slipped into a pair of elastic-waist shorts. She thought they felt kind of loose already. That was a good sign. This time she really was going to lose weight.

  She wasn’t scheduled to work that day so she thought she’d go back to the Grabowskis’ house. Maybe Taylor would be there. The maid said he came and went, so hopefully this time he’d be coming rather than going. She had to persuade him to go through with the marriage to Bernadette. Bernadette hadn’t had any more of them cramps, but still, the baby could come any day now.

  Maybe she was being silly—Frankie thought she was and so did Flo. But she couldn’t let go of the way things had been in her day. Being an unwed mother had been an embarrassment, and she didn’t want Bernadette to have to go through that.

  She’d promised to take Millie to the doctor later that afternoon so she figured she would go over now. Maybe Taylor hadn’t gone out yet—she knew Bernadette rarely got it together enough to leave the house before noon.

  The Olds didn’t want to turn over and it took Lucille three tries to get her going. She could feel the sweat running down her sides. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to the Olds. Not now with so much else going on.

  She backed slowly down the driveway, put the car in drive, plugged in Little Richard and headed toward Pine Way.

  The street was quiet when Lucille got there. Not like her street with all the kids outside riding their bikes and playing ball and neighbors cutting their grass or weed whacking. The hush settled over her as she made her way up the slate path to the front door.

  She rang the bell and waited.

  She was about to ring again when someone called to her. She turned around to see Donna’s sister, Maria, coming up the steps. She was wearing a long denim skirt and a flowered T-shirt. The only jewelry she had on was a watch. Once again, Lucille marveled at how two sisters could be so different—one so plain and the other so fancy.

  “You been waiting long?” Maria said as she joined Lucille on the landing.

  “Nah. I was going to ring again,” Lucille said, pressing the buzzer. “This here’s a big house. You got to give them time to get to the door.”

  Maria frowned. “I’ve got to talk to Alex about the . . . the funeral plans.” She pulled a tissue from her bag and pressed it to her eyes.

  Lucille patted her on the arm. “I can understand how hard this must be for you.”

  Maria nodded. “Thank you.” She sniffed and tucked the tissue up her sleeve. “I haven’t been able to reach him, and everyone is asking when the service is going to be. I can’t imagine where he’s gone. I don’t know if he even . . . knows yet.” She pulled the tissue out and pressed it to her eyes again.

  Lucille peered through the etched glass alongside the door. “It looks dark. You’d think that maid would at least answer the door.”

  “The maid?” Maria frowned. “Donna fired her a week or two ago. Donna caught her using some of her best perfume—a bottle she brought back from Paris. The woman denied it, of course, but she reeked of the scent, and Donna knew she was lying.”

  “That’s funny,” Lucille said, “on account of she was here when I came by the other day.”

  “No!” Maria said.

  “And she was dressed in a ton of jewelry and fancy silk pajamas. I’ve got to tell you, it seemed pretty odd to me.”

  “And Donna not even cold in her grave!” Maria scrabbled in her purse for a fresh tissue.

  Lucille was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s obvious, don’t you think?” Maria’s face hardened.

  “You mean the two of them was having an affair—Alex and the maid?”

  “I’m not one to speak ill of anyone, but oh, the things my sister had to put up with!”

  The quiet was suddenly broken by the harsh bark of a dog. Lucille looked toward the street. A woman was walking along with a golden retriever on a leash. She had on white shorts that Lucille thought were awfully short for a woman her age—she looked to be at least forty—with a hot pink tank top and enormous tortoiseshell sunglasses.

  Maria turned up her nose and sniffed. “That’s Babs Bianchi,” she hissed to Lucille.

  “She a neighbor?” Lucille watched as the woman sashayed down the street, hips swinging. If she ever tried to walk like that, she figured she’d put something out for sure. Her hand went to the small of her back reflexively.

  “She’s the neighborhood hussy,” Maria hissed again.

  Lucille raised her eyebrows.

  “One time Donna threw a party for the whole neighborhood. She could hardly leave her out.” Donna jerked her head in the direction of Babs. “It wouldn’t look right, and Donna liked to do things properly. Of course, the woman showed up in a dress cut down to here”—Maria indicated a point on her chest—“and a pair of those sandals with the real high heels. She ignored Donna and went right up to Alex. She made a big play for him, and Donna was furious.”

  “Really?”

  Maria nodded, her dark bushy brows lowered. “What was worse—everyone at the party noticed. That woman has no shame.”

  “What did Alex do?” Lucille wondered what Frankie would do if some hot babe in a low-cut dress starting flirting with him.

  “That’s the thing,” Maria declared triumphantly. “He didn’t do anything. He was like a cat lapping up cream. It was like they were the only two people in the room.”

  “No wonder Donna was furious.” Lucille decided that if Frankie ever did that, he’d be spending a good month sleeping on the couch.

  “It burned inside her like a fire.” Maria clenched a fist to her chest.

  “Yeah, I don’t blame her,” Lucille said, although she wondered if maybe Donna hadn’t actually had heartburn. That sure could burn like a fire.

  “You know what Donna did,” Maria whispered, looking over her shoulder to where Babs had disappeared around the bend in the road with her dog.

  Lucille shook her head.

  “She crept over to the Bianchis’ house one night. That woman was too lazy to put her own car in the garage—a brand-new Lexus. It was just sitting there in the driveway.”

  “No!” Lucille gasped.

  Maria nodded. “Yes. Donna keyed both sides of the car. All that beautiful, new, shiny dark blue paint . . . ruined.”

  Geez, Lucille thought as she headed back to her car. It sure didn’t pay to mess with Donna. She stopped suddenly as she was about to put the key in the ignition.

  Did Babs know it was Donna who had ruined her new car? And had she decided to get back at her by killing her?

  • • •

  Lucille thought about it as she drove away. It was one thing to key someone’s car—that would make her mad as hell if someone did that to the Olds, not that the Olds didn’t already have her fair share of scratches and dings—but she sure wouldn’t kill the person. No, her money was on Alex. First he takes out an insurance policy on Donna, then he kills her and now he’s disappeared. Probably holed up in some luxury hotel somewhere, the kind of place where they put a mint on your pillow at night and gave you a robe to wear. Not that Lucille had ever been to a place like that, but she watched television just like everyone else and saw all those ads for fancy vacations in places like the Caribbean.

  By the time Lucille pulled into her driveway she had made up her mind. She was going to call Sambucco and make an appointment to go in and see him. She would tell him about Alex, and while she was at it, she would hand over Donna’s cell phone. With Alex as the most logical suspect, the fact that the last call on the cell came from her, Lucille, would no longer matter.

  Lucille reached for the phone in the kitchen and put it back down again. What if Sambucco
didn’t believe her? And how was she going to explain knowing about the insurance policy? Lucille felt the edge of the cell phone in her pocket digging into her thigh. She couldn’t spend another night tossing and turning and worrying about it.

  She grabbed the phone, and before she could change her mind, punched in Sambucco’s number.

  “’lo,” he answered on the first ring.

  “It’s me, Lucille Mazzarella.”

  “Lucille,” Sambucco said, and Lucille thought she could hear his desk chair creak as he leaned back. “How’s it going? Find any more dead bodies lately?” He laughed.

  “Not lately.” Lucille let out a loud exhale. She wasn’t going to let no jerk like Sambucco goad her into getting mad.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  “It’s like this. There’s a couple of things I want to tell you. I thought maybe I could come by your office and we could talk personal-like.”

  Even over the phone she could hear Sambucco drumming his fingers on his desk.

  “How about we meet at the Old Glory and grab some coffee? I could use a cup.”

  “Sure, sure, that sounds fine.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you in ten.” And Sambucco hung up.

  Lucille hustled to the powder room, where she checked her hair and dabbed at her nose with some powder. So Sambucco wanted to meet at the Old Glory. Did that mean he was still interested in her? Lucille practiced one of them seductive-like looks the models in lingerie ads always sported—head slightly lowered, mouth in a pout and eyes wide. She scowled at her reflection. She looked like she had gas. Anyways, she’d better get going or Sambucco would be kept waiting.

  On the way to the Old Glory, Lucille had another thought. She could check out that waitress, Betty, who had caught Frankie’s eye last year. Maybe even ask her if she’d seen Frankie lately.

  Lucille pulled into the parking lot. She was surprised to realize she was feeling kind of nervous. When she got out of the car, she noticed she’d parked in the middle between two spaces. She looked around. There were plenty of other places to park. She would just leave it.

  The Old Glory was just gearing up for the lunch crowd, which would be arriving shortly. Lucille saw Sambucco wave from the back where he was seated at a table for two. She made her way over to where he was sitting.

  “Lucille.” He rose slightly. “Sit down.” He gestured toward the wooden Windsor chair opposite him.

  All of a sudden Lucille felt shy, which was ridiculous since she’d known Richie Sambucco practically forever.

  She pulled out the chair and sat down. Sambucco was already halfway through a cup of coffee. He signaled to the waitress, who bustled over to their table. Lucille glanced at the name tag pinned above the pocket of her uniform. Her name was Gladys. Lucille looked around. There were two other waitresses leaning on the counter waiting for their orders to be ready—one was blonde and the other had iron gray hair pulled back in a bun. Betty had to be the blonde then. Lucille thought back to when she’d had blonde highlights put in her hair. Frankie hadn’t ever said anything about them, but that was nothing new. Lucille would have to shave her head to get him to notice that something was different. But maybe he liked blondes and just never said. Maybe he’d settled for her when he’d really been pining for Cynthia Smith, a girl in their class with impossibly long blonde hair.

  “Lucille,” Sambucco said rather sharply. “What would you like?”

  Lucille came to with a start. “An iced coffee,” she said to the waitress, who was standing patiently, her pencil poised above her pad.

  “You want something to eat? A sandwich maybe?”

  Lucille shook her head. She had the feeling that if she tried to swallow anything other than liquid she would choke.

  “Listen,” Sambucco said. “How’s your friend, Flo?”

  “Flo?” Lucille was startled. “She’s okay. She’s got a new job with this plastic surgery center over in Berkley Heights. All the chemicals in the air at the Clip and Curl was beginning to get to her. Not to mention being on her feet so much. And she said the surgery center pays better, although she misses all the gals at the beauty parlor.”

  Sambucco toyed with his spoon, not meeting Lucille’s gaze. “She seeing anyone?”

  Lucille was so startled she jumped and banged her knee against the table.

  “No, no, I don’t think she’s seeing anyone,” she hastened to answer Sambucco’s question. She didn’t want him to think that she . . . because she didn’t. She was over him. Completely over. It was just on account of Frankie suddenly not being interested that her confidence had taken a nosedive.

  Sambucco smiled. “That’s good. That’s good.” He looked down at the remains of the coffee in his cup. “Thinking I might give her a call. Get together for dinner or something, you know?”

  He glanced up at Lucille and there was a look on his face she’d never seen before.

  “It’s been quite a few years since the wife passed away. Time I got my feet wet again.”

  “Sure, sure.” Lucille nodded at him.

  “Do you think you could sort of feel her out for me? See what she thinks of the idea?”

  “Sure, sure,” Lucille said again.

  Why did the idea of Flo and Richie going out bother her? She had her Frankie—she’d never really wanted anyone else. Okay, maybe George Clooney, but face it, that wasn’t likely to happen. Maybe she just liked the idea that another man found her attractive. Maybe if Frankie found her attractive again, everything would be okay. She really had to stick to this new diet. And she had to have a talk with Frankie as soon as possible. Because if the problem was his, then she could stop worrying herself half to death.

  “So, Lucille.” Sambucco drained his coffee and motioned to the waitress for a refill. “What is it you wanted to see me about?”

  The waitress cruised over to their table, slid an iced coffee on a lace doily in front of Lucille and filled Sambucco’s empty cup.

  Lucille took a huge gulp. Now that she was here she was beginning to wonder if she was right about Alex being the murderer. But in for a penny, in for a pound as her mother used to say, although Lucille had no idea what that expression really meant. It didn’t make no sense at all.

  Lucille put her glass down. “It’s like this.” She spread her hands out on the table. “It’s about Donna DeLucca’s murder.” She shook her head. “I should say Donna Grabowski, but I still can’t get used to the fact—”

  “What about the murder?” Sambucco poured sugar into his cup and stirred.

  “I think I know who did it,” Lucille blurted out.

  Sambucco raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said, settling back in his seat, a look of amusement on his face.

  “I think Alex Grabowski murdered his wife. He murdered Donna.”

  “Really?” Sambucco said again. “What makes you think that?”

  This was the hard part. Lucille could feel heat rising to her face. She fanned herself with her napkin. “Got one of them hot flashes, you know?”

  Sambucco looked skeptical, but she didn’t care.

  “Okay.” She held up her hand and ticked off her first finger. “First off, Alex is missing, and no one seems to know where he went. We don’t even know if he knows Donna is dead. No one is at his office, and he hasn’t even picked up the mail. I met his receptionist, Rosemary, at this party my mother gave. We got to talking, and she told me Alex had given all the staff a couple of weeks off. That struck me as pretty odd.”

  “I agree,” Sambucco said with the hint of a smile.

  “Where was I?” Lucille took another gulp of her iced coffee.

  “Number two.”

  “Yeah, right. Number two.” She ticked off her second finger. “Alex stands to get a lot of money if Donna dies. One million dollars to be exact.”

  “Where is that money coming from?”

  “An insurance policy he took out on Donna shortly before she died,” Lucille said triumphantly.

  “How did you kn
ow about . . .” Sambucco waved his hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “And third, it looks like he was having an affair with the maid. Donna fired her, but when I went over to their house, there she was acting as if she owned the place—all dressed up in Donna’s clothes and wearing her jewelry. Don’t you see? It all adds up.”

  “I would be inclined to agree with you except for one thing.”

  Lucille’s head shot up. “What’s that?”

  “Alex Grabowski is dead. We found his body late last night.”

  Chapter 13

  “Dead?” Lucille repeated dully. “What do you mean dead?”

  “I mean dead. As in not living anymore. No pulse. Not breathing. No brain waves. Dead.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” Lucille sniffed. Sheesh, no need for him to get so sarcastic about it.

  Now she had no idea what to do. Give Richie the cell phone even though it made her look guilty as hell? Better not. Better to keep it a bit longer—at least until she figured out who killed both Donna and Alex.

  Sambucco cracked his knuckles, drained his cup of coffee and looked at Lucille.

  “Okay, want to tell me what you and Donna Grabowski argued about at your daughter’s rehearsal dinner? I get it that weddings can be stressful, but I gather this went beyond just the usual words between the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom.”

  “What? Who?” Lucille stammered.

  “Maria. Donna’s sister. Said you two got into a shoving match.”

  “It wasn’t nothing.”

  “Just kind of odd, don’t you think, that the next day Donna turns up dead, and the last call on her cell phone came from you?”

  Lucille spread her hands out on the table. “Richie, you’ve known me since high school. You can’t think I would . . . would murder Donna on account of a disagreement over the wedding.”

  Sambucco stared into his empty cup of coffee. “Yeah. But Maria also told us what you argued about and it actually wasn’t about the wedding—it was about Donna and Alex rebuilding the house your cousins lived in.”