Angelo turned from the grill with an exasperated look when he heard the door open. But his expression softened when he saw it was me.
“I’ll just get something to go. I know you’re about to close.” I said it loudly enough that not only Angelo but also the other diners would hear me. Angelo winked at me.
Rosalie leaned over the counter. “Stay and eat with us. Go sit over at a table. If anyone asks, you’re waiting for your to-go order.”
I went over and sat, smiling at the people at the table closest to me as they gathered up their things and left. I’d secretly been hoping that I’d be invited to eat with Angelo and Rosalie. I wanted to hear all about Margaret’s funeral. The other group left, too, and Rosalie switched the sign to CLOSED. The staff got busy cleaning. I talked to Ryan for a few minutes while he mopped and to Lois while she wiped down tables. I felt guilty for just sitting there, even though I’d had a long, hard day of work too.
A few minutes later Rosalie brought wine over in plastic kiddie cups, plates, and a basket of cheese bread. “Go ahead and start. We’ll be over in a minute.”
They sent the rest of the staff home—most with packets of food. Angelo didn’t want anything to go to waste. The mozzarella dripped off the bread as I picked a piece up. Angelo carried over a steaming bowl of clams, and Rosalie followed with seafood over pasta in a fra diavolo sauce—a spicy tomato-garlic sauce.
“Expanding the menu?” I asked as they sat down. I’d never seen fra diavolo or clams on the menu before.
“Rosalie thinks we should.”
“Ryan suggested we start catering events,” Rosalie said.
Angelo shook his head. “I like things the way they are. Dig in. It’s better hot.”
I dug my fork into a large chunk of lobster and popped it in my mouth. I made a noise, almost a moan, which made Angelo look up, eyebrows raised. “It’s delicious,” I said. “The fra diavolo has just the right amount of spice. I hate it when it burns my tongue.”
“That’s why you should only eat here. You try this over at Tony’s in Billerica, all you’re gonna get is a heavy hand with the hot stuff. This is a delicate blend to bring out all the flavors,” Angelo said. But for all of Angelo’s bravado, his cheeks pinked up, like he was pleased.
“How was Margaret’s funeral?” I asked.
“We almost didn’t get seats,” Rosalie said.
“I would’ve found you a seat if I had had to ask the priest to give up his,” Angelo said, patting Rosalie’s hand.
Rosalie smiled at Angelo. “Some people didn’t even make it into the church. They set up loudspeakers outside.”
“I bet Margaret would have loved that,” I said.
“An archbishop from Boston came, a couple of the lesser Kennedys, and of course, half the church was filled with her family.” Angelo plopped a couple more clams on each of our plates. “The eulogies would have made you think she’d be up for sainthood.”
“Stella sang ‘Ave Maria.’ It filled the church. She has the voice of an angel,” Rosalie said.
“And the past of the devil,” Angelo said. “But her voice gave me goose bumps.”
That reminded me I wanted to talk to Stella. With all that had been going on, I’d forgotten. I hadn’t seen her since Hennessy told me Stella owed Margaret for something. I wanted to know what it was. “What else went on?”
“Lot of crying from the front of the church,” Rosalie said.
“Or fake crying,” Angelo said. “A lot of people stand to inherit money.”
“What about the back of the church? Why weren’t they crying?”
Rosalie and Angelo exchanged one of their looks. They might love me, but by Ellington standards, I was still an outsider.
“The front of the church was family. The back, friends or associates. She belonged to a lot of organizations,” Rosalie said.
“And they don’t have a reason to cry?” I asked.
“Let me put it this way. A lot of them are relieved they no longer owe Margaret a favor.”
“That’s the third time someone has mentioned Margaret and people owing her. What’s going on? It sounds like she was in the Mob.”
“She wasn’t in the Mob. Not that I know anyone who is,” Angelo said.
I wondered about that. Angelo spent a lot of time denying that his extended family’s businesses had anything to do with the Mob. But Vincenzo certainly had dealings with the Mob as a lawyer. And their uncle, Stefano, had certainly seemed to want me to think he was a mobster when we met last fall.
“She liked power,” Angelo said. “And she built a whole system of power by looking like she was helping people, until she got her hooks into them.”
“It seems like a lot of people might resent that,” I said.
“Yes and no,” Rosalie said. “It wasn’t fun to owe her, but she got things done. Things that helped not only Ellington but the surrounding communities.”
“Rosalie’s just being nice. It’s one of her best qualities,” Angelo said. “People resented Margaret. Plenty of people.”
* * *
I walked home with a huge box of cookies, still a little shocked to hear about this other side of Margaret. Even though both Kathy and Hennessy had mentioned it, the DiNapolis’ opinions gave it weight. Here I’d thought so highly of Margaret. Next thing I’d find out was that she was broke, not that I really believed that would happen.
The DiNapolis never let me leave empty handed—thus the cookies. I’d insisted on washing the dishes, since there weren’t enough to put in the dishwasher, and on cleaning the kitchen while Rosalie and Angelo enjoyed the rest of their wine. For once they’d let me do it. Washing dishes was about all I could do in the kitchen. My lack of cooking skills was well known. Maybe one of these days I should ask Angelo to teach me to cook a simple dish.
I noticed Stella’s car was home and her light was on. I figured she liked cookies, so I knocked on her door.
“No date tonight?” I asked when she opened it.
“Two dates with the last guy was enough. And don’t ask.”
“I have cookies from DiNapoli’s.” I held up the white box tied with string.
“Are there any of Rosalie’s pistachio ones in there? Her cookies are the best.” Stella held the door open. I followed her in. We plopped down on her couch, with the box of cookies between us. Stella found a pistachio cookie, and I snagged a chocolate one. As full as I was, there was always room for a cookie.
“I heard you sang at Margaret’s service today.”
Stella licked a crumb off her finger. “Yes. And now I’m free. Let’s have a glass of cava to celebrate.”
Stella grabbed a bottle from her fridge, uncorked it with a resounding pop, and poured the sparkling Spanish wine into two flutes.
“What do you mean, you’re free?” I had a good idea, given what Hennessy had told me, but I wanted to hear what Stella had to say. “Until recently, I thought Margaret was just a nice old lady who liked to help people.”
Stella laughed, but it wasn’t the happy kind. “Without Margaret, I wouldn’t have had a career in opera. My aunt Nancy took me to her house when I was in high school so Margaret could hear me sing. After that she paid for my private lessons and schooling.” Stella snagged another cookie but just stared at it. “She’s the one who made it possible for me to go to Europe. Provided the clothes, the luggage and, most importantly, the contacts. In return, I was expected to be an overnight sensation. I wasn’t.”
“But your voice is amazing.”
“I did okay. Given time, I think I could have developed a great career.”
“Margaret didn’t realize that?”
“She wanted bragging rights and didn’t want to wait for them. So when someone mentioned that a little amphetamine would keep me going longer so I could take more lessons, I tried it.”
I sipped my cava. I knew Stella had eventually left Europe and had ended up in Los Angeles. Where she’d gotten in trouble for using.
“Margaret eve
n paid for my lawyer and rehab.” Stella sighed. “I tell people I came back because I missed being here. But in reality I came back because Margaret told me to, and I felt like I owed it to her.”
“You didn’t have to. What would it have mattered?”
“She knew about my aunt Nancy’s political ambitions and said she’d squash them like a bug if I didn’t do what she wanted. Or she could help her. I could take Margaret being mad at me, but not my family. So I came back.”
“You don’t have to stay here now. I don’t want you to leave, but you could.”
Stella looked around her apartment. “I’m happy here. I like my job. And now that I’m not at Margaret’s beck and call, I can really enjoy it.”
“What do you mean?”
“When she wanted someone to sing at something, she’d call me. Whether it was for a hundred people or two. When she called, I dropped everything and went. Sometimes she’d let me know in advance, but she also delighted in waiting until the last minute.”
“I’m starting to feel very lucky that I didn’t know her very well.”
“You are. She expected miracles at the drop of a hat. If she’d told me I owed her one more time, I might have killed her myself.”
“Don’t go around saying that. Someone might believe you.”
Stella flicked her hand in an “I don’t care” motion. “She hated owing people, but she loved them owing her.”
“I helped her set up her account for my garage sale site. She told me she owed me one, but I thought it was just an offhand comment at the time.” I shuddered. “She doesn’t sound like a very nice person. Any thoughts on who might have killed her?” I asked.
Stella munched on her cookie and sat without speaking for a minute. “No. People might say they wanted to, but I can’t think of a soul who would actually do it. Now I’m really, truly free.” Stella finished her cookie and held her glass up toward the sky. “Here’s to you, Margaret. I sang one last time for you. May you rest in peace or burn in hell.”
* * *
I trudged up the steps to my apartment. Stella wouldn’t let me leave the cookies and didn’t buy my “Opera singers are supposed to be fat” line. I thought about Margaret having her finger in the political world, which made me think of Seth. His family obviously knew Margaret. And I remembered hearing that eyebrows had been raised when Seth, at such a young age, was appointed to take over for the ailing former district attorney. And now hoped to be elected as the DA.
I didn’t recognize the guy at the top of the steps, but I went over, anyway. “I have some cookies for Mike. Is he home?”
The guy stood and looked me over. “No one’s supposed to be up here.”
I glared up at him and pointed at my apartment. “I live right there.” The guy raised an eyebrow, so I dug around in my purse and found my ID. “Here. Now, please get Mike.” I said it loudly. “Or do you want to go through the cookie box, too?”
He reached for the box as the door whipped open, and one of Mike’s brothers stood there.
“I have cookies for Mike, and I don’t appreciate being questioned about being here.”
“Sorry, He’s new. Come on in.”
Mike sat on a leather couch, watching the Celtics play on a ginormous-screen TV, which hadn’t been here before Mike moved in. “Hey, Sarah. What’s up?”
I stepped around the poker table. “I brought you some cookies.” I handed him the box. “And I have two questions. Do you know Seth Anderson, and was he over here playing poker the other night?”
Mike flipped open the box and picked a cookie. “Of course I know who Seth Anderson is. A guy like me always knows the players in the area.” He looked me in the eye. “But no, he wasn’t over here. Why would he be?”
I left, knowing that Mike was a consummate liar. Not because of anything he’d said or done, but because I’d glanced at his brother, who had had a panicked expression on his face. If this whole mess were at a garage sale, I wouldn’t buy it, because something stunk.
Chapter 19
I settled on the couch, flipped on the Celtics game, and called Seth.
“Sarah, come over.” He sounded so happy to hear from me. I heard voices in the background. “I have people over watching the Celtics game.”
Darn. I couldn’t very well quiz him on his relationships with Margaret and Mike if he had a house full of guests.
“I can’t. I had a long day with a client.”
“How’d it go?”
“Good.” Always Miss Upbeat all of a sudden, as I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.
“I’d get rid of everyone if I could.” Seth’s low, soft voice made me tingle, even though I had questions for him.
His friends cheered as one of the Celtics shot a three-pointer from half-court to finish the half.
“Seth, darling, what’s taking you so long?” It was Nichole talking in the background. I couldn’t believe she called him “darling.”
“I’ve got to go, Seth,” I said.
“Wait. Why’d you call?”
“No particular reason.” I hung up. I didn’t want to give him a heads-up about Mike before we talked in person.
* * *
Sunday morning, after a long soak in the tub, two cups of coffee, and a failed attempt at the Sunday crossword puzzle, I read an article in the paper about Juanita’s death. It was splashed all over the front page of the local paper. Two murders within a few days of each other in a small town like Ellington was unheard of. Although technically at this point Juanita’s death was a suspicious death, and, boy, did I have my suspicions. But the article didn’t tell me anything new.
To keep busy, I flopped on the couch, popped open the laptop, and worked on my garage sale site. One hundred notifications sat there, waiting for me. I took another drink of coffee and started sifting through them. Most of them were easy: a question about how to post something, someone wanting to add a friend to the site, a complaint about someone else bumping their posts up more frequently than the once a week that was allowed.
I breezed through most of them in a half hour. There were a couple of posts about Juanita. One person asked if anyone had heard from her, because she was supposed to clean her house yesterday. She had company coming and was very upset. Then there was another complaint and, finally, a post about Juanita’s death, with a link to the story in the newspaper.
I sent a message to the person with the complaint, asking what kind of problems she’d had. I heard back right away. It wasn’t a problem with Juanita’s cleaning, which was fine, but she’d come home on two different occasions after Juanita had cleaned and left to find a door or a window unlocked. I asked if anything had been taken, but nothing had. It worried me, nonetheless. With Juanita dead, I guessed it didn’t really matter if she’d been involved in something bad. It must have died with her.
I noticed that a nor’easter was expected to hit this evening, bringing with it our first significant snow of the year. Right now the sky was blue and cloudless. My phone rang, and I had mixed feelings when I saw it was Seth. But not so mixed that I ignored the call.
“You hung up pretty quickly last night,” he said.
“You had company and were busy.”
“Is this about Nichole? We’re just friends. I didn’t even invite her. She just showed up with other people I did invite.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations.”
“But I want to. I want to mean that much to you.” He always knew what to say to break down my resistance. And since I wanted to talk to him about more than one thing, it wasn’t very hard.
“Seth—”
“Come to lunch with me.”
“I have a lot to do.” Liar. “Besides, don’t you have a thing with your family today?”
“Mother got a better offer and ditched us. So I’m free, and you have to eat. If I know you, all you have in your house is Marshmallow Fluff, peanut butter, and bread.”
“They’re staples. Besides, there’s a nor’east
er headed this way.”
“You are such a California girl. I’ll have you home safe before the first flake falls. Please come to lunch.”
“Okay.” I really didn’t want a fluffernutter, anyway.
* * *
I figured we’d go to Helen’s, my favorite breakfast and lunch place in Concord, but Seth kept driving. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“The Wayside Inn in Sudbury.”
“Longfellow’s Wayside Inn?” I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice. I’d always wanted to go, and it wasn’t that far from Ellington. I’d just never made it.
“Yes, but it was around long before Longfellow wrote about it. It’s the oldest continually run inn in the States. The road it sits on is one of the first mail routes in the country.”
Seth took the back roads, and I was content to watch the low stone walls roll by and to admire the colonial-style houses, which actually were from colonial times.
“When the inn first opened, the Howe family called it a ‘house of entertainment,’” Seth said as he pulled into the parking lot of the inn.
“That sounds kind of naughty.”
“Maybe it was.”
As we got out of the car, Seth pointed to a window on the second floor of the red clapboard building. “That room’s haunted.”
Hairs prickled on the back of my neck when I looked at the window and saw a shadow pass it. I grabbed Seth’s arm. “I think I just saw the ghost.”
He looked up and laughed. “It looks like the cleaning woman is vacuuming. Are you afraid of ghosts?”
I squinted my eyes and was relieved to see it was a woman vacuuming. “Maybe. Just a little.”
“If you plan to stay in New England, you’re going to have to toughen up. We have a lot of ghosts and a lot of snow. You can’t let either of them scare you.”
“Any other tips?”
“You should date only lawyers named Seth.” He linked his hand with mine and pointed at the window again. “This ghost story is tragic. Jerusha Howe, the daughter of one of the owners, fell in love with a guy from Britain. He pledged his love to her. But he had to return to England and promised he’d be back.”
All Murders Final! Page 11
