I thought of Mrs. Fuller's white face and staring eyes. We had saved her and found her husband, yet she'd looked as if she wanted to die.
Madame had me open all the windows and burn lavender and rosemary in the fireplaces and carry the sick man's blankets immediately to the laundress and bathe even though it wasn't bath night. Perhaps that saved us, for though Maddie was quite ill for a time, the rest of us were spared.
Not so the Fullers. Sick as he was, Timothy Fuller strangely recovered, but beautiful, perfect Lydia succumbed to fever. Madame sent a wreath for her burial, and I saw her laid in the earth.
"I wish we'd never helped Aurelius,” I said, as we walked away from the Fuller mausoleum, a dark granite cube with columns at the front in what Madame told me was the “Egyptian manner.” The other mourners were dispersing slowly; Lieutenant Fuller wrapped in a thick shawl over his black suit and attended by his sister, a dark-haired girl who shared his lean features. “I wish he'd stayed wherever he stays."
"You wouldn't eat half so well if he did,” said Madame. “And you were keen to save her from the colonel. She didn't ask to be saved; it's a mistake, I've found, to go beyond the client's wishes."
I nodded my head.
Seeing my misery, Madame added, “But Colonel Parsons is a bad party, a very bad party, indeed. She was not the first, you know. Mr. Kaynes knew of him, but the colonel was clever; he'd covered his tracks very well."
"She'd be alive if we'd never found the lieutenant nor investigated the colonel."
"But her poor husband would be dead. And who knows what would have happened to her once Parsons had run through her money."
"He might have taken the fever instead; anything might have happened."
"You know, she suspected from the first that her husband was alive,” Madame said after a moment.
"Did Aurelius tell you that?” I had a lot against Aurelius, whom I blamed for meddling in things he might well have left alone.
"Indirectly,” said Madame. “When Aurelius made contact and the lieutenant spoke, Mrs. Fuller fainted."
"From the shock,” I suggested.
"From the shock, indeed. Most of my clients come hoping to hear from their loved one. She came hoping to find his grave. After that, I didn't need Aurelius to tell me that something was afoot."
Copyright © 2010 Janice Law
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Fiction: HARD AS A ROCK by Marianne Wilski Strong
I suppose I wouldn't have gotten so involved in Mrs. Forelli's disappearance if my mother hadn't had to go into a nursing home five months ago. She had a stroke and needed considerable medical care. The doctors insisted that I couldn't take care of her properly at home, and I knew they were right. But that knowledge didn't prevent me from feeling guilty every time I saw an old woman who looked as if she needed help. And Mrs. Forelli sure needed somebody's help.
I first saw Mrs. Forelli two months after I had returned to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, to stay in my mother's house. I was working half-heartedly on a series of articles for the Philadelphia Inquirer about inns and family restaurants of northeastern Pennsylvania. So, on days when my mother had lunch with the therapist, Jeanne, who was teaching her how to swallow again, I roamed around eastern Pennsylvania taking pictures of restaurants I thought were candidates for the articles. I had made a few choices already and settled down one afternoon to write. After a few hours, I decided to switch directions and get a little physical. So I did some yoga lunges, but after a while my knees rebelled. I took stock in the mirror, decided that my thighs and butt would never really get smooth and rock hard again, and so dragged out the list of restaurants I still had to explore.
The third one on the list was Forelli's Restaurant. I'd actually eaten there a few times with my mother and father when I was a teenager. I decided that it might be fun to see how much I remembered about the place. I grabbed my camera and set out.
Forelli's was a fifteen minute walk. As I approached, I was pleased to see the facade hadn't changed much. It had an almost European ambiance created by the dark wood of the door and the gauzy effect of long white curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows that flanked the door.
The sun was setting just across the Susquehanna River. The rays gave a golden sheen to the wood and curtains. I lifted my camera and adjusted the lens. A curtain on the second floor fluttered, then moved to the side. An old woman, in a dress whose pattern was too indistinct to decipher, stood at the window. She was thin. Her face was framed with wisps of gray hair, making her look gaunt and forlorn.
I moved my camera upward and snapped.
The woman jerked back, and the curtain dropped back into place.
I wondered if this woman were the Mrs. Forelli I had seen years ago. She'd been middle aged then, full bodied and jolly. This old woman had seemed furtive, frightened, as if she were hiding from someone or something. But then, perhaps, this was nothing more than my imagination at work, or worse, a replay in my mind of the look I had seen on my mother's face when she first entered the nursing home.
I wasn't sure, but something about the old woman drew me in. So I decided to come back for supper.
At home, I developed my pictures, tucked the one of the putative Mrs. Forelli into my purse, and dressed. I wasn't that slim, pretty, honey-blonde teenager I once was when I dined at Forelli's with my parents, but I still had a nice head of medium-length curly hair, somewhat darker than it used to be, and a figure whose bulges here and there were pretty easily disguised with a flowing dress.
Inside, Forelli's was pretty standard for an Italian restaurant: tables with checkered tablecloths, candles, vases of artificial flowers, and, on the walls, pictures of Rome, Sorrento, and Venice. The one distinguishing feature was the framed needlepoint canvases: one of a child holding a loaf of bread, one of peach-colored houses strung along the coast of a blue sea, one of a gothic cathedral, one of St. Joseph at a carpenter's workbench, and one of a man whom I think was meant to be Vince Lombardi.
The waitress, a woman of about forty, attractive except for her stiffly permed orange hair, waved me over to the left side of the restaurant to take my choice of tables beneath St. Joseph or Vince Lombardi. I choose Vince. He'd make a less austere dinner companion. Only one other table was taken. An elderly couple had ordered already and were sitting silently, apparently having little need to chitchat. Perhaps they'd been married so long that each pretty well knew what the other thought about things. That looked good to me; I never knew what James, my ex, thought about anything, including the young and lovely daughter of the Mercedes dealer, where my ex was an accountant. Of course, I knew what he thought of the alimony I'd demanded. His lawyer told me.
The waitress came over and I gave her my order. Shortly, she brought me my salad. It was damned good. I decided to put Forelli's on my list of restaurants for the series. While I speared dandelion leaves, tomatoes, peppers, and lettuce from their their Italian dressing, I tried to think of how to approach my waitress for some information about the restaurant and the old woman I'd seen at the window. I already thought of her as a prisoner. It was a matter of giving my mind something to concentrate on in lieu of my mother's situation. Forelli's not being a modern restaurant, my waitress hadn't announced her name and told me that she would be my server for the evening. She seemed to take it for granted that I knew that. So I decided on the direct approach.
"Can I ask you a few questions about this restaurant?” I said when she came over with my Bud Light.
She shrugged and lifted a hand as if to indicate that she couldn't imagine why I'd want to know anything about Forelli's. I took the shrug and gesture as a “yes."
"The owner, I understand, is a Mr. Donald Forelli."
She nodded.
I began to wonder if she were a former cloistered nun who still maintained the vow of silence.
"He's been the owner for about twenty-five years, hasn't he?"
She shrugged again, and I began to despair. Then she spoke. “Looks a
s if you know more about the place than I do,” she said.
"Well, I used to live here in Wilkes-Barre.” I explained about my series. “Could you ask Mr. Forelli if he'd talk with me?"
She frowned and started to look a little nervous. “I don't know. He's, well, he's not too talkative. Not anymore."
"Not anymore?” I repeated. “Why not? What happened to him?"
She shook her head. “I don't really know. I haven't been here that long. Less than a year. But Mary . . .” She paused and looked at her watch. “Mary, she's the other waitress. She's due in in about half an hour. She's been here longer, at least two years.” She glanced around and then leaned over toward me. “Mary says Mr. Forelli used to be really nice. You know, joking, taking an interest in his waitresses.” She straightened up and held up her hand like a cop directing traffic to stop me from protesting. “Don't get the wrong idea. I mean he took an interest in a nice way. You know, helpful, and all. Asking about families and all."
"Does Mary know what happened?"
"All I know is that she says she thinks it had something to do with old Mrs. Forelli, Mr. Forelli's mother-in-law, going away not long after Mr. Forelli's first wife died."
I hadn't expected the second subject of my interest to pop up so fast. “Going away?” I asked. “Where?"
She shrugged. “I haven't the foggiest."
"But she is here now, right?"
"Oh yes. She came back. She lives here with Mr. Forelli and his second wife."
"Wait a minute,” I said. “I'm confused. You said that old Mrs. Forelli was Mr. Forelli's mother-in-law. His mother-in-law has the same name? Did he marry his sister or something?"
The waitress's eyes widened like two blue balloons. “Good grief, no. You see, well, it is confusing. But Mr. Forelli is Mr. Cinella."
"Huh . . .” I said. But the couple on the other side of the restaurant had worked up enough nerve to call the waitress.
"Sorry,” she said. “I'd better go over."
I pushed around an olive and considered the wisdom of leaving immediately. This sounded like the kind of messy family situation you're better off not knowing about. But I was hooked. I had to find out how Mr. Forelli was Mr. Cinella.
I gestured for the waitress to return to me after she'd put bowls of spaghetti in front of the couple. The couple threw me dark looks. I felt kind of bad, but then maybe I'd given them something to talk about. They could ask each other questions like “Who does that brazen hussy think she is?” or “Why doesn't the younger generation have any manners at all?"
The waitress returned. “So tell me, please,” I said, “uh . . . I'm sorry. My name's Carolyn. I don't know your name."
"Dorothy."
"I'm dying of curiosity. What's the mystery about Forelli-Cinella?"
"No mystery, really. When Mr. Cinella married his first wife, he came to help run the restaurant for his wife's father. When the father died, Mr. Cinella took over. But he never changed the restaurant's name, so everybody just started calling him Mr. Forelli. He didn't mind much, I guess. Anyway, Mary says that it's very modern of him to use his wife's name."
"Yes, it is,” I said with genuine admiration. My ex, who objected to my using my patronym, Drisak, wouldn't have given up his name to marry a Windsor of England. “Okay, so then Mr. Cinella-Forelli's first wife died. And you mentioned that he married again, right?"
"Yes, he sure did.” Dorothy looked at the kitchen door which had just opened. “Oh, there's Mary,” she said, looking relieved. “She can tell you. When you write about this restaurant, you'll say good things, I hope. I need this job."
"Good, yes. Absolutely. Of course, I will have to come back a few times.” I was perfectly willing to bestow a little more praise than warranted to find out about this family tangle. Otherwise, I wouldn't get a decent night's sleep for a year.
After a few minutes, Mary came over and delivered eggplant parmesan to me. “Be right back,” she said conspiratorially, and went over to seat a foursome who had just come in.
I sized up Mary. About fifty-five, taking pretty good care of herself except for a bit too much pasta, but then which of us didn't have that problem. She had clear, bright brown eyes and shiny brown hair cut short for ease of care. She looked strong, motherly, and likely to enjoy a beer and a good gossip now and then.
When she returned, she slipped into the chair beside me. “Dorothy said you might do a review of the restaurant. That's good. We're doing pretty well, but more business is always welcome. I've got to put Jenny, that's my granddaughter, through college. So I'll be happy to talk for a nice tip. I'd be happy to talk anyway, but the tip will make me really happy."
I understood Mary completely. I never objected to a little minor bribery for a good story. “Okay,” I said, opting again for directness. I figured Mary to be too clever for any oily approach. “I'm doing a series on family restaurants, not reviews exactly. I certainly intend to include Forelli's in my series, but to tell you the truth, I've become interested in Mrs. Forelli. The mother-in-law. I took a picture of the restaurant earlier and caught her looking out the window of the second floor.” I pulled out the photo and handed it to Mary.
She took it, studied it, and frowned. “She's even thinner."
"Than what?"
"Than she was. I mean before she went away. I guess she was ill. She lost some weight and was looking a little pasty. I didn't see her after her return."
"Her return? Oh, yes, Dorothy mentioned that she'd gone somewhere."
"Well,” Mary said, glancing toward the kitchen. Seeing no signal that the foursome's food was ready, she sat down opposite me. “I guess I shouldn't gossip, but it's all kind of strange. And since you are interested in Mrs. Forelli, just maybe you can make something of the story. About two years ago, Mrs. Forelli . . . strike that. About two years ago, Mrs. Cinella died. The first Mrs. Cinella. She'd been sick for some time. Then, about a year ago, Mr. Cinella remarried. Now shortly after the second marriage, Mrs. Forelli, old Mrs. Forelli that is, went to England to visit her youngest daughter. You follow so far?"
I nodded.
"When she returned,” Mary continued, “she . . . well, she withdrew. She used to come into the restaurant and talk to customers. Everybody liked her. So did I. I didn't know her well, mind you, because I'd been here only a short while before she went away. But she'd make me feel like family. Then, when she came back, she just didn't bother with anybody anymore. It's like she just hid herself away. Like I said, she'd been losing weight, so maybe she was ill.” Mary picked up the picture and examined it again. “Funny,” she said. “She looks kind of frightened. Not that you can see her well, but . . ."
"I know,” I said. “I thought the same thing. But Dorothy said that Mr. Cinella was the one who changed."
"Oh, he did, too. They both did. Mr. Cinella is still real nice, but he's kind of morose."
"Have you any idea at all of what might have happened?"
Mary leaned toward me. “Well, he did break his leg, but so do a lot of people. They don't go morose. My guess is that the second wife has browbeaten him and his mother-in-law. The current Mrs. Cinella is pretty nasty. She doesn't come down to the restaurant that much, but when she does, usually on Mondays to check out orders for the week, she lets us know that she thinks we don't work hard enough. She eats a meal, devouring every morsel, then tells the cook it was not up to her standards. Dorothy and I spend the next day looking at the want ads."
"Why doesn't Mrs. Forelli go live with her daughter in England?"
"I don't know."
I thought furiously and came up with an idea. “Maybe, old Mrs. Forelli wanted to sell the restaurant and get some money for her old age. And maybe her son-in-law and his new wife didn't want her to do that. So here she sits. It depends on who owns the restaurant now. Mrs. Forelli or Mr. Cinella."
Mary shook her head. “Funny, I never asked. I'm not sure. I guess I assumed that Mr. Cinella owned it."
Three more couples came in.
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Mary stood up. “Listen, I've got to get to work. It'll get pretty busy now."
I nodded. “Thanks, Mary.” I slipped her a fiver.
She looked at it and slid it into a pocket. “Thank you. You didn't really have to, but I do appreciate it. Look, I don't know who owns this place, but you've got to win over Mrs. Cinella if you want to do some kind of article. You're good looking and generous, but your looks won't cut any ice with her. Good luck.” She turned toward the couples who had entered, then turned back. “If you can dig up some information on what might be wrong with Mrs. Forelli, that would be great. Maybe she's just ill, but I have a hunch that something more is wrong here."
I nodded and dug into my eggplant parmesan, rather cold now, but I didn't want to bother Mary anymore. I also decided to forget using Forelli's in the series. I'd had a mother-in-law rather like Mrs. Cinella and five years of a petty tyrant was quite enough for me. As for Mrs. Forelli, Mary was likely right: She was ill. There was little I could do about that. I had an ill mother to look after.
I left Forelli's and went out into the brisk October air.
I don't know why I turned round to take a look at Forelli's from my car, but I did. Mrs. Forelli, that same thin woman with the wispy hair round her face, sat by an upstairs window, looking down on the street. She had her head resting on the arm she had propped up on a windowsill. She could have been a woman in an Edward Hopper painting entitled “Longing,” or “Loneliness.” Forelli's was on the series list again. I just had to come back.
* * * *
That Monday, Mary looked surprised that I'd returned. “Okay,” she said to my request that she ask Mrs. Cinella to talk to me. “Your funeral."
Before Mrs. Cinella came out, Forelli's Restaurant went in and out of my series list about eight times. I'd decided on “out” when Mrs. Cinella appeared and identified herself to me. She was quite an attractive woman of around fifty or so. She had short but full hair swept neatly down around a nicely pointed chin. She had two bad features: her puffy cheeks and her hard, small eyes. She looked like a cute chipmunk with attitude.
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