“So, Brooksy. What’s your take on love and marriage?” Larry was openly smirking.
Brooke’s fast swig of her drink went down the wrong way. Instantly, her coughing was loud and deep.
Tony jumped up and strode over to pat her on her back until she had recovered.
“Thanks,” she muttered, not daring to look him in the eye.
Jumping ahead, Larry came up with another hard subject. He cleared his throat on this one. “What scares you? Remember, honesty.”
“That’s not cool, Larry,” Brooke muttered, as memories of being told about the car crash at such a young age sifted through her brain.
Tony stared at her a beat. “Yeah, let’s not go there, Larry. Besides, I think we’ve kind of played out this game, you know?”
“No problem,” Larry stood and walked across the room.
Tony and Brooke eyed his movements as he put a couple of coins in the jukebox. Instantly, Stephen Bishop’s gentle “On and On” floated out of the speakers.
Tony smiled. Standing up, he outstretched his hand. “Brooke, this is one of my favs. Would you like to dance?”
I think I’m in trouble.
As if in a fog, she, too, stood up, took his large hand, and followed him onto the tiny space they called a dance floor. Immediately, he drew her into his arms.
Why did it feel so warm, so natural, so flesh tingling? Must be the whiskey.
They were moving slowly as one now, body against body, arms tightly wrapped around each other. Surprisingly, in spite of her brain-fry numbness, she couldn’t believe how much of her had come alive. When the song was nearing its end, Tony pulled his head back slightly, and she knew he was looking down at her. Still, she couldn’t return the favor. Suddenly, her nervousness returned.
The song ended, and she thought she heard him murmur, “Another one, please?” But she wasn’t sure. Besides, it wasn’t meant to be.
One of the Nubile Nymphettes from the gym tapped her on the shoulder.
“Hey, it’s my turn,” the buxom gal said and shoved Brooke aside.
“Hey, I’m not done,” Tony said, frowning. “We’re––”
He never finished. The girl had a vise grip on his arm, and Brooke had already walked back to the table.
“I’m getting an Uber. Later, Larry,” she said.
“Brooke, wait. Please. Look at Tony’s face. It’s obvious he doesn’t want––”
She shook her head and headed for the exit. After walking a block away to set up an Uber, she couldn’t get two things out of her mind. He’ll always have ten thousand women after him. What chance do I have?
Then her grandpa’s words came in, loud and clear. “What makes you think you’re ever going to get anyone to love you, Betty Ann?”
CHAPTER TEN
Sundays in Hillside were like in any other small town. People got up later than usual, lazed about, read the newspapers in print and online, took leisurely walks, or nursed raging hangovers.
In the Tony Marino world, Sundays meant a large family lunch gathering after his parents came home from mass. And with six loud, scrappy siblings and their offspring, there was never a dull moment. Far from it.
He had always enjoyed the chaos growing up, but lately, he’d begun to feel more and more emotionally removed from his kin. He could kid himself and say it was because he had so many other things to do––playing tennis, catching up on his workload, or cuddling with whichever girl lay in his bed after a Saturday-night-tryst.
But none of those things were true. The fact was, more and more, he dreaded his Mama Italiana’s push for him to tie the knot with a nice Italian woman from a proper Catholic family. Over the years, his mother had grown relentless. About once a month now, Sundays were solely for him to meet and connect with an “appropriate” female seated next to him at the Marino dining table. Basically, women who just didn’t do it for him. Not only that, he was expected to either escort each one home, or at least walk them to their car, because he was to play the perfect gentleman role for his mother.
This Sunday was no different. As the petite, and yes, pretty, Angelina Blanco, chatted away about her local college classes, without warning Tony flashed on Brooke.
He knew it was weird how quickly he had been attracted to the odd Brooke Anderson, way back in the police academy days. Quirky, yes, anti-social, yes, with a deep voice similar to that of the actress, Emma Stone, there was something about Brooke’s spunkiness that got to him. And behind those thick-framed glasses she always wore, all he saw were a pair of very intelligent, pretty eyes that drew him in even further.
But after they both had graduated from a local New York state academy, he went off to train at the NYPD’s Manhattan division, and she seemingly disappeared. Then, a couple of years later, after he decided to return to Hillside to be near his family, he quit the NYPD and reapplied to his hometown’s police department.
Before he left, he asked around about his new Hillside boss, Chief Bruner.
“Yeah, I heard Chief Bruner had taken over some small, crappy little town police department,” someone sneered. “Probably was demoted.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” another cop added. “But I heard he’s tough as nails.”
Thanks for the encouragement, guys.
The first one nodded. “Word is he came down hard on this one police candidate after she scored the highest score ever and wouldn’t let her be sworn in. Why? Because she failed the psych part of the police exam. Seems the girl was anti-authority, big time. A real ball-buster.”
They both laughed––with gusto.
At the time, this conversation meant little to nothing for him, but as soon as he came across Brooke again and found out her non-sworn status, he instantly knew they had been talking about her.
Thanks, Chief Bruner. What a waste of talent.
Still, he was glad he ran into her again––until he remembered a certain reality. His mother.
Now, surrounded by fettuccine Alfredo, arancini, osso buco, tiramisu, and loud conversations blasting all around him, he glanced at his mother and gulped. She was positively beaming at Angelina, and as soon as she noticed him looking her way, she made a little gesture, which chilled his heart.
It was a thumbs-up signal, accompanied by a big, fat, cheesy smile.
I’m in trouble.
* *
Sitting next to Abby on their couch, Brooke shook her head. “Henry, it’s Sunday afternoon, for God’s sake. I never do exercise on Sunday. You know it’s my tubing out or Kindle reading time.”
“A walk, Brooke, not a marathon. Come on, hop to it.” He clapped his hands twice.
She didn’t budge. “I’d rather watch Junebug drink water.”
Instantly, all three of them turned their heads toward June doing her thing. She was over at her water bowl, but she wasn’t lapping up water. She was scooping the liquid up with her paw, then licking it carefully between her claws, as if it were a fork.
“That cat is definitely descended from the apes,” Henry said. “Now, back to exercise.”
Brooke sighed. Obviously, Abby was with Henry all the way. She began to elaborate on how she didn’t like exercise growing up, but once she went the holistic route, she realized the importance of all things spiritual and physical. Basically, it was a habit, she told Brooke. Like anything else.
As Brooke glowered, she continued her babbling. “Besides, a good walk was always something my mother wholeheartedly believed in.” Abby paused to sigh. “But it turned out to be one of life’s little ironies. My mother was in top shape when that drunk driver hit her and my brother at ninety miles per hour.”
Nodding slowly, Brooke thought about reaching out a comforting hand. But the moment quickly passed as soon as Abby switched gears.
“Then there’s my stepmother, the one who refuses to do any exercise unless it has to do with fashion.”
“You mean she’ll exercise if she’s wearing a fashionable outfit?” Brooke asked.
“No, I�
�m saying that her idea of exercise is to apply nail polish onto her toenails. She claims it makes her stretch out her back muscles beautifully.”
That did it. Brooke burst out laughing, and with her hands up, she said, “You won, you won! Okay, you two, I’ll go for a walk.” As soon as she rose, Henry gave her a big hug.
“Just for a half hour, I promise,” he said. “You’ll thank me for it.”
Shrugging, she said, “I doubt that.” But she shoved her sneakers on, finger-combed her hair, and grabbed the front door key, all to the gentle purrs of June, up on the sofa, happily kneading.
Out on the street, Brooke noticed how empty it all seemed. True to his word, Henry set the pace slow. So slow, she instantly got annoyed. What am I, eighty years old?
He began to identify different plant life and architecture to the ladies. “This here is a northern blueflag. Isn’t it magnificent? I remember my parents used to grow those.”
“Ah-hah.” She decided to pick up their gait, leaving the two of them a pace or two behind her.
When they both caught up with her, he chuckled. “I knew you could actually move when you wanted to.”
They soon passed the library, the Pride & Joy gym, the post office, the local police department, and within another fifteen minutes, they were heading into Hillside’s Little Italy section.
“The Godfather, anyone?” Brooke said softly. “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
She was about to add another quote when she came to an abrupt stop. Across the street down the block, was Tony, standing next to a very pretty dark-haired young woman.
“Exercise time is finito. I’ve had enough.” Brooke turned and began a brisk stride back toward their neck of the woods with Henry and Abby practically jogging to keep up.
“Brooke, stop, stop!” Henry called out finally.
She turned around. In the chilly air, her breath was coming out in smoky clouds of condensation, while her forehead stayed laced with droplets of sweat. “What?”
He pointed to a woman who had just come out of a building and was standing at the curb. They all watched as she pulled out her cell phone and typed in something. From across the street it looked like Ruth Novak. Same huge black Gucci bag, same chic, fashionable looking hoodie she had worn to class numerous times before. Next to her was a chubby, bald man with a huge black spider tattoo splattered high up across the back of his neck. As soon as an Uber arrived, Ruth quickly got into it with the man, and they took off.
Brooke gave a soft, low whistle. “How about that. So, Madam Nasty hasn’t disappeared. Let’s tell Larry so he can interrogate her.”
Just then another woman came out of the same building and walked across the street toward them.
“I’ve got to ask,” Henry said as he approached the stranger. “Excuse me, Miss, are you acquainted with Ruth Novak?”
“Yes, why do you ask?” Her face held a mask of annoyance.
“We’re members of her gym class and were wondering where she was. She hasn’t been there for several weeks, and we all miss her so much.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“I’m manager of this place. I really shouldn’t say anything more, but…” She paused. “But since Ms. Novak was…”
“Was what?” Henry asked.
She gave another long pause, this time lasting several seconds. Then, she obviously must have come to a decision––to tell all.
“Look,” she said, “you didn’t hear it from me, but your Miss Novak was a piece of work, if you ask me. So, I’ll tell you this. She paid for six months’ rent.”
“She’s in town, then, right?” Brooke said.
Again, the woman hesitated. “I guess it’s no skin off my back. Ms. Novak said she was going out of town for a while.”
“Did she say where she was going?” Abby asked. “To the airport? The train station? Bus station?”
The woman’s face further morphed into a pissed off look. “She gave no forwarding address. She just let me know she was going to put her money in an envelope through my mail slot, like all the other tenants do.”
“So you talked to her?” Brooke asked.
The woman pulled back her eyes narrowing. “You police, or something? I didn’t ask her. She just put a short note along with the money through my mail slot, like I said. End of story. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go somewhere.”
Interesting.
When they returned home, Junebug was ecstatic. As soon as Brooke plopped down on the sofa, the joyful cat leapt up and flung her body against the warm human flesh, purring and twisting so hard, she almost fell off the couch.
“What a doll,” Abby said, laughing.
Henry agreed. “Yes, she definitely is our comfort kitty. But right now, I’m more interested in how Ruth seems to be off to see the world. How convenient.”
“You suspect her of Wynnie’s murder?” Abby asked.
An exaggerated shrug was his immediate answer. Then, “Maybe. She sure was mean to both girls. Hence the Madam Nasty moniker.”
After stroking a still needy Junebug, Brooke turned to Abby. “Tea?” she asked.
Abby smiled. “Thanks.”
“Say, Abby,” Henry said, “when you do go to your garage to do your Tarot time travel thing, could we watch you?”
She looked horrified. “No, no. This is private.”
“Why don’t you do it by using some artificial intelligence computer techniques? Maybe 3D imagery?” Brooke asked.
Abby laughed. “You’re the computer whiz, Brooke. I’ll just stick to my Tarot cards, thank you very much.”
Henry brought Abby’s tea over, and to the sound of June’s happy chirpy-purrs, they all sat down, facing each other.
“I’m just curious,” Brooke started.
Henry shook his head.
“Anyway,” Brooke went on, “I noticed on your Instagram page, that the women’s group you want me to go to is called Leading Ladies. They’re also on Facebook, so I checked them out further. They all live in Hillside. It looks like they’re all actresses?”
Abby laughed. “Not even close. You can’t believe every social media info you read. Yes, they’re the support group I mentioned earlier to you. I go to them twice a month, and no, only one of them is an actress. We call ourselves Leading Ladies because through our mutual support, we’ve become the leading ladies of our own lives.” She paused. “And as I told you, since I went to your Fun & Fit class, I expect you to come with me to at least a couple of their meetings.” She sniffed slightly. “Anything else you need to know about my support group before I go?”
Definitely crickets in the room.
“Look, I’m sorry, I just––” Brooke began.
The sudden ring of Brooke’s cell phone made them all twitch. Seeing it was Larry, Brooke clicked “Accept,” automatically put it on speakerphone, and upped the volume.
“We just found another victim,” he said, his curt detective voice in play. “You’re not going to like this, Brooksy.”
“Who?” Henry asked.
As pauses go, this was a long one. “Cathy Whitman, Wynnie’s sister. Same MO.”
“Where?” Brooke asked.
“In another alley. Talk to you later.” Click.
“It’s time I will myself back to old Boston again,” Abby muttered as she returned the teacup and saucer to the kitchen. When she left, there was no real goodbye spoken. Just a quick kitty hug for June.
* *
Several days before, it had seemed a bit odd to have an early Sunday meeting at Peter Novak, Esq.’s law office. But bad events call for unusual actions. And Wynnie Whitman’s death could sure be labeled as bad. Or so everyone said.
But, as it turned out, not for Wynnie’s brother, Michael Whitman. Settled down in one of the thick leather chairs in front of Novak’s gigantic mahogany desk, he watched his father’s counselor sort through various files until he found a large, thick envelope. Novak pulled it out, opened it up and proceeded to gi
ve its contents a quick onceover before beginning his schpiel.
“Now. Michael. It appears that, in accordance with your father’s will, if anything happens to either one of your siblings, your father’s estate automatically reverts to the other two surviving children. Of course, if something happens to Cathy, you would stand to inherit the complete estate.”
Michael nodded solemnly. “Yes, I see. Thank you for always being here for our family, Mr. Novak.”
Novak looked smug. “Yes, well, you’re in luck because your father listened to my advice about using my special trust.”
The next fifteen minutes were spent mapping out Wynnie’s portion to be divvied up between him and Cathy. At one point, Michael wiped his eyes with some nearby tissue.
“Thank goodness Cathy is alive to share this with me.” He broke down with a soft sob.
Busy putting the file back into his filing cabinet, Peter Novak nodded in agreement. But if he had looked over just then, he would have seen Michael’s slow, steady smirk. More than that. He would have seen the young inheritor’s silent, low-fisted “Yes!” victory pump.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Talk about testing troubled waters.
In her garage, Abby looked down at the little tray on her lap and studied the Tarot cards staring up at her. Same Major Arcana group, same cross-like configuration. But this time, she was trying a different tack. The four cards were all placed upside down, and having done this method once before, suddenly, she felt a stab of nerves.
The last time she did the upside-down method, it didn’t go well. In fact, it went so badly, she vowed never to repeat it. But the last trip back to Boston was such a dud, she knew she’d have to shake it up a little. Picturing Brooke’s surly, downturned mouth and glaring, accusatory eyes, she needed to try anything to make it right.
She began to touch the top upside-down card, the Fool, now symbolizing uncertainty and negligence. Down to the left was the Magician, for unease and arrogance. Across from the Magician lay the Chariot, representing aggression and loss of control. Finally, at the bottom was an upside Hermit, bringing up the rear with foolishness and isolation.
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