This is it. This is that moment. Put up or shut up. Now or never. Take it or leave it. Truth or Dare? Regular or fat free? Do I still harbor remnants of that daredevil kid who ran through strangers’ yachts just for kicks, or have I aged into a wimp who lacks the courage of her curiosity? Do I have the Right Stuff to get answers, or do I commit to a life of wondering “What if?” No one else is watching. No one near here cares. Right now, right here, it’s just me. Decision time--
“Excuse me, ma’am,” says the crewman, waiting for me to step aside so he can cast off and get underway. I grab the railing and haul myself on board.
“Ma’am?” He lunges at me, clamps a restraining hand on my arm.
“It’s all right,” Caprice tells him. “Would you give us a moment?”
He hesitates. “Yes, ma’am,” releasing my arm. “Shall I tell Captain to get underway?”
“Yes.”
Yes? “Where are we going?” I ask.
“I am going out to sea,” she says. “I can’t speak for you.”
We stand in silence as another crewman readies a few things on deck. Caprice toys with her necklace, antique silver filigree worked around a magnificent fire opal the size of a silver dollar. “Where was all Nonna Sophie’s stuff?” the Lucas children had wondered, “All that antique shit.” Here, dear ones, it’s all here with Cousin Caprice.
The crewman goes below. Now it’s just us. “That’s Brandy’s necklace,” I say.
“This is mine. It belonged to my Grandma Nonna.”
“It was with Brandy’s other jewelry in the safe.”
“What safe?”
“What do you mean what safe?”
“Really, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The safe your father stole from Mel and Brandy’s home. The safe in the middle of your apartment.”
“I have no safe,” her voice clear, calm, “I have no apartment.”
And I have no proof.
The engines hum underfoot. I don’t feel the yacht moving, know it only by the seawalls gliding past. On one side, towering high-rise condos loom like white sentinels. On the other, low mansions stretch the length of Golden Beach. The yacht slices through water like a scalpel through flesh. I back toward the rail. For the moment, this yacht is restricted to the ‘no wake’ zone that protects the endangered manatee. The Intracoastal is extremely narrow along this strip. In a mile or so the waterway widens and this yacht will take off. I have to get off before then.
Images flip through my mind. Brandy’s frozen body. Deke who loved this girl. Look out Fear, Anger’s pushing through. “Did you help your father kill them?” I ask.
“What?” Her eyes narrow. “What did you say?”
“Did you help your father kill your aunt and uncle?”
“How….how…” She clenches her fists. “How could you think that?”
“How could I not? You lived in that apartment with that safe. You saw it when you left for court in the morning and when you came home at night. You knew your father killed your aunt and uncle for it, your mother knew, but neither of you did anything about it.”
Her restrained rage is palpable, a volcano on the verge. I feel the force of it, can feel anger exploding out of her. What if she attacks me? There’s a crew below. If I call for help, will they come? But she stands statue still. When she finally speaks, her voice is contained, her words measured. “When my father,” she pauses, swallows, “when he killed Aunt Brandy he killed whatever life was left in my mother.” She rams a fist against her chest. “When my father killed Aunt Brandy, he tore out my heart.”
“You never showed any of that in court.”
“And give him the satisfaction? My father enjoys seeing people in pain. It gives him great pleasure.”
The yacht nears the end of the still waters. If I’m jumping ship it needs to be soon. I take a step back, feel for the railing behind me.
“What about the money?” I ask.
“What money?”
“The missing millions. Isn’t that really what this is all about? You and your mother and father killing your aunt and uncle for their money?”
“How dare you!” stepping toward me, “How dare you say that.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” She clasps her hands tight – to keep from hitting me? “From the time I was little I adored them as much as I adored my mother. Aunt Brandy loved me. Uncle Mel loved me.” Moonlight catches the glint of tears on her cheeks. “My cousins always hated me for it. That’s their choice. None of what I’ve done was ever about the money.”
“But your father stole it—“
“Did he?”
“--and you kept it.”
She straightens, juts her chin. “Did I?”
The yacht rocks slightly as we approach the channel leading out to the ocean. The escape window is slamming shut.
“One question,” I say.
“What?”
“If you hate your father so much, if he was so horrible to you and your mother, why didn’t you tell the police about the safe, about the apartment where he was hiding it?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Which are?”
She hugs herself, shivering despite the muggy air. “I have always been the perfect daughter to a violent father. Do you know how it feels, a helpless little girl living in fear of doing anything to make Daddy angry, terrified he would hurt me or, worse, hurt my mother? I stayed to the shadows. Obeyed him. Listened to him. Learned from him. As I grew older, he’d occasionally take me into his confidence. When he thought someone slighted him – and he perceives slights everywhere -- he would wait months, even years to retaliate.” She laughs -- a chilling, mirthless sound. “He loved telling me those stories best of all, gruesome descriptions of how he got even. How he twisted the knife in someone’s back.”
Literally?
“Caprice?” A webby voice flows up from the cabins below.
“In a minute, Mother,” all sunshine and light. “I’ll be right down.” She turns back to me, her smile fading. “In the end, to this moment, I am the only person my father trusts.”
A chop stirs the calm water. The crewman reappears. “Ma’am,” he says, “we’re about to head into open waters. Shall I prepare the guest bedroom?”
Caprice and I stand inches apart. “No,” she says, “I think my guest would like to be dropped off here. Tell the Captain.”
Moments later the yacht pulls up to the seawall.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”
Her lips lift slightly, the inscrutable smile of the Sphinx. “My father taught me ‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.’ And I am his most excellent student.”
“Caprice?”
“Coming, Mother,” her voice all butterflies and unicorns. “I’m just giving Chef a few instructions for dinner.”
The crewman holds onto a piling near the steps, steadying the yacht as I jump off.
33
It takes me an hour to walk home. The smell of smoke lingers in the quiet streets. One fire engine and a couple of cop cars are still on scene. I hesitate, feeling like I should say something to someone, but what can I tell them? Caprice is an illusionist, a master conjurer, this whole night a deception of smoke and mirrors.
Upstairs, I kick off my shoes, pour a tall Scotch and take a healthy swig. I need to talk to someone. Bitsy and May are at a movie. Sam Parker comes to mind. Dialing, I collapse into Michael’s recliner.
Parker sounds sleepy. “Hey, Laura.”
“Hey, Cowboy.” A woman’s voice mumbles something in the background. “Is this a good time?”
“Sure. What’s goin’ on?”
I take another swig. “I found the Lucas safe.”
“No shit,” suddenly alert. “Tell me!” The woman’s voice purrs softly. Girlfriend? Wife?
“Parker,” I say, “are you sure this is a good time?”
I tell him about the ‘Douglas’ apartment, finding the empty safe, about Maria and Caprice Galdino staying there.
“Which means,” he says, “they knew Galdino killed Brandy.” I tell him about the two men who took the safe away. “Damn,” he says. “they’re dumping it.”
“In the ocean?”
“That’s what I’d do. Do you know where the Galdino women are now?”
“On a yacht, heading out to sea.”
“Can you describe her?”
I do as well as I can. I never saw the yacht’s name, but reading Michael’s boating magazines has made me pretty good identifying styles. Parker picks up another phone, calls someone, gives them the information.
I sip my Scotch, feel it cut like a river through dust. “Do you think Caprice and her mom were in on the murders?”
“Hard to say.”
“What’s your gut?”
He’s quiet a moment. “That month I spent in New Jersey trying to track the Lucas money, I got a pretty good sense of Maria Galdino. My take is that she’s a quiet, religious woman, extremely devoted to her God, her daughter, her sister.”
“Her sister’s dead.”
“Devotion doesn’t stop at death.” He pauses. “You know that as well as anyone.”
“Then why didn’t she tell the police about the safe?”
“Who knows why people do anything? Maybe, in her mind, ‘Honor thy husband’ is God’s word, not to be broken, even when your husband is a killer.”
“Caprice said he was violent.”
“Yeah, I’d heard things like that on the street.”
“She and her mother were afraid of him.”
“Which might explain a few things.”
We’re silent together. “What do you think happened to the money?” I ask.
“A good bet says it’s on its way to the Caymans. That’s the call I just made. All those months looking everywhere in the world and the cash was right under my nose the whole time.”
“Why didn’t Galdino just take the cash back to New Jersey?”
“I wish he had,” says Parker. “It would have made my job a whole hell of a lot easer. A compulsive gambler like that couldn’t resist laying off big bets, big enough for the cops or someone like me to notice. He was smart enough to stash it in a secret apartment until things cooled down.”
“He should have left Brandy’s jewelry there, too,” I say. “He might still be a free man.”
“Probably felt he deserved a little walking around money. He never thought the fence would give him up like that.”
The Scotch works its magic, unties knots in my neck. The pain in my knees will need a refill. “One thing I don’t understand.”
“Just one?”
“How did Galdino open that safe?”
“Could’ve been any which way. Maybe Brandy and Mel set the combination to a birth date, an old address, any combo of numbers Galdino could figure.” I hear liquid poured over ice cubes. “Another way,” he says, “is that safes are shipped with pre-programmed combinations. You’d be surprised how many folks never bother changing them. It wouldn’t be hard for a construction guy like Galdino to get a master list of numbers for that make and model.”
Gruesome Miami tortures involving chain saws, nail guns and non-stop Kim Kardashian interviews come to mind. “Or,” I’m almost afraid to say, “he could have beaten the combination out of Mel or Brandy before killing them.”
“I don’t know about Mel. But, if it sets your mind at ease, aside from knife wounds there was no trauma to Brandy’s body.”
It did set my mind at ease. “Shouldn’t I call the police -- ”
He cuts me off. “Keep your name out of it. I mean it, Laura. Galdino still has connections out there. Don’t risk your life. My people are on it.”
“I love that you have people.”
“I love that you love it.”
We’re quiet together a while. It’s a nice, easy silence. My body’s wet-noodley and I’m feeling no pain. “Okay. Well, I’m sorry to bother you. But I thought you’d like to know about the safe.”
“’Preciate it,” he says. “Truth is, you were the only bright spot in this whole damned case.”
I swallow, a sudden lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I say. “It’s been quite the experience.”
I’m about to say goodbye when he says, “I’ll be checking up on this, may need to come your way now and again.” Really? “I’d like to give you a call, see how you’re doin’.”
I mean to say ‘no’, but “Okay,” I say.
It’s after I hang up that I think of the pills I found in the apartment. Caprice said they were her mother’s heart pills. Who’s to say Mrs. Galdino doesn’t have a heart condition? In any case, the pills are long gone. Let it go. Just let it all go.
I run a hot tub and slip underwater, hang weightless, float like a body in a Hitchcock movie.
--Stop that.
--Did Mel Lucas end up like this, floating on the ocean floor?
--Stop that right now! Think mermaid. You are Ariel, floating in the ocean.
There, that’s a much lovelier image. I hum Under the Sea as I scrub the smell of sweat and fear from my body. My bruised knees have swollen to the size of breadfruit. Ethan, my marathon running, soccer playing, softball outfielder son, says you should always ice an injury. I will, I will. But, just now, this heat feels amazing. I shampoo twice and condition. Half-an-hour later I feel human again.
Cross my heart and hope to die I will never ever ever stick my nose where it so clearly doesn’t belong.
34
Judge Kossoff gavels the court to order. I sit spellbound listening as the Prosecution and Defense summarize testimony and evidence presented these past few weeks. This trial has brought me back into the world of the living. How is it that I’m here at all? If Bitsy hadn’t badgered me about that Summons for Jury Duty, if I hadn’t been dismissed that first day, if my maternal instincts hadn’t been piqued by a hauntingly sad young woman, if I had sought refuge from a storm in different courtroom …
I stare at Joseph Galdino’s back, rigid since the Prosecutor began his summation.
--If Galdino’s wife hadn’t begged him to hire his lazy brother-in-law…
--If the crane had not fallen on Mel Lucas…
--If Galdino didn’t borrow money from Mel…
--If Mel had not dunned Galdino to pay the money back…
“Two roads diverged in a wood.” My memory burps up Robert Frost learned in Mr. Walsh’s American Poetry class. “And I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”
Joseph Galdino was not the first person to careen down a road of anger and jealousy. Who has not felt hatred at least once from birth to grave, has never luxuriated in exquisite fantasies of revenge? Teen love gone wrong, pre-menstrual madness, con-artist victims, the list is as endlessly varied as the human condition. But most people manage to keep walking, move past it, get on with their lives.
Two roads diverged.
For some reason, Joseph Galdino took the road less traveled. And that has made all the difference.
No one is surprised when, two days later, the jury returns a unanimous verdict of “Guilty.”
35
A few weeks later, there’s a rare break in a wave of summer storms and Bitsy, May and I celebrate by sailing the Go Bears up the Intracoastal.
“You seem brighter,” Bitsy tells me.
“Brighter?”
“Yes. Ever since you visited your kids in Chicago.”
‘Brighter’ It’s a nice visual. As usual, Bitsy’s right. I can feel the change. Spending time with Stacey and Ethan settled me. My son treated me to a Cub’s game, complete with bleacher seats, cold hot dogs and warm beers. My daughter placed my hand on her belly and – miracle of miracles -- I felt my grandchild kick. I spent time with old fri
ends, swapping war stories and laughing until we cried. Finally, I visited Michael’s gravesite, sharing everything in my life and my heart with him.
We’re wearing bathing suits, May in a flashy gold and black number, Bitsy in a tankini that adds a bit of feminine flutter to her boyish body. My old suit sags at odd places even though I’m gaining back some of the weight I lost this past year. The new un-toned skin hangs sadly Shar-Pei. No matter, we’re having one hell of a great time.
Bitsy serves up a gourmet brunch as we sail north through Ft. Lauderdale. “I have an idea,” she says.
“Oh, oh,” says May.
“Let’s stop at the Tradewinds Marina. I’d like to see the Dandy Brandy.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of me sitting in on murder trials,” I say.
“I don’t. But I’m curious to see something that was a part of a real life murder.”
May presses a hand to her chest, her eyes tearing. “I saw the houseboat where Cunanan committed suicide.” She closes her eyes, takes a moment. “Everyone down here loved Vercace, so smart and funny. After he…after the murder, I drove to see the houseboat where Cunanan died. I was so angry at him for robbing us of such a beautiful man. You could see the houseboat from Collins Avenue so I just pulled over and sat a while. It was as if I needed to make sure that demon was dead. I cheered when that damned boat sank. Does that sound macabre?”
“No more than my wanting to see the Dandy Brandy,” says Bitsy.
“All right,” I say, “Palm Beach here we come.”
I cut the engines as we approach the Dandy Brandy. Gone are the purple deck chairs with the cigarette holes, the empty beer cans, the bikinis drying in the mid-day sun. A middle-aged man and woman sun themselves on the back deck. The ship has been renamed Nottinvogue. We glide by in silence.
Lucky is sitting on the pier, dangling his legs, enjoying a cigarette. I pull up and toss him a line. “Beer?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“We have champagne,” says Bitsy.
“Beer’s fine,” he says. I hand him a cold one.
“I see they sold the Dandy Brandy,” I say.
“Pennies on the dollar.” He flicks the cigarette butt far out into the water and twists off the beer cap. “I guess those kids were pretty strapped for cash. Scuttlebutt is they’re suing their uncle, trying to recoup some of the money Galdino made from selling their mother’s jewelry.”
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