Ellie folded her arms across her vast chest. “If it’s a reference you’re giving me, that one doesn’t get you the job.”
Jonathan laughed and turned to Lori, who was still holding the roses to her face. She was sure she was blushing. Because of Ellie. Because of his good looks. Because her breath smelled of grappa for sure.
“Listen, Lori. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” Jonathan said. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I called Rob and I know your daughter’s with him. I didn’t want you to be alone.”
“Thanks,” Lori said. He was too good to be true. “That’s very nice of you. Actually I’m about to leave. Jessica wants me in the city and I think Rob can use my help, too.” Why was she lying? What was she trying to prove? That she hadn’t been shut out, that she was needed? If her mother said anything to the contrary, Lori was going to make her swallow that magnet.
Jonathan looked at his watch. “I have a three o’clock meeting in midtown. I’ll drive you in.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’ll take the train. Really.”
“She’d love to go with you,” Ellie said. “Just give her a minute to get her stuff.” Ellie took Lori by the shoulders, turned her around in the direction of the stairs and whispered, “Jessica could handle this better than you.”
During the ride into Manhattan, Jonathan kept up a monologue. How he had to work not to be taken in by the thrill of the deal just for the deal’s sake. How he worked at being honest, although the temptation to cut corners in the real estate business was like trying to resist the sirens of the Odyssey. How there had been many times when he wished he had a mast available to tie himself to as Ulysses had done. After a few minutes he would stop and give Lori a questioning look. She would nod and say, “Go on,” relieved she did not have to keep up her end of the conversation. She was furious at Ellie, but happy to be riding next to a nice, handsome man. He distracted her from thinking of what lay ahead.
She listened to Jonathan telling her how difficult it was to have his mother stay with him, how she was finally coming out of the worst part of her grief and thinking of finding a new home of her own. How strict and distant his father had been with him. His biggest regret was that resentment had stopped him from telling his father how much he loved him before he died. He spoke of his meeting that afternoon to discuss a possible partnership in a new venture with an old school friend coming in from Pennsylvania. They were going to buy grand old dilapidated homes across the country, restore them to their former glory, and then resell them.
When they reached the West Side Highway, Jonathan said, “I always shut up when I get to this point. The view is so great.”
Lori looked out of the car window. The Hudson River glittered under the sun. The sailboats glided like so many swans. The George Washington Bridge was majestic in its breadth. A sight that had always made her feel good. But now . . . if what Ellie had said was true, which was never a given, Rob thought she was the murderer. How could he think that? And what was he going to do when he saw her. Kick her out? Call the police? Hug her and say how wrong he’d been all along? Was Jessica going to forgive her for barging in even if she brought food? God, she had inherited her mother’s worry genes. Why couldn’t she be more like Papa, who was quiet and kind and fell off the roof he was fixing without even a peep?
They left the highway at 96th Street. “I’m sorry I ran on like that,” Jonathan said in a warm voice, glancing at Lori hugging herself. “Is the air-conditioning too high?”
Lori shook her head and released her arms. “Don’t be sorry. It helped.”
“Good, that was the intention. Next time it will be your turn. I don’t mean Saturday night. You’ll have enough to do without telling me your life story. But I do want to hear it.”
“About Saturday night—”
Jonathan stopped Lori with a squeeze of her hand. “Please don’t back out.”
“I might be a suspect.” Even if they didn’t arrest her, she would be worried enough to burn everything. “I don’t think your mother would approve.”
Jonathan started laughing.
He made her want to laugh, too. The idea of being a suspect was so ridiculous. She tapped his thigh. “Stop. It’s not funny.”
With one hand, Jonathan pulled his mouth down into a grimace. “Better?”
“Much.”
“My mother will be delighted to show off a murder suspect to her friends along with excellent food. It’s so original it just might send them over the edge with envy. I think I’ll have an ambulance on call, just in case.”
“You’re being mean.”
“No. I’m playing the clown. I want to see you smile.” He swung the car onto Park Avenue and stopped in front of Rob’s building.
“You know the address,” Lori said, surprised. She hadn’t told him.
“Yes, but I’ve never been in the apartment. And I never met Valerie. Does that clear me?”
“But you’re Rob’s friend?”
“Not a social one. Purely business.”
Jonathan leaned over to open the door for her. His arm almost brushed her breasts. Almost. She needed to get out of the car fast. “Promise me only jail will keep you away on Saturday.”
Lori didn’t move. “It depends on how Jessica is doing.”
“Okay. That I can understand. Let me know as soon as you can.” He kissed her cheek lightly after she thanked him for the ride. She wanted to kiss him back, on the lips. Instead she swung her legs out of the car, stood up with as much grace as she could muster, and walked away. When Mike O’Connor, the head doorman, opened the door for Lori, she turned around. Seeing Jonathan still there, Lori felt a rush of warmth envelop her body. She had to watch out for this man. He was sure to go down as smooth and sweet as crème caramel.
CHAPTER 13
* * *
There was no need for Rob to call the police. They opened the door to his apartment. Two of them. No mistaking who they were. Over six feet. Between two hundred and three hundred pounds each, was Lori’s guess. Ex-football players for sure. The ones who did the tackling. “Who are you?” the white one asked her.
Lori raised her L.L.Bean bag full of food. “The cook,” she said. Get to the kitchen. Start cooking, she told herself. Everything will be fine. Lori edged her way in between them. Barely. How did they fit in the same car? That’s what she’d seen on TV, two detectives always riding together, eating doughnuts, hotdogs, holding a cup of coffee, sometimes a gun. They’d probably like her soup. “Where’s the kitchen?” Lori asked. And where was Jessica? “Have you seen a young girl?” she asked the smaller of the two, a black man with a rumpled face and startling blue eyes.
“Your name?” he asked. He didn’t sound mean. Merely curious.
She thought of lying, but that would really get her into trouble. “Lori Corvino. Where’s Jessica?”
“The ex-wife,” the white detective said.
Lori stayed with the black policeman. He looked kinder, and he had a button dangling from his jacket that under different circumstances she would have offered to fix. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Detective Mitchell. Your daughter’s taking a nap.”
My daughter is clever was Lori’s thought. “And where’s my ex-husband?”
“At the funeral home,” Detective Mitchell said.
Of course, the grim details of death needed taking care of. Lori couldn’t help feeling pity for Rob. His bid for a new life, selfish as it was, had been too quickly, too horribly interrupted.
“It’ll be a while before we release the body.” The white policeman introduced himself. “Detective Scardini.” He had an incongruous snub nose and a head too small for his size. His eyes were so deeply set Lori couldn’t tell what color they were. “We’re with the Hawthorne Park Homicide Squad, investigating the death of Valerie Fenwick.”
“If Rob’s gone and Jessica is asleep, what are you doing here?” Lori asked. “Babysitting?”
Scardini shook his melon
ball of a head slowly. “Lady, you have attitude.”
“I’m just a little upset about my ex’s new wife getting shot. This bag weighs a ton and I really would like to go to the kitchen and get started on my father’s famous escarole soup and meatballs. My daughter loves it. My ex loves it and if you have some, you’ll clear up the murder in no time at all. Now where’s the kitchen?”
A crack of a smile showed on Mitchell’s face. “Sounds good to me.” He held up a hand. “Back, past the dining room, to the left.” The detectives followed her. On the way, Lori’s eyes took in the furniture—sleek, shiny, lots of glass, black leather. Bare walls. Everything ultramodern. Cold, uninviting. The dining-room table was oblong white and gray marble. The lamps on the wall looked like white porcelain bats. What had happened to Rob’s love of the old, comfortable lived-in look? Well, he’d dumped her, so obviously his tastes had changed. And not for the better, she told herself for courage. Being here was awful enough. She didn’t need two detectives on her tail.
Lori set the food bag down on one counter and turned to examine the kitchen, always the best room in a home in her opinion. She was glad to see it was smaller than her own. Mottled brown marble tiles. Granite counters. Granite back-splash. Pale wood glass-fronted cabinets. A gleaming Sub-Zero refrigerator that held no magnets. A Garland stove with a grill. Were they ever used? There wasn’t a speck of dirt or grease anywhere. Nothing on the countertops. A granite-covered island sat in the middle of the space, one side jutting out to accommodate two tall steel stools. The kitchen looked more like a lab to dissect frogs than a place to cook a meal. But then she couldn’t picture Valerie in an apron bending over a hot stove, and Rob could barely assemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Scardini said.
Lori held up her hand. “First let me peek in on my daughter to make sure she’s all right.”
Mitchell nodded. “We’re not going anywhere.” Scardini blessed him with a dirty look.
So Scardini was the bad cop to Mitchell’s good cop. She liked that. There was some justice to it. “Do you know which room she’s in?”
Mitchell started to move, but Scardini blocked him. “I’ll take her.”
Lori followed him through another kitchen door to a corridor carpeted by long, narrow Oriental rugs. They passed three doors. Scardini kept going until he got to the last door. Lori waited until he stepped aside before slowly turning the doorknob. She opened the door only wide enough to stick her head in. She didn’t want the detective to see Jessica awake, counting the minutes until they left.
“Jess?” she whispered, then closed the door quickly. “Out cold,” Lori said to the detective. Which was the truth. Jessica was curled up under a white duvet, the air conditioning going full blast, hugging the needlepoint pillow Lori had stitched for her twelfth birthday, which read, “You Are My Sweetheart.” It was enough to make Lori blubber again. Something she wasn’t about to do in front of these detectives.
“I’ll answer questions while I get the soup started,” Lori said when they reached the kitchen. She opened cabinets until she found a brand new All-Clad pot and sauté pan, placed them on the stove, poured a little olive oil in both. She then dug out the onion from her bag and began peeling it. “Cooking helps me concentrate.” Gave her confidence was more the truth.
“We were waiting for you,” Scardini said.
Lori stared, wide-eyed. “How did you know I was coming?”
Mitchell grinned, his eyes scrunching up. “Your mother called. She said to warn Jessica you were coming over. She didn’t ask who I was.”
Lori’s knife slashed into an onion and quickly reduced it to paper thin slices.
Mitchell stepped back from the counter. “Aren’t those going to make you cry?”
“You bet,” Lori said. And her mother was going to make her scream.
Scardini took the lead in the interrogation. Why did she hit Dr. Fenwick just hours before she was killed? Because Valerie had hurt her daughter, Lori explained, as she turned on one burner and dropped the onions in the pot.
Where was she last night between the hours of ten thirty and midnight? Lori grated two carrots, added them to the sautéing onions along with a spoonful of tomato paste, and repeated what she had told her mother.
Scardini picked up the wooden spoon Lori had brought and stirred the contents of the pot.
“He’s Italian,” Mitchell said as an excuse.
“It was about to burn,” Detective Scardini said in his defense. “Anyone to verify that fact?”
“That it was about to burn?” Lori asked. She was annoyed at him for taking over. And just a little bit scared. “My daughter called me when she got to Margot Dixon’s house.”
“She made no mention of a phone call to you.”
“Why should she?” Lori stopped rolling a meatball to look up at Mitchell’s nice face. “You don’t really think I shot Valerie? I don’t want my husband back and he doesn’t want me back, so what would be the point?”
“ ‘Hell hath no fury,’ ” Mitchell quoted.
Lori cut him off. “If that’s true I would have shot Rob.” She caught the two detectives exchanging glances. “Listen, I didn’t shoot anyone.”
“No one is saying you did,” Mitchell said. “We have to ask.”
“Okay,” Scardini said. “You just made an interesting statement. ‘I would have shot Rob.’ Now this is one possible scenario. Operative word is ‘possible,’ so you don’t have to get all hot under the collar. Here goes.” He settled back against the counter while Lori rolled meatball after meatball. She was making far too many, but the motion soothed her.
“Husband of sixteen years leaves you and your kid for another woman,” Scardini continued. “A very rich woman. He lets you keep the house and throws in child support, but no alimony. None of the above is going to sit well with most wives.”
“I didn’t want any alimony.” She turned on the flame under the sauté pan. “And I’m not most wives.”
Scardini raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you own a gun?” He took the meatballs she had rolled and settled them gently in the pan.
“No and stop interfering!”
“You sound like my wife. How about your ex, while you were still married to him, did he own a gun?”
“No!”
“That’s settled, then. Last night your ex takes his daughter and her friend to a fancy restaurant in Manhattan without getting your permission first, which could only add to your bad feelings. You know that he’s going to drive them back to the Dixon lady. You say your daughter called when she got back, but if she did, I bet she didn’t tell you the new wife drove her back instead of her father because she’s a sweet girl and didn’t want to upset you.”
Those were two details Scardini got right. Jess was sweet and Lori would have been upset if she had known Valerie was driving them back. Maybe not upset, more like jealous. She’d lost a husband to that woman. She didn’t want to lose a daughter. Now, of course, there was no danger of that. Maybe Scardini would think that was an added motive. Lori slipped the spoon out of Scardini’s hand and stirred the washed and chopped escarole into the pot. She and Mitchell watched it wilt.
Scardini kept talking. “You know your daughter’s back. You get in your car, drive fast to Caldwell Road, park the car in the middle of the road, hide in the trees. Dr. Fenwick comes along a few minutes later. You hail her down or your car blocks her way. She gets out of her husband’s new BMW—a car you know, because he picked you up at the airport when you came back from Italy.”
“I see my ex has been very talkative.”
“From your vantage point all you can see is the car and a tall person—Dr. Fenwick was only two inches shorter than Mr. Staunton—dressed in chinos, a man’s shirt, wearing your ex’s baseball cap. You’re blinded by fury, by the darkness in the trees. You aim, shoot, and kill the dentist instead of the ex.”
Lori added the chicken broth to the escarole, t
urned the meatballs to brown evenly. “I would say that’s an impossible scenario. First of all, Valerie would have had to stay put at Margot’s for at least ten minutes in order for me to reach Caldwell Road in time to stop her, and secondly, even blinded by fury and the dark, I would still recognize my husband just by the sound of his footsteps. Sixteen years of marriage does that. Besides, I love my daughter too much to kill the father she adores.”
“That’s a good point,” Mitchell said.
Scardini didn’t let up. “So maybe you knew who you were killing. Three-day-old wife, bang, bang, dead. Like you saying to the ex: ‘So much for your new life, buster.’ ”
“Did you find tire tracks on the road to match to my car?”
Scardini pushed a finger in the air. “Now that’s a good point. We’ll need to take your car.”
Lori dropped the wooden spoon and stared at him. “You’re kidding, right? How am I going to get around? Public transportation stinks where I live.”
Scardini shrugged. “Rent.”
While Lori glared at Scardini, Mitchell bent down to pick up the spoon and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said and pointed to the dangling button. “Be careful with that. You’ll lose it.” He gave her a smile that almost made up for the other guy. “The car’s at home.”
“Okay, tomorrow,” Scardini said. “And don’t try cleaning anything because we’ll spot whatever was in there.”
Lori washed the spoon, dried it. “I thought that worked only on TV.” Renting a car was not in her budget and she was about to ask how long they’d keep the car, but she was afraid the answer would only make her feel worse. Maybe Margot would lend her one of her cars—the least fancy one. She had three.
Mitchell took a deep breath. “The soup sure smells good.” He had a baritone voice, the kind that wraps itself around you like a blanket on a cold day.
Lori gave him a smile. He was trying to make her feel better. “What about the gun?” she asked. Being under suspicion did not stop her from being curious. “Did you find it?”
Camilla T. Crespi - The Breakfast Club Murder Page 8
