Camilla T. Crespi - The Breakfast Club Murder

by Camilla T. Crespi

  The look on Scardini’s face stopped Mitchell from saying anything.

  “I can answer that myself,” Lori said. “You found nothing.”

  “How’s that?” Scardini wanted to know.

  “You asked me if I or Rob owned a gun. If you’d found it you’d know already who it belonged to.”

  Scardini shook his head. “It’s that fast only on TV.”

  Lori lifted the pot lid and stirred the soup. Neither of the men moved. “Any more questions?” she asked after a few minutes of silence. She couldn’t think of anything else to ask.

  “If we do, we’ll let you know,” Mitchell said. ‘We’re only at the beginning of our investigation.”

  “Are you waiting for Rob?”

  “No.” Scardini glanced at his watch. “Soup’s been simmering for twelve minutes.”

  “I know.”

  Scardini looked at her, looked at the meatballs. Mitchell took another deep breath. Lori looked at the crystal wall clock. It was five minutes to five. Snack time. Feed your enemy, make a friend, her father had taught her as she sat on a stool to watch him cook. By the time she was seven he had taught her Bolognese, pesto, and carbonara sauces. More lessons were going to follow, but suddenly he was gone.

  Maybe Scardini was teaching his kids how to cook. If he was, she could forgive him his stupid “possible” scenario. And Mitchell was a sweet man. Lori dropped the meatballs into the soup, gave the soup a stir. “Three more minutes and it’s done.” She unearthed two soup bowls, two spoons, grated cheese into the bowls, ladled out the soup and fed the two homicide detectives.

  After Mitchell and Scardini left, Lori washed out the bowls and the spoons, dried them, and set them in front of the two stools on the other side of the island for Rob and Jessica, and then walked down the corridor.

  “Are they still here?” Jessica asked as soon as Lori opened the door. She was still under the duvet.

  “Fed and gone.” Lori picked up the needlepoint pillow from the floor, set it against the back of a white leather armchair. The entire room was white. “Hi, honey.” She bent over to kiss Jessica. “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  “You’re like Grandma. Once you get something in your head, that’s it.”

  “You mean, I’m just like you.”

  Jessica started crying. Lori sat down on the bed and held her, stroking her back, kissing her head. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Jess.”

  “Is Dad here?” Jess finally asked, letting go of her mother to reach for the tissue box.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’m so worried about him, Mom.” Jessica blew her nose. “It’s just so mean for this to happen to him.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t go to Cape Cod with Angie on Monday. He needs me here.”

  “We’ll see.” Lori said. Staying with Rob with the police hanging around and making life miserable for everyone was the last thing her daughter needed. “I’ll talk to Dad about it.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Jessica said with the annoyed voice she used whenever she thought she was being treated like a little girl. “I think you should go before Dad comes back. He doesn’t want to see you, Mom. I’m sorry.”

  Lori didn’t care if Rob wanted to see her or not. After listening to Scardini’s “possible scenario,” she needed to find out why Rob was going around saying he was the intended victim.

  “Please, Mom?” Jessica’s lower lip trembled. Tears were about to start again.

  “Okay, hon.” Scardini wasn’t going to arrest her tonight, not without more solid evidence, and Jess needed to be coddled. With Valerie gone, Lori suspected Jess felt responsible for her beloved Daddy and didn’t want rejected Mom to run interference. “I just came to make sure you were all right.” Lori got up from the bed, smoothed the duvet over Jessica’s body. She would talk to Rob tomorrow. He was probably too upset to make much sense tonight. “I hope those two detectives were nice to you?”

  “They asked me a lot of questions about the divorce, how angry you were at Dad, did you hate Valerie, dumb stuff like that. It was like they thought you’d killed her so I didn’t tell them I called you when I got to Margot’s house.”

  “Why not? Your phone call tells them I was home when Valerie dropped you off.”

  “But you didn’t answer the phone! I let it ring and ring. I hung up and called you on your cell. That means you could have been anywhere.”

  “That can’t be.” Lori felt her stomach hollow out.

  “Mom! I’m not lying.”

  Now she had no alibi. “I know you’re not, but I was home, Jess. In bed. Right next to the phone. Even if I was asleep, I would have heard the phone. You must have dialed the wrong number.”

  “I tried three times! I know my own home number. I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Would Jessica’s cell phone records show a dialed wrong number? Of course not, no one had answered. “Wait a minute! The answering machine should have picked up.”

  “It didn’t, Mom. You always forget to turn it on.”

  No, she had turned it on, Lori was sure of it. Had she somehow unplugged the phone without being aware of it?

  Lori planted a kiss on the top of Jessica’s head and gave her a reassuring mother smile, the kind that was supposed to communicate Be brave, we’ll get through this somehow. It was meant to help her as much as Jess. “I’ve made escarole and meatball soup for you and Daddy. There’s some grated Parmesan in the fridge. I’ll be home if you need me. Okay?”

  Jessica clutched her pillow to her chest. “I told them you didn’t kill her.” To Lori’s relief, there was no doubt in Jessica’s eyes.

  “Thank you, sweetie, you’re the best.” They hugged. Jessica scrambled out of bed and, linking her arm through Lori’s, walked her to the front door. Whether out of love or the need to make sure her mother was leaving, Lori didn’t want to know.

  The train was jammed with commuters. Lori was lucky to find a middle seat in the last car. Once the train emerged out of the Grand Central tunnel, she reached into the pocket of her skirt for a tissue. Scrunched at the bottom she found Alec Winters’s letter and stared at it for a few minutes, not remembering why it was in her hand, why the man had written to her. She thought of slipping it back into her pocket—she still needed to find a tissue—but was momentarily distracted by the strips of sunburnt clouds flashing in between the buildings as she tried to let go of the hard ball of tension in her chest.

  The train stopped at the 125th Street Station. More commuters streamed in, looking for seats, walking past to the next cars. People-watching was one of Ellie Corvino’s favorite occupations, always ready to make snap judgments on what they did for a living, how happy or unhappy they were, from where they or their parents or grandparents had come. Right after Rob’s betrayal Lori had picked up the habit, counting on the great variety of faces and expressions to confirm her hope that life would be bearable again. Well, it had become more than bearable. Until now. Put that thought aside, Lori told herself, and read Alec Winters’s letter. She tore one end of the envelope open.

  “Happy news, huh?” a man’s voice said from the aisle.

  Lori looked up to her right. Janet’s husband was grinning at her, a welcome change from the beaten-dog look he’d been carrying around for the last couple of years. Seth still had the tight compact body from when he’d been a star of his college ski team, but now his dark brown hair was thinning and deep lines ran across a face Lori had thought handsome for many years.

  “Hi, Seth. You’re looking good.” He was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, blue tie—the perfect interview outfit—but from the relaxed look on his face, Lori guessed he had finally landed a job. She smiled back at him. Seeing satisfaction light Seth’s eyes again took the edge off this horrible day.

  “Getting out of the hole, finally.” He raked fingers across what hair he had left. “Tough about Valerie, huh? No skin off your back, though.”

  Se
th had never scored high on sensitivity. Janet was always trying to find excuses for his blunders. “It’s terrible for Rob and for Jessica,” Lori reminded him.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean . . . any chance now the two of you—”

  Lori cut him off. “No.”

  “Rob’s going to be one filthy rich mister, but I guess there’s too much water under the bridge for the two of you—”

  “A tsunami’s worth. And they’d only been married three days. I doubt Valerie had time to change her will.”

  Seth leaned into the seat. “Right. Didn’t think of that.”

  The man on the aisle seat next to Lori rustled his newspaper loudly, gave Seth a nasty look, and left his seat.

  “Thank you, sir,” Seth said, and slipped in. “Now we can get personal. Isn’t it funny she should get it when Rob thought somebody was after him.”

  Lori gave him a questioning look.

  “He was telling everyone at the wedding.”

  Lori played nonchalant. “That explains how Janet knew, before I told anyone.” She must have been too embarrassed to say they’d gone to the wedding. “Did you believe him?”

  Seth shrugged. “Not really. You know how Rob likes to make a big deal out of nothing, but still . . . you never know these days. With all the bad news we keep getting, people are going crazy. What’s your take on it?”

  “He was looking for sympathy,” Lori said. What if Rob was the intended victim? Was it possible? The killer would have to be blind not to spot the difference between Rob and Valerie, even with her wearing chinos and his baseball cap. Rob was thin but he had a paunch, his shoulders were wide, and his gait was heavy. Valerie moved with the lightness of a breeze. And why would anyone want to kill Rob? Or Valerie, for that matter? Lori hated the uncertainty of being lost in unanswered questions, in “what if” scenarios. She’d already had a year of it.

  She changed the subject. “I’m glad you and Rob have made up your differences. Rob missed you.” Rob and Seth had been best friends since college, and they’d often gone out as a foursome, but about two years ago, Rob and Seth stopped speaking to each other. According to Rob, Seth had turned his back on the friendship because he was too ashamed he couldn’t pay back the five thousand dollars he had borrowed a few weeks before he lost his job. According to Janet, she had asked Seth to stop seeing Rob because she was tired of Rob rubbing his own success in Seth’s face. Rob did like to brag. Maybe Janet was right, maybe Rob was right. Or maybe the truth was somewhere in between.

  “I don’t even remember what got us off,” Seth said with a laugh, “but we’re old buddies again.”

  “He’s going to need your help. Now tell me what good things are happening to you.”

  “I’d like to keep it for Janet, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” Lori was embarrassed. She had forgotten what it was like to have a partner come first.

  Seth stood up. “I really think I should give that man his seat back. See you around, and Janet said she’s going to be helping you with your dinner Saturday night. Soon she won’t have to do any of that stuff. Don’t forget to read your letter.”

  Lori looked down at her hand, still clutching Alec Winters’s letter addressed to Mrs. Lori Corvino. She’d worn her wedding ring to Italy, that’s why he thought she was married. Her mother had it all wrong. She’d worn the ring to keep men at bay, not to bring them on. Lori slit open the envelope with her finger.

  Dear Mrs. Corvino,

  I enclose the gnocchi della regina recipe you were interested in. I hope your readers enjoy it. I have tried to make it and failed miserably, but I am sure you will be successful. The trick is interpreting the meager Italian directions. They always assume everyone is a natural cook, which I’m sure you are. My talent resides in pushing buttons on the microwave. I wish you well.

  Sincerely,

  Alec Winters

  For a moment Lori wondered what he meant by readers; then she remembered Beth’s calling cards, her own lie to the Roman waiter about being a writer for the Greenwich Dish. She read the recipe, written out in a neat, almost childlike handwriting. The waiter had claimed the recipe was a family secret. How had Alec Winters managed get hold of it? It didn’t look daunting. Maybe on her way home she should buy some potatoes and the other ingredients and try making the gnocchi and their sauce tonight. It would keep her mind off Valerie’s death. Alec Winters, you’re a sweet man, and a lifesaver, Lori said silently, putting the letter and recipe in her handbag. The ruined dress was forgiven.

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  “You holding up?” Callie asked as she refilled Lori’s mug with freshly brewed coffee.

  Lori was sitting at her usual booth, her back to the wide window that revealed a morning with the perfect blue sunny sheen that always reminded her of the September morning when the idea of a safe world burned to nothing. She was reading “dogs for sale” ads in the Hawthorne Park Post. “If I don’t end up in jail, I’ll be fine.” She had hastily put on a jeans skirt and a white T-shirt, run fingers through her hair, and forgotten makeup. Whatever she looked like, Lori knew Callie would always welcome her. Ten years ago, she had stopped one of Callie’s seven grandsons from chasing a ball into the street just as a car whisked past, and a friendship was sealed. “Thanks, Callie.”

  “You sound hoarse,” Callie said.

  “Too many phone calls.” Once she had gotten home from Manhattan last night, she had answered calls from various newspapers, from people who had dropped her after her divorce but now wanted in on the latest murder news, and, of course, her mother, Janet, Margot and Beth. Only to her three friends did she give honest answers. Then she’d unplugged the phone and gone to bed, feeling grouchy, exhausted, and excluded—a woman exiled from her family. Making gnocchi della regina might have helped, but the thought of botching it up stopped her. She couldn’t deal with failure right now. She’d left the cell phone on, but Jessica didn’t call.

  “The others coming?” Callie asked.

  Lori sipped her coffee and nodded. It wasn’t their usual breakfast morning—that only happened on Mondays when Beth’s gallery stayed closed and Sally’s Blooms opened at eleven—but these were extraordinary times and she needed help. After a sleepless night, she’d come to the conclusion that she’d better be proactive in this investigation if she didn’t want to end up at the Bedford Correctional Facility.

  “I’ll get you some fresh lemon juice and honey,” Callie said, “and from the looks of you, you need to take home a couple of apple pies. When the going gets tough, eat. Which reminds me.” Callie squeezed herself into the booth next to Lori and brought her thick black eyebrows together in a formidable frown. She smelled of browned butter and caramel.

  Lori looked at her in surprise. Callie sitting anywhere in her coffee shop was a first. “What’s up, Callie?”

  “Take a piece of advice from an old Greek woman.” Callie leaned closer. Powder or flour sat in the deep groves of her face. “Bearing gifts or no gifts, be careful of friends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Callie looked up behind Lori. “I mean you should take care of yourself.” She edged herself to the end of the booth. “If you don’t watch it, you’ll come down with a bad cold.” She pulled herself up just as Margot walked up. “And I’d get a mutt, if I were you. Fancy dogs are like fancy cars. They always need fixing.”

  “Good morning, Callie,” Margot said, then leaned down to peck Lori’s cheek.

  “Glad it’s good for you,” Callie said. “I’ll get that lemonade with honey.”

  “She’s such an old grouch,” Margot said, sliding into the booth and spraying the smell of Opium in the air with a toss of her hair. She was wearing the same pink Juicy Couture sweat pants and top as Ellie, except this one looked great on Margot’s size-six body.

  Lori watched Callie walk toward the back of the coffee shop with the characteristic sway that made her look as if she’s just hit land after six months at se
a. What had she meant by “be careful of friends”? Surely she wasn’t talking about Callie’s Gals, as she’d dubbed the breakfast group in one of her more generous moods. And no, Lori wasn’t planning to get a dog, fancy or mutt. She’d just been trying to keep herself from staring at a stunning close-up of Valerie splattered on the front page next to a two-column article on the murder. At least she had learned the murder weapon was a nine-millimeter revolver. Useful information if you knew what to do with it. “Callie’s upset about the murder,” she told Margot.

  “Aren’t we all. To think the killer could have been lurking outside my house waiting to follow Valerie. It gives me the shivers. How can I help?”

  “I’m going to need a car. The police are taking mine sometime today.”

  “Ooh, that bad?”

  “That bad.”

  “Silver Mercedes SLK55 or white Lexus LS 430? I got rid of the Jag, a real lemon.”

  “I’d be too scared to drive either. Got a battered Ford in your stable?” Her Ford was eight years old.

  “You’re driving the Mercedes. You’ll love it. It’s like slipping into a lacy thong.”

  Lori grimaced. “Ouch.”

  “When’s the last time you had sex?” Margot asked in a voice full of concern. “Not alone, I mean.”

  Jonathan’s lean body dressed in tennis whites flashed before Lori’s eyes. She lifted the coffee mug to her face in an attempt to hide the blush she was sure was there.

  “I get it,” Margot said with a dismissive shrug of one shoulder. “None of my business. Get the police to drive you over to pick it up. That’s the least they can do.”

  Lori thanked Margot for the fancy loaner. “When you called me the night before last to tell me Jess and Angie were going to be late, did you call my home phone or my cell?”

  Margot widened her eyes. “You expect me to remember? I sure could use some coffee to get the brain cells working.” She jangled her bracelets at Cy, the counter man, one of Callie’s countless relatives. He grinned back with a nod.