Camilla T. Crespi - The Breakfast Club Murder

by Camilla T. Crespi

  “No, you’re not. You’re trying to get a grip.”

  After hanging up, Lori reached into the fridge for a slice of salami, which she rolled and popped into her mouth. A little fat always helped.

  Lori got Rob on his cell phone. “I’m glad you’re letting Jess go to Cape Cod tomorrow.”

  “I can say the same for you.”

  “It’s the best thing for her.”

  “Ditto.”

  “You do have an alibi?”

  “As a matter of fact I don’t.”

  “Didn’t you go straight home from the restaurant?”

  Rob answered with a big sigh, then, “Lori, I know you mean well. You always do. I know you’re worried about what Jessica will suffer if I should . . . Look, I’ve been answering questions at the police station for hours today, and a bunch of reporters are panting outside my building, which means that right now all I want is to sit down and drink myself through a bottle of Scotch, so if you don’t mind I’m going to hang up and do just that.”

  “Jessica doesn’t believe you were sick. If you were sick, you would have gone straight home. You were meeting someone. A man, a woman, whoever it was, that’s your alibi. And if he or she didn’t show up, then maybe he or she is the murderer. Did you tell the police that?”

  “Listen, I don’t need your help anymore.”

  A bubble of hot anger burst inside Lori. “Now you listen to me, Rob. For all I care you can rot in some hole for the rest of your life, but you happen to have a daughter who you’ve hurt more than you’ll ever know, and I’m not going to let you end up in jail for murder and ruin her life.” Lori stopped to breathe. “Where were you Monday night?”

  His answer was a dial tone.

  “Deuce gave me his e-mail address and his phone number AND, Mom, you won’t believe this.” Jessica paused to add drama, her eyes glittering. The pepperoni and mushroom pizza had been polished off. They were now indulging in Callie’s apple pie.

  “What won’t I believe?” Lori asked.

  “He’s going to be fifteen miles from us up in Cape Cod!” Jessica beamed enough happiness to light up the Empire State Building. “And he’s got a bike up there and he’s going to come over.”

  “That’s great, sweetie,” Lori said. She had better call Warren in the morning to let him know there was a potential boyfriend within necking distance, and tonight she had better talk to Jess about cherishing her own body, about restraint. She had heard horror stories about twelve year-old girls going down on boys to be popular. But for now, let Jessica fly with her happiness.

  “Tell me step by step how you two got to talking to each other.”

  Lori woke up in the middle of the night, her chest tight. Spreading herself out on a bed that had become too vast, she wanted to scream out the feeling of helplessness that had come over her after Rob hung up. She wanted to scream out her loneliness. Sleep came hours later.

  CHAPTER 19

  * * *

  At eight o’clock the next morning, Lori was already showered and dressed, sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee at her elbow. She was working out a game plan for tomorrow’s dinner party. She still needed to buy local vegetables and fruits. That could wait until tomorrow morning. Today, after Jessica left, she was going to go into the city to shop. First to Little Italy, then Greenwich Village. It was a long haul from Hawthorne Park but worth it.

  The doorbell rang as Lori got up to refill her coffee mug. She tiptoed to the hallway. It could be Rob at the door, early to pick up Jess who was upstairs taking one of her never-ending showers. Last night Lori had reluctantly agreed to let Rob take Jess out to breakfast, then over to Ellie’s for a quick goodbye before delivering her over to Margot’s house where Warren would be waiting.

  Rob or another reporter. Lori peered through the peephole. A distorted freckled face stared back at her. “I’m with Hawthorne Park—”

  Lori opened the door wide to stop the word police from being shouted out for the whole neighborhood to hear. “We’re returning your car, ma’am,” he said softly, now that she was standing in front of him. Lori leaned her head to one side and saw her Ford Taurus parked behind a black Chevy with a sun-glassed driver facing her way. The car looked the same. Dented, in need of a wash. Hers, a home away from home. She felt a rush of warmth envelop her body. She would never have to worry about scratching Margot’s Mercedes again.

  Lori turned back to the policeman on her doorstep. He handed over the keys. He had a nice square face—a red crew cut, freckles spattered on his face like cinnamon on a roll, and a nose peeling from too much sun. The name tag on his chest read John O’Dowd.

  “Thank you, Sergeant O’Dowd,” Lori said.

  “She’s clean as a whistle,” Officer O’Dowd said.

  “You cleaned out all the junk from the backseat. And washed it, too? That’s great. Thanks.”

  “No, ma’am,” John O’Dowd said with a deadpan face. He was cute but he had no sense of humor. Maybe that’s why he was a policeman.

  “I was kidding,” Lori said. She signed for the car, thanked him again, and watched him climb into the unmarked Chevy at the end of her driveway. As the two policemen drove away, a sparkling forest green Jaguar that had been parked a few doors down the street eased its way toward Lori’s house. Rob got out, raised his hand to say hello. Lori nodded and went into the darkness of the house, leaving the door open.

  Once inside the house, Lori sensed Rob looking her over. He always did that to women. Even if they weren’t available. Even if he wasn’t at all interested, which Lori was sure was the case with her. He just needed to assess what was out there. She had dressed for it. White slacks that hugged her slimmed-down butt, a white T-shirt with her best uplifting bra, Ellie’s regimen of creams on her face, blotted down with a light brush stroke of powder, makeup. Not her usual breakfast attire. Lori wanted to look good, to look sexy, not to get him back but to show him she was fine without him, that in the end he had done her a favor by leaving. Lori wasn’t sure she believed that, at least not yet, but she wanted Rob to think it. It would give her the upper hand and make their relationship easier for her.

  “I see you got your car back,” he said, following Lori into the kitchen.

  “And that’s quite a car you’ve got. Another rental?” She offered him coffee. “It’s decaf.”

  “Thanks for the warning. No, thanks. The car is mine. Picked her up last night.”

  “I thought you were going to stay home and go through a bottle of Scotch.”

  “I did.”

  “I guess that explains the car.”

  “I can afford it.”

  “If you can afford it, why haven’t you sent me a check yet?”

  Rob studied his black Prada sneakers. “I’ve had a lot of expenses lately. I’m waiting for a check myself.”

  Lori folded her arms across her chest and waited for Rob to raise his head and look at her again. When he didn’t, she said, “But you bought a new car?”

  “I didn’t pay for it yet.”

  “I guess that makes it all right, then. In your book.”

  “You’ll get your check on Monday.”

  “Good. Look, Rob, as far as I’m concerned you’re free to spend as much as you want as long as you take care of Jessica, but I’m not sure that buying such an expensive car three days after your wife gets murdered and leaves you pots of money is going to look good before a jury. If it should come to that.”

  “It won’t. I didn’t kill her.”

  “I know you didn’t, but there are an awful lot of people in jail despite the truth.” She poured him a cup of decaf anyway, which she knew he wouldn’t drink, but she needed to keep busy. “I’m sorry I flew off the handle yesterday,” she said.

  “Your apology is accepted.”

  Your apology is accepted? Had he always sounded so stuffy?

  “Do the police have any suspects?” Lori asked as she handed him a blueberry muffin on a plate.

  “Yes, me.” R
ob accepted the muffin without a thank you. “Is Jess ready?”

  “Besides you, I meant.” She didn’t want to call Jess just yet. She had questions to ask.

  He started eating standing up. “I’m it.”

  “You can sit.”

  “I’m not staying that long.”

  “Jessica is showering. Sit down. It won’t ruin the crease in your slacks.” He was wearing a bright striped shirt with cuffs rolled up and perfectly ironed tan slacks. He’d always been a natty dresser. Lori sat down at the kitchen table, waited for Rob to join her.

  “Those flowers have had it,” he said, coming closer, towering over her.

  He was right, but she didn’t want to throw them out yet. “I just need to clean out the droopy ones.”

  “They’re dead.” Rob held out the empty plate for Lori to take. Her hand indicated the sink.

  “I’m glad you and Seth have made up,” she said.

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “He went to your wedding.”

  “Why would I invite him? Seth’s a loser.”

  “Please don’t call him that.” Something wasn’t making sense. Why would Seth lie? “You used to be good friends.”

  “You used to be my wife.”

  He’s getting back at me for looking good, Lori told herself. He’s getting back at me because men have sent me flowers. He’s getting back at me because he owes me money. He’s getting back at me because he’s the murder suspect now and not me. She had to stay calm, not let him see he was getting to her. “True enough,” she said finally. She stood up and took Alec’s vase of flowers to the sink.

  Rob walked out into the hall and called up. “Hey, Jess, let’s get going! I’m hungry.”

  Jess yelled back. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Right down” in Jess’s language usually meant another ten or fifteen minutes. Lori started to remove the dead flowers and rearrange the half-dead ones. When Rob walked back into the kitchen, she said, “What made you change your wills so quickly, Rob? You were barely married. Was it Valerie’s idea, yours? What was the rush?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not mine, but the police must be very interested in the reason. Did you tell them that you thought someone tried to run you over Friday night? It would explain changing your will two days after you got married.”

  “No one tried to kill me Friday or any other time. I had the wedding jitters. I was being paranoid.”

  “You’re not that paranoid, and the only time you ever had the jitters was when you thought you were getting sick. Look, you did tell a lot of people that someone was after you. Why are you now backtracking? What are you afraid of? That someone might start asking why anyone would want to kill you? Come on, Rob, what kind of trouble are you in?”

  Rob’s jaw muscles twitched, a gesture Lori had repeatedly witnessed when he was angry with her, when he wanted her to shut her mouth. Usually those confrontations ended with Rob leaving the room without an added word. This time he said, “She was my wife. I was her husband. That’s why we changed our wills. There was no hidden agenda. We’d prepared the changes the week before. On Monday we signed. Tell Jess I’ll wait for her in the car and get rid of those flowers. They stink of rot.”

  Ten minutes later, Lori was still in the hallway, stewing, when Jess, in cutoff jeans and a Camp Trip Lake T-shirt, came down the stairs, her duffle bag thumping behind her. “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s waiting for you outside.”

  “What did you do to him?”

  “I fed him,” Lori said, taking the duffle bag from Jessica’s hands. “Now he’s communing with his new toy.”

  “What?” Jessica ran to the glass panel on one side of the front door. “Oh gosh, did he buy that?”

  Lori joined her. “Last night.”

  Jessica tossed her ponytail. “That’s so out of control!”

  “Grief shows itself in many forms,” Lori said.

  “Yeah.” Jessica frowned, thinking thoughts Lori wished she could divine. Her daughter continued to gaze at her father’s new car—the sun gave it a bling-like shine—then shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it’s kinda cool. Wait ’til Angie sees it. A Jaguar’s much groovier than a Mercedes.”

  Rob honked. “You’d better go now.” Lori hugged Jess tightly. “Remember what we talked about last night.”

  Jessica hugged her back. “Stop worrying. I’m not going to do anything yucky like that. Besides, Deuce would never ask.” She looked at her mother with serious eyes. “You’re going to be okay, right?”

  Lori nodded.

  Rob honked again. Lori opened the front door, grabbed the handles of the duffle bag. “I’ll walk you down.”

  “Mom! I’m not going to the moon.”

  Lori stepped back, tears stinging her eyes. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. “Have fun and call me every day.”

  “Every day,” Jessica called out as Lori’s eyes followed her walk down the path, ponytail wagging, body leaning to one side to counter the weight of the duffle bag. Halfway down the path, Jessica dropped the bag and came running back to her mother.

  “Did you forget something?”

  Jessica gave her mother a quick kiss and whispered, “Don’t tell Dad about Deuce, okay? He might get jealous.”

  “Our secret, sweetie.”

  Lori waved as Rob drove their daughter away, her tears coming freely now.

  Bordered by a spreading Chinatown, Little Italy was turning into Tiny Italy, Lori thought as she walked the few remaining streets under a blistering sun with a growing sense of sadness. How had she not noticed the change before? Its Italian authenticity was gone. It was just a tourist hub. Lori wove her way through mounds of people dressed in shorts and tank tops, who were checking the menus posted outside the countless restaurants on Mulberry Street. It was almost lunchtime, and waiters tried to flag her down with promises of better, cheaper food than the place next door. She passed souvenir stores stuffed with the usual soccer shirts, flags, T-shirts, and CDs, as Dean Martin’s honeyed voice poured onto the street, singing “Bella Mia.” Eight-by-eleven glossies of Sinatra, Al Pacino, Stallone stared back at her as she rushed by. The corner of her eye caught something that stopped her. Lori backed up a few paces and looked at the photo of the cast of The Godfather. Above the photo, James Gandolfini smiled from a hanging T-shirt. Another T-shirt boasted THE MAFIA in big red letters. Yet another read THE SOPRANOS. Her eyes dropped down to the photo of Al Pacino as Scarface. A group picture of the cast of Jersey Shore leaned next to it.

  Lori felt her cheeks burn, as if she’d just been slapped. How could anyone with Italian blood in them sell the Mafia as something to be proud of? And why was anyone buying the stuff? “We are so much more than this!” she wanted to shout out, but she felt diminished and powerless in front of this onslaught of cheap commercialism, this reverence for violence and vulgarity.

  “Keep moving,” Lori told herself and walked briskly to Grand Street. More changes greeted her. The Food Center, a large corner store that once did a bustling business, was now defunct, its wide windows boarded up. A block away, a Malaysian restaurant had dared to intrude. Poor Papa, he’d be roaring “tradimento,” in his grave.

  Lori rushed into Alleva. This had been Papa’s store—a corner of the old country, a pilgrimage of sorts. Once or twice a month, on Saturdays, she and Papa would take the train to the city, then the subway to Little Italy. Ellie wasn’t into food or nostalgia, and anyway she had to work at the travel agency, which she didn’t own then. A visit here always brought a grin to Papa’s face and sometimes watery eyes.

  Thankfully, the place hadn’t changed. The smell was as Lori remembered it, sharp from the aged cheeses, sweet from the meats, a smell that softened her mood. Logs of provolone hung from the ceiling. Varying sizes of mozzarella balls floated in white plastic vats, ready to be plucked. Rolls of salami, mortadella, capocolla, guanciale, and legs of prosciutto sat lined next to
each other atop shelves, cut side out to tempt the customer with their patterns of varying ratios of fat to meat. Lori smiled at the counterman, a large man with thinning strands of dyed black hair swept over his balding head and Sal in red letters stamped on his white jacket. Sal balled up his cheeks with a grin that brought her father back. “Dear signora, what can I do for you today?”

  Lori said nothing for a moment, relishing the memory of her father shaking hands with the owner, checking the thinness of the prosciutto slice, rolling the mozzarella in its milk to make sure it was as fresh as the counterman claimed. Behind her, the door chimed. Another customer walked in and Lori shook herself out of her reverie to order mozzarella, Parmigiano Reggiano, and prosciutto. While Sal filled her order, she picked up four cans of Italian tuna and two packages of marinated white anchovies for herself. In the car she had a cooler to keep the food fresh.

  Just as Sal offered her a transparent slice of prosciutto to taste, Lori’s cell phone sounded its Beethoven notes. She went out on the street to answer.

  “Any chance I can see you today?” Jonathan asked. “I’m in the city now, but I’ll be home around five. Maybe I can tempt you from your labors for my mother and take you out for a drink, a quick dinner?”

  “Is anything wrong?” Lori asked.

  “If wanting to see you is wrong, then yes.”

  Lori found herself smiling, while at the same time deciding Mr. Jonathan Ashe was not to be taken seriously under any circumstances. “I’m in the city right now. In Little Italy, shopping for tomorrow night.”

  “We can have lunch. Want me to come down there?”

  “I have to go to Bleecker Street next.”

  “Murray’s Cheese?”

  Lori laughed. “How did you know?”

  “I saw French cheeses on your menu. I can meet you there in thirty minutes.”

  “Make it forty-five.”

  “Why bother to go all the way down to Little Italy?” Jonathan asked as he expertly rolled linguine with clam sauce onto his fork. They were sitting at the bar at the Gotham Bar and Grill, one of Manhattan’s great restaurants, Lori’s shopping over with. All the tables were taken. “You had everything you needed on Bleecker.”