A Room with a Pew

by Peg Cochran

  “You know,” Angela said, turning around to look at Lucille, “I think Louis was becoming a little senile.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. First he burns down that rental house they were living in because he forgot the soup on the stove—”

  “That wasn’t because he was senile,” Lucille interjected. “That was because he was drunk.”

  “There’s been other things, too, though. He could never remember where he put his house key.”

  Sheesh, Lucille thought, if that meant you were senile, she must be getting there herself.

  “He called Millie by the wrong name one day and got very angry when I corrected him. And then”—Angela paused as she folded a pair of plaid pajamas—“he kept talking about someone who died years ago, when he was young, but then he claimed to have seen him somewhere recently.” She shook her head.

  “It’s not like we have to worry about it no more,” Lucille said. “Poor cousin Louis is out of his misery and up in heaven with Our Father.”

  “I don’t know about that. Seems to me he had some sins to atone for first.”

  “You don’t think he went to hell, do you?”

  Angela frowned. “No, but it’s likely he went to purgatory, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, that’s probably it.”

  At least he wouldn’t go to limbo, Lucille thought. You never got out of there to get to heaven. It was where unbaptized babies went. She crossed herself. Thank God Bernadette and Tony had finally had little Lucy baptized. She didn’t want no granddaughter of hers being stuck in limbo.

  Lucille went back to sorting through the drawer. There was an argyle sock at the bottom of the pile. She held it up and admired the colors—various shades of blue and gray. Too bad it didn’t have no mate. She scrambled through the pile again to make sure. Nothing. She picked the sock up to throw it on the junk heap when she realized there was something inside of it. Maybe Louis had rolled the mate up inside?

  Lucille stuck her hand in the sock and gasped when she saw what she pulled out.

  “Get a load of this,” she yelled to Angela.

  “What?”

  Angela looked irritated about being interrupted, but too bad, Lucille thought.

  Angela turned around. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

  Lucille brandished the wad of cash in her hand. “It was inside of one of Louis’s socks.”

  Angela collapsed onto the bed. “To think we might have tossed that in the trash . . .” She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead.

  “Don’t worry—I’m being real careful about going through this stuff.”

  “What’s that?” Angela pointed to the slip of paper that had been wrapped around the money.

  Lucille opened it up and smoothed it out. “It’s some kind of deposit slip.” She whistled. “It’s for ten thousand dollars.” She looked at Angela.

  “What? You must have read it wrong.” Angela snatched the slip from Lucille’s hands. “You’re right. It says ten thousand dollars right here.”

  “What was Louis doing with that? He didn’t have that kind of money in his account.”

  “He was lucky if he had two nickels to rub together.” Angela gestured toward the closet. “And then he shows up with all those new suits and ties. And now you find that . . .” She gestured toward the cash.

  Lucille studied the deposit slip. “There’s no name on here so we don’t know that this here is for Louis’s account. There’s just a number.”

  “True. He might have picked it up somewhere, although why he would keep it I can’t imagine.”

  Lucille spread the bills out on the bed. “What I’d like to know is where did Louis get all this money from all of a sudden?” She looked up at Angela. “Maybe we should ask Millie? She might know something.”

  “If you ask me, she’s nearly as senile as her brother was, but I suppose it’s worth a shot.”

  Angela stuck her head out the door. “Millie!” she yelled.

  Lucille jumped. “Sheesh, Angela, you scared me. Want me to go get her?”

  Angela looked over her shoulder. “She’s coming.”

  Millie appeared in the doorway.

  “Come on in,” Lucille said and patted the bed next to her.

  Millie looked from Angela to Lucille and back again. She perched on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped in her lap.

  Lucille put a hand on Millie’s arm. “Like you told us before, Louis seems to have come into some money.” Lucille waved toward the closet. “New suit, new ties. And then we found this here money rolled up in one of Louis’s socks.” She showed the wad of bills to Millie.

  Millie’s eyes bulged, and her lips moved, but no words came out. She cleared her throat a couple of times. “He must have won it in them poker games he was going to.”

  “Do you know who he played poker with or where? At the senior center maybe?”

  Millie snorted and shook her head. “You know any seniors who could afford to play with money like that?” She tipped her head toward the cash in Lucille’s hand. “I think it was someone he met at AA.”

  “Do you know his name?” Lucille patted Millie’s hand reassuringly.

  “He talked about a guy called Vincenzo, that’s all I know.”

  Well, Lucille thought. It looked like she’d have to go to an AA meeting.

  Chapter 10

  “An AA meeting? But Lucille, you don’t even drink.”

  They were over at the Livingston mall, and Flo was trying on shoes.

  “Sure I do.”

  “What? A couple of highballs at a wedding? A glass of wine with Sunday dinner? That’s not the kind of drinking they treat at AA, Lucille. You’d be busted inside of five minutes.”

  “All I got to do is talk to this Vincenzo guy and find out about them poker games Louis was playing in. I’m not going to make no habit out of going to AA meetings.”

  Flo paraded in front of the mirror in a pair of purple lizard stilettos, turning this way and that to admire her reflection.

  “These make my legs look great, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, but don’t they hurt your feet?” Lucille glanced at her own shoes—a pair of flats that had seen better days. The heels were worn down and the right toe was scuffed. She tucked her feet under her chair and out of the way.

  “My feet aren’t important,” Flo said, slipping the shoes off and opening another box. “I’m more interested in catching Dr. Hacker’s eye.”

  “I thought he was married. And what about Richie? You still haven’t told me about that.”

  Flo pulled a black suede stiletto-heeled bootie from the box and slipped it on.

  “Well?” Lucille said as Flo put on the other bootie.

  Flo gave a sniff and reached into her handbag for a tissue. “I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, her voice muffled by the tissue.

  “You weren’t going to tell me what?” Lucille prompted.

  “About Richie.” Flo made a noise that sounded halfway between a hiccough and a sob.

  “What about Richie?”

  Flo stared at her feet and twirled her ankles. “I think Richie cheated on me.”

  “Richie? No way.” Lucille folded her arms across her chest. “Richie is crazy about you. If you wouldn’t keep stringing him along the way you have.”

  “Oh, so now it’s my fault?”

  “I didn’t say that. So tell me—what makes you think Richie cheated.”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”

  “A feeling? You got to be kidding me. A feeling?”

  “Okay. Denise, the manicurist at the Clip and Curl, said she saw him walking down the street with some blond. They went into the Old Glory together.”

  Lucille threw her hands in the air. “That don’t mean nothing. They could have been total strangers who happened to be going to the same place at the same time.”

  Flo studied her nails. “Denise didn’t think so. She said they looked very . . . friendly
.”

  “So because of what Denise said you’re throwing in the towel and going after this Dr. Hacker? Who, let me remind you, happens to be newly married.”

  “I’m hedging my bets.” Flo drummed her nails on the lid of the shoe box. “Besides, there’s trouble in paradise. Dr. Hacker told me so himself.”

  Lucille snorted. “If you ask me, he’s looking for a little action on the side, if you get my drift.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Flo said, getting to her feet and modeling the booties. “What do you think?”

  “About the shoes? I think I’d break my ankle in them things.”

  “I like them,” Flo said decisively. She sat down and began to ease the booties off her feet.

  “What’s with your nails?” Lucille grabbed one of Flo’s hands. “They’ve got this big bump on them. I hope you’re not getting that fungus they talk about on TV.”

  “That fungus grows on people’s toenails. This is the latest thing. It’s called bubble nails.” Flo waggled her blood-red nails at Lucille. “Denise is teaching herself how to do it, and I volunteered to be her guinea pig.”

  “More like her stooge,” Lucille said. “But if you like them, that’s all that matters.”

  • • •

  There was an AA meeting that afternoon in the basement of St. Rocco’s. Lucille used to watch people go in and out all the time. She sat in the Olds until the coast was clear and then scurried toward the side door of the church. She didn’t want no one to see her on account of how could she explain why she was going to an AA meeting?

  She slipped through the door and down the stairs to the church basement.

  Folding chairs were arranged in a circle. Several people were already there, helping themselves to coffee from a pot at the back of the room. Lucille looked around. There were mostly men, although there was another woman who had taken a seat and appeared to be reading something. Several people were carrying a book under their arms.

  The group around the coffee urn grew as meeting time got closer. One of them—a man in a yellow sweater—moved away from the crowd and toward the head of the circle. Lucille figured it was some kind of signal because everyone started taking a seat all of a sudden. She’d planned to sit in the back where she could hide, but there was no back the way the chairs were arranged.

  The guy in the yellow sweater stood at the top of the circle and cleared his throat. Everyone bowed their head. Lucille did the same. They were saying some kind of prayer—not the Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary, but something that sounded vaguely familiar to Lucille. She thought she’d seen the words on a poster somewhere.

  Finally everyone raised their heads, and the meeting was called to order. Lucille looked around. Any of the men could be this Vincenzo that Millie mentioned.

  The basement was stuffy, and Lucille began to sweat. There was a pause and someone stood up and said, “My name is Paul, and I’m an alcoholic.” He was followed by two more people.

  “Psst.” The guy next to Lucille tapped her on the arm. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  Lucille nodded.

  “Why don’t you introduce yourself? Don’t be shy. We all had a first time—we understand it isn’t easy.” He spread his hands out on his knees. “The more you put into it, the more you get out of it. I’m Vincenzo, by the way. I know it’s a mouthful. You can call me Vin.” He smiled at Lucille. “Go on, it’s your turn.”

  Lucille’s knees were shaking as she stood up. She looked around at the sea of faces. There was no one she knew. Should she use a fake name? Before she could think about it anymore, she found herself talking.

  “My name is Lucille, and I’m . . . I’m . . .” She glanced at Vin, who nodded at her encouragingly. “I’m an alcoholic.” She sat down so fast the resulting breeze fluttered her top.

  “Welcome, Lucille,” the leader said as the rest of the group murmured welcomes as well.

  The guy in the yellow sweater sat down, and the woman stood up and made her way to the front of the circle. She began sharing her battle with alcoholism with the group. The room was warm, and Lucille felt her eyes closing. When she opened them again, the woman had sat down and the meeting appeared to be breaking up.

  Lucille stumbled to her feet. She didn’t want to miss her chance to talk to Vin. She looked around and spotted him by the coffee urn.

  “What did you think of your first meeting?” he asked when Lucille caught up with him.

  “It was . . . very interesting.”

  “You’ll get more out of them as you go along.” Vin took a sip of his coffee. He pointed a finger at Lucille. “You are coming back, right?”

  “Sure, sure. I wouldn’t miss it.” She looked around. People were starting to put on their coats. “Listen, my late cousin Louis, may he rest in peace”—Lucille crossed herself—“said you was running a regular poker game.”

  Vin put his hands up. “Sorry, but the game is for men only—as much as I’d love to see a pretty lady like you at the table, the other guys would have my head. They’d feel they had to watch their mouths and their manners, if you know what I mean.” He poked Lucille in the side. “It would cramp their style.”

  “No, no, I don’t want to join the game. I was only curious. On account of Louis really enjoyed the games. They brought him a lot of pleasure at the end of his life.” Lucille thought she could feel her nose growing like Pinocchio’s.

  Vin rubbed his chin. “Yeah, I remember Louis. Nice guy. I’m sorry to hear he’s passed away. But I’m glad the game brought him a lot of pleasure.” He laughed. “A lot of money, too. He won more often than not.”

  “What we . . . the family, I mean . . . can’t figure out is where did he get the money to play? Louis wasn’t exactly flush, if you know what I mean. His socks had holes in them and his shoes were run down.”

  “That’s a good question. We all kind of wondered that. We think someone was backing him.”

  “Backing him how?”

  “Giving him money to play with.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “If Louis won, my guess is he gave the winnings to the backer. Minus a small take for himself perhaps.”

  “Who would do that?”

  Vin shrugged. “Someone who wanted to launder some money maybe?”

  Lucille had a vision of dollar bills going around and around on the spin cycle in the washer.

  “Listen.” Vin tapped Lucille on the arm. “Will you be coming back tomorrow? We’ve got a good speaker lined up.”

  Lucille had slipped on her coat and was edging toward the door. “Sure, sure.”

  She said good-bye to Vin and made her way up the metal stairs. She really had to start working out—by the time she got to the top she was huffing and puffing. Of course, when she lost weight everything would be a lot easier.

  She pushed open the door to the outside and ran smack into Father Brennan. She didn’t know which of them was more startled.

  “Lucille.” Father Brennan regarded her with those sorrowful eyes of his. “I didn’t know.”

  He didn’t know what? Lucille wondered. Then it hit her. He thought she was at the AA meeting on account of she had a drinking problem.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  Father Brennan put his hand on Lucille’s arm. “It’s okay, Lucille. The Lord understands.”

  The Lord might understand, but Father Brennan sure didn’t. And there was no way to explain it to him without admitting she’d been doing some investigating again. The last time she’d gotten involved in a murder she’d promised everyone she would keep her nose out of things and leave the detective work to the police.

  The wind was blowing Father Brennan’s hair around, revealing the balding spot on top of his head. Lucille knew he tried to cover it up—wasn’t vanity supposed to be one of the seven deadly sins?

  “If you ever want to talk, Lucille . . .” Father Brennan squeezed her arm.

  “Sure, sure. Listen, Father, I’ve got
to go.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, my child. The Lord sends different struggles to each of us. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Yeah, I understand. Thanks, Father.”

  Lucille managed to extricate her arm and hurried down the path to the parking lot. She could feel Father Brennan’s eyes on her as she walked to her car. She just hoped he didn’t say nothing to no one else in the family. Frankie would have a fit if he found out what she was up to.

  Chapter 11

  Lucille called Flo as soon as she got home. She eased her shoes off as the phone rang on the other end and opened the refrigerator. She was starving. The instructions for the Mediterranean diet said you should eat when you’re hungry, so she didn’t feel no guilt about having a little snack.

  She found a piece of pizza wrapped in tinfoil. She couldn’t remember when they last had pizza, but pizza didn’t go bad so it would be okay to eat. She unwrapped it, popped it in the microwave and heated it up.

  Just when Lucille was about to hang up the phone, Flo answered.

  “How did your AA meeting go?”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Lucille said, biting the tip off her slice of pizza. “I talked to the guy who organizes those poker games Louis was going to. He thinks someone was giving Louis money to gamble.”

  “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Vin—that’s the guy I met at the AA meeting—said he might have been washing money.”

  “Washing money? Oh, you mean laundering?”

  “Washing—laundering—same thing, right?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Anyway, I’m thinking maybe that deposit slip we found wasn’t for Louis’s account. Maybe it was a sort of payment for the guy who loaned him the money to play. Vin figures Louis was allowed a small take from the winnings. That must be where his money’s been coming from.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “And maybe Louis held back more than he was supposed to so this guy got pissed off and had him killed.” Lucille took another bite of her pizza. “What I’d like to know is, just who is this guy? Maybe if I go to the bank, they’ll tell me who that account belongs to that Louis was putting money into.”