by Lynn Bohart
When he didn’t respond, she turned and looked directly at him. Although her eyes were still obscured by darkness, he realized this was the woman Father Damian had been consoling in the banquet room earlier in the evening.
“Writers sell their rights.” She emphasized the words as if Giorgio were an idiot. “But we never played it. We never had a chance.”
“Because the body was found?”
“Yes.” Her throat seemed to close around the word in disgust. “That stupid woman was found. Now everyone’s running around trying to solve a real mystery.”
Giorgio was shocked at her lack of compassion, but chose to ignore it. “And your mystery was never used?”
“I can’t believe it. I worked so damned hard on it, and for what?”
“Miss…uh…”
“Levinsky.”
The name registered and he acknowledged it. “You’re the Program Chair?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Mallery Olsen?”
“Who?”
“The woman that was killed.”
“My job was to oversee the speakers, not the agents. I didn’t even meet her.”
“Would you have known her if you saw her?”
“Maybe. I saw all the agents at the opening reception. They all had ribbons on their nametags, but I didn’t pay much attention.”
“You’re an aspiring writer like the rest?”
“I’m a playwright. I’ve written several one-acts and two full-length plays. Mostly mysteries. That’s why I volunteered to do the mystery tonight. Arthur Wright was here from Samuel French.”
Finally, Giorgio understood her enduring disappointment. Samuel French was the premier publisher of working plays. Most of the scripts Giorgio had ever used in the theater came from Samuel French. Ms. Levinsky missed her one big opportunity to impress someone important and she couldn’t stand it. Just then McCready returned with the coffee.
“I had to heat it up in the microwave,” he apologized.
Giorgio accepted the cup. “Why don’t you go home? You have a lot of work ahead of you tomorrow.”
McCready said goodnight and left, while Ms. Levinsky continued to stare out the window as if her parents had just left her at boarding school. Giorgio decided he had little patience for the self-absorbed Ms. Levinsky.
“Ms. Levinsky, did you see anyone come into the dinner late tonight, or did anyone leave early?”
She turned as if she were being inconvenienced by the question. “I really couldn’t say. I was concentrating on getting set up for the game.”
“Was everyone at the conference aware of the game?”
“It was in all of our promotional materials, and we’d asked for special permission to use other parts of the monastery to stage it.”
“So, you weren’t sitting down and eating tonight with the others?”
“I told you. I had last minute details to take care of.”
“And where were you taking care of these last minute details?”
He realized his voice was beginning to take on a strident quality, but he didn’t care.
“Several places. I was laying out clues and I was back and forth to my room.”
This piece of news interested him. “When did you go to your room?”
“I forgot my copy of the script.”
“Yes, but when did you go to retrieve it?” he pressed her.
She took a deep breath and looked toward the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know.”
Giorgio wanted to slap her.
“I think the cocktail party had just started,” she continued. “Everyone was at the bar.”
“Which room is yours?”
“It’s at the end of the hallway to the right of the stairs.”
Giorgio perked up, but attempted to hide his interest. “What number?”
She turned her dark eyes his way. Shadows billowed across the window behind her like a cheap light show. Although he couldn’t see her features well, she looked to be about thirty-five. Long, stringy hair draped over one shoulder while two plump legs were stretched out on the window seat like logs on a fireplace. She resembled Deborah Carr in “An Affair to Remember” and Giorgio pondered whether this woman could even walk. Everything about her seemed incapable of movement of any kind.
“Ms. Levinsky, what is your room number?”
“Seventeen. Why?”
His mind raced. This woman had the room next to Olsen’s and may have been upstairs around the time of the murder.
“Did you see anyone in the hallways or on the stairs when you returned to your room?”
It seemed she understood his urgency and purposely stalled her answers. “No. I just popped into my room for a moment to get the script and left again.”
“You didn’t hear or see anything?”
“I heard voices.”
“Voices? Where?”
“I was reaching into my closet to get my briefcase, and I heard someone knock on the door next to mine.”
“Which side?”
She looked at him with a blank expression, then her brain engaged and she replied, “To the right.”
“To the right if you were looking out the door?”
“That’s right. John Marsh had the room to the left of mine, closest to the stairs. At first I thought it was him. Then, I realized the voices were coming from the room to the right.
“Did you see who came to the room next door?” Giorgio had to restrain himself from shaking the information out of this woman.
“I told you. I didn’t see anyone.”
“You’re sure it was a man’s voice?” Her eyes were drifting around the room, and Giorgio felt his muscles tense. “Ms. Levinsky, this is important. Are you sure it was a man’s voice?”
“I told you, I thought it was Mr. Marsh.”
“And you’re positive it wasn’t?”
She paused. “It sounded like him, but he was downstairs. I didn’t really pay much attention. I had to find another prop since one of mine had disappeared. After all, it was critical to the mystery.”
“What was it that disappeared?”
“A green silk scarf. I had it in my bag at rehearsal this afternoon, but it must have dropped out. I had to find something else at the last minute.”
A fierce gust of wind rattled the old windowpanes, and a rush of cold air forced its way through with a low whistle. He leaned forward, anxious to ask a follow-up question, but Swan returned with Father Daniel. The men entered the room behind him, and Giorgio halted them with a wave of his hand.
“If you’ll just wait over there, Father.”
Swan returned down the hallway. The young monk stepped to one side, hands clasped in front of him. Giorgio turned back to the self-indulgent Ms. Levinsky, but now she was focused on the waiting monk.
“Ms. Levinsky.” He tried to get her attention. “Where did you rehearse this afternoon?”
“The Chapel. All the meeting rooms were filled with educational sessions.”
“And what role did the scarf play in the mystery?”
He spoke as if to a deaf person, but there was a telltale ringing in his ears. It happened every time he was about to make a discovery. On the other hand, Ms. Levinsky seemed distracted by Father Daniel.
“He’s awfully good looking for a priest, don’t you think?”
Giorgio turned to locate the object of her attention. Father Daniel stood as still as one of the statues, his face only half lit by a wall sconce.
“Ms. Levinsky, how was the scarf going to be used in your mystery?”
She shifted her eyes away from the monk and smiled. “To strangle the victim, of course.”
A branch from the tree outside finally broke free smacking the window with a heart-stopping crack. The wall sconces flickered and went out, leaving the room as dark and silent as the inside of a grave.
Chapter Ten
It was after three o’clock in the morning when Rocky’s truck rattled up to the curb in front of Giorgio’s
house. The entire monastery had remained in the dark, eliminating any hope of finishing the interviews. The team would arrive early the next morning to develop an investigation strategy. Giorgio knew he was expected to fill out the daily call sheet, but it had to be accurate, and right now he felt there was a chance he might misspell his own name.
The storm had finally broken. A drenching rain obscured his two-story, English manor-style house, sending rivers of run-off down the sidewalk. A brusque wind whipped nearby trees, sending loose branches and twigs across the sloping front lawn.
“I can come tomorrow if you’d like,” Rocky yawned next to him.
“We could use your help. Make it early…if you can.”
Rocky’s eyes narrowed, and Giorgio wondered if he’d implied too much. But Rocky merely nodded. Giorgio pulled his jacket over his head and ran for the door. Inside, he dropped his jacket over the back of a chair and grabbed a kitchen towel to dry off. He stopped at the refrigerator for a long swig of milk and then headed for the hallway, stealing a glance out the grated window before locking the front door. The sound of the bottle rolling across the truck floor came to mind, and he silently prayed Rocky would go straight home.
Giorgio locked the front door and started for bed, stopping to salute a full suit-of-armor standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Good night, Prince Albert.”
It was a ritual he hardly noticed any more. He’d rescued Prince Albert from the theater’s green room where the visor had been used as an ashtray. The insult had given Giorgio the idea to name it after his father’s favorite tobacco. Though Giorgio had long ago accepted Prince Albert as part of the family, his presence never ceased to spook Angie in the dark. She’d threatened more than once to melt the armor into scrap metal. When it disappeared one day, Giorgio thought she’d made good on her promise, but she’d only sent it out to be cleaned. Giorgio had to admit it returned looking and smelling much better.
While the prince stood guard, Giorgio climbed the stairs and checked on the children. He continued to the end of the hallway where the door to the master bedroom opened at the touch of his hand. The nightlight was on in the bathroom, as it always was. Giorgio slipped out of his clothes and climbed into bed hoping not to wake Angie. When he settled back onto the pillow though, she turned with a sigh and tucked an arm across his chest.
“I brought some ice cream home for you,” she mumbled. “It’s in the freezer.”
He smiled and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “You’re a good girl, Angie. Mama will like you. I think we should get married.”
She popped open one eyelid. “Fat chance. You stay out all hours and come home with coffee on your breath and eyeliner on your eyes. My mama will never approve. I’ll marry the baker.” She tried to turn away.
He grabbed her and drew her close. “You’ve threatened to marry that baker for fifteen years. Who the hell is he, anyway?”
She leaned in to whisper in his ear, and he could smell toothpaste and a hint of the perfume she’d worn to the theater. Everything about this woman entranced him. It always had, and he wrapped his arms around her slender body, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath her nightgown.
“I’ll never divulge the name of my lover. You might shoot him with your six-gun in a fit of jealous rage. Then, what would the children do for a father?”
“Ha!” he yelled as he slapped her bottom. He rolled her over so that he lay on top of her. “So, he’s the father? Then why the hell hasn’t he been putting clothes on their backs for the past nine years?”
He nuzzled her neck as she wiggled beneath him giving rise to a potent desire. She giggled, pulling his face around to kiss him first on the eyelids, then the nose, then ever so gently on the lips.
“God, woman. I can’t ever seem to get enough of you,” he said, sinking into her embrace. His tongue played with her ear until her breath caught. “Tell me you’re mine forever,” he whispered, reaching a hand under her nightgown to stroke her breast. “Tell me.”
She pulled back to look at him with the rich sable eyes, and he felt himself sink into their depths like a man sinks to the bottom of the ocean.
“I’m yours forever,” she said breathlessly. “Forever and one day,” she emphasized, before clamping her mouth over his.
His hands moved across her body knowing every curve, every soft spot, and within seconds, she was on fire, reaching for him, bringing him to her and laying his soul bare. It seemed there was room in this night for at least one more standing ovation, and this one would be the sweetest of all.
Chapter Eleven
Giorgio awoke to the smell of coffee and bacon and turned a sleepy eye to the digital clock beside the bed. Angie was already downstairs fixing breakfast. He smiled. How lucky could a man be? When his brain registered the time, he jumped out of bed catching his toe on the foot of the bed.
“Shit!”
He’d never been an early riser and always had trouble making that first adjustment to the new day. Angie, on the other hand, popped out of bed like a piece of toast. The thought of toast made him forget his foot as he hobbled to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, he entered the kitchen, patted his wife on the behind and nibbled his favorite ear lobe. He received a slap in return and was told to sit before she called the cops. It was a game he never tired of. It was Sunday, and the kids would sleep another half hour, allowing him to lean back on the chair legs to eye his wife. She was still in her nightgown, and the curve of her breast caught his attention.
“What happened last night?” she inquired, pouring him a cup of black coffee.
“I think you know what happened last night,” he said, reaching for the object of his desire.
“At the monastery,” she exhaled, pushing his hand away.
He retreated with an apologetic grin and took a sip of coffee.
“A young woman was found hanging by her bra strap in a supply closet. Dead of course.”
Angie turned to him, the fry pan in her hand. “Giorgio, you shouldn’t be flippant. Someone died. That’s not a joke.”
“Sorry. It was just so weird. She was hung like a doll on a utility hook in the supply closet of a Catholic monastery.” He twisted his mouth in a dry smile. “It was like one of those things. What do you call it? An oxymoron. Like naval intelligence.” He chuckled and held up his hand when she turned with a stern look on her face. “I know. I shouldn’t make fun of the dead. I’m sorry. It appears she was strangled.”
Angie drained the bacon grease out of the pan and proceeded to make pancakes. “One of the cable stations already reported on it. I turned it off. I’d rather hear it from you. Who was she?”
“A literary agent.”
“You mean, like books?”
“Mysteries as a matter of fact. Funny, hunh?” He smiled, but kept his mirth in check. “Anyway, she wasn’t supposed to be there. They were having a writers’ conference, and she was standing in for someone else who couldn’t make it. So, no one really knew her.” He purposely omitted the part about the missing finger. No need to remind Angie of the kind of crimes they’d hoped to leave behind.
“Someone so young,” she ruminated. “It’s so sad.” Angie flipped a pancake. “Somewhere a mother suffers.”
He watched her thinking it wasn’t easy being a cop’s wife. Although Angie never complained, he saw it in her eyes. The shooting in Queens had been a turning point he couldn’t quite explain. Before then, she hadn’t always waited up for him. Now, there were signs. A half empty coffee cup or a warm television set. Sometimes, like last night, it was the simple mist left behind in the bathroom after a late night shower. He got up and put his arms around her waist.
“You won’t ever lose a child, Angie. God won’t let you.”
She patted his hand, and he kissed the top of her head before returning to the chair. She piled a stack of pancakes onto a plate, added the bacon, and placed it in front of him, bending over so that he could just see the crest of her breast.
“What time do you think you’ll be back tonight?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, diverting his attention to his breakfast. He lathered butter onto the pancakes. “Late. Rocky’s picking me up in a few minutes. He’s still on medical leave and offered to help.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea – I mean, having him work on this case?”
“Yeah,” he replied with a mouthful of pancakes. “I think he needs some focus. And frankly, we could use the help.”
She rinsed off dishes in the sink while he devoured his breakfast. Finally, she turned to him.
“Joe, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Aren’t you going to church?”
“Yes, of course. I teach the little children today, and Marie sings in the choir.”
“Oh,” he looked up with a frown. “I forgot.”
“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “She’ll understand.”
“I’ll bring her a surprise tonight.”
“You don’t have to do that, Joe. She understands.”
He bent to take another mouthful of food. “She sings like an angel,” he slurred through pancakes and saliva. “I should be there.”
He continued to eat as if food would blot out the disappointment he felt. Angie came and sat across the table from him, her hands folded in front of her.
“It’s me who needs your attention right now, Joe. Not Marie.”
“Can’t it wait? We could talk tonight.”
He wiped syrup off his chin and grabbed a slice of bacon. She watched him with a pained expression.
“It can’t wait much longer.”
Her eyes blinked several times, and he recognized the oncoming tears. He swallowed quickly.
“What is it Angie? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, at least not according to God’s plan.”
“What do you mean? What’s according to God’s plan?”
Her eyes glistened, and he felt the pancakes turn to cement in his stomach.
“What are you talking about, Angie?”
She paused before answering. “We’re going to have a baby.”
Whatever he thought his wife was going to say, it wasn’t that. He sat for a moment, staring at her, all thought of pancakes and murder investigations gone.
