Tables had been set out, and a few fold-out chairs, as well as an entire spread of food—tables were laden with treats that the family had supplied and that the Sleepy Creekers had brought themselves, to help the Russo’s in their time of mourning.
“This has to be the worst apple pie I’ve ever tasted,” Missi said, beside me.
“Aren’t you delightful?”
“Watson, it’s one thing to host a memorial service that’s more of a party—” she nodded toward the live band now setting up at the other end of the garden, right between two oversized pictures of Sal and Francesca, “—it’s another entirely to force substandard food on one’s guests. It isn’t done.”
I opened my mouth to argue but gave it up. Missi wouldn’t change her opinion, and I was far more interested in the hosts of the memorial after-party than I was the dry apple pie. Stale pastry too.
A whooping cry rang out and applause followed, as a slim, tan man approached the band and lifted a microphone from a stand on the wooden platform at the back of the garden. He smiled around at the gathering of people, shot off a few finger guns like he’d just won the lottery, then cleared his throat.
The mic squealed.
Missi grunted.
I inserted a finger into my ear and wiggled it around.
“What’s going on?” Grizzy stepped up beside me, carrying a piece of pizza on an oil-soaked paper plate.
“That’s the cousin,” Vee whispered, and appeared on Missi’s other side. “The one who’s taken over the pizzeria and supplied the food for today. Have you tasted the apple pie, sister? Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Mortifying.” Missi gestured to the half-eaten item on her plate.
“Is this thing on?” The cousin—not balding, but a strong nose, intelligent dark eyes—tapped on the microphone with a gloved hand. Tan leather gloves? On a warm spring day? His clothing was immaculate, I couldn’t help noting that. Not a speck of dirt on the powder blue coat sleeves of his suit. Powder blue at his cousin’s memorial service?
Most of the folks in attendance had opted for the traditional black.
“Heyoooo,” the cousin said, and did another finger gun. “How are y’all doing?”
He had an accent that smacked of Boston. It reminded me of ‘home’ and of my mother, and the Somerville Spiders. Not that I needed reminding.
“I said, how are y’all doing?”
A few of the guests muttered indistinctly. No one was in the mood to cheer or clap. It was a memorial service for heaven’s sake.
“Good, good,” the cousin continued. “Now, most of you don’t know me, so I thought I’d introduce myself before we continue with the festivities. Name’s Mario.” He spread one arm wide. “First of all, welcome to the Russo household. You’re most welcome to use the bathrooms, to sit and chat and enjoy the food. Now, you’re all here for ol’ Sal and his hot young thing of a wife, Francesca.”
“Highly inappropriate,” Missi said, loudly.
A few other people nodded.
Mario wasn’t fazed. “Sal was my cousin and a good man, for the most part.”
Mutters started up in the ground, the grumbling from people who Sal had insulted. Once again, just about everyone in Sleepy Creek.
“And I know he would’ve wanted everyone to celebrate rather than mourn his passing, so, enjoy the food, enjoy the day, and remember Sal,” Mario said. “To Sal and Fran.” He lifted his hand, though he didn’t have a glass in it, and stared around expectantly.
“To Sal and Frank,” the people in the crowd said.
“Great. Now, I’ve got a special treat from you. I managed to get one of Sal’s favorite bands to come out. Please welcome, the Heavy Hitters!” He clapped his free hand against the microphone’s side and the noise thwopped loudly through the speakers either side of the platform.
Finally, Mario placed the microphone back on its stand and descended from the platform. The band took their positions and struck up a melody that was pure noise.
“Oh my goodness,” Virginia said, and lifted her hands to her ears.
“He can’t be serious.” Missi’s face had fallen.
I ignored the ladies and kept my eye on Mario. His attitude intrigued me. Granted, not all cousins were close, but it seemed strange, that he was downright jaunty about his cousin’s passing. He bobbed through the crowd, his gait decidedly ‘hoppy’ and made his way toward the back of the house.
If I could get some time with him alone, perhaps, I might be able to squeeze a little information out. I stepped between the folks who had left the grassy patch in front of the stage—a pilgrimage had started toward the food tables and away from the speakers.
I tailed the suspect through the crowd. He reached the back steps of the house, mounted them, then paused to talk to a woman—long dark hair, glossy around her shoulders, and wearing a fitted black cocktail dress. Tall for a woman. She’d chosen red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. Beautiful, but her gaze was anything but.
She glared up at Mario and spoke fast.
Mario’s smile went cold at the eyes. He said something, and I would’ve given anything to read lips. I swerved through the crowd, walked along the side of the house, pretending to admire the flowerbeds, which were both dry and unkempt, and listened hard.
“—about it here,” Mario said. “Don’t you have any respect?”
“Then let’s go inside.”
“Bella, now isn’t the time.”
“We need to talk about it. Now.”
“Fine. Inside. Quickly.” They beat a hasty retreat up the back steps and disappeared through the kitchen door, the screen slamming behind them.
I followed them, paused and peered into the dingy kitchen and found it empty. I slipped inside.
Voices traveled from the hall adjacent, loud enough to make out, and I didn’t bother trying to get any closer. At least, if someone found me in here, I could say I was on my way to the bathroom or looking for a glass of water.
I affected a casual pose next to the refrigerator—a happy family picture of Fran and Sal caught underneath a pizza slice magnet threatened to fall, and I fixed it in place. I checked my nails.
“—believe you.” Mario’s voice, gruff and not nearly as obliging as it had been outside.
“This is ridiculous. This is… you can’t ignore me Mario. I deserve to be treated with respect too,” Bella said, in a voice like treacle.
“Do you?” Mario asked. “You’re not even related to this family. You’re nothing. I should kick you to the curb, but, hey, can’t do that now, can I? What if the cops come back looking for you? Think I’ll take the fall? You’re wrong about that.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, bet that’s what they all say.”
“Who?”
“You know who,” Mario said. “I know you’re up to something, and it won’t take me long to figure out what it is. Think you’re going to get away with it for long?”
“I haven’t—”
“I’m done with this conversation. Only reason you’re still living here with me is because I’m letting you stay. Got it?”
“It’s not your house,” Bella snapped. “It was Franny’s—”
“If you think that’s going to stop me, you’re wrong. You know what kind of backup I have, woman.”
“You’re impossible! You can’t expect me to be a part of this,” Bella said.
“Get outta here, then. Leave. See how far that gets you.” His voice lowered, and I pushed off from the wall, drew a little closer to the doorway. “I’m warning you, get in my way, and you’ll find out exactly what Mario Russo is made out of. Everyone in this town will find out what you’ve done. Cops included.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Bella replied, again.
“Sure, honey, and I’m Santa Claus.”
“There’s no talking to you. You won’t see sense.”
“Then get lost,” Mario replied, gruffly.
A door slammed and footsteps approached the kitc
hen.
My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my attitude cool and sauntered toward the sink. I turned on the faucet. A shape blurred in my peripheral vision—Bella rushing through the kitchen. The screen door slammed behind her, and I switched off the water again.
The conversation swirled through my thoughts. Had Mario just accused Bella of murdering Sal and Francesca? I tried making sense of it, but another set of footsteps, heavier this time, disturbed my thoughts.
“What are you doing in here?” Mario stood next to the kitchen table, his arms folded.
12
“Just splashing some water on my face,” I said, and gestured to the sink. “Didn’t want to walk all the way through to the bathroom, and I wasn’t sure where it was.”
“Just down the hall.”
“Sorry.” I flashed a smile and made to walk past him. It would give me the opportunity to take a look at the rest of the house, maybe spy hard evidence, if there was any. Likely, Detective’s Cotton and Balle had already gotten their hands on it by now.
“Don’t be sorry, be careful.”
“I’m usually both,” I said. “The band out there drove the sense out of my head.”
Mario frowned and shifted on the spot. Good heavens, I’d made it worse somehow. He looked like a Shar Pei puppy. “You don’t like the band?” he asked, and pressed a hand to his chest. It was small for a man of his size.
“I’m not into…” I searched for the right word for the music, but I couldn’t find anything other than ‘garbage’ or ‘trash.’ Cacophony, maybe? It was a combination of electric guitar, cymbal crashes and inarticulate screeching.
Now, I’d been subjected to my fair share of heavy metal, there were all types of music tastes back in Boston and even in the Department, but this wasn’t even good rock music.
“The Heavy Hitters were Sal’s favorite band,” Mario said. “We grew up listening to them. They’re local.”
“You’re originally from Sleepy Creek?” I asked.
“Boston born and raised, but I used to come down to visit Sal after he moved here.”
“Oh yeah?” I leaned my hands back against the counter, affecting a casual stance. “You guys hung out often?”
Mario shrugged. “As often as cousins do,” he said. “Nah, that’s not true. Sal and I were pretty close. It’s the reason he left me the pizzeria in his will. He trusted me to do the right thing. It’s our family’s way.”
“That makes sense. I’m very sorry for your loss. Sal was…” Another troublesome word search. ‘Full of it.’ ‘Mean.’ “He was something else,” I finished, hoping it would suffice.
“He sure was. Good as they come.”
An awkward silence started up, and I took it as my cue. I doubted I’d get much more out of him without being obvious. No doubt, Mario was worried I’d overheard his conversation with Bella.
He was on my suspect list, and if he realized I was interested, my investigation would be over before it began. Your investigation. Oh man, you’re already in too deep.
“I’d better get back to the party,” I said, and withheld a grimace at calling it that.
“Wait,” Mario said. “Wait a second, you didn’t even tell me your name.” He came over, swaying his arms and puffing his chest out. “You know who I am, of course.”
“Mario.”
He grabbed my hand, lifted it and brushed his gloved fingers over its back.
Another grimace threatened. I barely kept it at bay.
“And you, lovely lady? What’s your name?”
I tugged my hand back, but he clamped down tighter, bent over and pressed his thick lips against my skin. “Your name must be as beautiful as you are.”
Cringe.
The screen door opened, and the distraction was enough for me rip out of Mario’s grubby paws. The relief didn’t last long—Liam stood in the doorway.
He wore a plain, black, button down shirt and had matched it with a pair of worn-in jeans. His dark hair was swept to one side. “Watson,” he said, then looked over at Mario, who still had his hand out. “Good afternoon, Mr. Russo.”
“Detective Balle.” Mario had gone tense. He dropped his arm and took a step away from me.
It was a relief, but only because I’d been on the brink of incapacitating Mario as payback for getting spit on the back of my hand. Naturally, me whipping his arm behind his back and pinning him to the floor wouldn’t have gone down well with the detective.
I was already on thin ice.
“Am I interrupting something?” Balle’s cheeks were strangely flush, and he stared at me more than he did at Mario.
“Ew, no,” I said, before I could stop myself. “I mean, no, detective. I came into the house to freshen up. It’s getting a little … intense outside. I was heading to the bathroom.” I nodded toward the archway that led into the rest of the house. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Liam didn’t say anything, but his gaze could’ve burned a hole through my head and right into the wall behind me.
“Of course,” Mario said, breaking the tension. He shuffled a card out of his top pocket, along with a pen, and scribbled on the back of the white square. He handed it to me. “Here, take this. It’s my card. My personal cell number is one the back. If you need anything at all, you give me a call.”
I took the card, but only because it might wind up being valuable evidence later on. Balle watched the exchanged, his eyes narrowing.
I searched for words to excuse myself, found none, and shrugged instead—always the lady, as Missi would have pointed out. I hurried out of the kitchen and into the hallway, exhaling my relief in a long thin stream of air.
That had been close. Too close. I didn’t doubt that Liam’s strange attitude in the kitchen had everything to do with me being in close proximity to one of his suspects. What were the chances he would have caught me right at that moment? What if he decided to call Chief Wilkes because I’d interfered again?
I strode down the hall, slowing my pace now I was out of range of the detective and the roving Bostonian with the wettest lips in the state, and peered through open doorways. The bathroom was the first door on the right, but I didn’t enter it. Instead, I paused, listening hard.
No sounds of pursuit. No detective sneaking around the corner to catch me snooping.
The first few doors yielded nothing but a living room and dining room and a bedroom that looked as if a tornado had hit it. It felt wrong to snoop in someone’s private space, so I moved on.
“Jackpot,” I muttered, standing in the doorway to the study.
It was painfully neat in comparison to the rest of the house, with a desk that bore only a laptop, shut, and an in-tray with neatly stacked papers. I leaned back, peered down the hall, then took a breath and entered the room.
I hurried to the desk and popped the lid on the laptop. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. It was one thing to investigate a case, but to do this? It sat wrong with me. I was a detective. I usually did this type of search with a warrant and the force of the law at my back.
Hurry. The laptop’s login screen appeared. No password. I opened it and started my search. The desktop was empty of icons except for a few folders that pertained to Sal’s Pizzeria. I opened them. Nothing. Just books, and I was the furthest from an accountant as it was possible to be.
Emails next—Sal’s inbox was full. Looked like Mario hadn’t exactly been keeping a handle on his affairs over the past few days. Hmmm.
My gaze fell to an email that was from… Francesca?
“What on earth?”
The subject line read: Have you signed it yet?
Why would his wife have emailed him instead of talking to him directly? I clicked open and read the contents.
Sal,
I’m tired of waiting now. I know that this has been a tough time for both of us, but you have to do the right thing.
I can’t stand having this in my house for a moment longer. I can’t trust you anymore. Please sign the divor
ce papers.
Fran.
My eyebrows rose. Divorce papers? This was unexpected. Sal hadn’t exactly been the most popular person around, but a divorce? And the email had been sent days before Sal’s death.
The plot thickened. If Francesca had somehow been responsible, or had perhaps worked with someone to murder Sal, then later fallen prey to the very person she’d asked for help … but, no, that was too much of a stretch without evidence.
I closed the email tab, shut the laptop down then continued my search in the home office. If I could find those papers, I’d know if they’d been signed or not. I opened the desk drawers, but they were empty except for the odd pen or notepad or ball of rubber bands.
The place was uncommonly tidy. Had it been neatened up recently? And if so… why?
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and I slid the desk drawer shut then ducked down, holding my breath.
Please, don’t be Liam. Please, don’t be Liam.
The steps tracked down the corridor. Closer, closer, and closer to the study. If they stepped inside and came around the desk, the jig was officially up.
Whoever it was stomped past the opening to the study and continued onward. A door slammed a few minutes later and silence follow.
I let out a breath, got up and hurried from the study, checking the corridor both ways before exiting and creeping through the house. The plangent strumming from the band outside hadn’t stopped yet, and the memorial service was far from over, but my investigating was done for the afternoon.
Two dead bodies, the victims had been on the cusp of a divorce, a cousin who seemed too happy to host a memorial service, and a long-lost friend who may or may not have done something… bad.
If I’d thought the previous murder investigations had been complicated, boy, had I been wrong.
This one took the cake. No, the burger. And I was definitely going to find out what flavor it was.
13
“Excuse me, Miss?”
I stood near the back of the Burger Bar, my tray tucked under my arm, my fist pressed to the bottom of my chin, and my behind perched on one of the cushy, red vinyl topped barstools. That memorial service yesterday had been something.
The Chicken Burger Murder Page 6
