Pink Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  Time was running out on him, and he had to correct the mistakes of the past couple of decades that involved his family. That meant Ronnie, since she was the only family he had left. That’s why he’d invited Jake to invest in his company last year. That’s why he was turning his company over to his prissy granddaughter, whom he hoped to unpriss. That’s why he had taken on the Pink Project for his old friend Rosa Menotti.

  Yeah, it was a crazy idea, but he’d done crazier things in his life. “I can pull it off, honey.”

  “All she has to do is go in the attic and see what you’ve stashed there.”

  “She is not going to go into the attic,” he assured her. “Hell, I can barely get her to come into the house, even for a short visit.”

  “And whose fault is that? You should have fought harder to see your granddaughter. Not to mention Joey, when you first got divorced.” Joey was Joseph Jinkowsky, Frank’s son and Ronnie’s father. Long dead now.

  “I know, I know. The first couple years I was just too boiling mad to do anything. After that, I admit it, I was having too much fun being a wild adventurer with no marriage ties. Then, when Ronnie’s mother died so young and Ronnie and Joey moved in with Lillian, it seemed an exercise in futility. They were totally under her thumb then.”

  “She did paint a wicked picture of you from day one.”

  “I have my faults, but no one this side of Satan’s parlor has that many sins.”

  Flossie sighed, and he could feel her breath against his chest hairs. “It’s your ridiculous pride. That’s what it is.”

  Maybe. But he was for damn sure swallowing his pride now.

  “You could tell Ronnie that you’re sorry, that you love her and want her to take over the company. Tell her that you want to retire; then the two of us can ride off into the sunset in our miniyacht.”

  Last Fling was a fifty-foot cabin cruiser he had hidden away in a Barnegat slip. It wasn’t a yacht by any means; although it had all the luxuries of one, it was still small enough not to need a crew. Just the two of them. Flossie called it a miniyacht because of all the extras he’d added, like a Jacuzzi and a restaurant-quality kitchen.

  “Yeah, right. And then she’ll just hop onto my lap and give me a grandpa hug,” he scoffed. “And don’t forget I want a great-grandchild in there, too. Ronnie and Jake belong together, and I’m gonna make sure it happens. This time I plan to be around when a baby is born and growing up.”

  “You’re setting up bad karma with that poverty nonsense.”

  “Karma, smarma!”

  Flossie tsked. “Well, don’t ask me to help. I won’t tell such a ludicrous lie.”

  “You don’t have to lie. Just don’t give me away.”

  Her silence was answer enough. He could trust Flossie.

  “I expect she’ll show up here tomorrow, madder’n a hen in heat.” Tossing in one last argument, he added, “It’s the only way. Ronnie will never agree to help me unless it’s something really drastic.”

  “Drastic is getting down on your knees and begging. Drastic is getting down on your knees and praying. Drastic is not your pretending to be almost in Chapter Eleven.” Flossie inhaled and exhaled with exasperation, then added softly, “I hope you won’t be hurt.”

  He kissed the top of her head and prepared to fall asleep.

  How could I hurt more than I already do?

  Welcome to the funny farm . . .

  It looked like a creepy haunted house.

  Veronica arrived at her grandfather’s oceanfront home at ten the next morning, after crossing the bridge from Manahawkin where she had spent the night in a motel. The turn-of-the-last-century mansion was located in Loveladies at the northern end of Long Beach Island, New Jersey—a strip of land bracketed by the ocean on one side and Barnegat Bay on the other. Nearby was the historic Barnegat Lighthouse.

  The house, which sat on more than an acre of land, would probably bring a cool five million in today’s market, even though her grandfather had certainly let it go. Shutters dangled from some windows. Blinds were pulled down in others. The weathered wood shakes appeared really . . . weathered. The mansard roof probably leaked, if some of the tiles that had fallen to the ground were any indication. And the sea grass in the front yard was a shoulder-high jungle.

  What happened in the past three years, since she’d been here last, to bring on such neglect? Her grandfather was a nutty old coot, but he cared about this family home—or at least he used to. She remembered something then. This was her family home now, if the lawyer was right. My God! I don’t have the kind of money to refurbish or keep up a place like this. The taxes alone would eat up a good portion of my annual salary.

  It was springtime, and, although it was balmy, the summer crowds had not yet flooded the town or beaches. Long Beach Island, like much of the Jersey shore, was loaded with commercial enterprises, but not so much here at the northern end. The stillness of the off-season atmosphere, combined with the crashing of waves on the beach, gave a lonely feeling to her grandfather’s house.

  Even though she’d taken a Pepto-Bismol tablet to settle her stomach, she held her breath to block out the scent of salt water while she knocked on the front door. No answer. She tried again. Still no answer. But Frank’s vintage black Mustang convertible and a late-model red pickup truck with the Jinx, Inc., logo were parked in the driveway. He must be around. Turning the doorknob, she realized it was open and stepped inside.

  “Anybody home?” she called out.

  She thought she heard voices coming from the opposite side of the house, the one facing the beach. Walking down the corridor, she saw rooms covered with dust and filled with draped furniture. Paintings were missing, judging by the lighter rectangular spaces on the faded wallpaper. There were no antiques or the horrible Buddha with the foot-long penis that had given her nightmares when she was a child. In the library, she noticed that the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were half-empty, and assumed it was the collection of first editions that was gone. Even the stuffed animal heads mounted on the paneled walls—the taxidermied nightmares bagged by some nitwit Jinkowsky on an African safari years ago—were gone. Thank God for that.

  The Jinkowsky brothers—Frank’s grandfather and two great uncles—had made their money making kielbasa in the early 1920s, first in a butcher shop in Jersey City and eventually in a Newark factory. The Kielbasa Kings, they’d been called. Those days were long gone. In fact, the year Frank married Lillian prior to both entering Stanford Law, the Jinkowsky company had been sold due to the grandchildrens’ lack of interest in entering the business. Frank had come into a small fortune along with the Long Beach Island mansion. Instead of hotfooting it off to law school—a tradition in Lillian’s family that he’d promised to follow—he’d decided to use his inheritance as seed money for a treasure-hunting company. That had been the beginning of the end for him and his wife, who’d felt betrayed by her husband’s change of career. The worst abomination, according to Lillian, was that Frank had gotten her pregnant before leaving.

  Dreary would be the best word to describe the house now. Or plundered. Had her grandfather needed to sell everything in order to raise cash? She could think of no other reason for the house’s condition.

  She continued down the hall to the great room, with its fireplace big enough to roast a boar. That room and the kitchen were clean, with nothing removed, as far as she remembered.

  She could see her grandfather out on the deck with Flossie, his live-in girlfriend. A wide expanse of beach extended from the deck to the ocean, and seagulls squawked as they swooped down for food.

  Frank and Flossie sat at a large, round patio table with an unfurled center umbrella. Polka music played loudly on a tape deck; her grandfather did love a good accordion. Flossie, who was fiftysomething, resembled an aging stripper, which she could have been, given Frank’s habits. But actually, she’d been a Las Vegas showgirl. Even though Veronica had been only seven at the time, she could still remember the uproar when fifty-year-old Fra
nk took up with thirtysomething Flossie. Lillian hated Flossie almost as much as she did Frank.

  To say that Flossie was well-endowed would be a colossal understatement—another reason for thin-as-a-rail Lillian to hate her “replacement.” This morning Flossie wore tight black jeans, a revealing red tank top edged with sequins, and red high-heeled slides. The woman had more than twenty years on Veronica, but Flossie had a better figure. Her blonde hair, dyed of course, sported the biggest metal rollers Veronica had ever seen, possibly empty soup cans.

  Her grandfather was a big man, at least six foot three and burly, like the mountain men in old westerns. Needless to say, he had scared her a little when she was a child. He was reading the morning newspaper, a burning cigar in one hand and a glass of some amber-colored beverage in front of him. Probably bourbon. Booze before noon? No wonder he has money problems. He wore denim shorts, which were full of holes; a threadbare, once-yellow T-shirt; and his trademark suspenders—he had more than Larry King, he sometimes bragged. They were Mickey Mouse ones today. The canvas shoes on his feet were so worn, they were more sole than anything else. He was usually rather vain about his appearance, but today he was unshaven, and his white hair stood out like Don King’s. He’d always been a handsome man. Now he looked like Nick Nolte’s mug shot.

  She could have sworn they’d noticed her approach, but maybe not because Flossie was arguing with him about eating his breakfast.

  “I don’t want any of that frickin’ egg shit,” he said. Not bothering to peer up from the paper, he blew enough smoke into the air to make Flossie choke.

  Waving her hand in front of her face, Flossie said, “It’s not egg shit, darling. It’s eggs benedict. I got the recipe from Vivian over at the Nail You manicure shop.”

  Veronica glanced at Flossie’s hands. Yep, she still had those inch-long sculptured nails, painted bright red today and matching her shirt.

  “Pfff! That doesn’t look like any eggs benedict I ever saw. It’s green, fer chrissake!”

  “It’s jalapenos in the sauce—Mexican eggs benedict.” Flossie smacked him on the shoulder. “Eat the eggs, dammit.”

  “I can eat shredded wheat, like always. Why are you wastin’ money on this other food?”

  Eggs are expensive? Since when? Oh. He really does have financial problems, then.

  He slammed the paper down, took a huge slug of bourbon, and shook his head. On an empty stomach, it must hit like five hundred proof.

  With a frown of disapproval, Flossie began to gather up the dishes, then for the first time noticed Veronica near the open French doors. “Ronnie!” Flossie exclaimed, giving Frank a strange, warning glower. Then she set the dishes down and came over to give her a hug. Veronica and Flossie were both about five-nine, but with the high heels, Flossie towered over her. She wore so much Shalimar perfume, it wiped the scent of salt water from Veronica’s nose.

  Flossie rolled her eyes meaningfully at Frank and then at her. Except Veronica wasn’t sure what message she was being given.

  “Frank.” Veronica walked over and stared down at her grandfather. Should I hug him? No! He would probably shove me away. Just being near him made her stomach churn and made her want to bolt, but she had important business to discuss first.

  Frank frowned. “It’s about time you got here, girl.”

  “What do you mean? You never invited me.”

  “What? You need a hoity-toity engraved invitation to visit your grandfather? Your grandmother turned you against me a long time ago. The bitch!”

  Flossie harrumphed her opinion.

  Well, this is a pleasant start to our visit. Veronica sat down opposite him and let out a whoosh of frustration at the same old direction their conversation was heading. “Listen to me, old man, you are not going to lay a guilt trip on me. You are the one who threw me overboard into the bay when I was only five years old.”

  “That again! I was tryin’ to teach you how to swim, for chrissake. You were babied too much by that Boston bunch. Besides, you had a life vest on. You were never in danger of drowning.”

  “How was I to know that?” she cried out. “You don’t teach children to swim by tossing them overboard.”

  “Oh, yeah? You learned to swim that day, didn’t you?”

  And to hate the ocean and salt water, which she’d swallowed about a gallon of.

  “Then there was the time you terrorized me by taking me on that roller coaster in Asbury Park—the one that went out over the ocean.” She’d smelled the salt air that time, too.

  “It was fun,” he protested.

  “For you, maybe. Not for me. I was scared.”

  “Kids like to be scared on rides.”

  “Not this kid!”

  He shook his head as if she were a freak.

  “Then there was the waterskiing incident. And the deep-water fishing trip—for sharks, of all things.” No wonder I have an aversion to salt water. I don’t need a shrink to diagnose my Pavlovian association.

  Flossie made a clucking sound at their juvenile squabbling, then picked up the dishes again and walked toward the kitchen, tsk-tsk-tsking the whole way.

  “All that is beside the point. I’m here because of this.” She slammed some legal documents on the table. “What is this all about?”

  He didn’t even look at the papers. Instead, he spoke around the cigar in his mouth. “I’m taking care of business.”

  “Why me?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the only family I have.”

  “How about Flossie?”

  Flossie yelled from the kitchen, “I don’t want it.”

  “Floss wouldn’t know treasure from tulips.” Her grandfather downed the last of his liquor.

  “And I would?”

  “She thinks pink flamingoes are fine art.”

  “Do not!” Flossie yelled again.

  “Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I wouldn’t have a clue how to run a treasure-hunting company.”

  “I’ll teach you.”

  I’d rather swim with sharks. “No, thanks.”

  “Anyhow, your job would be more like supervising. Hiring. Budgets. That kind of crap. You’re a corporate something-or-other, aren’t you?”

  He doesn’t even know what I do for a living. “Why should I?”

  “Like I said, you’re the only one.”

  There was an insult in there somewhere. “Why now?”

  “You figure it out, girlie. You got one of them phi beta thingees, dontcha?” There was a nasty tone to his voice. For a man trying to convince her to do something she didn’t want to, he was doing the opposite.

  She tilted her head to the side. Something was very strange here. More strange than usual. Enough with beating around the bush. “Are you in financial trouble?”

  His face reddened with what she assumed was embarrassment. Men and their pride! “I’m not about to go belly-up . . . yet . . . if that’s what you’re asking.”

  She noticed the nervous tic in her grandfather’s jaw and the strange expression on his face. Then she noticed Flossie standing in the doorway, wringing her hands, frowning at Frank. Meanwhile, the “Beer Barrel Polka” blasted through the speakers.

  “What? How bad is it?” she demanded.

  Her grandfather gulped several times and held Flossie’s gaze, as if pondering whether to tell her something or not. But he was saved from having to respond because company arrived.

  And what company it was!

  Chapter

  3

  You could say she was the Godmother . . .

  A woman and two men came strolling toward them from the side walkway. They’d probably knocked, as she had, and not been heard.

  About sixty years old, the petite woman wore a Chanel dress, Manolo Blahnik shoes, and enough jewelry to make an Oscar nominee on the red carpet envious. Auburn hair, perfectly coiffured, framed a face that had surely had a face-lift or two and a skin tone that spoke of Enro Laszlo makeup.

  Between this woman and Flossie, Veroni
ca could easily get an inferiority complex.

  Wait a minute. The woman looked familiar. Veronica tapped her closed lips thoughtfully with a forefinger, then gasped. It was Rosa Menotti, widow of Mafia boss Sam Menotti. Veronica recognized her from the photo spread in People magazine last year that had highlighted wives of notorious men. The two burly thugs who accompanied her—could they be Mafia hit men? The jackets they wore—could they be hiding guns? Oh. My. God!

  “Franco!” The woman smiled and waved as she approached. “Buon giorno!”

  Franco? Veronica’s eyes shot to her grandfather, who stood to greet the trio. “Rosa! How good to see you! Come sit down here, darlin’.” Then to Flossie he said, “Get us some more iced tea, would you, sweetie? And more sugar this time.”

  Okay, so it was iced tea and not bourbon. And his full-body shudder was due to the bitterness of the drink, not to its alcoholic potency. Those weren’t the only surprises. Veronica was also taken aback by her grandfather’s hospitable behavior. He must really be losing it. Either that or she was the only one who got the rude treatment.

  Rosa sat down, along with her two male companions, both in their mid- to late-thirties, Veronica guessed. About five-ten, they wore expensive jackets, one black and one gray, over massive shoulders and chests, with Rolex watches on their wrists and gold chains around their thick necks. One had black hair that was slicked back, and the other’s spiked upward in a sort of long military cut. Both could probably bench-press a boat. Or a getaway car.

  Her grandfather had moved his glass and newspaper aside to make room for them and was about to douse his cigar when Rosa raised a hand. “Don’t put that out for my benefit. I love the scent of a good cigar. My Sammy, he always . . .” She sniffled and took out a tissue, dabbing at her eyes in a way that would not smudge her mascara.

  Is she sniffling over Sammy the Goon—the guy who single-handedly killed more than twenty men one night?

  The two men were oddly mute. What do I know? Maybe hit men aren’t supposed to talk. Maybe it’s a Mafia code. The two men and Rosa glanced at her, then at her grandfather, before he said, “This is my granddaughter, Veronica. Ronnie for short. Her grandmother hates that I gave her that nickname and it stuck. Ha, ha, ha!”