“This must be your mother!” Mac boomed, and Mary was figuring out a way she could turn his doggedness to her advantage.
“Ma, meet Jim MacIntire. He’s a reporter, so don’t answer any of his questions.”
“Ah-ha!” Her mother sniffed, making no disguise of her instant dislike, which only confirmed Mary’s doubts. Her mother’s instincts about people were positively canine. She could take one whiff, and you were either sunk or made. German Shepherds came to her for advice.
“You must be so proud of your daughter!” Mac boomed again, sounding more the proud parent than Mary’s own proud parent, who gave her daughter’s arm a familiar squeeze, turned on her thick rubber heel, and without another word, walked off into the crowd. Mary tried not to laugh.
“Tough room,” Mac said. “Listen, I want to talk with you about Brandolini. I guess you heard that Giovanni Saracone died yesterday. If you’re going to ask me how I know, we have an obit section, and I saw the notice.”
Mary kept her middle finger to herself. She was so near church and all.
“Let’s talk, Mare. Like we did, that first time, in your office.” Mac’s tone softened, and she gathered it was his Love Voice. The one that made her check if he had a wedding ring on. Fool me once, fool me twice. Mac took a step closer. “I felt for you when I heard. Just as you started to find the only man who knew Brandolini, he died. Did you ever get to see Saracone?”
“Did you?”
Mac blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said. You had the same information I did, you copied my research. You gonna tell me you didn’t go to the Saracones? Track him down like you did the director at the museum?”
“I didn’t say that I didn’t.”
“You didn’t say that you did, either.” Mary thought it was fun, turning the tables. “When did you go? Who did you see?”
“I went there yesterday afternoon and met Melania. Giovanni was too sick to see me.”
“Then you didn’t really learn he was dead from the obit.” Liar. “You knew he was on his deathbed way before any obit got called in.”
“I didn’t know for sure.”
“Bullshit. I don’t think Uncle Joey told you anything about me and Amadeo. I think somebody at Saracone’s did.” Mary wasn’t even sure she was right on the facts, which made accusing him even more fun. “I think you’re on Saracone’s payroll, and you’re using the fact you’re a reporter to find out what I know.”
“What?” Mac’s mouth dropped open, but Mary didn’t intend to elaborate. This was a hit-and-run. She wanted to shake him up.
“Who are you working for now that he’s dead, Mac? The son, the wife, Chico? Or somebody else? When you want to talk, I’ll want to talk, got it?” Mary looked past his head, and her father was pumping his hand wildly, waving her over. She was finished anyway. “Excuse me, I gotta go.” She left Mac before he could react.
Wait a minute. Mary had almost forgotten. The cell phone call that had interrupted the funeral Mass. She should check the message, if she expected not to get fired. She dug into her purse, pulled out the cell phone, and powered it on to check for a message.
On the display screen was a text message that made her heart stop:
call me, it’s important. keisha
Twenty-Nine
Mary hit *86 to double-check if there was a message.
“MARY, MARY! HERE YOU ARE!” Her father came over, shouting because he couldn’t hear himself without his hearing aid. He looped a meaty arm around a smiling, dark-haired man about Mary’s age, dressed in a white shirt, jeans, and no wedding band. “MARE! I WANT YOU TO MEET A REAL NICE FELLA! THIS IS PETE CIROCCI! PETE OWNS THE FRUIT TRUCK WE GET THE LETTUCE FROM! THE GOOD LETTUCE, NOT THE CRAPPY LETTUCE!”
“Great. Please, hold on, Pop.”
“MARE, YOU KNOW THAT LETTUCE YOUR MOTHER LIKES SO MUCH? IT NEVER HAS THE BROWN LEAVES ON THE OUTSIDE? SHE GOES TO PETE SPECIAL TO GET IT, THEY DON’T HAVE IT AT THE AC-A-ME!” Her father turned to shout at Pete, who stood an inch away from him. “MY WIFE HATES THE BROWN LEAVES! YOU GOTTA THROW HALF OF IT IN THE SLOP! THAT’S FIFTY CENTS, RIGHT THERE! SO WHO’S STUPID, AC-A-ME OR ME?”
“Pop, please, gimme one second,” Mary said, gently. She didn’t want to disrespect him in public, even though he couldn’t hear her disrespecting him in public.
“MARE, PETE OWNS THREE TRUCKS! HIS BUSINESS IS GOIN’ GREAT! HE GETS ALL HIS PRODUCE LOCAL FROM JERSEY! HE BUILT THE BUSINESS UP FROM SCRATCH! IT USED TO BE CALLED PETE’S PRODUCE, THEN HE GOT A DEAL ON SOME BROOMS AND HE STARTED SELLIN’ THE BROOMS, AND GUESS WHAT? THE BROOMS TOOK OFF!”
Mary struggled to hear the voicemail response, which came in maddeningly, mechanically slow. “You have three new messages,” she thought it said, but it could just as easily have been, “Boo boo boob boo sages.” She hit the number 1 anyway, to retrieve them. The number of messages didn’t matter, only what Keisha had called about.
“SO HE CHANGED THE NAME TO ‘PETE’S PRODUCE PLUS’! AIN’T THAT GREAT? NO FLIES ON THIS ONE, EH? HE’S GOT A GREAT SENSE A HUMOR!” Her father turned to Pete. “MARY’S GOT A GREAT SENSE A HUMOR, TOO! AN’ SHE DOESN’T ALWAYS HAVE THAT THING ON HER CHEEK! SHE GOT IT WHEN SHE FELL DOWN AT WORK!”
Argh! Mary couldn’t hear the phone message over her father’s shouting and was about to tell him so when Bennie appeared at her elbow with Jeff Eisen, one of the clients Mary hadn’t been able to reach. What was Jeff doing here? Both he and Bennie were frowning.
“Excuse me, DiNunzio,” Bennie said, her blue eyes hard as ice. Jeff Eisen stiffened beside her. “You might hang up and take that call later.”
“MARE! WHO WOULDA FIGURED OUT THAT BROOMS WOULD SELL AS GOOD AS LETTUCE! PETE CIROCCI, THAT’S WHO!”
“Boo sageges,” said the voicemail, and between her father, Pete’s Produce Plus, Bennie, and Jeff Eisen, Mary finally surrendered and closed the phone. She smiled and extended a hand to Eisen.
“Jeff, I didn’t expect to see you here. How have you been?”
“Not so good.” Eisen puckered his mouth unhappily, his back rigid in his expensive suit, fancy striped tie, and shirt with a cutaway collar. “It’s a shame about Frank, murdered like that. We knew each other from the Chamber of Commerce. Frank’s the one that recommended I hire you, when my partner sued me. Last year, remember?”
“Of course.” Mary had forgotten for a moment. She felt off balance, preoccupied by the cell call. She was never that good at multi-tasking, and her father and Pete were waiting to be introduced, so she made introductions all around. There followed a flurry of handshaking, but it was a schizophrenic foursome, half of them loving Mary and half of them looking daggers.
“I was hoping to see you here, Mary,” Eisen continued. “Maybe we can talk about my lawsuit. It’s keeping my wife up at nights. I had my girl call you all last week, but you didn’t call back. They’re taking my deposition on Monday.”
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. “I’m so sorry, I was out of town.” And I forgot. Oh Jeez.
“Didn’t you call in for your messages? I would think you’d call in for your messages. I’ve had my deposition taken before, but we only talked about it the one time.”
“WHA?” Her father scowled, and his forehead wrinkled unhappily all the way up, like ripples in a cranky pond. “WHA’D YOU SAY, PAL? SHE’S WORKIN’ AS HARD AS SHE CAN! SHE EVEN HURT HER FACE AT WORK, FOR CHRIST’S SAKE! THAT’S WHAT YOU CALL DEDICATION!”
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Mr. DiNunzio.” Eisen backed off in surprise.
“SURE YOU DID! SHE SAID SHE WAS BUSY, PAL! WHAT ARE YOU, DEAF!?”
Oh, no. “It’s okay, Pop.” Mary touched her father’s arm, but she couldn’t help feeling touched. He would defend her even when she was totally in the wrong. Especially when she was totally in the wrong.
“YOU DON’T DESERVE THAT, MARE! YOU WORK TOO HARD FOR THESE INGRATES!”
Bennie turned to Mary, only apparently calm. “DiNunzio, I’d like us to t
ake Jeff to lunch right now and discuss his deposition. Then you two won’t have to play phone tag anymore and you can mend some fences. Jeff would like that very much. Wouldn’t you, Jeff?”
“I’m free.” Eisen nodded. “No time like the present. I paid my respects here, and it’s only immediate family going to the luncheon after.”
“Okay, sure. Great idea.” Mary gave her father a soft kiss on the cheek, flashed Pete’s Produce Plus a thumbs-up, then found her mother on the way out and said good-bye, introducing her to Jeff Eisen. Her mother took one sniff and hated him. Vita was in the zone today. But walking to the curb and hailing a cab with Bennie and Jeff, Mary couldn’t think of anything but that phone call. How did Keisha get her cell? Then she remembered. She had given the nurse her business card, at Saracone’s door.
Mary would find out why she was calling as soon as she could find some privacy. The restaurant had to have a bathroom.
“How can you not have a bathroom?” Mary asked in disbelief, and the tuxedoed maître d’ took cover behind a carved lectern more appropriate at Harvard Law.
“I’m sorry, there was a… malfunction and it’s closed until it’s in working order.”
“When will that be?”
“When the plumber arrives. He’s on his way.”
Go to Plan B. “I could use the men’s room, I don’t mind. Where’s that?” Mary craned her neck, and the maître d’ sniffed with disdain.
“I’m sorry, mademoiselle. There was only the one water closet.”
Bennie leaned over. “DiNunzio, get over it,” she whispered. “How old are you? Three?”
Nothing but the truth. “That was Saracone’s nurse on my cell,” she whispered back. “I need to hear her message.”
“Don’t you dare. This client is about to fire us. Focus, child.”
“Ladies, we can go to another restaurant,” Eisen offered, since he was a gentleman and Mary was evidently having Female Trouble.
“No, this restaurant is fine,” Bennie countered firmly. “This is your favorite place, and she’ll be fine. Won’t you be fine, DiNunzio?”
“I’ll be fine,” Mary echoed, and the maître d’ plucked three impossibly padded menus from their provincial cradle and ushered her, Bennie, and Eisen to a round table in the corner.
The small dining room was softly lit, a converted colonial house in Society Hill, filled with well-dressed diners conversing in low, polite tones. Burgundy paisley drapes blanketed the windows, covered the tables to the ground, and made elegant skirts on the chairs, so the furniture was dressed better than Mary was. She had to find a way to take Keisha’s call. She left her cell phone powered on, and they sat down and opened menus softer than a Sealy’s.
“I love the foie here,” Eisen said, and Bennie nodded.
“I’ll join you, Jeff. In fact, why don’t you order for all of us? We’ve never been here.”
“Terrific.” Eisen smoothed down his shiny tie, and the waitress arrived in the next instant with not one but two bottles of French water, one in each hand, asking if they wanted their water with gas or not. Mary hoped the answer was not. Who wants gas? Then Eisen ordered them an appetizer of foie gras, the double-cut lamb entrée with wild rice, and a bottle of red Château Whatever.
“So, Jeff,” Bennie began, sipping some water. “Why don’t we get straight to business, and you tell us what’s keeping your wife up at night? I know that having your deposition taken can be stressful, for everybody, and—” Suddenly she was interrupted by the sound of a ringing cell phone.
Brriinngg! Briinnnggg! Like Pavlov’s experiment, the entire restaurant responded by reaching instantly inside suit pockets, purses, and belt holsters, but Mary this time recognized her cell.
It has to be Keisha, calling back! “Excuse me, I’m really sorry, I have to get this,” she said, and before Bennie could stop her, she’d reached for her purse, grabbed her cell, and flipped it open. “Yes?”
“MARE! ARE YOU STILL WITH THAT INGRATE?! PUT HIM ON! YOUR MOTHER WANTS TO TALK TO HIM!” It was her father, shouting so loud he could be heard by the eastern United States, not to mention Jeff Eisen.
Eeek. “Pop, I have to go. Call you later. Love you both.” Mary flipped the cell closed just as the waitress materialized at her elbow and leaned over.
“Mademoiselle, cell phones are not permitted in the dining room.”
And gas is? “I’m sorry,” Mary said, and when she looked up, Bennie was glaring at her and so was Eisen. “Sorry,” she added, like punctuation, but she felt like she was going to explode if she didn’t hear that message.
“So, Jeff,” Bennie began again, forcing a smile. “Why don’t we go over the facts of the case? It’s a good idea for you to review them, and then we’ll take it from there and tell you what the other side is likely to ask you in your deposition.”
“Sure. Well, as you know, Marc and I used to be in business together. Partners. We had the furniture stores, three locations, for the past oh, say, eight or nine years, and then all of a sudden last year, we start fighting. Disagreeing. Everything’s a problem.” Eisen threw up his hands, with a heavy gold ring. “First, it’s the inventory. He wants to keep too much inventory, and he develops this thing for recliners…”
Mary sipped her water and tried to listen, but she couldn’t.
“… he likes the Broughley recliners the best, they got the suede, all kinds a suede, and I admit, it’s a nice design and it’s recliners for cool people. But in half a year, Marc’s got the showrooms in all three locations wall-to-wall with Broughley, and then I find out that the new Broughley rep named Ricky is really a girl named Rikki…”
Mary couldn’t sit still. If she could just get that message, she could listen to Eisen’s problems with a clear head and everything would be okay. She needed one lousy moment of privacy with her phone. Then she got an idea.
“… and next thing I know, my partner, who’s got a wife and three kids in private school, one with ADHD and can’t eat wheat products, my partner who never in ten years took a vacation, is now seeing more of Tortola than Mick Jagger, and I got enough Broughley to…”
“Excuse me a second,” Mary said, rising nervously. “I know this is rude, but I can’t concentrate on the story, as much as I want to, because I need a cigarette.”
“You smoke?” Bennie demanded, and her incredulous eyes telegraphed, DiNunzio, you know you don’t smoke. You never smoked a day in your life. You don’t even know which end to light.
“I do smoke. I smoke. I do everything bad.” I even fly on airplanes. I smoke on airplanes, in fact. While I swim. “You knew that I smoked, didn’t you?”
“No, I thought you quit,” Bennie countered, and her eyes glinted evilly in the soft lights. “You told me you quit.”
God, she’s good. That’s why she’s the boss. She lies better. “I fibbed a little, and now I’m jonesing for a cigarette. I need to go outside and smoke. I’ll be right back, I’ll only take a puff and be right back.”
Eisen interjected, “I knew you were jumpy. I could tell, right off.” But at this point, neither woman was listening. This was litigation in which the client had become irrelevant. The battle was between boss and associate.
“I’ll be right back, I swear.” Mary eased out of the corner seat and reached for her purse, but Bennie caught it by the shoulder strap.
“No, sit down.” Bennie held fast to the leather strap. “I won’t let you go. How can you quit smoking if you keep back-sliding?”
“Everybody backslides a little.” Mary tugged her purse, but Bennie was too strong and held on. All that stupid rowing.
“Not everybody backslides, when their heart is as bad as yours. You know what your cardiologist said. You could—”
“Cardiologist?” Mary blurted out, then caught herself. “He changed his mind. He said it’s okay to smoke while I’m weaning myself off.”
But while the women were playing tug-of-war, Eisen was standing up at the table. Suddenly Bennie stopped talking, a
nd Mary looked over in dismay. Oh, no. He was going to fire her. He had had it. She had pushed him too far. But in the next minute, Eisen burst into a smile and threw a friendly arm around Mary.
“I’m with you, Mare,” he said, and there was a new warmth in his voice. “I quit, too, so I know what you’re goin’ through. Let’s go outside and fall off the wagon together, and I’ll tell you the dirty parts of the Broughley story. Ha!”
No! “Sure,” Mary said, tugging her purse free in defeat. She let Eisen lead her away from the table, and when she looked back, the boss was laughing her ass off.
As soon as she was alone in the cab, Mary finally listened to the cell message:
“I called you at work and left a message but it’s Saturday and I guess you’re not there.” Keisha’s voice sounded vaguely panicky. “I need to see you, but I don’t want to say more on the cell. Call me as soon as you can.” She left a number with a 215 area, and Mary called it immediately. When the ringing stopped, an answering machine picked up.
“This is Keisha Grace. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep,” it went, and Mary left a message telling her to call back anytime, day or night.
She snapped the phone closed in the backseat of the cab as it whisked her home through the city. Her stomach felt shaky, but it wasn’t from her first — and last — cigarette.
Mary couldn’t let go of Amadeo, just yet.
Thirty
LAWYER IN MURDER MYSTERY, screamed the headline on the thick Sunday morning newspaper, and Mary went white when she saw her own photo plastered underneath, the one she had posed for in her office. The byline of the article belonged to Jim MacIntire, and she skimmed the first two paragraphs:
Lawyer Mary DiNunzio is a fighter. She fought her way to the top of her hotshot Philly law firm, Rosato & Associates, and she is fighting to discover what happened to a man who has been dead for over sixty years. She traced that trail all the way to Montana and back, and though she was once cooperating fully with this reporter, she now has no comment about the story — and denies tracing the death to one Giovanni Saracone, now deceased.