Confession Is Murder (4 page)

Lucille checked the pots on the stove again and then wrestled three leaves into her dining room table. Normally Frank did it for her. She tried not to think about that as she unfurled the white tablecloth she washed and ironed every Monday night.

The dining room was cramped with the table extended like that. Funny, but when they moved into the house it had seemed so large. They didn’t have any dining room furniture back then. Bernadette’s playpen had been in there along with all her toys so Lucille could keep an eye on her from the kitchen.

Flo was always on at her to stop these Sunday dinners. Too much work, she said. They were taking her for granted. But Lucille didn’t have the heart to. This was her family—this is what she lived for. What else was there, after all? She wasn’t young and pretty, or smart and successful, or rich. She didn’t even have the money in her savings account no more, thanks to that no-good husband of hers. Lucille slammed down a wineglass, and the stem broke. She sighed and threw it in the trash.

“Hey, anybody home?”

Lucille heard the front door open and stuck her head out of the kitchen. “In here, Flo.”

“The kitchen, of course.” Flo walked in and dumped her coat and purse on a chair. She had just come from eleven o’clock Mass and was wearing a brown and black leopard-print suit with high-heeled patent leather boots. “If you’d spent less time in the kitchen and more—”

“More what?”

“Never mind.”

“More what, Flo? Tell me.”

“Nothing. It’s just that Rita says she saw Frank at the Old Glory the other day.” Flo went over to the stove and began to sniff at the simmering pots. “Mmmm, this smells yummy.”

“So what? He goes there all the time. He says he likes the way they put a sandwich together.”

Flo snorted. “He goes there all the time because of Betty. He likes the way
she’s
put together.”

“Betty? Who’s Betty?”

“One of the waitresses. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Cute if you like the sort.” Flo sniffed. “Rita saw her and Frank the other day when she went over to pick up the deli tray she’d ordered for her niece’s shower.”

“Sheesh, Flo, she was probably taking his order.”

“She”—Flo pointed a finger at Lucille—“was standing in front of him, leaning on the table with her elbows, and wiggling her fanny like they were already in bed.”

They heard the front door slam and footsteps coming down the hall. “Lucille?”

Lucille’s sister walked into the room. “Here, I’ve brought some shrimp.” She handed Lucille a crystal plate covered with plastic wrap. She, too, was still dressed for church in a dark blue dress with a lace collar and long fitted sleeves.

She put her handbag on the table and looked Lucille up and down.

Lucille sighed and brushed at the flour on the front of her sweatshirt—the one Frank had given her with “Happy Mother’s Day” embroidered on the front. Angela gave her a look every Sunday. Well, it was fine for her and Flo to be all dressed up, and Connie, too, when she came for Sunday dinner, but how was she supposed to cook in fancy clothes like that? They’d sure have something to say if they arrived to find her wearing her best dress but with nothing ready on the stove.

Lucille slammed the plate of shrimp down on the kitchen table. Flo spun around, and Angela stared at her.

“What’s the matter with you today? It’s this business with Frank, isn’t it?” Angela stood with her hands on her hips.

“Nothing’s the matter.” Lucille turned her back and began peeling the plastic wrap off the shrimp.

“What’s going on with you and Frankie anyway?”

“Not now, Angela, okay? I have to get the food on the table.”

Angela followed Lucille over to the sink, where she filled a pitcher with water.

“I think you should talk to me, Lucille.”

Lucille closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Angela still thought she was in charge because she was older, and everything in her life always turned out perfect. Her plants thrived, her house was never messy, and her children always did as they were told, although Lucille took some heart in the fact that Gabe would probably never be promoted beyond traffic detail.

Then again, Bernadette was clerking at the drugstore and failing the one class she was taking at the community college, so who was she to talk?

Flo plucked a shrimp off the platter as Lucille went past. “These are good, Angela, where did you get them?” She licked her fingers. “Try one, Lucille.”

“Later. When we sit down.” Lucille went out to the dining room and put the plate of shrimp and the pitcher of water on the table.

Right now she didn’t feel like eating nothing. The stuffed shell she’d tasted was repeating already. What Flo said about Frank and that waitress couldn’t be true. Not her Frankie. He’d never flirted with anyone the whole time they been married. Flo must have got it all wrong.

• • •

Frank was conspicuous by his absence all through dinner. He couldn’t have been more on everyone’s mind if he had been sitting there wearing a clown’s costume and big red nose, Lucille thought as she ladled out soup. But at least it took their minds off Joseph. She’d inadvertently set a place for him and Connie as usual. She could see everyone’s eyes straying toward the empty seats all through dinner.

“More soup, Father?” Father Brennan was staring quizzically at the two glasses in front of him—one still a quarter full of whiskey, the other a third full of red wine. His hand hovered between the two. “What’s that, my dear?” He cupped a hand to his ear.

“More soup?” Lucille motioned toward the tureen.

“Ah, no, I’m fine, thank you.” He settled back in his chair contentedly.

“All right, if no one else is going to ask, I am. Where’s Frank, Lucille? What’s happened? Why won’t you tell us about it?” Angela said.

A murmur went around the table. Angela’s husband, Loretto, looked away. Everyone else looked down at their plate. Except for Flo, who looked like she wanted to leap across the table and strangle Angela.

“Hellooooo,” a voice called out. They heard the front door open and close.

“Shit.” Lucille pushed her chair back. “In here, Cousin Louis.” As if he didn’t know exactly where to find them. Louis always showed up when there was food on the table. He and his sister Millie lived in a run-down two-family house over on Floral Avenue—the two of them trying to stretch the bit of money left to them by their parents. Unfortunately, Louis drank away half of the money and gambled away the rest.

“Where’s Millie?”

Louis gestured toward the window, nearly losing his balance in the process. “She’s outside.”

Millie always waited in the car until Louis had warmed up the crowd. “Tell her to come in, there’s plenty,” Lucille said.

Flo rolled her eyes, and Lucille sighed. Okay, so she was a soft touch. He was Frank’s father’s cousin—what was she supposed to do, let him starve? And at least it took everyone’s mind off Frank.

Louis and Millie settled themselves in the two seats originally meant for Joseph and Connie and leaned back expectantly. Lucille filled their glasses and ladled some soup into their bowls. They both hovered over their plates, glancing up occasionally at everyone around the table. Millie’s cardigan had been darned so many times there was hardly any of the original wool left.

Louis dragged his napkin across his chin. He was tilted sideways in his chair like a human Leaning Tower of Pisa. “So, Gabe,” he slurred in what he probably thought was a sly whisper. “I heard they think that poor Joseph’s death, may he rest in peace—” He started to make the Sign of the Cross but didn’t get further than “Son” before losing his place. “I heard the chief thinks it’s murder?”

Everyone sucked in their breath so hard Lucille was surprised that nothing on the table moved.

Angela shot Gabe a look, but he obviously didn’t see it. Lucille shot him a look too, but he apparently didn’t see that either.

Gabe puffed himself up in his seat like a piece of rising dough. “Detective Sambuco is investigating right now.” He leaned closer, and everyone at the table leaned in, too. They were hanging on his every word. Never mind that he probably never got any closer to the investigation than passing Sambuco in the hall on his way to the break room for another doughnut. “He thinks Joseph was gassed with his own equipment.”

“Oh my God. Lucille.” Angela looked at Frank’s empty seat and clapped a hand to her chest.

No one said a word.

“Lucille?” Grandma Theresa shrilled into the void. “Am I lopsided?” She turned toward Lucille. “I’m lopsided, aren’t I?” She had both hands cupped against her chest.

“Ma, I don’t know what—”

“I think I lost one of my boobs.” Grandma Theresa had one hand down her blouse and appeared to be fishing for something. “Yes, it’s gone. Wonder where I lost it?” She began looking around.

“Oh, gross!” Bernadette said.

“Did you have it when you got here, Ma?”

The old lady shrugged. “I think so. I think I remembered to put it in.”

Everyone pushed their chairs back and began to look around them.

“I don’t see it,” Gabe said, half under the table.

“Me, neither,” Flo said.

“What are we looking for?” Father Brennan glanced around.

“Nothing, Father, don’t—”

“My breast,” Grandma Theresa said. “I can’t find my other breast.”

Father Brennan shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” He reached toward his wineglass and then seemed to think better of it.

Lucille spied the roving prosthesis on the floor by her chair. It looked like one of the dead jellyfish that washed up on the shore at Wildwood every summer. She picked it up. “Here, give this to your grandmother.” She handed it to Bernadette.

Bernadette squealed “Gross” and tossed the blob of plastic into the air.

It landed in the soup tureen with a loud splash.

Lucille sent up a prayer to St. Giles, patron saint of breast-feeding. He was as close as she could get under the circumstances.

Chapter 3

“I’m coming. All right? I’m coming.” Lucille struggled up the basement stairs and shuffled down the hall with the laundry basket on her hip.

She wondered who could be at the door. Maybe the florist? Maybe Frankie had sent her some flowers by way of an apology? She quickened her pace. She hoped they were carnations—she loved carnations, especially the blue and green ones. Who would have thought flowers would come in colors like that?

But it wasn’t the florist, it was Richie Sambuco. He was leaning against the doorjamb, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing a leather jacket with the collar turned up and a pair of tight-fitting jeans.

“Oh.” Lucille used her free hand to straighten out her sweatshirt and dust some lint off her pants. She touched her hair. It was probably a mess—this afternoon was her weekly appointment for a wash and set at the Clip and Curl.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” His grin made Lucille think of a shark she saw mounted on the wall of a restaurant down the shore.

“Of course, of course.” Lucille stood aside for Sambuco to enter.

He looked around the small foyer and peered into the living room. “Nice place you got here.”

“Do you mind if we go into the kitchen? I’ve got something on the stove.”

Lucille scurried down the hall and motioned for Sambuco to follow. The pan on the burner was sizzling and spitting. She put the laundry basket down and lowered the gas before joining Sambuco at the kitchen table.

She jumped up again. “Coffee—how about a nice cup of coffee? I’ve got some already made.” Lucille opened one of the cupboards and then immediately slammed it shut again. “Sheesh, I’m forgetting where I put my own coffee cups. What’s next?”

Sambuco leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out under the table.

“You want some cake?” Lucille slid the last of the almond coffee ring out of the box, onto a plate, and set it in front of Sambuco. “Go ahead, it’s good.”

Sambuco patted his stomach. “No, thanks. Gotta stay in shape.” He took a long sip of his coffee and shuddered, like an alcoholic having his first drink of the day.

Lucille cut herself a small piece of the almond ring, refilled her coffee cup, and took them over to the counter. But even from there she could smell Sambuco’s aftershave.

“So how long’s it been, Lucille?” He swiveled around to face her.

“How long since what?”

“Since you and me—”

“You mean since we seen each other last? I think it was at that barbecue Arlene Wahl’s parents gave the summer after graduation. You know, they had that big pool in their backyard and Dennis Falcone and Michael Pettrie tried to push all the girls in, and Mr. Wahl got all pissed off and threw everyone out?” Lucille picked up the last of the crumbs from her cake. “But I don’t imagine you came to ask me about that.”

Sambuco smiled. “No, I guess not.” He turned back toward the table.

Lucille had a knot in her stomach that the coffee cake wasn’t helping none. Having Richie Sambuco sitting in her own kitchen was giving her the same feeling she got that time Frank talked her into going on that roller coaster on the boardwalk down in Seaside Heights.

Sambuco shifted in his chair. “The day you found your brother-in-law’s body”—he twirled the spoon around and around in his cup—“did you notice anyone else in or near the church?”

Lucille took her coffee cup over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “You mean it’s true what they’re saying? That Joseph might have been murdered?” She dragged the laundry basket over to where she was sitting.

Sambuco shrugged. “Let’s just say we’re doing some preliminary investigating.”

“Sure, sure.” Lucille shook her head. “I saw Father Brennan that morning but there wasn’t no one else, least not that I could see.”

“Where was Father Brennan?”

“Outside, coming down the path. That was after I found Joseph and ran out to get help.” She took a sweatshirt from the pile of warm clothes and began to fold it.

“You see any cars around?”

Lucille tried to picture things as they had looked that morning. She shook her head again and put the folded sweatshirt on one of the empty chairs. “I don’t think so. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot, but there always are. People park there and walk over to the bank or to Friendly’s.”