Confession Is Murder (7 page)

Lucille opened the second door and again felt around for a light. The deposit envelope ought to be out on the counter or on the shelf under the register. She checked both places but came up empty-handed. She sent up a quick prayer to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost articles. Tony, as she always thought of him, usually came through for her.

Maybe Jeanette had noticed it and had taken it to the bank herself? If so, Lucille knew she was going to hear about it. She turned out the light and closed the door in back of her. She checked her watch. She’d better head on over to the hall since she’d promised Father Brennan she’d come early and help set up. St. Rocco’s spaghetti dinners were very popular, and they were bound to get a lot of people. Besides, it would give her a chance to talk to everyone and do some investigating.

“Lucille, thank goodness you’re here.” Father Brennan took her arm and began to steer her toward the kitchen. “Mrs. De Pasquale and Mrs. De Stefano are having their annual fight over how much sugar to put in the tomato sauce. I begged them to consider our patron, St. Rocco, and come to an understanding—”

“That’s okay, leave it to me, Father. I’ll take care of it.” Lucille pushed open the swinging door to the church kitchen.

The two volunteer cooks looked like they were about to duke it out. They were circling each other, heads lowered, fists clenched. Mrs. De Pasquale’s hairnet had slipped down to her eyebrows, making her look downright creepy, Lucille thought. Not that it seemed to scare Mrs. De Stefano none. She had her right fist in the air like she thought she was Rocky or something.

Lucille insinuated herself between the two of them and leaned over the pot. It was hissing and spitting, and a blot of tomato sauce landed on the sleeve of her white blouse. “Get me an apron, would you?”

The women hesitated, and then Mrs. De Pasquale reached into the cupboard next to the stove. She handed Lucille the apron and resumed her stance in front of Mrs. De Stefano.

“Taste it.” Mrs. De Stefano shoved a wooden spoon at Lucille. “I think it needs more sugar. There’s no telling how sour those tomatoes are.”

“It’s fine,” Mrs. De Pasquale said with a sneer at her fellow chef. “You always put too much sugar in your sauce.”

“It’s how my mother, may she rest in peace, taught me. And no one ever complained.” Mrs. De Stefano folded her arms across her chest.

“That old
puttana
,” Mrs. De Pasquale sniffed.

“What did you say?”

“For the love of the Blessed Virgin,” Lucille thundered, “let’s serve the pasta already. We got a crowd waiting, and all the tables are full.”

“What’s going on in here?” They all turned toward the door as Lucille’s sister Angela bustled into the room. “I can’t believe how many people we’ve got. Everyone must have read about the murder at St. Rocco’s, and they want to get a look-see for themselves.” She shivered. “Bunch of ghouls, if you ask me. I just hope we got enough food to go around.”

At this rate, she wasn’t going to get no investigating done, Lucille thought as she pushed her way through the swinging door carrying what felt like her one millionth tray of pasta, Italian bread, and green salad. Seemed like the whole town of New Providence plus half the surrounding communities had turned up tonight. Father Brennan was running around rubbing his hands together.

Mrs. Batalata was by herself at a table in the corner. Lucille said a prayer to St. Jeanne de Chantal, patron saint of forgotten people, and walked over to where she was sitting.

“How’s that novena going, Mrs. B.?” Lucille put a tray of spaghetti in front of her, and the old lady jumped.

“It’s awfully crowded, isn’t it?” Mrs. Batalata looked around and shivered.

“Don’t you see anyone you know?”

Mrs. Batalata shook her head. “Most of my friends are gone.” She tucked the napkin under her chin and picked up her fork with unsteady hands. “All I have left is the church.”

Lucille wished she could stay and chat, but there was too much to do. There was another old lady on line, waiting to be seated. Lucille steered her toward Mrs. B.’s table. Maybe the two of them would hit it off.

Lucille delivered her umpteenth tray and found an empty seat. Surely no one would blame her if she sat down for a moment. She eased off her right sneaker and rubbed the ball of her foot with both hands.

“Did you eat yet?” Flo slid into the seat opposite and put two trays of spaghetti on the table. She pushed one across to Lucille.

“I been too busy.” Lucille took a napkin from the dispenser and tucked it into her collar. “Look at me, wearing a white blouse. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Of course spaghetti was what everyone had taken to calling a “carb,” and she wasn’t supposed to eat none of them on this Atkins diet. But she must have burned a couple thousand calories already running back and forth from the kitchen, so surely it wasn’t going to make no difference.

“We’ve never had a turnout like this before.” Flo looked around the room. Her mouth dropped open as she stared over her left shoulder.

“What is it?” Lucille stopped with a forkful of spaghetti halfway to her mouth. “What are you looking at? Close your mouth, you gonna get a fly in there.”

“It’s nothing.” Flo spun around and started fiddling with the salt shaker.

“Come on. What is it?” Lucille tried to see past her, but Flo kept squirming around and blocking the view.

“It’s nothing, Lucille. Just eat your dinner, okay.”

“Bullshit. You saw something, and now you don’t want me to know about it. Is it Frankie?” Lucille stood up and looked over Flo’s left shoulder.

It was Frankie all right. Sitting with some blonde. “Is that Betty from the Old Glory?”

Flo nodded. “I told you not to look.”

“They probably just ended up at the same table or something. The place is pretty crowded.”

“It don’t look like an accident to me.” Flo mopped up some sauce with a chunk of bread. “They seem way too cozy for that.”

“My feet are killing me.” Angela came up behind them and plunked down in the vacant place next to Flo. “Why don’t you sit down, Lucille?”

Lucille dropped back into her seat. She’d seen enough anyway. Even if Frank and Betty had just run into each other by accident, he was certainly making the most of it. She pushed her plate away—she wasn’t hungry no more.

“This must be my lucky day. May I join you lovely ladies?”

Lucille smelled a vaguely familiar scent and looked up. It was Richie Sambuco.

He took the seat next to Lucille, unfurled his napkin, and motioned toward Flo. “It’s Flo, isn’t it?” He was so close, Lucille could feel the heat from his body. She tried to inch her chair away without nobody noticing.

They were all looking at Flo anyway. She was batting her eyes at Sambuco. “How come I don’t remember
you
?” Flo contrived to lean forward slightly to expose some cleavage.

“Sambuco. Richie Sambuco.” He held his hand out across the table.

Flo glared at him. “You’re the detective investigating the murder. The one you bastards are trying to pin on my Tony Jr.” She jumped up and stalked away.

Sambuco shrugged, broke off a piece of his bread, and began to butter it. “Touchy, isn’t she?” He reached for the shaker of parmesan cheese, and his arm brushed Lucille’s.

She ought to get up and walk away, too. She was having feelings she wasn’t supposed to have, seeing as how she was a married woman. She glanced across the room. With Flo gone she could see Frankie and Betty without standing up. Betty was wiping some sauce off Frankie’s chin.

Lucille inched her chair back toward Sambuco’s. Two could play this game.

Angela pointed her fork at Sambuco. “How about the investigation? Is there anything new? Nobody believes Tony Jr. did it except the police.”

Sometimes Lucille thought Angela had never gotten over being appointed room monitor in third grade. Fortunately, Sambuco didn’t seem to take offense.

“We’re still investigating, of course. We do have to make a case, you know. And it hasn’t been easy. It seems Joseph Salmona lived by the Ten Commandments—he didn’t covet his neighbor’s wife or his neighbor’s goods. He didn’t lie or cheat. And everyone loved him.” Sambuco sighed. “The whole thing just don’t make any sense.”

“Didn’t Flo used to go out with Joseph?” Angela chased a cherry tomato around her salad plate.

“Couple of times, maybe.” Lucille brushed some crumbs off the front of her blouse. “But nothing came of it.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. From what I’ve heard, I can’t believe those two would hit it off.” Sambuco polished off the last bit of spaghetti on his plate and began to get up. “Much as I’ve enjoyed this”—he grinned at Lucille—“I’ve got to get back to the station.” He carried his tray over to the garbage can. “Take care, Lucille,” he called over his shoulder.

Lucille looked across the room quickly, to see if Frankie had noticed her flirting with Sambuco, but he was gone.

“I know someone who had a grudge against Joseph.” Angela wiped her lips, scrunched up her napkin, and dropped it onto her tray.

“No kidding?” Lucille squirmed her right foot back into her sneaker. People were leaving, and there was going to be a lot of cleaning up to do. Any minute now someone was going to come looking for her.

Angela nodded. “My next-door neighbor told me about it. The couple on the other side of her hired JoFra to do some spraying on account of they were getting ants. Except they still kept getting them. My neighbor heard the guy arguing with Joseph one day. It seems”—Angela looked around and lowered her voice—“the fellow actually threatened Joseph.”

“No shit!”

Angela’s nose wrinkled up.

“What’s the matter?” Lucille looked around. “Someone fart?”

“Honestly, Lucille. Watch your language.” Angela nodded toward the front of the hall, where Father Brennan was sitting at an empty table counting stacks of money.

“Don’t be silly, Angela. Father can’t hear me from here. Besides, you ought to hear
him
when he thinks no one’s listening. It’s enough to make the apostles blush. Anyways, you gonna tell Sambuco about what you heard?”

Angela shook her head. “Nah. It’s just one of those things. People get mad and say stuff, you know?”

Lucille nodded. “Anyway, if the guy was still getting ants, you can bet it wasn’t JoFra’s fault. They was voted the best exterminator in the county by
New Jersey Monthly
.”

People did say all kinds of things, Lucille thought later as she rinsed dishes and stacked them in the church’s dishwasher, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire. What if this guy
had
been mad enough to make good on his threat? You read about stuff like that every day in the papers.

Maybe she ought to go talk to this neighbor of Angela’s. She could feel out the situation and maybe find out if he had an alibi.

• • •

The phone rang just as Lucille was walking into her kitchen the next day.

“Yeah?”

“Lucille, it’s me, your mother.”

“Yeah, Ma, I know it’s you.”

“Turn on QVC.”

“QVC? Why?”

Lucille began to inch around the kitchen door and into the living room, stretching the phone cord as far as it would go. If she could just reach the remote . . . Frank brought home one of those cordless phones once, but a week later the receiver disappeared. Lucille suspected it was somewhere in the depths of Bernadette’s room, but she didn’t have the stomach to go searching for it.

“Got it!” She maneuvered the remote off the coffee table with her fingertips and pressed “on.” The television sprang to life. She scrolled around looking for QVC.

“Did you find it?”

“Yeah. What is that thing?” A lady in a pink leotard was demonstrating some sort of machine.

“It’s a Pilates machine,” her mother said. “I’m thinking about getting one. They say I can take two inches off my hips and thighs in less than a month.”

“Ma, you can barely bend down to tie your shoes. How are you going to get onto that thing?” If nothing else, she supposed it would go with the Olympic warm-up jacket her mother ordered from QVC last month. Her mother had gotten quite a few stares when she showed up in it at church last Sunday.

“You could use it, too, if you wanted.”

Lucille patted her hips. She wouldn’t mind losing two inches in less than a month. This Atkins diet thing wasn’t working out as planned. As of yesterday she’d gained three pounds.

“It’s expensive. Couple hundred bucks. Your social security don’t amount to that much, you know.” More than once she and Frankie’d had to tide her mother over until the third of the month when her check came.

“You don’t have to yell at me!”

“I’m not yelling,” Lucille insisted although she was starting to. “I’m just saying it’s expensive, okay? You gotta save your money. Besides, would you even use it? Remember that thigh-slimming thing you bought last year? It got stuck between your legs, and Frankie and me had to come over and get you out of it.”

“Well, if you don’t want me to have it—”

“Listen, I gotta go. You do what you want, okay?”

They could always return it.

Lucille hung up and sent up a quick prayer to St. Marguerite Bourgeous
,
patron saint against impoverishment.

“I’m making a cake for Auntie Connie—you want to give me a hand?” Lucille called up the stairs to Bernadette. She had to do something—ever since Tony Jr.’s arrest, Bernadette had been barricaded in her room playing the same CD over and over again. Some guy screaming “I don’t want to live” at the top of his lungs.

There was a grunt, the sound of the toilet flushing, and Bernadette appeared on the landing. Her eyes were half open, and her hands were pulled up inside the sleeves of her plaid flannel bathrobe. She grunted again.

“Come on downstairs and get something to eat.” Lucille looked at her watch. “Although whether you want breakfast or lunch at this time of the morning, I’m sure I don’t know.”

Lucille went back to the kitchen and took a stick of butter out of the refrigerator. Bernadette slid around the open refrigerator door and sat on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs with her eyes closed and her head tilted back against the seat.