Copycat (4 page)

Wednesday, March 8, 2006
6:40 p.m.

M.C.
dreaded Wednesday nights. Specifically, six-thirty to eight-thirty. “The Pasta Hours,” she called them. That was when she—and all five of her siblings—assembled for a command performance at their mother's table. There, they would be skewered, then grilled on every aspect of their lives.

M.C. could feel the hot coals already—she was her mother's favorite entrée.

There wasn't a single thing about M.C. that her mother approved of. Nothing, nada. The big zippo. It used to bother her, but no longer. She'd realized that if she had wanted to become the woman her mother wanted her to be, she could have.

So, M.C. sucked it up week after week, only occasionally praying for a homicide that would keep her away.

She pulled up in front of her childhood home, a two-story farmhouse, minus the farm. She parked, frowning as she thought of Kitt Lundgren and her anonymous caller.

Could the woman have fabricated the story in an attempt to actively participate in the investigation? Would she go that far?

Yes—if what she'd heard about Lundgren's obsession with the case was true.

The suspicion left M.C. feeling uneasy and she glanced toward the front porch. Michael and Neil stood there, deep in conversation. She smiled to herself. She'd affectionately nicknamed her five siblings: the Overachiever, the Suck-up and the Three Ass-kissers.

Michael, the Overachiever, was the oldest. A chiropractor. In her mother's world, the only thing better than one of her children being called “Dr. Riggio” was their being called “Father Riggio.” But Michael—and the rest of the Riggio boy-brood—enjoyed women and sex way too much for that particular calling, so Mama Riggio had contented herself with “her son, the doctor.”

Neil, the Suck-up, taught math at Boylan Central Catholic High School, their alma mater, and coached the wrestling team. Very normal. He had also provided their mother with a daughter-in-law and her first and, to date, only grandchild.

The three youngest of the boys, Tony, Max and Frank, had pooled their resources and Mama's family recipes and opened Mama Riggio's Italian Restaurant. The trio had just opened their second location and had plans for a third, in the suburbs closer to Chicago. The name of their restaurant had earned them the nickname the Three Ass-kissers.

M.C. loved her brothers. Adored them, actually. Even the one whose brainchild it had been to decorate Mama Riggio's with old family photographs, including one of her with braces, zits and
really
bad hair.

A photo they jumped at every opportunity to point out.

“And that's our only sister, Mary Catherine. She's unmarried, if you're interested.”

Big yuk.

She climbed out of her SUV. “Hello, boys.”

“Yo, M.C.,” Neil called. “Looking wicked.”

“Thanks,” she called back, slamming the vehicle door. “Hoping to scare Mama.”

And she just might. She was dressed all in black, her dark hair pulled into a severe ponytail.

“You packing heat?” Michael asked, tone teasing.

“Always. So, watch your step.”

Of all her brothers, she was closest to Michael. Maybe because he had been kind to the little girl who had always been tagging after him, or because their minds worked in the same way.

She crossed to him. They hugged, then kissed each other's cheeks.

She turned to Neil and did the same.

When she pulled away, he grinned at her. “I suggest you check that weapon at the door, Mama's in rare form tonight. You might be tempted to kill her.”

“Justifiable homicide,” she said. “There's not a judge in the city who'd convict.”

Just then Benjamin, Neil's three-year-old, barreled out the door, his mother, Melody, in close pursuit. Neil's engagement to Melody—a willowy, Protestant, blue-eyed blonde—had been met with family fireworks. Marrying outside both faith and ethnicity? Mama Riggio had actually conjured chest pains over it.

The drama had taken the heat off M.C. for a good six months. Then Melody had ruined everything by becoming Catholic, then having Benjamin.

M.C. was surrounded by Suck-ups.

Benjamin caught sight of M.C. and squealed in delight. She squatted and held out her arms. He ran to her for a big hug and the treat he knew she would have in her pocket. Today it was a package of animal crackers.

“You spoil him,” her sister-in-law said. M.C. stood and smiled. “What're you going to do about it? Arrest me?”

Neil scooped up his son and helped him open the crackers. “How's the weather in there?” he asked his wife.

“Cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms. You know Mama.”

They did, indeed, know Mama.
They exchanged glances as if wondering whose neck would be on the chopping block tonight.

Michael looked at his watch. “The three pasta-pushers are late.”

“Haven't they heard carbs are out?” M.C. said. “Again.”

“Actually, I think they're back in,” Neil murmured. “Again.”

Just then, the three arrived, following one another in separate vehicles. M.C. saw that they were all on their cell phones. They parked and spilled out of their cars, still on their calls. Arguing.
With one another, for heaven's sake.

They bounded up the steps, snapping their phones shut. She was immediately surrounded by the handsome, rowdy bunch. The noise level rose. Hugs, kisses and good-natured ribbing ensued.

God, she loved these oafs.

Melody broke up the reunion. “May I suggest we head inside? Before Mama—”

“Gets really ticked off,” Neil offered. “Good suggestion.”

They all headed in. Shouts of “Mama!” filled the house. The woman appeared in the doorway of the kitchen.

“You're late, all but Michael and Neil.” She glared at M.C. “My only daughter and no help at all.”

Apparently, it would be her neck. Big surprise.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said, kissing her mother's nearly unlined cheeks. “I was working.”

Her mother made a sound, her own unique cross between a snort and “Holy God.” “Oh, yes,
that
job.”

“Meaning exactly what?”

“You know how I feel about what you do. Police work? Please. That's no job for a woman.”

M.C. opened her mouth to argue; Mama waved everyone to the table. As they took their seats, Melody stepped in, voice hushed. “Are you working that child murder?”

She nodded, glancing down the table at Benjamin. He seemed oblivious to everything but his animal crackers. “I'm lead detective.”

“Congrats, li'l sister.” That came from Michael and she smiled at him. He passed the bowl of spaghetti. She served herself, then passed it on.

“Is that madman really back?” Melody asked. “That Sleeping Angel guy?”

“It looks that way. But there were inconsistencies.” Her brother handed her the platter of veal parmigiana, followed by green beans and salad.

“What kind of inconsistencies?” he asked.

She flashed him a smile. “You know I can't tell you that.”

Max jumped in. “So, this could be a copycat killer?”

The table went quiet. All eyes turned to her. She thought of Kitt Lundgren's anonymous caller claiming a copycat had killed Julie Entzel. A funny sensation settled over her. “At this point in the investigation, anything's still possible.”

“I'm glad I had a boy,” Melody murmured. “I'd be scared to death otherwise.”

“Enough!” Mama snapped. “What kind of dinner talk is this? And with the baby listening. Shame on you all.”

“Sorry, Mama,” they murmured in unison, just as they had been doing all their lives.

They turned their attention to their food, which was delicious. Her mother may be a supersize pain-in-her-ass, but she was a fabulous cook. If not for M.C.'s metabolism, she'd weigh four hundred pounds.

“Mary Catherine, you wouldn't believe who I ran into at the market.” Mama beamed at her. “Joseph Rellini's mother.”

Just call her clueless.
“Who?”

“Joseph Rellini. He graduated from Boylan the year before you. Played in the band.”

She vaguely remembered a dark-haired, stoop-shouldered boy. He had been pleasant enough, but she knew where this was heading and wasn't about to give her mother any encouragement. Not that she needed any.

“He's an accountant now.” Mama Riggio leaned forward. “And single. I gave her your number, told her to have him call you.”

“Mama, you didn't!”

“I most certainly did.
Per amor del cielo,
look at you! You could do worse.”

Her brothers hooted. Melody made a sound of sympathy. M.C. glared at her mother. “I don't need a man to complete me, Mama. I'm fine on my own. Doing great.”

“Every day at mass, I pray that you'll come to your senses, quit that job and bring a nice young man to dinner.”

“Pardon me, Mother, but you are so full of—”

Michael cut her off. “She brought her Glock. Does that count?”

Tony jumped in. “Get used to it, Mama. She's a lesbian.” M.C. tossed her napkin at her brother. “Up yours, Tony.”

“Mary Mother of God!” Mama lowered her voice. “When did this happen?”

“I'm not gay, Mama. Tony's just being a jerk.”

“As usual,” Max offered, refilling his wineglass. “For myself, I plan to play the field for a long time.”

“You're a young man,” Mama said. “But your sister's not getting any younger.”

Melody, God love her, stepped in. “There's no rush. Take as long as you need to find the right guy, M.C. Life's too short to spend it in a so-so relationship.”

“Speaking from experience?” Tony shot back, grinning.

Melody didn't take the bait. “Yes,” she answered smoothly. “Experience married to the most wonderful man on the planet.”

That brought a round of hoots and ribbing from her brothers. It also shifted Mama's focus—and gave M.C. an opportunity to escape.

She choked down enough of her meal for appearances and stood. “It's been real, gang, but I have to go.”

“But we haven't had dessert yet!” Her mother exclaimed. “Cannolis. From Capelli's Market.”

Capelli's cannoli was practically its own food group. It was that good.

But now that Mama had been tipped, there was no way she could stay without another round of “Roasting Mary Catherine.”

She begged off, though she couldn't escape until she had made her way around the table to kiss everyone goodbye. She was nearly to her SUV when Michael called out to her.

She stopped and waited.

“Are you okay?” he asked when he reached her.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

“Like all good Riggios, you never pass on dessert.”

“I guess I'd just had my fill.”

He understood she wasn't talking about food. “She really does love you, you know.”

“It's my life. Not hers. She needs to accept me for who I am.”

“True.” He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “But—”

He bit back whatever he was about to say, and she frowned. “What?”

“You won't beat me up, will you?”

“I'll shoot you if you don't speak your mind.”

“Okay. It just seems to me, that door swings both ways.”

“Excuse me?”

“The acceptance thing. You need to accept her the way she is.”

“I do. But, she's my mother and she's supposed to be—”

“Everything you want her to be?”

“No. But she doesn't even make an effort!”

“Do you?” he countered.

Mary Catherine, like the rest of the Riggio clan, had a temper. Over the years, she had learned how to hold on to it.

This wasn't one of those times. Her temper rose; she felt herself flush. She gestured toward the house. “I'm here, aren't I? Every freaking Wednesday night.”

He didn't respond and she lashed out at him. “It's easy for you. For all of you. The perfect sons. All of you have always been everything she wanted you to be. And everything Dad wanted you to be, as well. Males.”

“The world's smallest violin, Mary Catherine. Just for you.”

“Forget about it.” She yanked open her car door. “Of all people, I would have thought you'd understand.”