J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 05 - Season for Murder (16 page)

We rode home in near silence. I wondered why Rafe had told my mother of his feelings. He must be worried to have done so.

“Your mother should be careful. If she knows something she shouldn’t, it could be dangerous for her, Vin.”

“I know. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.”

“I’m concerned about you both. Now Lola has been brought into the mix, and that complicates things even more,” Rafe remarked with an arched brow and a quick glance toward me.

The light from the dashboard illuminated his face. I realized how right he was. Our safety was important, but my mother’s innocence was even more so. I didn’t say anything. Lost in thought, I leaned my head against the back of the seat.

Chapter 14

Sunshine illuminated the kitchen as I padded in for coffee. The night had dragged on and on, until I thought I’d never get any sleep. Eventually, I fell into a fitful slumber.

The hour was early. I had to bake for the sale. A lone coffee cake mix sat in the cupboard. Opening the package, I mixed the ingredients in a bowl and slid the filled baking pan into the oven. As I set the timer, I poured coffee and pulled the journal from my handbag.

The book, frayed along the edges from use, required careful handling. Gingerly, I opened the cover. Chicken scratch handwriting scrawled across the pages as I gently thumbed through them. The memories of someone called Dona Desmaris scrawled across the pages. Not Iva Lindon’s memories. I wished I’d read the darned thing the night before, but Rafael had stayed late after we got back to the house. I’d been too tired to bother. Dang, I hate when that happens.

Interested in the pages’ contents, I read until the oven timer sounded. Placing the book aside, I slid the sweet-smelling, cinnamon swirl confection from the oven, setting it to cool on a rack while I read more of the journal.

Dona Desmaris, an articulate woman from my grandmother’s era, had chronicled her life. She wrote in an overview way, covering a week or more at a time in just two pages. If a spectacular event took place, she gave it an extra page or so. I’d reached the middle of the journal when I realized who Dona Desmaris was. She had married Gino Carochi, after my grandmother had broken off the relationship with him. Nonni was a mere mention, though nothing bad was said of her.

Moved by the depth of feeling this woman had for her husband, I was pulled further into the story. It ended abruptly for some time, starting again about ten years later. Dona’s love had turned to disappointment. Anguish over the man she’d married was plain by her revelations. Gino’s gambling and womanizing habits were there for the reading, along with his money laundering business, and other activities that mob wives only surmise, but rarely knew for certain.

Three quarters of the way through the book, Dona had written several such entries. The dates were more current, with several earlier in this year alone. Slouched back in the chair, the book in hand, I tapped my lips with my fingertips as I read.

A reference to Mrs. Galumpky glared from the page, as though written in blood. Galumpky had her hands in the till, the wrong till. She’d taken to skimming money off the books, the mobs books.

Called away on an emergency, Mrs. Galumpky had mistakenly left the office open late in the day, with everyone else gone from their offices. Dona, having an issue of her own, went to see Mrs. Galumpky, but found her office empty. While waiting for the woman to return, Dona noticed the account books on the desk and read them. A computer sat nearby. Dona scanned the set of figures in the book that were in black, and then repeated in red next to them.

Unable to work the computer, Dona wrote how she’d studied the paper accounts on the desk and found they were the same as those on the computer screen. She’d stolen the sheets from the room and hidden them in her apartment. The journal entries ended there for a while.

Aware of why Mrs. Galumpky was now dead, my hand shook as I set the book down. The cake had cooled. I slid off the chair and removed it from the pan onto a cake dish. I squeezed glaze over the top of it from the packet included in the box.

My mind raced ahead while I worked. Mrs. Galumpky had stolen from the mob. Unlike the IRS, who just tossed your ass in jail for hustling them, the mob put a stop to your greedy act with a resounding finality that eliminated any chance of forgiveness.

After I showered and dressed for the day, I locked the book in the chest next to my bed. The hollowed leg of the lion sculpture was too small to hold the journal in its hidden compartment.

The covered cake was ready to go when I decided to call Nonni. My nerves trembled as the phone rang. No one answered and the machine picked up. With an exasperated sigh, I left a brief message about attending the bake sale. I said I hoped to see her there, and I wanted to know more about Dona Desmaris. Only Nonni would know.

In haste, I drove toward the senior center. All the while, I considered the journal. It should, by rights, be turned over to the Providence Police investigation team. Not today. I needed to get through the bake sale with my mother and search Iva Lindon’s apartment once more.

The parking lot was jammed with cars. Parked four spaces down from the center, the door locks clicked when I hit the key fob. Carrying the coffee cake, I rushed toward the oversized, connected buildings.

People crowded the dayroom. Some were from the old folks’ living quarters, while others were complete strangers. It didn’t take long to figure out they had come to gawk and stare at the Bake Sale Queen
.
The media had arrived for an interview, leaving me worried over how that would end up.

Wondering who had called the sharks with the camera and microphones, I slipped along the outer rim of the crowd. I spied Mr. Perkins. He leaned against the piano in the corner of the room. His eyes swept the curiosity seekers, snack buyers, and news mongers. Mr. Perkins shook his head back and forth slowly, until he saw me. A smile spread across his wise old face and with twinkling eyes, he greeted me.

“Mornin’, missy.” Mr. Perkins chuckled and said, “Lots of things goin’ on here today from the looks of it, eh?”

“Who called the news morons, anyway?” I murmured to him as I drew closer to the old fellow.

“Some idiot thought it might be good for the center to have positive publicity, so the higher-ups called in Channel 10.” He chuckled while his boney shoulders shook with mirth. “Since your mother was interviewed before, they figured there’d be no problem calling the news bags for this.”

“Great,” I uttered with a sigh. My eyes rested on Mr. Perkins for a few seconds before I peered at the crowd.

“Is Dona Desmaris here today?”

His scruffy eyebrows hiked in surprise. Mr. Perkins surveyed me before he answered. His look sent my curiosity racing.

“She’s sittin’ over there, in the corner.” He pointed to a petite woman about Nonni’s age. “Sweet old lady.”

Dona’s black dress covered most of her body, draping nearly to the floor. She reminded me of old family photographs where my great, great, grandmother stood stiff as a board in a high-necked, miserable dress that probably choked the breath out of her. A gnarled hand curled around a black cane with a gilded gold handle.

Features, once lovely, were now wrinkled and drawn. Even from here, I could see the crow’s feet around her eyes and deep grooves from nose to chin around her mouth. Age hadn’t been kind to Dona, but then, life with Gino had probably been no picnic, either.

The room quieted as the interview started. I moved in stealth mode across the floor toward the side door of the refreshment center. My mother stood in front of the counter facing the camera. The interviewer stood off to the side, out of camera view. She asked my mother a few questions about the bake sale, what and whom it would benefit.

My breath stuck in my throat while I waited to see if I’d have to rescue my mother, should the questions come around to the murders. The interview was brief. The camera panned the baked goods and the crowd before ending. I heaved a relieved sigh and placed the cake on the rear counter.

Buyers stepped forward as the sale started. Skirting the crowd once more, I slipped out the side door. In a matter of seconds, I’d raced across the parking area and into the apartment complex. I caught sight of Lola scurrying up the walk.

“Where do you think you’re going without me?” Lola whispered. “I’ve been waiting inside the center for you. I saw you leave and thought I’d better follow you.”

“I didn’t see you in there, sorry.” I wasn’t lying. Lola was so short that she’d been hidden in the crowd.

In the elevator, we stopped at the second floor. I hoped the corridor would be empty. It’s nice to be right once in a while. The residents had all gone to the bake sale. They enjoyed a little excitement and change in their mundane routine.

As we moved down the carpeted hallway, I turned to find Lola skulking on tiptoe, like a thief in a museum. There were no alarms here, except fire alarms, and her actions gave me cause to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“You are,” I said with a grin. “You’re acting like a cat burglar instead of a visitor. Act innocent, and people will think you are.”

“Oh, so that’s how you manage to get into so much trouble, huh?” Lola chuckled softly.

I stared at her for a second, knowing she might be right. Taking the key from my pocket, I slid it into the lock and turned it. The apartment door swung inward with a soft
whoosh
. We entered the rooms and glanced around. Somebody had recently torn the place to shreds.

Stuffing hung out of the sofa and chair. The dated television lay upside down on the floor. Ripped magazine pages littered the room. I headed into the bedroom and found an identical scene spread out before me.

“What the hell happened here, Vin?” Lola stared around the apartment in wide-eyed wonder.

“It looks like someone searched for the same things we’re looking for. I bet they beat us to whatever was left, that wasn’t found the last time my mother was here.” It occurred to me to search the bathroom.

I stepped around Lola, who continued to stare, her mouth agape. In silence, she followed me.

Tissues and trash from the bathroom basket lay strewn around the handicap accessible room. Pill bottles splayed across the floor, and the medicine cabinet door hung askew. Lola stepped to the thin closet where toiletries, paper goods, and towels were stored. The door stood ajar, rolls of toilet paper tumbled forth, jumbled towels, and washcloths, cluttered the shelves.

As Lola looked the mess over, she glanced upward. The top shelf was far above her head. Motioning to me, I stepped beside her and reached up to run my hand across the dusty surface. At first, I thought the area was empty until my fingertips touched a packet of something. On tiptoes, I reached farther back on the shelf, withdrawing a stuffed manila envelope.

We stared at the packet, and then glanced at one another. The once white envelope was now yellowed, crinkled, and dusty. It bulged with bundles of some sort. I pried the sealed edge open. Bundles of cash filled my hands and overflowed onto the floor.

Cash, cold hard cash, bunches of it. Some strapped with money straps, the paper felt new and looked it, as well. I flicked a glance toward Lola as she picked the remaining packets of cash off the floor.

“Damn,” she said in awe. “These are hundred dollar bills, Vin.” Her eyes like saucers, Lola thumbed the money packs and then stared at me.

“Right.” Was all I could get out. My mind flew over the possible places the cash had come from. None of the thoughts made any sense to me.

I started to speak as the apartment door opened. Startled, Lola shoved the money into my hands, wiping hers on the wool gabardine slacks she wore. She glanced around the room for a place to hide. I shuffled the jumbles of cash in my hands, juggling them while some of the packs slid into the crooks of my folded arms.

“What are we going to do, Vin?” Agitated, Lola whispered as footsteps sounded on the kitchen tile floor.

“In the shower, quick,” I whispered and dragged her into the handicapped, walk-in shower stall.

I slid the shower curtain soundlessly across the overhead bar. Behind the heavy plastic material, covered with a row of cats in various poses, we flattened ourselves against the wall, at the end of the enclosure. I held my breath, and was sure Lola did the same, when the footsteps paused at the bathroom door. Then the interloper entered the room.

Dirty towels lay piled up in one end of the shower stall. A hand gripped the shower curtain and drew it back in one fell swoop, exposing Lola and me. Lola drew in a deep breath and cringed as we both recognized Rafe. He stared at us, and then gawked at the money clutched to my chest.

A slight chuckle entered his musical voice as he asked what we thought we were doing in the shower.

“Laundering that money, ladies?” he asked with a devilish grin.

Blustering, I stepped out of the unit and picked the empty envelope off the floor. Lola held it open while I returned the wrapped packets of cash back to their rightful place.

“No, but we happened to find it in the closet,” I snapped. “You scared the bejeepers out of us, Rafe. What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to buy pastry in a show of support for your mother.” His smile lingered around the sweet curve of his mouth. “When Mr. Perkins said you were likely up here, I thought I’d make sure you were all right.”

“I’ll have to thank him for sharing with you,” I said in a dry voice.

“Do that,” Rafe answered with an arched brow.

The apartment door opened again. Another set of footsteps sounded on the tile floor of the entry. The three of us bustled into the shower stall, drawing the curtain to hide us, once again. It was a good thing the stall was wheelchair accessible. Otherwise, there might not have been enough room for all three of us.

Soft, slow footfalls filtered through the small apartment, first in the kitchen, then the living room, stopping at the bathroom doorway. The three of us froze in place, waiting for the curtain to swing wide.