Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (26 page)

    
Clearly, I had slipped into an alternate universe. Surreptitiously, I dug into my purse, turned my head and put on lipstick.

    
“So, what can I do for you ladies?” Trianos asked after the waiter had left us. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”

    
“We were at Saul’s party.”

    
Tony was already nodding in Amanda’s direction. “I remember you. Red dress. It’s a good color for you.”

     Gag.

     “And we were at Oscar’s party,” Mom continued.

    
“Trouble seems to be following you ladies around.”

     “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

     “Oh, right, you’re interior designers or something. I liked what you did with Saul’s house - kind of over the top. I’m a little over the top myself.”

    
Mom laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind. You created quite a stir showing up at Saul’s party like that.”

    
“I had an invitation, same as everybody else.”

    
“Which is interesting in itself. What was your connection to Saul?”

    
Tony shrugged. “Man liked to hang around interesting people. I guess I qualified.”

    
“We heard he was working on a book about you,” I said.

    Tony looked surprised to find me still there. “I’m not really the tell-all type.” His tone flattened - deadly serious.

    
“So he just hung around to, what? Try the Taramosalata?” I pressed.

    
“That’s reason enough, but no. We just shot the sh…breeze for a while. He was interested in my dealings with Oscar Browley. Told him that wasn’t one of my favorite subjects.”

    
“Why not?” Mom asked

    
“Guy was a putz, using my reputation - apocryphal as it is - to build his own. Things like that can get a man in serious trouble.”

    
“It didn’t seem to hurt you much,” Mom pointed out, with a hint of coyness. “None of the charges ever stuck.”

    
“Like I don’t have better uses for my money than paying lawyers.” He leaned across the table towards Mom. “Tell me something. Being in the decorating business, you know a thing or two about ornaments, am I right?”

    
“You are.”

    
“My sister Marie in there,” he gestured to the kitchen, “collects them. What should I get her this year? Something special, now. I’m not talking a plastic snow globe or nothing.”

    
“What kind of collections does she have? Blown glass? Polonaise?”

    
“This and that, but she’s obsessed with it. A real, what would you call it? Aficionado.”

    
“If you’re talking really special, you might consider the ‘02 Waterford Hope for Healing ornament that commemorated the World Trade Center tragedy.”

    
“That’s a good one?”

    
“A very good one, and it’s highly collectible as well as being a sentimental favorite.”

    
“You got one?”

    
Mom shook her head. “I wish. They show up on eBay from time to time, but bidding forces them into the six-hundred dollar plus range.”

    
A bone of contention, here.  Mom has the disc - the flat, easier-to-find ornament - but eBay squatters had twice beaten her out of the crystal ball. With her connections, she could’ve scored one, but she preferred the thrill of the hunt.

    
Tony nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

    
The waiter brought out our food, and for a moment we busied ourselves digging in. My parmesan was amazing - thick slices of breaded eggplant slathered in a richly pungent, delicately seasoned red sauce.

    
“Incredible.” I sopped up some of the sauce with a piece of soft country bread.

    
“To die for,” Mom said and got a quick kick under the table from me. No need to give this guy any ideas.

    
“The way we hear it,” she resumed, “is that Saul was using you to…”

    
“Saul wasn’t using me for anything.”

    
“My apologies. What I meant is that Saul wanted you to play a role in his next book. I was wondering if he gave you any indication of what that role would be. Source? Character? What?”

    
“Taste this. You have to taste the spanakopita,” Trianos said to Mom, then shouted at the kitchen, “You’ve outdone yourself today, Marie!” He cut off a piece of the thick spinach pie with its flaky lattice crust and offered it to Mom on his fork. She ate the piece daintily, closed her eyes and savored.

    
“Excellent,” she said, blushing. “Thank you.”

    
Tony laughed appreciatively.

    
Jeez, why didn’t they start kissing right there. I sent another kick Mom’s way, aiming upward because, of course, her feet didn’t touch the floor. But she moved her ankles.

    
“Tell you the truth, I was as surprised to see Oscar at the party as he was to see me. The way Saul talked about him, I didn’t expect to see them so cozy, you know what I mean.”

    
“They were good friends,” I said.

    
He shrugged. “Well, nobody told Saul. He wanted to nail the guy. Had this whole angle about Oscar fixing evidence so trials came out in his favor. Wanted to know if that had been my experience.”

    
Mom tensed beside me. This fell right in line with what I had learned from Gavin that morning, only Dad wasn’t the topic of Saul’s exposé. Oscar was. Curiouser and curiouser.

    
“And had it been your experience?” Mom asked.

    
“No, my lawyers would’ve torn him apart. Much as he wanted to bring me down, Browley knew he better play by the book.”

    
“So the rumors might have been false,” I said.

    
“Not necessarily. I told Saul about other people that had felt railroaded – associates I heard were unhappy.”

    
“That could just be guilty people talking,” I protested. “Thinking it’s everybody’s fault but their own.”

    
“Yeah, these people were guilty alright, but that don’t make it any more legit, what Browley was doing.”

    
Mom nodded her agreement, doe-eyed.

    
“See, that was Oscar’s thing. Like a waddyacallit? Vigilante. He fixed cases on people he knew were guilty. Made things up, like a wiretap that wasn’t entirely kosher. He’d fudge the paperwork to get it through, or he might lean on his experts to be more aggressive with their testimony than they felt like being. End justifies the means and all that.”

    
“You just gave Oscar a great motive for killing Saul, but who killed Oscar?” Mom took the last bite of her salad and eyed my eggplant. I pulled the dish closer.

    
Tony shrugged. “That Jannings gal has her sights set on Robin.”

    
Now I leaned forward. “How do you know Angela?”

    
“Saul brought her around sometimes - smart girl. She got me reading Joseph Wambaugh. I got her eating something besides chicken fingers and pizza. She came here after Oscar died. Said she was picking up where he left off, but she needed to lay low for a while. She wanted me to know her book was no threat to me, and she wouldn’t tarnish my good name.” He laughed as if the idea was ludicrous.

    
“She didn’t say where she was going, did she?” I asked.

    
“I let her use an apartment in this little building I got downtown. Nothing fancy, but quiet enough for her to write.”

    
“Why would you do that?” I was intrigued.

    
“She seems like a good kid, kinda pathetic but nice enough. I don’t mind helping out.”

    
“Was she on the same trail as Saul?”

    
“Hard to say. I think she was doing something about Saul and Oscar’s murders. Like I said, she figured Robin for at least one of them.”

    
“What’s your connection to Robin?” I asked. “At the party, I got the impression you two knew each other.”

    
“We don’t. Maybe she was tired of Saul and got the idea to trade up. Not my type, though.” His eyes rested on my mother.

    
“Could you give us some of the names you gave Saul?” Mom pretended not to notice his interest. “The associates who felt Oscar railroaded them?”

    
“You don’t need to hang out with people like that,” Tony hesitated.

    
“I think we can take care of ourselves.” Tony still didn’t look convinced, so Mom added. “Just pick an easy one, and we’ll start there.”

    
“Sid Weinstein. He’s doing work release now outta that halfway house on the west side. Small potatoes, but he’s got a good story to tell. You go see him, and we’ll go from there.”

    
When we got outside, I turned on Mom.

    
“What the hell was that?”

    
“Chloe, please. Don’t make a scene.”

    
“What? Am I offending your delicate sensibilities, Little Miss Spanakopita?”

    
“Chloe, I don’t think it’s a good idea to be arguing in front of what could very well be an FBI van.”

    
“It’s not an FBI van. Would you stop saying that?”

    
“But it could be.”

     “So what if it is?”

     “I’m just saying the camera adds ten pounds, dear. Those grainy surveillance cameras probably more. Paisley is an ambitious look at the best of times.”

     We got in the car.

     “I hope you know he’s going to have Dad rubbed out now, just so he can have you.”

    
“Stop being so dramatic, darling. You get all screechy. We learned some valuable things from Tony, and I don’t think my techniques were any more brazen than your questioning of Jack Lassiter.”

    
“I’m not married,” I said virtuously.

    
“I know, baby, but give it time. You’re a late-bloomer, that’s all.”

    
I gripped the steering wheel and tried some yoga breathing in an effort to keep from flipping out. In with the good air. Out with the bad.

    
Having decided she had pushed all my buttons, Mom chose to ignore my meltdown.

    
“Well, I for one think that went well,” she said cheerfully. “We’re really plumbing the depths. This visit to Sid will help us unravel everything. You wait and see.”

CHAPTER 31

    
The halfway house to which Tony Trianos had directed us was a Southern gothic two story that had seen better days. I shuddered at the havoc that had been wreaked on the old beauty.

    
The front porch was sagging and crowded with an odd assortment of salvage yard finds, and lawn care didn’t seem to be part of the men’s rehabilitation.  The house’s interior had been retrofitted with all the trappings of an institution - shabby furniture, a ping-pong table and an old console television in what had once been the front parlor. A battered fake fir and a haphazard draping of twinkle lights enhanced, rather than dispelled, the overall feeling of weariness and gloom.

    
The little man working the desk in the foyer squinted. “Weinstein? Oh, you mean Sid the Shiv. What’d he do to rate so many visitors this month?”

    
“Who else has been to see him?” I asked.

    
“I ain’t his social secretary.”

    
“I’m sure it was Saul Taylor, the true crime writer,” Mom said to me. “He was working on a book, and Mr. Weinstein was going to be in it.”

    
“Really? I hadn’t heard that.” I played along.

    
“Yeah, that was the one,” the man confirmed.  “Real character, that guy. His book sounds like a snooze. Sid ain’t had what you’d call an illustrious career.”

    
“What’s he in for?” I asked.

    
“I ain’t his PO.”

    
“I heard he was strictly small-time,” Mom confided.  “I can’t imagine what Saul wanted with him.”

    
“Whatever it was, they were real sneaky about it.” Our informant rubbed his hand across a scratchy expanse of stubble. “Whispering and looking around to see who was listening. Like the rest of us give a shit.”

    
“Could we speak to him if he’s available?” Mom asked.

    
“Try the rec room.” He pointed to a large open room to our right.