The Hitwoman and the Chubby Cherub (10 page)

“Stay out of trouble,” I instructed the four-legged creatures, before dashing out the storm door and racing to my car.

My escape was almost perfect.

That is until I threw the car into reverse, glanced in the mirror, and had to stomp on the brake in order to avoid backing into U.S. Marshal Griswald.

He walked around to the driver’s side and waited for me to lower my window. I did so grudgingly.

“Brian tells me you saw your father,” his tone was neutral, as was his expression.

I hung my head. “I guess I should have told you.”

“I understand why you didn’t. You’re protecting him.”

I nodded sheepishly.

“Are you off to see him now?”

“No.”

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

Griswald nodded. “Be careful, Maggie. I know you love him, but this isn’t the first time someone’s turned up dead because he was in the vicinity.”

That sounded slightly ominous and more than a little mysterious, but I didn’t think this was the time to ask him to elaborate.

“Have a good day,” Griswald said, stepping away from the car and waving me off.

I raised the window and drove off, watching him watch me in the rearview mirror.

“He has a point,” God opined from between my breasts.

“I know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Right now?” I spun the steering wheel with a little too much force, causing the tires to squeal in protest. “I’m going to get some lunch at Fern’s restaurant and then check out the address Belgard went to once a week.”

The restaurant, situated across from the courthouse where I’d conducted my last assassination, was just opening for the day when I walked in.

Pumped up on adrenaline and a healthy dose of fear when I’d ducked into the place to change out of my disguise after pulling that job, I hadn’t noticed how delicious it smelled. This time, I began to salivate immediately as the sounds and smells of sizzling meat wafted toward me.

“How many?” the hostess asked.

“Two, please.”

She led me toward a shadowy booth in the back. “Here you go. Your waiter will be with you in a moment.”

“Two?” God, nestled between my breasts, asked when she was gone.

“I seem less pathetic that way,” I murmured. I’m not a big fan of eating out alone. For one thing I feel like an outcast, for another, a woman sitting alone tends to attract the least desirable man in the place.

I’d just picked up the menu, when a familiar leather-coated man walked in. Slouching down in my seat, I lifted the menu higher and closer to my face, hoping he wouldn’t see me.

“Maggie?”

Grudgingly I lowered the menu and smiled politely at him. “Jack.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Lunch.”

He glanced at the empty seat opposite me. “Alone?”

Realizing it would seem suspicious if he figured out I’d shown up alone, I shrugged. “My girlfriend was supposed to meet me, but she got stuck at work.”

“Mind if I join you then?”

I shook my head. “Please do.”

I felt God stir against my chest and I knew that he didn’t approve of this last minute lunch addition, but I thought it might be fortuitous. After all, who else might know the secrets of Fern Cardinale better than a crime reporter?

“Covering a trial?” I asked as he slid into his seat.

He shook his head. “Nah, I just like the food.”

“What’s good?”

“Everything.”

“Is that why they’re so empty?” I pointed out the fact that ours was the only occupied table.

Jack grimaced. “In general, murder isn’t good for business.”

“Maybe that’s why my aunts rarely rent out rooms in the B&B,” I joked weakly. “Any word on the Cupid Killer?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t suppose you’d like to give me an on-the-record statement about finding Belgard’s body in your backyard.”

“An accurate assumption.”

He winked at me. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Anything you can tell me about him?”

“Belgard?”

I shrugged. “Either or.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed and he regarded me thoughtfully. “Belgard was a jerk who skated at the edges of the law. Don’t know much about his killer.”

“But you called him the Cupid Killer,” I pointed out. “That must mean you know something.”

He shook his head. “My
editor
called him that. It makes the story tie into the holiday. Imagine a crazed cherub running around shooting people with his bow and arrow.” He rolled his eyes. “If the murders had taken place next month my editor would have blamed it on a leprechaun.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“Have you been here before?”

I shook my head.

“Then get the full rodizio.”

“What’s that?”

“A selection of rotisserie grilled meats.” He practically licked his lips. “And the salad bar, but if you ask me, that’s a waste.”

A waiter, clad in black and white, approached the table. “Ready to order?”

“Two full rodizios,” Jack ordered, “and a carafe of the house sangria.”

“And water,” I added hurriedly. I couldn’t afford to get tipsy around the reporter. I needed to keep my head if I wanted to pump him for information about who’d want Cardinale dead.

After all, Delveccio had given me a job to do.

Chapter Eleven

“That was a waste of time,” God groused once we’d gotten back in the car after lunch. “It sounds like the man was a saint.”

According to Jack, the restaurant owner, Fern, had been everything his mobster friend had declared. An upstanding citizen, a pillar of the community (despite his well-known loyalty to a certain mob boss) and a philanthropist.

I was no closer to knowing who’d wanted him dead, but I was starting to think his murder had been some sort of message.

“Where to now?” the lizard asked.

“Another of Belgard’s haunts.”

“May it prove more fruitful than the other places.”

Patrick had provided the GPS data from Belgard’s phone, so I knew where he’d gone for the past couple of years. I just didn’t know which of the locations could lead me to information about my sister Darlene.

So far God and I had checked out a bakery, a bar, and a taco joint. It was starting to look like Belgard had spent more time filling his stomach than working.

Still, the address we were headed toward today, two towns over, was in a residential neighborhood, which I hoped meant a more personal view of the murdered man.

Sated by the ‘locally harvested cricket’, God napped as I drove. In fact, he snored.

When we finally reached our destination, a neatly kept street with smallish houses, I felt guilty about waking the little guy.

“We’re here,” I whispered.

When he didn’t stir, I said it more loudly, “We’re here.”

“Whaaaa?” he asked groggily.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. I need your extra set of eyes. We’ve arrived.”

Scrambling up my bra strap, he perched on my shoulder. “Which one?”

“The yellow one with the picket fence.” I pointed to a house three doors down.

“How boringly pedestrian.”

A sharp rap against the rear passenger window almost gave me a heart attack. I yelped in terror as I turned to see who’d caught me spying.

Patrick’s familiar face grinned at me.

I fumbled to unlock the door to let him in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked as he slid into the passenger seat.

“Nice to see you too, Mags. Sorry I scared you.”

I glowered at him. “You didn’t scare me,” I lied, wondering if he could hear my still thundering heart.

“I brought stakeout snacks.” He held up a plastic bag.

“He’s trying to buy your affection,” God warned.

“Oh hey, little guy, didn’t see you there,” the redhead said cheerily.

“Pompous ass,” the lizard retorted, which amused me, but since Patrick could only hear a squeaking sound, he didn’t know he’d been insulted.

Plucking the anole off my shoulder, I gently placed him in the cup holder that I kept lined with a silk scarf for his comfort.

“Seriously,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“A guy can’t spend some quality time with his girl?”

“You consider a stakeout to be quality time?”

“I brought snacks,” he reminded me.

“It’s creepy that you found me,” I retorted, unswayed by the promise of delicious goodies. At least temporarily unswayed.

“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t get yourself into any trouble.”

“You’re the one who gave me the list.”

“I hadn’t realized you’d be so dogged about following up on it. What did you think of the bar, Taco Hut, and bakery?”

“The bar serves weak drinks and is full of sketchy customers, the Taco Hut is stingy with the sour cream, and the bakery makes some killer cannolis.”

Patrick chuckled. “So you thoroughly checked them out?”

I shrugged.

“They were all paying Belgard protection money,” he casually revealed.

A clue!

“So they had motive to have him killed?”

Patrick reached into his bag and pulled out a jar of olives. “Maybe, but I don’t know that they’d want Cardinale dead.”

“About that,” I said carefully.

“Delveccio wants him avenged?” Patrick guessed, twisting the cap to the olives.

“Yeah.”

The pop of the vacuum seal echoed in the car.

“Not a surprise. They were tight.”

“There’s something else you should probably know,” I admitted.

Patrick, who’d been about to offer me an olive, pulled the jar out of reach. “That doesn’t sound good.”

I told him quickly about how I’d witnessed the restaurant owner’s execution after my part in the assassination of the sniper, Lamb.

“Did he see you?” Patrick asked, his tone strained.

“No.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”