Unholy Matrimony (12 page)

“Lucille,” Sambucco said rather sharply. “What would you like?”

Lucille came to with a start. “An iced coffee,” she said to the waitress, who was standing patiently, her pencil poised above her pad.

“You want something to eat? A sandwich maybe?”

Lucille shook her head. She had the feeling that if she tried to swallow anything other than liquid she would choke.

“Listen,” Sambucco said. “How’s your friend, Flo?”

“Flo?” Lucille was startled. “She’s okay. She’s got a new job with this plastic surgery center over in Berkley Heights. All the chemicals in the air at the Clip and Curl was beginning to get to her. Not to mention being on her feet so much. And she said the surgery center pays better, although she misses all the gals at the beauty parlor.”

Sambucco toyed with his spoon, not meeting Lucille’s gaze. “She seeing anyone?”

Lucille was so startled she jumped and banged her knee against the table.

“No, no, I don’t think she’s seeing anyone,” she hastened to answer Sambucco’s question. She didn’t want him to think that she . . . because she didn’t. She was over him. Completely over. It was just on account of Frankie suddenly not being interested that her confidence had taken a nosedive.

Sambucco smiled. “That’s good. That’s good.” He looked down at the remains of the coffee in his cup. “Thinking I might give her a call. Get together for dinner or something, you know?”

He glanced up at Lucille and there was a look on his face she’d never seen before.

“It’s been quite a few years since the wife passed away. Time I got my feet wet again.”

“Sure, sure.” Lucille nodded at him.

“Do you think you could sort of feel her out for me? See what she thinks of the idea?”

“Sure, sure,” Lucille said again.

Why did the idea of Flo and Richie going out bother her? She had her Frankie—she’d never really wanted anyone else. Okay, maybe George Clooney, but face it, that wasn’t likely to happen. Maybe she just liked the idea that another man found her attractive. Maybe if Frankie found her attractive again, everything would be okay. She really had to stick to this new diet. And she had to have a talk with Frankie as soon as possible. Because if the problem was his, then she could stop worrying herself half to death.

“So, Lucille.” Sambucco drained his coffee and motioned to the waitress for a refill. “What is it you wanted to see me about?”

The waitress cruised over to their table, slid an iced coffee on a lace doily in front of Lucille and filled Sambucco’s empty cup.

Lucille took a huge gulp. Now that she was here she was beginning to wonder if she was right about Alex being the murderer. But in for a penny, in for a pound as her mother used to say, although Lucille had no idea what that expression really meant. It didn’t make no sense at all.

Lucille put her glass down. “It’s like this.” She spread her hands out on the table. “It’s about Donna DeLucca’s murder.” She shook her head. “I should say Donna Grabowski, but I still can’t get used to the fact—”

“What about the murder?” Sambucco poured sugar into his cup and stirred.

“I think I know who did it,” Lucille blurted out.

Sambucco raised an eyebrow. “Really?” he said, settling back in his seat, a look of amusement on his face.

“I think Alex Grabowski murdered his wife. He murdered Donna.”

“Really?” Sambucco said again. “What makes you think that?”

This was the hard part. Lucille could feel heat rising to her face. She fanned herself with her napkin. “Got one of them hot flashes, you know?”

Sambucco looked skeptical, but she didn’t care.

“Okay.” She held up her hand and ticked off her first finger. “First off, Alex is missing, and no one seems to know where he went. We don’t even know if he knows Donna is dead. No one is at his office, and he hasn’t even picked up the mail. I met his receptionist, Rosemary, at this party my mother gave. We got to talking, and she told me Alex had given all the staff a couple of weeks off. That struck me as pretty odd.”

“I agree,” Sambucco said with the hint of a smile.

“Where was I?” Lucille took another gulp of her iced coffee.

“Number two.”

“Yeah, right. Number two.” She ticked off her second finger. “Alex stands to get a lot of money if Donna dies. One million dollars to be exact.”

“Where is that money coming from?”

“An insurance policy he took out on Donna shortly before she died,” Lucille said triumphantly.

“How did you know about . . .” Sambucco waved his hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“And third, it looks like he was having an affair with the maid. Donna fired her, but when I went over to their house, there she was acting as if she owned the place—all dressed up in Donna’s clothes and wearing her jewelry. Don’t you see? It all adds up.”

“I would be inclined to agree with you except for one thing.”

Lucille’s head shot up. “What’s that?”

“Alex Grabowski is dead. We found his body late last night.”

Chapter 13

“Dead?” Lucille repeated dully. “What do you mean dead?”

“I mean dead. As in not living anymore. No pulse. Not breathing. No brain waves. Dead.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Lucille sniffed. Sheesh, no need for him to get so sarcastic about it.

Now she had no idea what to do. Give Richie the cell phone even though it made her look guilty as hell? Better not. Better to keep it a bit longer—at least until she figured out who killed both Donna and Alex.

Sambucco cracked his knuckles, drained his cup of coffee and looked at Lucille.

“Okay, want to tell me what you and Donna Grabowski argued about at your daughter’s rehearsal dinner? I get it that weddings can be stressful, but I gather this went beyond just the usual words between the mother of the bride and the mother of the groom.”

“What? Who?” Lucille stammered.

“Maria. Donna’s sister. Said you two got into a shoving match.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

“Just kind of odd, don’t you think, that the next day Donna turns up dead, and the last call on her cell phone came from you?”

Lucille spread her hands out on the table. “Richie, you’ve known me since high school. You can’t think I would . . . would murder Donna on account of a disagreement over the wedding.”

Sambucco stared into his empty cup of coffee. “Yeah. But Maria also told us what you argued about and it actually wasn’t about the wedding—it was about Donna and Alex rebuilding the house your cousins lived in.”

“Frankie’s cousins,” Lucille corrected. “Once removed.”

Sambucco shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Come on, Richie, use your head.”

Sambucco sighed. “Look, Lucille, like I told you, it’s not me, it’s the chief. It would be different if Frankie’s cousin was still the chief—but he’s retired, and we’ve got this young guy who insists on doing everything by the book. And I got to play along if I want to keep my job. It isn’t personal or nothing.”

“Sure, sure, I understand. You’ve got to do your job. I get it.”

“It’s not like I’m going to arrest you or nothing. But if you can think of anything . . . and I mean anything . . . that might help us find the killer, you tell me, okay?” Sambucco took one of Lucille’s hands in his and held it.

Lucille had a feeling she was pretty sure wasn’t no hot flash. Suddenly she was sixteen again and in tenth grade in the backseat of Richie’s car. She gave Richie’s hand a squeeze and then pulled hers away.

“I appreciate what you’re doing for me, I really do. And if I hear of anything that might help solve your case, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“I hope I’ll be the only person.” Sambucco got out his wallet and pulled out a couple of singles. He left one on the table.

“You don’t have to—”

“Forget about it, Lucille. It’s on me. Just do me a favor and talk to Flo, okay? You got my cell number?”

Lucille nodded.

“Great.” Sambucco looked at his watch. “Geez, I gotta get going. You take care, and don’t forget, you call me if you’ve got anything, okay? No playing hero this time. Promise?”

“I promise.” Lucille watched as Sambucco walked to the front of the restaurant and pushed open the door.

The blonde waitress was leaning on the desk chatting with the cashier. Lucille sauntered over as casually as she could. She wished Richie had let her pay for her iced coffee—then she’d have an excuse to approach the two women.

No matter. She’d just go up and ask, all casual-like, if the blonde was Betty.

Both of the women looked up as Lucille approached the cashier’s desk. Even before she could say a word she caught a glimpse of the blonde’s name tag: Ashley.

“Is . . . is Betty here?” Lucille stammered, at a loss for what to say.

“Betty?” the cashier asked. “Nah, she got married.”

Ashley nodded. “Yeah. She quit right after. I think they moved.”

“Down the shore to Atlantic City,” the cashier said. “I think I have her address somewhere if you’d like it.”

“No, that’s okay,” Lucille said. “I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”

And she beat a hasty retreat from the Old Glory.

• • •

As Lucille pulled into her driveway, she noticed a Cadillac parked in front of her house. It was black or dark blue with them tinted windows they put in cars for celebrities and politicians. For some reason it gave her a creepy feeling. She thought about those two goons in the dark suits who had crashed Bernadette’s reception and shivered even though it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.

She walked toward the front door and stopped to peer in the garage. Bernadette’s car was gone, which was good. She had a doctor’s appointment for an ultrasound. Now that her due date was fast approaching, the doctor seemed to be ordering every single test in the book. Couldn’t they just wait and see how the baby turned out when it arrived? Because even if they found something wrong, what were they going to do about it now?

Lucille tried to see if anyone was inside the parked car, but of course she couldn’t see through the tinted glass. She headed toward the front door again, but every nerve in her body was screaming
run
! Of course she hadn’t run since her junior year of high school, and even then she didn’t set no records. She and Flo used to saunter around the gym at a snail’s pace while all the goody-goody types were churning up the ground, arms pumping and sweat making their mascara run.

Maybe she couldn’t run no more, but she could walk. She tried to act nonchalant as she turned around and began heading back toward the Olds, pretending as if she’d forgotten something. She’d just reached the door—her fingers were even touching the handle—when two men appeared from around the side of the house and grabbed her by the arms.

They were either the two goons from the reception or very close cousins—dressed in black suits and black T-shirts despite the heat.

“Get your hands off me,” Lucille hissed.

They ignored her and, lifting her up off the ground, propelled her toward her own front door. Lucille glanced left and right, but for once Mrs. Esposito wasn’t out pulling weeds and Kayleigh, the young mother next door, must have put the kids down for a nap because the yard was empty and silent.

Lucille thought about screaming, but who would hear her?

Meanwhile, they had reached the front door.

“Open it,” the guy on the right said. He had what Lucille thought was called a lazy eye, and it was kind of weird the way it roamed all over the place while he was talking to her. Her cousin Francine used to have one of them, and she never did get married on account of guys were put off by it.

Lucille wrangled the door key out of her pocket but her hands was shaking so hard she couldn’t hardly get it in the lock. The guy on her left sighed loudly, took the key from her, and opened the front door.

They shoved her inside.

The house was empty. Frankie was at work and Angela had taken Millie and Louis shopping. Louis needed some new socks, and Millie wanted to get a new bra.

“What do you want?” Lucille asked as they pushed her into a kitchen chair.

“We want to ask you some questions,” the shorter one said. He had a scar that ran from his temple around to the back of his head that was visible through his buzz cut.

“You want a cup of coffee, maybe? And I just made a nice angel food cake. I could cut you a slice . . .” Lucille babbled.

“No,” the shorter one said, “we’re not here for a coffee klatch.”

The taller one shot him a look. “I could do with something to eat.” Lucille noticed he was missing the tip of one finger.

She got up before the shorter guy could say anything. She’d feel better on her feet doing something rather than just sitting there listening to her heart pounding in her chest. Meanwhile she sent up a prayer to St. Arthelais of Benvento, patron saint of kidnapping victims. She wished Frankie would come home for lunch, but he usually picked up something from the deli around the corner from his office.

Lucille bustled around fixing the coffee and slicing the cake. She cut herself a slice, too. Today was her fasting day, but she was feeling kind of weak and needed something to perk her up. Besides, angel food cake was so light, it couldn’t possibly ruin her diet.

“Mmmm, this is good. You make this?” The taller guy forked up another bite.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Lucille turned to the other goon.

He cracked his knuckles. “All right, just a little piece maybe.”

Lucille cut another portion of the cake and put it on a plate. She glanced at the knife in her hand. Here she was holding a possible weapon and them guys was too dumb to notice. Could she take one of them by surprise? But then what would she do about the other one? Besides, she couldn’t picture herself sinking the knife into someone’s chest. Just the thought gave her the heebie-jeebies. She reluctantly put it down on the counter.

The shorter one finished his piece of cake and put the plate on the table. “Okay, enough of this stuff here. You need to tell us where Alex Grabowski is hiding.”

“Alex? Grabowski?” Lucille stuttered.

“Yeah. We saw you went to his house the other day.”