by Maria DiRico
“O-okay.”
The woman reached into her purse again. Mia flinched, afraid of what she might pull out next. Fortunately, it was only a lipstick and compact. “I’m sure I’ll have other ideas,” she said as she reapplied a bright shade of orangey red. “When I do, I’ll need to get in touch with you.”
Mia fumbled in her drawer for a business card. “Here you go. All my information is on it.”
Mrs. Grazio took the card and dropped it in her purse, along with the lipstick and compact. “One last thing.”
“Yes?” Mia said, uneasy.
“After you find my flowers, I want that swatch back.”
Barbara Grazio strode out of the room. Mia dropped her head on the desk. After a minute, she lifted it up and then typed two e-mails, one to Alice Paluski and one to her fiancé. She explained about the additional boat but chose not to mention the electric blue flowers in case she was able to find a substitute that would make John’s gorgon of a mother happy. To her relief, the responses were a “Whatevs” from John and a “She’s paying? I’m good” from Alice.
Mia considered her next move. She had no appointments scheduled for the afternoon. By now, Ravello was done with lunch at Roberto’s and on his way back to Belle View. He could handle any walk-ins. She texted her father that she was leaving for the day, then biked home. After a quick shower and change of clothes, she took a cab to the Triborough Correctional Facility. Henry Marcus, the guard on duty in the visiting room, greeted her like an old friend, which at this point she was. “I heard you were back in Queens. Welcome home.”
“Thanks, Henry. How’s the family?”
“Good, very good. My oldest had another kid, a boy. Here.” He took out his wallet. “I’m old-fashioned, I like real pictures, not ones on a phone.”
Mia examined the photo of a cherubic infant. “Adorable.”
“Hey, how’s your father? We haven’t seen him in a while.”
“He’s doing something different now. Running Belle View Banquet Manor.”
“Keeping his nose clean, huh?” Henry held a finger to the side of his nose. “Good for him.” He glanced behind Mia. “Frank brought in your brother. You’ve got thirty minutes. Tell Ravello I send my best. He’s a good man. Always remembers us on the holidays. Even when he’s not here.”
“I will. And congratulations on the newest Marcus.” Mia crossed to a table and took a seat across from Posi. “Hi, and no, you’re still not trending.”
Posi frowned and cursed, earning a finger shake from Frank, the guard who escorted him into the room. “Sorry, Frank. So, sis, what’s up?”
“You know how that woman Angie came and accused Dad of owing her money for sex? Well, we had a bachelor party the other night and found her in the pop-out cake dead with a knife stuck in her.”
“Go on.”
“Turns out you were right about how Dad’s typo took him to a bad site. I don’t think he ever did anything on the site, but he was too embarrassed to admit he was considering a little online dating. Anyway, it was Angie at the bottom of the cake and not the stripper, and next to her was a check signed by Dad for a million dollars.”
“Clearly a plant.”
“I know so, and you know so, but tell it to Pete Dianopolis.”
“Pete’s an idiot but he’s not an idiot. He knows. He’s just being a pain in the—” Frank cleared his throat and gave Posi an admonishing look. “Tushy.”
“Still, Dad’s the number one suspect and I guess I’m number two, thanks to Adam Grosso still being M.I.A. I swear, if he wasn’t presumed dead, I’d kill him.”
“You’d have to get in line for that honor.” Posi threaded his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “Okeydoke, let’s look for other suspects. What’s the deal with the staff?”
“The waitstaff was hourly hires who only came to work the parties. They all seemed fine except for this Giorgio character, who was a real—” Frank cleared his throat again. “Jerk. As to full-timers, there’s Guadalupe Cruz, the head chef, and she doesn’t strike me as the type who would kill and hide the body. She was in the military. I don’t see her taking anyone out without a good reason, and then I see her owning what she did. Evans, the sous chef, is odd. I don’t get him, but that doesn’t make him a killer. Or maybe it does, I dunno. Then there’s Cammie, of course, but she calls Pete when she has to kill an ant, so I don’t see her taking a knife to someone.”
“Okay. Let’s talk guests now.”
“I think the police ruled out the anniversary party guests, although there was a real estate agent there who’s like the Grim Reaper of Astoria senior citizens, trying to get them to sign a sales contract with her before they croak. I can totally see her speeding up that process, but I don’t know what connection she’d have to Angie.”
“There might be one. It’s an avenue. What about the bachelor party? Were those Queens guys? Anyone I might know?”
“John’s from Bayside, not Astoria. No one looked familiar to me. They were mostly younger, mid-twenties. The only names you might know are the Koller brothers.”
“From Koller Properties?”
“Yeah, John works security at their corporate headquarters in midtown.”
Posi stroked his chin. “That’s interesting. Their names came up around here the other day. The city is thinking of selling this dump. Now that the Astoria and Long Island City real estate markets are so hot, the land it’s parked on is worth a shi—a boatload. The Kollers are some of the people who wanna build in Queens. Dad said Belle View’s got a great view. Maybe they’ve got their eye on it.”
“That would explain why they came to the party. To check out the land and location. But what would that have to do with Angie’s murder?”
“You’re making me think. Too much thinking hurts my brain and then I frown, and I get lines on my face, and that’s not good for my future as a hot convict.”
“Sorry,” Mia said, her tone dry. “I’ll think for you. There’s one thing I forgot to tell you. When John and this friend of his, Chris Tinker, saw Angie’s body, they definitely reacted to it. Not in a ‘Holy sh—’”
“Ahem,” said Frank.
“Not in a ‘Holy shoot, a dead body!’ way. In a ‘Holy sh-oot, we know her!’ way. They denied it, but I’m pretty sure they were lying.”
“Hmmm . . . The guards here took your phone when you checked in, right?”
“Yes.”
Posi turned to his guard. “Hey, Frank, you mind looking something up for me?”
“Sure, no problem.” Frank took out his phone.
“Type in Happy Hour Bar and Grill and tell me if there’s one in midtown Manhattan.”
Frank tapped on his phone. “Yup. One-fifteen and a half East Fifty-first Street.”
“I thought so,” Posi said. “Thanks, buddy.”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Mia said.
“When I was starting out in the Family, Donny had me do some liquor deliveries to that particular Happy Hour Bar and Grill, which is across the street from Koller’s main office. Donny had a line on a decent rum from Puerto Rico for a good price.”
“You mean a fell-off-the-truck price.”
“You’re going off topic. Anyway, the place has a real popular bar scene, especially with people from nearby businesses like Koller. And because of that, it’s full of working girls, like the late, unlamented Angie. My money’s on this John and Chris knowing her from there.”
“That’s great stuff, Posi. I’d hug you, but I’m afraid Frank would pull his gun on me.”
“That I would,” Frank said, nodding. “It’s my job.” His phone dinged. “Hey, I just got an alert on you, Posi.”
Posi put a hand on his heart. “You set an alert for me? No joke, I’m touched.”
“Yeah, well, we get a lotta lowlifes here, but not a lot of celebrity lowlifes.”
Posi beamed at his sister. “You hear that? I’m a celebrity.” He turned his attention back to Frank. “So, what is it?”
>
“Something from the Triborough Tribune.”
Mia grimaced. “Uh-oh.”
Posi raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing. We had a visit from a Trib reporter. Daughter of a reporter who had the Family in his crosshairs. Someone named Fuoco.”
“Jerry Fuoco?” Posi waved a hand dismissively. “He’s been off the beat for years. I heard he passed on. Doubt his kid can make any noise. What’s it say, Frank?”
The guard squinted at his phone. “I need my readers.” He took a pair from an inside pocket and perched them on his nose. “‘Murder at the Manor.’ Hah, sounds like one of those mysteries by little old English ladies.” He continued to read. “‘A party entertainer was found dead inside a jump-out cake during a bachelor party being held at Belle View Banquet Manor. The manor is now under the stewardship of reputed mob lieutenant Ravello Carina, who insists the business is being run as a legitimate enterprise. Our heart goes out to the family of the late victim, Carina says. The police report that Carina, father to jailed convict Positano Carina and one-time murder suspect Messina Carina, is being cooperative with investigators.’”
Mia considered the story. “At least she used the word reputed. It could’ve been a lot worse.”
“True,” Posi agreed. “Frank, any chance you can share my mug shot with the hashtag, another hot convict?” The guard gave him a “you’re kidding, right?” look and Posi shrugged. “Had to ask. Every missed question is a missed opportunity. Ooh, that’s a good one. I gotta write it down. I’m thinking I might be a motivational speaker when I get out of here.”
Frank tapped his watch “Visit’s over. Time for bye-byes.”
Mia said good-bye to her brother. She promised Henry to pass on his thanks to Ravello for the baby gift he’d sent Henry’s son and daughter-in-law, retrieved the personal items she had to surrender before the visit, then left the facility. Rather than call a ride service, she decided to take the subway to Ditmars Boulevard and walk home from there. Late afternoon was turning into early evening, on the cusp of rush hour. She swiped her Metro card and ran up the stairs, reaching the platform as a train pulled into the station. She jumped onto the train and managed to find the last seat on a subway car.
As the train rattled from one station to another, Mia thought about her conversation with Posi. She recalled John Grazio’s obsequious behavior with the brothers Koller. Mia couldn’t imagine them taking it well if they discovered their security maven was consorting with call girls. She couldn’t imagine John’s fiancée, Alice, taking it well either, or his horrifying mother. Mia could see a predicament like this pushing someone like John over the edge. Then there was John’s friend Chris. What exactly was his story? He reminded her of the guys in high school who were all booze and braggadocio, then wound up managing a McDonald’s. Noble work, to be sure, except that for them, it was less of a career choice and more of an only option.
As the subway lurched into the Ditmars stop at the Queens terminus of the N train, Mia vowed to do a little digging and see if she could uncover a secret that would drive Chris Tinker the Drinker to murder.
Chapter Nine
On the mile-long walk from the subway to her grandmother’s house, Mia was distracted from analyzing potential murder suspects by the Easter decorations still clogging the tiny front yards of home after home. Her street, 46th Place, wasn’t the only one where the neighbors duked it out for the honor of most over-the-top holiday outdoor décor. She passed her family church, Our Lady of Perpetual Anguish, where she’d attended school from kindergarten through eighth grade. Mia never understood why the Catholic church forced such depressing names on their parishes. Then again, she’d earned a nice chunk of change selling her “Perpetual Anguish” volleyball T-shirt on the Internet to an ironic hipster.
Mia picked up a chocolate bunny foil wrapper someone had discarded on the street and placed it in a trash can. She recalled the giant Easter baskets she’d woken up to, some her size, some even larger. Her mother, unable to let a mythical creature get credit for the huge haul of chocolate and toys, dispelled the myth of the Easter Bunny early on. At least Mom let us have Santa, Mia mused as she made the left onto 46th Place and trudged up the steps to her front door. Well, until I was seven.
She entered the two-family home’s tiny vestibule and heard a cacophony of voices coming from Elisabetta’s first-floor abode. She tracked the voices to the kitchen, where her nonna and a half-dozen friends were all talking and yelling at the same time. “What’s going on?” Mia’s question was lost in the Tower of Babel-like mix of English, Italian, and Greek angry sentiments and surprisingly foul language coming from the mouths of eighty-plus-year-olds. “YO!” she yelled. This silenced the room. “What’s going on?” she repeated.
Nonna shook a furious fist in the air. “That strega, Felicity Little Miss Two Last Names, talked Andrea Skarpello into selling her house. The Giannellis, the Alexopouloses, Rose Caniglia, now Andrea? Where will it end, Mia? Che doloro, I won’t have a friend left in the neighborhood. It’ll only be coffee and high heel stores.”
“Okay, I don’t think there’s even such a thing as a high heel store. But I’m as angry about this as you are. I’ll talk to Andrea and see if I can do an end run around whatever line Felicity used to scare her into selling.”
“Grazia, bella bambina.” Elisabetta affectionately pinched her granddaughter’s checks.
“Ow.”
The other nonnas and Greek grandmothers surrounded Mia, expressing their gratitude with hugs and more pinches. Her face was sore by the time she managed to extract herself and go upstairs to her apartment. She took off her shoes and rubbed her feet, which ached from the post-subway trek. Then she padded into the kitchen to see what she could scrounge up for dinner. Mia opened her refrigerator door to find a shelf of leftovers from Elisabetta, all in repurposed ricotta and mozzarella containers. She heated up a bowl of meatball soup in the microwave and devoured it, using a thick slab of Italian bread to sop up any liquid left in the bowl. Fortified, Mia retrieved her laptop from the bedroom and parked herself on the couch, which crunched under her as she sat down because she’d yet to remove the plastic encasing the cushions.
The laptop whirred to life. Her screensaver appeared, an image of Pizzazz staring down at Doorstop who, intimidated, was skulking away from the bird. “Pizzazz,” she murmured, then forced herself to focus. She typed “Chris Tinker” into the search engine. It was a common name and a long list of possible Chris Tinkers popped up. On a whim, she typed in “Chris Drinker” and was rewarded with a page of images of John Grazio’s buddy in a variety of inebriated states. She had to page through a few social media sites, but finally found contact information for him, a telephone number for the cell phone store he managed on Steinway Street.
Mia yawned, worn-out from the long, stressful day. She’d get in touch with the louche Tinker-Drinker tomorrow. The thought of a twelve-hour sleep was too appealing to pass up. She copied the Tinker-related link and sent it to her cell phone. After powering down her computer, she tapped a telephone number into her phone.
“Hi, Mia.” The response came from Noah, the eight-year-old who’d lived next to her in Florida.
“Hi, Noah. I wanted to check in and see if you’ve seen Pizzazz.”
“Nope. I seen a gator, though. It came up into the McNarys’ backyard. Mrs. McNary was screaming so loud. A guy came and caught it. It was awesome.”
“Cool. But no Pizzazz.”
“Nuh-uh.” Noah paused. “Maybe the gator ate him.”
Mia scrunched up her face to banish the unpleasant image. “I hope not.”
“Noah, sweetie, who’s on the phone?” she heard Marie, Noah’s mother, call to him.
“It’s Mia,” Noah called back, loud enough to make Mia’s ears ring. “It’s about Pizzazz.”
“Again? For heaven’s sake, it’s just a bird.”
“I heard that,” Mia muttered.
“Should I tell her?” Noah asked.
Mia ended the call with a heavy heart. She put down her phone and called up another photo on her computer screen. Pizzazz, her head tilted slightly, a mischievous look on her face, perched on the head of the small St. Valentine’s statue that once decorated Mia’s Palm Beach bedroom dresser. The statue had been a gift from Adam. “The patron saint of happy marriages,” he’d told his thrilled wife when he presented it to her. St. Valentine’s hair appeared white in the photo. Closer examination revealed the white color wasn’t hair. It was Pizzazz poo. Mia had printed the photo and included it with the divorce papers she delivered to her philandering spouse.
Mia plugged her phone and computer into chargers, then slumped into the bedroom. She changed into a sleep tee, and crawled under the heavy, bright-red crushed velvet comforter that came with the bed she’d inherited from Rose Caniglia. Doorstop, sensing her sadness, leaped onto the bed and wrapped his lean body around her head. “Pizzazz isn’t ‘just a bird,’” Mia said to the cat as she drifted off. “She’s our bird.”
* * *
The long sleep gave Mia the energy she desperately needed. After a breakfast of leftover soup, she readied herself for the day ahead, which would include a visit to Chris Drinker during her lunch break. When she left the house, she noticed her grandmother hiding behind her Virgin Mary grotto, peering down the street with a pair of binoculars.
“Nonna? Uh, what exactly are you doing?”
“Spying on the new neighbors.” Elisabetta adjusted her position. “There’s a stroller, which means kids, which is a good thing. But there was a woman going over plans with a guy who looks like a contractor, and that’s a bad thing. She’s all thin and dressed in a nice suit with that shiny hair you see in shampoo ads. She looks like one of those City types.” Elisabetta’s tone dripped with scorn.
“A reminder that Queens is the city.”
“Vero, si. But you know what I mean. The people who come here and rip apart the neighborhood, then flip-flop for a quick buck.”