by Maria DiRico
Mia filed this discovery away for the time being. She didn’t want to distract the madam from confirming Angie had targeted Ravello. Sofeea stopped typing. “I just remembered; Angie had her own password. I didn’t want her on my account.”
“Smart move on your part. Do you know her password?”
“No,” Sofeea said, frustrated.
“Think. It could be her old street address, a celebrity she had the hots for, her favorite saying.” Sofeea brightened. She tapped a few letters on the keyboard and a home page opened. The women cheered. “That was pretty short. What did you type?”
“F.M.L.”
“Eff My Life?”
“Her favorite saying.”
“Well done. Okay, now go to her search history. Look for my father.”
Mia peered over the madam’s shoulder as she clicked on the drop-down menu for the search history. A long list appeared. Each entry featured the name “Ravello Carina.”
Sofeea gaped at the list. “You were right.”
“She did her homework.” Mia pointed to an article. “I remember that one. It’s about whether my dad was senile or acting that way to get out of a jail sentence.”
“Which was it?”
“The latter. It didn’t work. But I bet Angie thought it was the former. And tried to use his ‘senility’ to make him doubt his own memory and think maybe he really did sleep with her.”
“Hold on a sec.” Sofeea opened an article.
“That one doesn’t have anything to do with my father.”
“I know. It’s about one of my clients. Former clients. I haven’t heard from him in weeks.” The two women scanned the piece, which was about a seventy-year-old CEO fighting to hold on to his position after underlings questioned his mental acuity.
“Drill down in the search history,” Mia instructed Sofeea, who did so. A few more articles appeared, each one featuring a wealthy aging man whose wits might or might not be slipping.
“These are all my clients,” Sofeea said. “Or were. They stopped booking appointments. It really hit my bottom line. If it weren’t for referrals, I’d be out of business.”
“Angie may have been a bad tattoo artist, but she was a good grifter. I bet she pulled the same blackmail scam on these guys that she did on my dad. No way they’d come back to you. They were afraid of being exposed.”
“But how did she get into my account? I have top-of-the-line security. And my password’s not written down anywhere.”
“Let me guess. It’s your childhood address in Ohio.”
It dawned on Sofeea. “Which Angie knew . . .”
“Because you went to school together and lived in the same town.”
The stream of profanity coming from Sofeea belied her glamorous image. “I can’t believe this.” She began typing furiously. “I’m sorry to kick you out, but I have to do some serious damage control.”
“No worries, I get it. I’ll let myself out.”
Mia put her hand on the doorknob. Sofeea stopped typing. “Thanks. I owe you. I really was a publicist. I got tired of the crappy pay. But I’m good. When you’re ready, let me know. I’ll give you the ‘Flying High’ publicity package. On me.”
“Great, I’ll be in touch.” Mia shuddered. “But I don’t want to know what that package is when you’re not talking about publicity.”
* * *
As Mia walked back to the subway, she thought about the photo of Sofeea and Bradley Koller cuddling together. Mia guessed they’d met at Happy Hour Bar and Grill. If Bradley knew about his girlfriend’s line of work, he probably didn’t care. His father was famous for cavorting with call girls and porn stars. Whenever the tabloids had screamed about his latest liaison, the Koller family simply shrugged it off or used it as evidence of the old man’s virility, pivoting the story from sleazy to proof that Koller senior was such a stud no one woman could satisfy him.
Sofeea had seemed genuinely shocked by Angie’s double-crossing her. But that was a separate issue from Angie’s murder. If Sofeea was dating Bradley Koller, and the death was related to a clandestine Koller real estate deal in Queens, there was every possibility that Sofeea knew about it—and might even have set her roommate up.
Mia’s phone rang. She checked, saw it was a call from the groom’s-mother-zilla, and ignored the call. Seconds later, her phone buzzed a text: “Where’s my blue flower sample?” Mia groaned. “You’re not gonna let up, are you?” she said to her phone. Then she had a brainstorm. “Name and address of Dad’s maybe girlfriend,” she texted to Cammie, who texted back, “Lin Yeung, Asia Flora, 452 St. Marks Place.”
She searched “Asia Flora” on her phone. The store was open until seven and it was only five-thirty. Mrs. Grazio’s crazy flower demands offered Mia a chance to check out this Lin Yeung woman and evaluate whether she was good enough for her father. Mia joined the mass of rush-hour commuters for a subway ride downtown.
Mia never cared much for the East Village. The rents may have been astronomical, as they were all over Manhattan, but she still found the neighborhood grimy and rundown. But Asia Flora was a revelation. The exterior of the old brownstone was painted a crisp white, with the windows and front door outlined in black. Flower boxes filled with a lovely array of succulents hung below each window. Black planters filled with a combination of lavender and rosemary stood sentry on either side of the front door, perfuming the air with their scents. The building shone like a diamond in a field of cow patties. Not that Mia had ever seen a cow patty, but she’d seen some big, honking diamonds when her brother was arrested for fencing them.
A deliveryman came out of the store carrying a tall, rectangular vase filled with a spectacular arrangement of roses, hyacinths, lilies, and snapdragons. Mia peered through the store window. A tall woman with tawny skin and golden hair was perusing the flower case, her back to Mia. The store phone rang, and the woman stepped behind the counter to answer the call. As she turned, Mia saw she had Eurasian features. “Asia Flora,” she heard the woman say. This had to be Lin Yeung. Mia felt embarrassed by her expectation that her father’s paramour would fit the stereotype of a tiny, silky-haired Asian woman. She waited until Lin ended the call and then stepped inside the store.
She was greeted with a warm smile. “Hello.” Lin spoke with the gentle timbre of a yoga instructor Mia studied with in Palm Beach, a woman whose voice was guaranteed to put Mia to sleep within fifteen minutes. “Can I help you or would you rather look around?”
Mia wanted to get a sense of who Lin was before she brought up her connection to the woman’s possible boyfriend, so she chose to play customer. She pulled out Barbara Grazio’s blindingly blue swatch. “I’m an event planner and my client is demanding flowers in this color. I told her there’s no such thing. She insists that there is, somewhere on the planet. She’s a tough one, so I’m hoping she’s right and I’m wrong.”
Lin took the swatch and examined it. “You’re not.”
“Oh boy.”
“This shade of blue isn’t found in nature. The only way to achieve it is by either spraying white roses or dipping them into a dye. I say roses because they’ll look better wearing this color. It’s not my usual way to work, but I’d be happy to do it for you, Mia.”
Mia turned red, mortified that Lin had seen through her act. “You know who I am.”
Lin graced her with another smile. “Of course. Have you ever wondered why your father’s wallet is so fat? It’s stuffed with pictures of you. That’s how we got to know each other. Bragging about our grown children.” She pointed to an artistic black-and-white photo hanging on the wall behind the service counter. A handsome man in his late twenties had his arms around the shoulders of an equally good-looking woman who held a baby in her arms. “My son, Alex, and his wife, Caroline, with their little girl, Eliza. My daughter, Olivia, took the picture. She’s a fashion photographer.”
Mia walked over to the photo and studied it. “You have a grandchild.”
“And another on the way.”
“We haven’t given Dad any grandchildren yet.” Mia couldn’t help sounding wistful.
“You’ve got time.”
Mia snorted. “Oh, you are so not Italian.”
“No. Vietnamese and American. My father was a G.I. Classic Vietnam War story. Only mine didn’t abandon his mixed-race child. He was killed in action.”
“I’m sorry. When did you come here?”
“In 1975. During the Fall of Saigon. I was seven.”
“You don’t have an accent.”
“My mother insisted I take elocution lessons. She didn’t want an accent to be a career barrier for me. I was a federal prosecutor until a few years ago, when I retired and opened this shop.”
“A prosecutor? Seriously? Does my dad know that?”
“Yes. He also knows I have no interest in dating a gangster, so if he goes back to the Life, we’re done.”
“Good. The more motivation he has to stay legit, the better.”
Lin indicated a teapot and electric kettle on a small glass table. “Would you like some tea? I keep it out for my customers.”
“No, thanks. I should get going.”
“So, do you approve of me?” Lin’s light, almost golden, brown eyes twinkled.
Mia looked sheepish. “Busted. Okay, I did want to check you out. But I also really need these blue flowers. This groom’s mother is scarier than some of my dad’s ‘associates.’”
Lin made a face. “A groom’s-mother-zilla? You poor thing. I’ve run into a few of those myself when I’ve done wedding arrangements. I’ll make you a corsage of blue flowers that will look so real, the woman will think you picked them yourself.”
“Thank you,” Mia said, relieved. “I better go. It was nice meeting you. Very nice.”
“Same here.”
“Your store is beautiful, by the way. I can see why my dad likes to come here.” Mia, on the way to the front door, noticed a bridge table with several arrangements on it. She detoured over to one that was a riot of color, with orange tiger lilies, purple irises, yellow roses, and hot pink peonies. “I love this one.”
“Those are by my students. And that one happens to be your father’s arrangement. He said he was using as many of your favorite colors as he could in it.” The sight of her father’s bouquet, crafted so lovingly, brought Mia to tears. She pressed her hands on her eyelids to make herself stop crying. Lin brought her a tissue and put an arm around her shoulders. “He loves you so much,” Lin said. “He’s beyond happy you came home, Mia. Every time he came into the shop, he entered with a countdown. ‘Forty-nine days!’ ‘Twenty-one days!’ Working with you is a dream come true for him. He so badly wants Belle View to succeed. Not just for us and our future, but for yours. He’d do anything to make that happen. Except kill for it.”
“Of course not. Thank you for your faith in him.” Mia wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “I really appreciate you making the blue flowers for me. Let me know when they’re ready. I’ll come by and pick them up.”
Mia left the shop. Twilight was fading into evening. She made her way to the Astor Place Station, and as she shoved herself onto a crowded uptown train, she contemplated the conversation with Lin. One of the Family’s unwritten rules was, never let the wife and kids know the details of what you did—especially the wife and girl kids, old school as that might be. Posi swore their father had managed to steer clear of violence, at least the deadly kind. But as Mia changed trains at Union Square for the Queens-bound N train, she couldn’t stop wondering . . . motivated by a desperate desire to save Belle View, could her father have been driven to kill someone who posed a threat to it?
Chapter Fifteen
Mia stopped by Belle View before heading home to see how the kitchen repairs were coming along. A brand-new commercial stove, delivered by one of the many gamblers who owed Ravello a favor, sat gleaming and ready for action. Meanwhile, Tulio’s work crew had made fast work of repairing the hole in the wall created by the firemen when they extinguished the blaze outside the kitchen.
Mia wrinkled her nose. The air in the room smelled like a combination of fresh paint and smoke damage. But that scent was overwhelmed by another, worse smell. Mia sniffed her way out of the kitchen, trying to track down whatever it was that was giving off the rotting odor. She found the culprit in Ravello’s office—the bouquet of lavender flowers on her father’s desk, now wilted and shedding petals. She made a move to toss it, then hesitated. Ravello had created the bouquet under the auspices of Lin, his secret girlfriend. Mia felt presumptuous disposing of something her father might have a sentimental attachment to. Instead, she pulled out her cell and texted Ravello. “Time to throw out the flower arrangement in your office. It stinks.”
“It does?” he texted back. “I didn’t notice.” Ravello’s nose had been broken a couple of times in ways he’d never shared with his children. The damage left him with an iffy sniffer.
Mia cabbed home, where she passed out as soon as her head hit the pillow. She awoke the next morning to a cacophony of chatter coming from Elisabetta’s. “Nonna, everything all right?” she called from her landing to the apartment below.
“No! No, everything is not all right! Misericordia!”
Mia learned as a child that when her grandmother’s reactions bordered on the level of Italian opera, it was a personal, not a global crisis. She threw on her bathrobe and padded downstairs. She found Elisabetta and her Army in the kitchen, all in a high dudgeon and talking at the same time. “Yo!” she yelled to get their attention. It worked. They quieted down. “Better. Now, what’s going on?”
“The new people, do you know what they did?” Elisabetta’s eyes flashed with fury. Her voice was guttural with anger. “Rose’s Virgin Mary is gone. Gone! They got rid of it.”
“Who does that to the Virgin Mary?” This mournful rhetorical question came from Elisabetta’s longtime next-door neighbor, Phyllis Carullo. She crossed herself and the other women followed suit.
“I know how upsetting this is to all of you,” Mia said. “But new people bought the house. They can do whatever they want to it. Who knows? Maybe they’re Jewish.”
Elisabetta shook her head vehemently. “No. The Levines at forty-one-twenty-two? They kept the Virgin Mary that came with their house. They’ve lived here thirty years with the Madonna in their front yard. You know why? The Jewish people believe in tradition.”
“They had the first bible,” Phyllis explained to Mia. “The Old Testament.”
“I know what the Old Testament is.” Mia said this through gritted teeth, her patience worn thin. “Here’s the deal. When the new neighbors move in, be nice to them. Welcome them with some of the incredible food you all make. Then explain how important the Virgin Mary statues are to the block. I’m sure they have zero idea about that. Hopefully, they’ll understand and replace her. But if not, you have to make peace with their choice. Because it is their choice.”
There was grumbling in a mix of languages, including Hero’s outraged barks. “Fine,” Elisabetta said with great reluctance. “This is all that real estate agent’s fault, that Felicia two-last-names.”
“Felicity Stewart Forbes,” Mia said.
“Any chance she murdered that girl at Belle View?” her grandmother asked, looking hopeful.
Mia threw up her hands. “Yes, no, I don’t know. Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. I’d love the murderer to be her, I’d love it to be anyone. I just want the whole thing over with.”
Mia trudged upstairs. She fed Doorstop, then showered, dressed, and left for the day. Instead of going straight to Belle View, she took a walk to La Guli, where she picked up a box of pastries, comfort sweets for her and some new friends. When she’d checked the day’s schedule, she’d seen that the pet grief support group was holding a morning meeting. Mia assumed they’d let her participate in the session but figured a little sugared bribery wouldn’t hurt. “One for the road,” her store clerk friend, Julie, said, handing her an anise biscotti. “You look
like you could use it.”
“You have no idea.” Mia chomped down on the hard cookie.
“Here.” Julie poured her a cup of coffee. “You gotta dunk those. They’re like rocks. Delicious, all-natural rocks.”
“Honestly, they’re delish either way.” Mia dunked the biscotti, then alternated between hard and soft bites. “Why is life so complicated, Julie? I know that somewhere right now, there are people dunking biscotti and reading the paper with their feet up on an ottoman. What does it take to be one of those people?”
“Disposable income.”
“Truth.”
“But I know you, Mia.” Julie waved a hand at her. “You don’t wanna be one of those people, sitting around all day eating bonbons and watching the soaps.”
“Bonbons and soaps? I’d have to take a time machine back to the nineteen fifties to be that person.”
“You know what I mean. I’m trying to say you got too much going on up here.” The store clerk tapped her head. “Things’ll calm down. And then you and your dad’ll be throwing the best parties Astoria’s ever seen. Now, go. Andiamo.” Julie motioned with her hands to shoo Mia from the store. “Set the world on fire. But not really. You don’t need another one of those at Belle View.”
“No, we do not.”
Mia blew Julie a grateful kiss and left the store. Still feeling emotionally vulnerable, she opened the Pick-U-Up app. She tapped in a request, hoping Jamie’s Prius would pop up. It didn’t, so she chose a red mini-SUV, which pulled up in front of the Pasticceria a minute later. Traffic was light and the ride to Belle View quick. She stopped in her office to confirm the day’s schedule, then brought her pastries into the bridal lounge to join the support group. She was happy to see that Guadalupe and Evans had set up a coffee station without her putting in a request for one. “Hi, everyone.”
“Hi, Mia,” the group chorused back.
“I brought pastries. From La Guli.” This brought wan smiles from the grieving pet parents. “Is it okay if I join you?” Mia put the question to Vivien, the group leader.