by Maria DiRico
Henry tapped out the message. Mia’s phone rang again and he ignored it. A text tone dinged. “If that’s that idiot Benjy with some excuse,” Mia said, her tone venomous, “I will take him out myself.”
Henry peered at the text. “It’s not. It’s your grandma again. She says it’s important. Oh, and here’s a response from Benjy. He wrote back, ‘Will do.’”
“Good,” Mia said. “He just bought himself another day on this planet.” She stood up. “I better go talk to Nonna.” She blew her brother a kiss. “Later, fratello mio.”
Posi blew a kiss back to her. “Love you, mia sorella.”
Mia checked out of Triborough and retrieved her phone from Henry. She exited the facility into a blast furnace of August air. She speed-dialed her grandmother as she walked toward the subway. “Sorry I couldn’t talk. I was with Posi, and Henry had my phone. What’s up?”
“What’s up,” Elisabetta said, her tone grim, “is that I’m with Minnie at her house. She called me, hysterical. Nicole is in the hospital.”
CHAPTER 8
Mia stopped walking. She held her hand to her mouth, then let it go. “What hospital?”
“One in Manhattan. On the East Side. A name like the singer in those TV music videos we watched together when you were little. Annie Lennox or something.”
“Lenox Hill. I’m on it.”
Mia ended the call and dashed into the street. She waved her hands in the air to flag down a cab. A few already carrying passengers whizzed by. She jumped up and down to attract one from the far lane. An empty cab shot across two lanes of traffic to the sound of horn honking and a lot of cursing from other drivers. Mia pulled open the door and jumped in. “Bless you. Lenox Hill, please. As fast as you can drive without getting pulled over or killing us both.”
The turbaned driver said something in a language Mia didn’t understand, then pulled a U-turn and screeched toward Manhattan. Mia sent a flurry of texts to Minnie, Linda, and Ian while the driver did a masterful job of negotiating potholes, street constructions, and cars going either too fast or too slow. They flew over the Queensboro Bridge, making it to the hospital in a speedy fifteen minutes. Mia rewarded the driver with a hefty tip and ran inside the building. She followed directions to the Emergency Department, where she found Linda pacing in the waiting room, her lovely face lined with worry. Linda saw Mia and her lower lip quivered. “Mia, bella.”
Mia went to Linda and embraced her in a tight hug. “What’s going on? Is Nicole okay? Is she in labor?”
Linda rung her hands. “We don’t know. We’re waiting to hear from Ian.”
A man sitting across the room lifted his head up from his hands—Nicole’s father, Ron. “Hello, Mia. Thank you for coming. It means a lot to us.”
“Of course.” It occurred to Mia this was the first time she’d seen Ron Karras since his second wife’s death. She debated whether to pull him aside and extend her condolences but was spared the awkward moment by Ian’s arrival in the room.
Nicole’s husband went to Linda. “It’s false labor. Braxton-Hicks contractions.”
Linda’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Oh, thank God.”
“Nicole’s fine, the baby is fine. Even if they had to deliver, she’s at thirty-seven weeks, which is considered full-term. But the doctor thinks our little guy or girl might end up being late, so this is a better scenario.”
Linda clutched her son-in-law’s hands. “They’re not gonna send her home right away, are they?”
“No. They’re going to keep her overnight and when she comes home, she’ll be on bedrest for at least a few days. Belated hi, Mia.”
Mia hugged Ian. She released him. He rubbed his eyes. “You look exhausted,” she said. “Can I do anything? Babysit Nicole? Bring over meals?”
Ron stood up and approached them. “I’ll be sending over all their meals from the diner. No arguments, Ian.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was an awkward pause. “I could use a coffee,” Ron said. “Anyone else?”
The others chorused yes, and Ron departed to do a coffee run. “I’m going back to Nicole,” Ian said. “She’s sleeping right now. I’ll let you know when she wakes up so you can both make a quick visit.”
“Grazie, figlio mio.” Linda gave Ian a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Go to your wife.”
Ian left. Mia took Linda’s arm and led her to one of the room’s hard plastic chairs. “You look exhausted, too. Here. Sit. I’ll call my nonna and have her tell Minnie what’s going on.”
The two women sat down next to each other. Mia called Elisabetta, who thanked God several times and instantly relayed the update to a worried Minniguccia. Mia ended the call. “Minnie said not to go home. You should stay with her tonight.”
“That’s a good idea. I will. I’d rather not be alone.” Linda began to quietly weep. “This is all my fault.”
“Linda, that’s crazy talk. This has nothing to do with you.”
The distraught woman shook her head vehemently. “It’s all on me, Mia. I had that fight with Tina and then she died, and the police think I may have done it. The stress of that got to Nicole, I know it did.”
“Not to speak ill of the dead”—Mia craned her neck to make sure Ron wasn’t walking down the hall with the coffees—“But I think Tina had more than a few enemies, which means there are other suspects. Someone put that stolen painting in the stack of shower presents. It was like a warning to Tina. I’m sure the police are looking into that angle.”
Linda gave Mia a weak smile. “I appreciate the support, but I don’t know. The painting may have been someone’s idea of a bad joke.”
Mia pulled her cell phone out of her purse. “I’m curious about something.” She typed in a search with the words “Ferdinand Vela” and “auction.” A list popped up. She scanned it and opened the first document, and then the second. “One of Vela’s paintings sold for over nine hundred thousand dollars at a recent auction. Another sold for only a little under that. Cow and Woman isn’t only a painting by him, it’s notorious, so I’d bet you it’s worth even more money. Whoever put out that painting wasn’t joking. And that person may be the murderer.”
Linda’s phone pinged a text. She read it and her face lit up with a genuine smile. “Ian said Nicole is awake and feeling much better.”
Mia brought her hands together in tiny claps. “Yay!”
“She wants to see us. Andiamo. Let’s go.”
Mia and Linda made their way through a maze of hospital hallways to Nicole. She was the sole occupant of a room designed to house two patients. The mom-to-be was propped up in a bed raised to a forty-five-degree angle. There was a slight pallor to her skin but aside from that, she looked well. Ian, positioned like a sprinter, perched on the side of her bed, ready to bolt and meet whatever need she might have.
Nicole held her arms out to her mother. “Mama.”
Linda choked back a sob and went to her daughter. The two embraced and held each other tightly. “I better let you go before I squeeze that baby out of you,” Linda said, laughing between teary sniffles. “I’m all nervous now.”
She released Nicole, who beckoned to Mia. “Your turn.”
Mia blew her friend a kiss instead. “Your mom scared me with that squeezing-the-baby-out-of-you thing.” The room had two chairs for visitors. Mia pulled both next to Nicole’s bed, offering one to Linda, who sat down. She parked herself in the other one, placed her hands on her thighs, and got down to business. “Your mom here blames herself for your false labor and we know that’s a crock. But—and this is a big but—she’s not all wrong. Tina’s death has created a nightmare and Linda here being a suspect adds to all the stress. What we have to do is come up with another suspect for the police to check out. I know they’re looking into this too—Pete Dianopolis isn’t a total idiot. He does know how to do his job, but it’s NYPD. They got a lot going on. So let’s help them.”
Nicole held a fist up in the air. “I’m in,” she declared. Her husband and
mother seconded and third-ed this.
“I can personally vouch for the staff that worked the party,” Mia said. “It was a small crew of people I totally trust. Which means one of your guests planted a painting that made Tina faint and I think led to her being killed.”
“Ian, hon, can you get me my phone?” Ian practically leaped off the bed, delivering the phone to Nicole in an instant. “I kept a copy of the guest list in the Notes app. I’ll forward it to you and Mom to go over. We all had friends there who one of us might not know.”
The room was quiet as the three perused the guest list. “I didn’t have that many guests and I’ve known them all for years,” Linda said. “With all the gossiping in my crowd, you’d think I’d know it if someone had been holding on to a stolen painting for twenty years.”
“I’m looking at my list and I kind of feel the same way,” Ian said. “But I’ll tell you someone who’s really milking the whole thing, Nic. Your friend Justine, the art dealer.”
Ian held up his phone to display a photo of Justine Cadeau accompanying an article about the mysterious reappearance of Cow and Woman.
Nicole looked confused. “Justine’s not my friend. I thought she was yours.”
Ian shook his head. “Not mine. I’d never seen her before the party. I figured she was on your side.”
Mia’s heart thumped. “None of you know this woman?” The others shook their heads. She jumped out of her chair. “You guys, we have a suspect!” She paced the room, rubbing her hands together as she walked back and forth. “She sat at my table. I’m trying to remember our conversation. Now that I think about it, she kept things very generic and never focused on either one of you. Someone asked her who she was friends with, and she said, ‘I love them both.’ She never directly answered the question. She’s an art dealer, so there’s a logical link between her and the painting. I’m sure the cops would be all over that if they weren’t distracted by all the family drama, Linda, don’t even think about blaming yourself again.”
“How did she find out about the shower?” Nicole wondered.
“Tina,” Mia said.
“But Tina didn’t seem to know her,” Ian said.
“Maybe she didn’t,” Mia said. “But Justine must have known her. Or about her. Tina had buckets of money for a retired flight attendant. I checked out the Versailles website for the cost of that shower she threw. The package she went for is so expensive, they don’t even give a figure on the site. It just says price upon request, like it’s one of those bazillion-dollar homes in the real estate section. You have to wonder why she has that kind of money. There’s something very sketchy about her.”
“I’ve got the coffees.”
Mia froze. She turned to see Ron standing behind her. “Ron, heh, hi,” she stammered. She gave up trying to cover. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes.” The middle-aged man glanced down at the holder full of coffees still in his hand, emanating an air of defeat. “All I know is that my second marriage was a mistake.” His voice broke. “I’m so sorry.”
Ian relieved his father-in-law of the coffee. “Thanks for this, Ron.” He handed them out.
Ron shook off his emotions. “Thank God you’re all right, koritsi mou omorfo,” he said to his daughter. “My beautiful girl. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
Nicole reached out a hand to her father. “Dad, stay. Please.”
Ron, uncertain, glanced at his ex-wife. “Stay,” Linda said.
Mia snuck out of the room, leaving the family to their complicated dynamics. She found an empty table in the hospital’s second-floor cafeteria and sat down to drink her coffee and do a little research on her phone. Finding Justine Cadeau’s gallery was easy. It was called The Justine Cadeau Gallery. The dealer represented contemporary artists. Mia didn’t recognize a single name on the gallery list but judging by the prices, she assumed they were well known. Note to self, schedule a refresher visit to the Museum of Modern Art sometime. She checked the gallery’s hours, and then her watch. It had closed at seven. It was now seven-thirty. She put in a call to Cammie. “Hi. Were you planning to show up at Belle View tomorrow?”
“I have to,” Cammie said. “I’m teaching a Zumba class in the Marina Ballroom. I got a training certificate in my free time, which thanks to a very cushy job, is pretty much all my time. I figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed the room. I made everyone sign a waiver absolving Belle View—and me—of any responsibility or liability should injury or death ensue. One of my students is a lawyer and created a legally binding document in exchange for a month of free classes. We good?”
“We’re good but in between salsa and samba numbers, could you cover for me? I have an errand to run in Manhattan.”
“Oooh.” Mia imagined an intrigued Cammie raising a bleached eyebrow. “Anything to do with the mystery of the ugly painting?”
“Everything to do with it. I’ll fill you in if there’s anything to tell you. Oh, and do me another favor: keep an eye on Benjy. He’s a questionable employee.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Cammie said with a snort. “He’s making my job harder by making me actually have to work.”
The call over, Mia headed back to Queens, choosing to economize by taking the subway. A sweat-soaked hour later, she staggered down the stairs onto Ditmars Boulevard, vowing to do whatever it took to finagle another driving lesson out of Jamie, who’d been suspiciously out of reach since the last one. She walked the mile home, showered off the city summer grime, fed her pets, and collapsed on top of her bed with the room’s box air conditioner cranked up to maximum chill.
The next morning, Mia donned the black dress she’d worn to meet Castor Garvalos. She made her way downstairs. Elisabetta, also dressed in black, was in the vestibule. She checked out her granddaughter’s outfit. “You going to a funeral, too?”
“No. I have to go to a gallery in Tribeca. The one owned by that art dealer who ID’d the painting at Nicole’s shower. Turns out no one at the party knew her. I’m looking for a connection between her and Tina that I can share with Pete Dianopolis to take the heat off Linda.”
“That’s my girl.” Elisabetta opened the door and peeked outside. “Bene, there’s Philip. He’s coming with me today.” Mia glanced outside and saw Philip, half of the gay couple that had moved in down the street, walking toward the house. “Finn took the babies to his mother for a week so Philip said he could come to the funeral today and distract everyone while I deliver Gugliemo’s shoes.” Elisabetta held up a bag. “The man who passed away was a pipe fitter, in his eighties, and president of his union local. Should be quite a crowd.”
Mia quirked the corner of her mouth. “A handsome gay man at a blue-collar funeral is gonna be quite a distraction.”
Her grandmother dismissed her with a pfft sound. “Probably half the mourners’ kids are gay. They just don’t know it. Ciao, bambino.”
Philip came up the steps to the top of the stoop. He greeted the women with kisses on both of their cheeks. “Am I dressed correctly?” He ran a hand up and down his dark suit like a spokesmodel. “I’ve never been to an Italian funeral. I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t be,” Elisabetta said. “They’re just like your WASP-y ones but with more crying and better food.”
“The handkerchief’s an impressive touch.” Mia nodded toward a neatly folded white silk hankie peeping out of Philip’s breast pocket. “Don’t lend it to someone. You might not get it back.”
Elisabetta left for the funeral with her accomplice. Mia, mindful of the sweat storm from the evening before, called a cab. “Can you ball-park the cost to Tribeca?” she asked the driver after climbing in his car. He did so and she sighed. “Ditmars Boulevard, please.” Luckily, an entrepreneurial Senegalese immigrant was selling personal fans at the bottom of the subway stairs. Mia bought one, using it as she transferred between subway lines in her quest to reach Tribeca. She got off at Franklin Street and darted up the stairs out of the hellmouth that was a New York subway stop i
n August, and exited onto the street, which didn’t provide much relief from the heat. Mia kept the fan going as she traipsed along to The Justine Cadeau Gallery, earning envious looks from her fellow city dwellers. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for that thing,” said a young guy who was dressed like a taco, handing out flyers for a new restaurant.
Mia, taking pity on him, handed over the fan. “Here. You got it way worse than me.”
After profuse thanks and an offer of tacos for life, Mia eventually found herself on Leonard Street. She kept walking until she came upon the gallery. It was housed in one of the many century-plus-years-old cast-iron buildings that made the neighborhood, as well as nearby Soho, famous. Mia pushed on the door handle. It didn’t move. She jiggled it, but to no avail. The door was locked, the gallery closed. Mia double-checked the gallery hours, which were listed in a small box on the door: 11 A.M. TO 7 P.M. The time was currently 11:45 A.M. Could Justine be late, Mia wondered? Or conversely, taking an early lunch? She looked up the gallery’s number on her phone and called it. The call went straight to voicemail, followed by an announcement that the number’s mailbox was full.
Frustrated, Mia rested against one of the building’s cast-iron columns. A trickle of sweat dripped off her forehead and fell to the ground. I wish I still had my fan, she thought glumly. A hipster-looking waitress wiping down a table at the upscale café housed in the building next door, waved the rag in her hand to get Mia’s attention. “Hi,” she called to her. “If you’re trying to visit the gallery, it hasn’t been open in days. The owner lives upstairs, but I haven’t seen her lately. She must be on vacation. Although you’d think she’d put up a sign or something.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the intel,” Mia called back to the waitress. It was a nice theory. But Mia’s gut was sending the message that Justine wasn’t on vacation. She had disappeared. . . or been disappeared.
CHAPTER 9
Mia evaluated the situation. The outdoor area of the café was empty of customers and its lone waitress looked bored. On the chance that boredom would translate into small talk that evolved into gossip, Mia sauntered over and took a seat. The waitress brightened and handed her a menu. “I’m Santia. Welcome to Sourced, where everything is ethically sourced. Everything, even the napkins. They’re Fair Trade, made by survivors of Ebola in the Republic of Congo. And, little tip, the coffee here is lit. It’s from the owner’s private plantation on the Kona side of the big island of Hawaii.”