* * *
"Here we are," Veronica said as she pulled into the driveway of my parents' West University home.
"Yeah, Graceland," I muttered as I exited the car. But my family's red brick ranch-style home was anything but. My mom and dad bought the house in the late 1970s, before the neighborhood became gentrified. And they hadn't done a thing to the place since. Any money they had went back into the deli and, whenever possible, their retirement savings.
"I don't know why you dislike this house," Veronica said as she opened the trunk of her Audi. "It's so warm and cozy."
I rolled my eyes as I grabbed my suitcase and slammed the trunk. When it came to comfort, I'd pick Veronica's family home over mine any day. The Maggio's stately manor in Houston's posh River Oaks subdivision made The King's Memphis mansion look like a trailer home parked at the dump.
As Veronica and I headed up the walkway, my mother opened the door in a green gingham apron she'd had since I was a kid. Of course, that was my first clue she'd ignored my request to stay out of the kitchen. The second was the wooden spoon in her hand.
"I'm so glad to see you girls," she said as I bent at the waist to give her a hug. Compared to my five-foot-four mother, I was a giant at five-foot-ten. "I'm sorry about your dinner with Bradley, dear."
I knew she was. My mother wanted to see me married almost as much as my nonna, who'd labeled me a zitella, or old maid, at the ripe old age of sixteen. And since I was now twenty-nine, trust me when I say that if my nonna knew my romantic dinner had been called off because she was missing, she would've coldcocked the Pope, if necessary, to get back to this house. Come to think of it, I'd consider clocking the Pope too if it meant I could go back to New Orleans to be with Bradley. I sighed and said, "Nothing could've kept me away, Mom."
She turned and gave Veronica a quick squeeze. "This is just like the old days when you two used to come home from college together for the holidays."
"Never mind the reminiscing," I said, noticing tomato sauce splatter on my mother's reading glasses. "What are you doing using the kitchen?"
She pretended to examine a stain on her apron. "You know that cooking helps calm my nerves when I'm worried, dear. Besides, I thought you might be hungry for some pasta after your trip."
My mom pushed pasta like a drug dealer pushed powders and pills. When I was growing up, she would feed my two brothers and me enough spaghetti in a week to sustain a professional cycling team during all 21 days of the Tour de France. "We ate sandwiches in the car—at lunchtime?"
My mother's brow furrowed as she turned to open the front door. "A sandwich isn't a meal, Francesca."
"Is there any news about Nonna Carmela?" Veronica asked, changing the subject as she followed my mother into the house.
"Joe went to the police station half an hour ago, so I'm expecting a call any minute. He hasn't slept or eaten since she went missing." She frowned and took a seat on the living room couch. "You know Italian men and their mammas. They're such mammoni."
I gave her a pointed look as I deposited my bag next to my father's "antique" La-Z-Boy. "Speaking of mamma's boys, where are Michael and Anthony?"
"Your father told Michael to check with the hospitals, and Anthony's holding down the fort at the deli."
I shook my head and entered the adjoining kitchen. Anthony was the middle child, and even though we'd lived in Texas all our lives, he dressed, acted, and sounded like a cast member of Jersey Shore. Unfortunately, he had the same work ethic too. "Couldn't you just close Amato's given the circumstances?"
"You know the Christmas season is one of our busiest times, dear. With the economy the way it is, we need the money. And your father didn't want to leave our customers in the lurch for the holidays."
Veronica patted my mother's knee. "I'm sure the deli's in good hands with Anthony."
Riiight, I thought. If your idea of "good hands" involved customers serving themselves while Anthony played games on his phone. As I surveyed the kitchen, I detected a faint smell of ammonia, which shouldn't have surprised me given my mother's close, personal relationship with Mr. Clean. "Mom," I began, glowering, "don't tell me you cleaned in here too."
She stood up and put her hands on her hips. "I had to sanitize the countertops before I could make the sauce, Francesca. There was something red and sticky everywhere."
My jaw dropped so low it practically came unhinged. "You mean, like blood?"
"No, like dried cranberry juice. Honestly," she huffed as she entered the kitchen, "ever since you've been in law enforcement you've become so melodramatic."
Gee, I wonder why, I thought as I scanned the white Formica countertops. There was no trace of the red, sticky substance, only my mother's marinara. "Do you even have cranberry juice?" I opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. "I don't see any in here."
She sighed. "That's probably because someone spilled the last of it on the counter."
I slammed the door shut. Arguing with my mother was like throwing a boomerang—she kept coming right back at you with her circular reasoning.
The phone rang.
"That must be your father." My mother lifted the receiver from its wall mount. "Hello?"
I moved to stand beside her.
"Yes, they're here, Joe. But Francesca's refusing to eat." She shot me a look. "Like father, like daughter."
Veronica and I exchanged a smirk.
My mother was silent, and then she gasped and collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table. "Oh, no! I can't believe that."
This time Veronica and I exchanged a frown.
"Now calm down, Joe. You know how much Mr. Holcomb drinks. He could have hallucinated the whole thing." She fell silent for a moment. "All right, honey, but try to come home for some dinner."
Instead of hanging up the phone, my mother cradled the receiver in her lap. She had a fearful look in her eyes.
"What did he say?" I asked, panic welling in my chest.
"The police haven't found anything yet. But Mr. Holcomb from next door called your father, and he said he saw your nonna getting into a black limousine here at the house yesterday at noon."
The bottom dropped out of my stomach. "Why the hell didn't he tell you that then?"
My mother turned and hung up the phone. "Because he didn't know she was missing. Last night your father canvassed the neighborhood knocking on doors and handing out flyers, and Mr. Holcomb just found one in his mailbox this afternoon."
"Did Mr. Holcomb say anything else?" Veronica asked.
She nodded and looked at her hands. "He said that a man wearing all black may have forced Carmela into the car."
"May have?" I exclaimed. "Either the guy did or he didn't."
"This man in black was probably the limo driver," Veronica said. "Is Mr. Holcomb sure that he wasn't just helping her into the car?"
"That's what he thought at first," my mother said. "But then when he heard she was missing, he realized that the man might not have been helping her at all."
I leaned against the kitchen countertop and crossed my arms across my chest. As worst case scenarios ran through my head, I noticed several dark elongated spots on a cabinet door beneath the sink. I stiffened and said, "Veronica, come here."
"What is it?" she asked as she entered the kitchen.
I pointed to the spots. "What does that look like to you?"
She knelt beside me on the linoleum floor, and her mouth formed a grim line. "It looks like blood spatter."
I nodded. "Mom, did you or dad cut yourselves recently?"
"Not that I know of, dear. Why?"
I exhaled deeply. "Because there's some dried blood on the cabinet."
She put her hand to her cheek. "Maybe your nonna cut herself."
"That's probably what happened," I said in an attempt not to worry her. But I wasn't convinced. In fact, I was starting to wonder whether the red, sticky substance on the countertop had been blood after all.
"What are you thinking, Franki?" Veronica whispered.<
br />
"That Glenda might have been right about the sweetheart swindler," I replied. "The man in black could've brought roses to my nonna. Then maybe she came into the kitchen to put them in a vase, there was a struggle, and then—" I choked back a sob. I couldn't bear to say the rest.
Veronica squeezed my arm and rose to her feet. "I'm going to start calling the limo companies."
"And I'm going to pay a visit to Father Nolan. If my nonna was carrying on with a man, she would have confessed—and often."
* * *
I eased my mom's Ford Taurus station wagon into a parking space at St. Mary's Catholic Church and cut the engine. Like Amato's Deli, St. Mary's was in the Rice Village shopping district and was less than half a mile from our house. As a native Italian, my nonna did as the Romans do and walked to the church, rain or shine. But as a true Texan, I did as the Houstonians do and drove. In my defense, my nonna's disappearance constituted a crisis of epic proportions. Plus, it was a balmy eighty degrees in Houston on this Christmas Eve day.
As I approached the entrance of the Gothic-style cathedral, I gave a little shudder. My brothers and I were baptized and confirmed at St. Mary's, where we also endured countless hours of Sunday school at the mercy of Sister Cecilia. Contrary to her religious title, the woman was no saint. When I was twelve, I saw her reading a romance novel and asked whether she pretended that the male love interest was Jesus. My "impertinence" landed me a suspension from her class. Dissatisfied with the grounding I got from my parents, Sister Cecilia told my nonna I was "sex-obsessed," and for that I had to recite the rosary until my fingers went numb. Now that I think about it, my nonna's lucky she didn't disappear back then, because I might not have looked for her.
With a heavy sigh, I pulled open the wooden door and crossed myself as I entered the church. It only took a second to spot Father Nolan's barrel chest and balding head—and for my clergy allergy to kick in. You see, after the Sister Cecilia incident, I started skipping church the way that other kids skip school. And like a good bad Catholic girl, I'd felt guilty about it ever since. As a result, I broke out in hives every time I had to talk to a priest or a nun, which didn't exactly bolster my attendance.
Gathering up my courage, I marched to the altar where Father Nolan was conferring with a much younger, frail-looking priest. "Father," I began, scratching my elbow, "may I have a word?"
"Why, Francesca Lucia Amato!" He grasped my arm with his clammy hands and pulled me over to a pew. "It's been quite a long time since we've seen you at St. Mary's."
"Y-yes," I stammered, furiously scratching my bicep. There was nothing like a guilt trip from a Catholic priest. Trying to cover for my lengthy absence, I said, "You know I moved to Austin and then to New Orleans."
"Of course." He flicked a piece of lint from his cassock and angled a glance at me from beneath his brow. "But we hadn't seen you for some time even before that."
By now my cheeks were so hot it felt like they were burning in the flames of inferno. I decided to remind him that my nonna was the one who was MIA. "Actually, I didn't come here to talk about me. My nonna Carmela is still missing—"
Father Nolan clucked his tongue. "Shocking business," he said, giving me a reassuring pat on the leg. "The whole congregation is worried sick about her disappearance."
"My family is too," I replied, raking my nails over my jean-clad thigh.
He crossed his arms and pursed his lips. "Have you considered the possibility that your nonna decided to go away for a few days?"
I stared at him open-mouthed. For a man who'd listened to my nonna confess for the past thirty-five years, he didn't seem to know the first thing about her. In her world, getting away meant spending a night in my parents' guest room, which was right next door to her bedroom. "As I'm sure you're aware," I said, raising my eyebrow for effect, "a vacation is out of the question for someone as control—er, devoted to her family as my nonna."
"True, true," Father Nolan concurred with a vigorous nod, his turkey neck bouncing up and down to reveal the white of his clerical collar.
"To be honest, I have reason to believe that my nonna may have been victimized by someone she knew. Has she mentioned anyone to you in confession?" I hesitated before uttering this next phrase in the presence of a priest. "Like a love interest?"
He let out a hearty laugh and then quickly cleared his throat. "Now Francesca, you know I can't disclose the things my parishioners say in the confessional."
I can't say I blamed him for laughing. Under any other circumstances, the notion of my nonna with a man would have been pretty darn hilarious, not to mention pretty damn gross. "I just thought that given the urgency of the situation—"
"Well, you thought wrong, young lady," he interrupted. "The only thing I can tell you is that I'm not the least bit worried about Carmela Montalbano taking care of herself. Frankly, I'd be more concerned about the poor soul who tried to put one over on her."
I narrowed my eyes. Maybe Father Nolan did know my nonna.
"But while we're on the subject of lovers," he began in a patronizing tone, "what are you now? Thirty-four?"
"Twenty-nine," I snapped—after I'd swallowed the small amount of vomit that came up when he'd said lovers.
He sized me up like a Mafia Don at a shakedown. "Has your boyfriend proposed to you yet?"
Jesus, I thought, scratching my neck. These priests really know how to pry. "Uh, like I said before, I came here to talk about my nonna."
Father Nolan looked at his Rolex and practically jumped from the pew. "No more time for chatting, I'm afraid. I've got to get ready for the five o'clock service." He shook his index finger at me. "Now, you keep us posted about your grandmother, you hear?"
"Will do," I muttered as he hurried away. The whole congregation might be worried about my nonna, but Father Nolan sure didn't seem to be.
As I pondered my next move, the young priest approached. "I'm Father Ryan," he said in a soft voice. Then he glanced from left to right before taking a seat next to me. "Did I hear you say that Carmela Montalbano was missing?"
"Since yesterday," I replied, wondering why he seemed so nervous. "She's my grandmother."
His bright blue eyes seemed to pop from their sockets. "I would have said something sooner if I'd known. But I haven't seen you in church before."
I scratched my side. These catty clerics were never going to let me live my lapsed Catholicism down. "So, what was it you wanted to tell me?"
"Well," he whispered, clutching his crucifix necklace like a lifeline, "I've been gone for the past few days, so I was surprised when you said she was missing." He looked over his shoulder and then shielded his mouth with his hand. "I saw her in church just this morning."
"This morning?" I exclaimed. "Are you sure?"
"Shh!" He waved his hands. "I'm breaking her confidence as it is."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my eyelids lowering to slits.
He leaned forward. "She made me swear on the Bible not to tell anyone that she came to mass today."
"I don't understand why she would do that," I said, bewildered. "Besides, how could anyone miss her? She wears the same black dress every day of her life."
"That's what threw me off at first. She was wearing a 60s-style, double-breasted brown wool suit."
"Brown?" I repeated, stunned. "That's…blasphemy!"
He nodded. "I didn't recognize her until she passed by me on her way out of the church. Her face was covered by a veil that was attached to a pillbox hat." He straightened and folded his hands in his lap. "I don't think it was vintage."
I struggled to process the news that my nonna was in disguise and apparently as Jackie O. "Did she say why she was dressed that way?"
He took a deep breath. "She's in hiding," he gushed. "From a man."
I couldn't believe my ears. So, there was a man in my nonna's life! And he was bad news, from the sound of things. But was it the man in black? "Did she tell you anything about this guy?"
"No, after that she left
. But listen to this," Father Ryan said with a nod. "She got into a black limousine."
I wondered whether it was the same one Mr. Holcomb had seen. "Did you happen to get a look at the driver?"
Father Ryan crossed his arms. "He was careful not to show his face. But he was wearing a black cashmere turtle neck, a black Armani Exchange jacket, black pants—a non-designer label—and black Prada loafers."
The man in black! Given Father Ryan's obvious eye for fashion, I asked, "Did you notice anything else about him that might be important?"
"I did indeed," he said. "He kept patting the right side of his jacket."
"You mean, like he had a weapon?"
"He was packing heat, all right," he replied in the tone of a man who'd spent more time in the slammer than the sanctuary. Then he rose to his feet. "I'd better get going before Father Nolan comes looking for me."
"Sure." I stood up and reached into my bag. "Thank you so much for your help," I said, handing him my business card. "Please call my cell if you see my grandmother again."
"Absolutely." He slipped the card down his clerical collar. "Carmela's such a character. I'd hate to see anything happen to her."
"Thanks," I breathed. "Me too." As I watched Father Ryan hurry away, I couldn't stop thinking about the gun. From the sound of things, the man in black wasn't my nonna's captor—he was her protector. Otherwise, he never would have allowed her to come to mass alone. But who was he protecting her from? And why?
Until I had more information, I did the only thing I could do—I gave myself a thorough scratching and uttered a quick prayer for my nonna. Then I flew out of St. Mary's like a bat out of hell.
* * *
I climbed into the Taurus and breathed a sigh of relief. The way I saw it, that thirty minutes at St. Mary's was enough church to last me for the next year. In fact, I fully intended to count Father Nolan's third degree about my relationship as confession and the overall visit as mass. And every Catholic knew that going to mass on Christmas Eve earned you more religious mileage than your ordinary service.
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