Kill Me If You Can apam-2

by Nicole Young

No.

  I wouldn’t make the first peace offering. My family had wronged me, not me them. They’d have to make first contact. I wasn’t here for them anyway. I was here for myself, to put the past behind me and move on.

  I tore through the book until I came to the yellow pages. Manistique Plumbing and Heating. They’d do. I put in the call, got the machine, and left a message.

  Missy would simply have to be patient ’til my grandfather got around to calling me. She’d lasted this long without his intervention. She could hold out a little longer—or just do things my way and call the cops.

  My stomach growled. I’d been so preoccupied with solving Melissa’s misfortunes that I’d forgotten to stop for groceries at the supermarket in Manistique. Now I’d have to stock up with the pathetically overpriced and limited selection of goods available in Port Silvan. I chugged a cup of reheated coffee, hoping to boost my attitude along with my heart rate before heading down to the village.

  I walked into Sinclair’s thinking that a fresh glazed donut while I shopped might keep me from impulse buying.

  “Hello,” I said to the bouffant blonde clerk as I scrutinized the selection under glass. I salivated over a powdered sugar one with red gel oozing out the side.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” the clerk said. “How’s things going down at Valentine’s Bay?”

  I ripped my eyes from the white confection and looked at her. “Great. The place needs a new heating system, but other than that, there are no surprises.” Except for the defaced photo of my mother I found on my bed. I pointed through the glass. “Hey, do you mind if I get that donut in front?”

  “No problem.” She took a square of waxed paper and pulled it for me.

  I savored its sweetness as I pushed my small-town, reduced-capacity shopping cart down the narrow aisles. I rounded the end of the dried cereal row and headed for the meat counter. A woman stood with her back to me, peering at the rows of Styrofoam-and-plastic-wrapped cuts. I recognized her tall leather boots and fur-lined barn jacket as an Aunt Candice special.

  She glanced up at the squeak of my cart. “Hello, Tish.”

  “Candice.” I nodded.

  Her warm smile caught me off guard.

  “How did your first week home go?” she asked.

  I stared at a family pack of New York strips. My first week. Let’s see. Pictures torn in two, murderous drug dealers, abusive husbands, neglectful relatives, not to mention uncooperative heating contractors.

  I met Candice’s eyes. “Overall it went pretty good.”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “I’m glad to hear that. Surprised, but glad.”

  “Why are you surprised? Of course it went well.” A defensive tone crept into my voice.

  “I thought perhaps you’d be disappointed with Port Silvan. So many wonderful childhood memories, only to find that everything had changed.”

  “Heavens, no. Everyone is so helpful and friendly and full of information.” Jim Hawley had been helpful, Missy Belmont had been friendly, and Candice herself was full of information. I popped the last bite of donut into my mouth.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Candice picked up a package of chicken breasts. She weighed it in her hands. “And was your family everything you had expected?”

  I dusted powdered sugar off my fingers. “Oh, absolutely. We’re going to get along great.”

  She glanced at me with a “yeah, right” look on her face. “That’s wonderful. I guess I’d worried for nothing.” She placed the chicken in her blue plastic shopping basket. “You know, we really didn’t get a chance to chat long the last time you were over. I hope you’ll join me for tea again this week. Is Thursday good for you?”

  My instincts said no way, but maybe Candice could help me with my Missy conundrum.

  “Thursday’s fine,” I told her.

  We agreed on a two o’clock teatime at the farmhouse.

  I picked through the meats and settled on a tray of ground round and some lean steaks. I grabbed a few more staple items and ended up in line behind Candice at the checkout.

  As the clerk rang up her selection, the bells on the door jangled. A tall, distinguished-looking man with gray hair and mustache entered and strode over to us. His dark blue peacoat set off the brilliant blue of his eyes. He stopped two feet from Candice.

  He prodded a finger at her. “I thought I told you to stay off Russo land.”

  I swallowed hard. My grandfather. With all the bad press Candice had given him, I’d expected some deformed ogre with a forked tongue. But the handsome man didn’t fit the stereotype of a viper-in-waiting.

  Candice lifted her chin. “I would never dream of trespassing on your little kingdom.”

  I stared at Bernard Russo, seeking some feature that I could claim in common. High cheekbones. Roundish chin. Wrinkles slashing across his forehead in an angry scowl. Maybe I looked like that when I was ready to blow a gasket.

  He inched closer to Candice. “Then how come Joel saw your car pulling out down by Valentine’s Bay last week?”

  She held her ground. “That was such a long time ago, I don’t recall where I was. Why not accuse me on the day the crime supposedly took place instead of waiting until the trail is cold?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Candice. If I so much as hear that you even looked at my granddaughter, I’ll track you down.”

  “Why, Bernard, I wouldn’t recognize your granddaughter if she were standing in line with me at the grocery store.” Candice shot playful eyes my way.

  Bernard followed her glance and saw me for the first time. His eyes opened wide. Maybe Jim Hawley was right. I really did look a lot like my mother.

  He swayed back and forth a few times, perhaps debating whether to hug me or shake my hand. He rubbed the back of his neck. Then he broke into a huge grin. He skirted past Candice and wrapped me in an embrace that knocked the wind out of me.

  His jagged breath rushed past my ear. “My baby. My little baby. You’re all grown up.”

  I buckled into his arms.

  “Puppa,” I gasped through tears. The word came to me as naturally as the grip of my elbows around his neck. Here was my family. My blood. My heritage.

  When the moment ended, I stared at him, wiping the streaks from my face. “I’ve been here a week. Why didn’t you come see me? Why didn’t you call?”

  His hands lingered on my shoulders. “I wanted to, but I didn’t know how you’d feel. I figured we’d take it slow.”

  I swatted at his chest like a child. “Slow? I haven’t seen you in twenty years. Isn’t that slow enough?” But his blue eyes looked with love into my own, and I forgave any insult caused by his delay.

  “Closer to twenty-six years. But now that we’re together again, let’s forget we were ever apart.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “Come up to the house for supper tonight. Everyone wants to meet you.” He turned. “Candice, you . . .” His voice petered out.

  Candice and her groceries were gone.

  9

  I hummed and boogied and did my hair in the bathroom mirror while I waited for five o’clock to roll around. I couldn’t believe I was finally going to meet the aunts and uncles and cousins that comprised the “everyone” my grandfather said wanted to meet me. For the first time in years, I had family.

  “Fam–i–ly,” I sang at the top of my lungs. I barely heard my cell phone ringing from its place on the kitchen counter. I raced down the hall.

  I flipped it open, so rushed to make the connection I didn’t even glance at the caller ID. “Hello?”

  The other end was silent for a beat. Then he spoke. “Tish.”

  I almost choked at the sound of his voice. “Brad?” I slumped to the floor and leaned against a cupboard. “How are you? I’m so surprised to hear from you.”

  Silence again. “I guess I thought I’d be hearing from you. What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

  I scanned the specks on the floor for some valid excuse. “It’s been hectic. New house, n
ew grocery store, new church. I guess I’m just getting settled in.” How could I tell him the truth—that we were just too different, that things could never work out between us? Or was it simply that I was too afraid to enter uncharted territory?

  He delayed his answer. “I’ve been worried about you. I know you don’t want a relationship right now. You made that plain enough. But, Tish, I thought we were friends. Friends call each other to say they made it to their new house. They call each other to ask how the ski trip went. They call each other just because.” His voice dropped off. “I guess I thought you’d call me.”

  My throat knotted up. “It goes both ways, you know. You should have called me last week if you were so worried.”

  Silence.

  “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said at last. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

  I rubbed my face. What was I looking for? Oh yeah, just trying to figure out who I was by figuring out my mother. But she was dead. It seemed her trail had been washed away by the years. And really, what difference would it make to know whether she liked dark chocolate or milk chocolate best? Would it change the fact that I would always prefer dark? I stared at the perforations in the ceiling squares. Maybe it was all just an excuse not to get involved in a relationship. Who could understand it? I’d have to be crazy not to return Brad’s love.

  I sighed into the receiver. “I’m just starting to figure things out.”

  “Gonna take awhile, huh?” Brad’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  “Yeah. Pretty sure it is. Hey, I’m going to my grandfather’s tonight. I get to meet my dad’s side of the family.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah. I bumped into Puppa by accident. Kind of funny how it happened.” I looked at the stove clock. “In fact, I have to get going soon if I’m going to get to supper on time.”

  “Well, enjoy yourself. I hope it’s everything you thought it would be.”

  “Thanks. Thank you a lot.” I cleared my throat. “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Call me sometime.”

  “Okay then. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  The phone went silent.

  I flipped it closed and stared at it for a while. I just wanted Brad here. I wanted him with me. I wanted things to be like they were in Rawlings. Phone calls, walks, supper together four nights a week, and church on Sundays. But I’d left him. I’d moved away from all that. And now it was a phone call once a week, walks on my own, and meals all alone.

  I stood up and put on my jacket. I stuffed the cell into my pocket. Why’d Brad have to call me anyway? I’d been doing great without him. I’d hardly given him a thought. He’d nearly been relegated to that distant place called the Past. And I would have been fine without him.

  The kitchen door slammed behind me, a little harder than I intended. I was fine without him. I didn’t need his “Boo hoo hoo, why didn’t you call me” pressure in my life. I had another mission to focus on. Maybe I’d get back to him when it was completed, or maybe not. Only time would tell.

  I drove through Port Silvan, taking the curve past town and heading out along Lake Michigan. Silvan Bay, a once thriving harbor in the now defunct port town, was covered over with ice. Fishing shanties dotted the white expanse. A snowmobile, nothing more than a black speck, made its way to shore.

  I passed the sign to the public boat launch, right where my grandfather said it would be. A line of white fences cropped up, barely visible against the mounds of snow. Puppa’s house. I turned into the driveway and slowed, stunned by the view ahead. A quarter mile down, across the serene, snow-covered lawn, rose a massive lake house. A pillared porch wrapped the front and sides. Weathered gray shakes covered the exterior. Bright white trim and shutters provided relief from the dreary color. Above, third-story dormers broke up the vastness of the charcoal roof. A fieldstone chimney topped the structure. Just beyond the house lay the icy harbor.

  I blew out a breath of anxiety and pressed on the gas.

  I parked along the circle drive that flanked the sweeping front stair. A red four-wheeler was parked to one side. Those things must be a dime a dozen up here. I tucked my keys into my pocket, took a deep breath, and headed toward the door. I took a closer look at the dwelling as I walked up crimson steps. The canopy of the porch dwarfed me with its ten-foot height. The width was at least ten feet as well, providing plenty of space for outdoor furniture, which was now covered in cheerful striped tarps and clumps of snow. The front door itself was double-wide with a transom above. Stained glass in a colorful red and green tulip pattern trumped the overbearing gray shakes to extend a belated welcome.

  I pressed the bell.

  Deep inside the walls, I heard a bing bong bing. The notes sounded rich, an upper-class interpretation of the boring, traditional ding dong.

  A shadow approached the door. The handle turned. The white wood swung open. I put on my happy face, expecting my grandfather.

  I got the man from the bluff instead. The one on the red four-wheeler. Candice’s accusations about my grandfather being a bad apple appeared to be dead-on.

  I wiped off my smile and squinted at the doorman. He was handsome in an overactive testosterone gland sort of way. Dark whiskers gave the hint of a beard without him actually having one, as if his watch read five o’clock perpetually. Black hair, blue eyes, more bulk under his plaid flannel shirt than seemed natural. He reminded me how Brad had looked that day on the porch when he’d opened his door in just his sweats and tank.

  I cleared my throat. “Please tell me I’m not related to you.”

  A grin broke out on his face. “You want me that bad, huh?”

  I sputtered, indignant. “Pardon me? I do not want you.” My arm muscles twitched as I contemplated whether to strangle him. “What I meant was, I hope I’m not related to the maniac who stood there on the bluff and watched me nearly plummet to my death.”

  “I saw you get up. You looked okay to me. You’ll probably stay clear of the bluff from now on, huh?” He stepped to one side. “Come on in. I’ll tell Papa B you’re here.”

  I glared at him as I entered the foyer. Who was he, anyway? The right-hand man of the local godfather? Next to me, a grand stairway shot straight up to the second floor. Dark cherry floors and woodwork against a backdrop of bare, white walls gave the interior a clean, uncluttered feel. The Spartan approach to decorating made me wonder if the house was just some elaborate bachelor pad. How could a woman resist a throw rug at the front door or a plant in the corner?

  “Well, are you coming?” he said over his shoulder.

  I hurried to keep up. We stepped out of the hall and into a room that stretched the entire width of the house. One end served as a dining area, the other the living room. Wall-to-wall windows framed the view of the bay. On the opposite shore, a row of historic buildings made the snowy scene look like a Currier and Ives rendering.

  “Patricia.”

  I turned at the sound of my grandfather’s voice. The attractive seventy-ish man approached me with a smile and held me in a gentle embrace. He stepped back and looked toward the plaid-shirt guy.

  “You’ve met Gerard, my brother Sid’s oldest boy Owen’s son.”

  His attempt at explaining the relationship left me dizzy. I looked toward Gerard. He gave me a mischievous double eyebrows-up as if letting me know I was eligible to be on his radar.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Joel,” my grandfather called over his shoulder. “Get in here and meet Patricia.”

  A man entered from the front of the house, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

  Gerard dropped into a lounge chair. “My derelict little brother.”

  I had no doubt which side of the family my height came from. Cousin Joel towered as tall as the other two Russo men. His light brown hair was disheveled. His moustache made him seem a younger copy of his great-uncle Bernard. A black sweatshirt and blue jeans showed traces of flour.

  He
nodded. “Patricia.”

  “Hi.” My smile must have stretched from ear to ear. I was so excited to have cousins—boy cousins. Finally, the playmates I never had. I wanted to run outside and throw a football or something.

  I looked at the strapping men. “You know, that Patricia stuff is a little too formal for family. I think you guys qualify to call me Tish.”

  “Sounds like a sneeze,” Gerard said in his dry, cynical way.

  My grandfather glowered in his direction. Puppa turned back to me. “Patricia is a lovely name. I wouldn’t dream of shortening it.”

  “Uh . . .” I squirmed. “I kind of like the name Tish better. Do you mind?”

  “Of course he minds,” the brash Gerard piped up. “That’s the name Eva and Beth called you. He wouldn’t be caught dead using that name for his little princess.”

  My eyes dropped to the floor at the mention of my mother and grandmother. Besides, me a princess? Maybe in some other life. I glanced up. The clouds had thickened as they moved across the bay. The room darkened with their approach.

  Joel wadded up his towel. “Supper’s almost ready.” He left the room.

  “Need any help?” I tossed my coat onto a nearby chair and ran after him. He seemed by far the least volatile of the Russo clan. I skirted the dining table and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  The room had a long chopping board island down the center. Chunks of lettuce, shreds of carrots, and evidence of broccoli lay scattered on the surface. Worn cupboards in the same dark wood as the rest of the house circled the perimeter. A fry pan on the oversized gas stove sent up a cloud of meat-scented steam.

  “That smells delicious.” I poked my nose in the air and gave a whiff. “What is it?”

  “Tenderloin.”

  He lifted the lid and stirred the contents.

  “Mmm. Thanks for having me down tonight,” I said, hoping to break the ice.

  “Wasn’t my idea.” He put the lid back on, set down the spatula, and wiped his hands on the front of his sweatshirt.

  “O-kay.” I blew off the comment. “So, when is everyone else getting here?”