I’d decided going in person would be better than calling, because I thought it would be harder for him to say no to me. The drive to the Alewife T station in Cambridge took almost a half an hour. T was short for trolley, which was what they called the Boston subway system. I settled onto a hard plastic seat and watched the rough tunnel walls rush by on the oldest subway system in the U.S. The ride to the Government Center took twenty-five minutes with one stop to switch lines.
After emerging from the tunnel, I stopped for a quick look around. The Government Center was one of the ugliest buildings in the city. A cement monster made uglier by the contrast of sitting across the street from one of the most beautiful buildings, Faneuil Hall, which had been built in the late 1700s. Boston’s history fascinated me. The golden grasshopper weathervane on top of Faneuil Hall sparkled in the sun as I trotted down the steps and headed toward the North End. The sky behind the white cupola on top of Faneuil Hall was a bright New England blue.
I turned left to head to the North End—the old Italian section of town. I passed by the Union Oyster House and the six glass towers of the Holocaust Memorial. Thinking about all the great Italian restaurants made my mouth water. But there was no time to go today.
After double-checking the directions on my phone, I walked partway down Hanover Street, took a left on a side street and a right on another until I found Mike’s shop, Il Formaggio. It was in a line of stores set in brick buildings with five or six floors of what looked like apartments above them. Across the street, an elderly woman dressed in black sat by a window, watching people pass by. I pushed open the old wooden door. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this bright, modern space filled with a vast selection of cheese, olives, and crackers.
A girl with a pierced eyebrow and nose stood behind the counter. “Can I help you?” she asked. Her bright smile countered the spiky-haired tough look she had going on.
I’d been expecting an Italian grandmother like the woman across the street or a wise guy. “I need to talk to Mike.” I looked behind the girl, at a scarred door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. I pictured a dark, smoky room where Mike and his associates played poker. But the door swung open as a well-built man hefted out a tray of cheese. Instead of the room I’d pictured, I glimpsed a clean pantry with stainless-steel shelves holding products. The girl said something to the man in what sounded like Italian. He looked at me, shrugged, and answered.
“He’s not here,” the girl said.
“Oh.” My face must have expressed disappointment that went way beyond the “oh” because the girl studied me.
“What is it you need?” she asked.
The man took care placing the cheeses from the tray into the cases. He artfully arranged things, which surprised me. Those giant hands were very gentle with the cheese.
“It’s a private matter. My name’s Sarah Winston.” I didn’t notice any sort of recognition in her eyes when she heard my name. The man kept putting the cheese from the tray into cases. The two of them had another conversation in Italian.
“I’ll give him a call and see if he can come over,” the girl said.
“Thank you. Or I could go to wherever he is.”
This time, the girl exchanged a look with the man who’d been refreshing the displays. He shook his head as he swung through the door to the back room.
“Have a seat,” she said. She grabbed the handset of an old black phone that was attached to the wall with a long, curly cord. She turned her back to me and spoke in Italian again.
I should learn another language. I sat at a tall round table by a huge plate-glass window while she made the call. After she hung up, she brought over a plate of cheese, olives, and house-made crackers. She also set a glass of lemonade down in front of me. “This is on Mike. He’ll be over in a few.”
Mike came in as I popped the last olive in my mouth. He was tall and slender, an avid runner. I jumped up, but he motioned for me to sit back down. He perched on the edge of a stool like he didn’t plan to stay long. His deep blue eyes looked serious.
“You okay?” he asked. “I was kinda surprised when I got the call saying you were here.”
“I need a favor.”
Mike leaned away from me. I was no expert in body language, but I surmised he wasn’t happy with me.
“You sure you want to ask me for another favor?”
The price of his last favor weighed on my soul, but more than anything, I wanted to help Luke. “I wondered if my . . .” I almost blurted out brother, but I couldn’t do that. “If my friend could stay with you or someone for a few days.”
“No.”
“No?” I hadn’t been expecting Mike to say no. I’d assumed he’d at least ask me a few questions. Or maybe I’d thought he would do whatever I asked since he’d helped me in February. “Why?”
“First, you’re lying about something. I’m not sure what. And I don’t want to know.”
I obviously needed to work on my poker face.
“Second, someone in Ellington will help you. And that will be better for you.” I started shaking my head. Mike put a hand on my arm. “Look, I know I told you to call me if you needed help with something, but not this time. Just because I did you a favor once doesn’t mean I’m the favor bank and you can withdraw one whenever you need to.” Mike stood. “You might want to remember that deposits come at a high cost. Wait here.”
He went in the back room. Maybe he was going to find someone else to help me. But he came out with a large, linen tote bag. BRIE GOOD was printed on the front. He hefted it onto the table. The back side was printed with HAVE A GOUDA DAY.
“Cheese humor,” Mike said. “So I heard there was another murder in Ellington.”
That surprised me. “It has nothing to do with why I’m here.”
“I didn’t say it did. But it happened at a garage sale you were running.”
I supposed it was all over the news, another thing I hadn’t been paying attention to since Luke showed up.
“I’m just sayin’ it must have been rough on you. I’m sorry.” He gave me a nod and strode out of the store.
I wondered if the store was bugged and there’d be a phone or a note or something else in the bag that would help me out. I opened the bag and rooted through it. Lots of cheese, a bottle of Titone olive oil, olives, a bottle of wine, and more of the house-made crackers—nothing that would help me help Luke. I grabbed it by the handles, sighing.
“It’s our premium cheese gift bag,” the girl behind the counter said helpfully.
“Great. Thanks.”
* * *
As I lugged the bag from Il Formaggio back down Hanover Street, the sign for Mike’s Pastry (no relation to Mike Titone and his cheese shop) drew me like a beam to the mother ship. I wasn’t down here very often so I might as well buy some cannolis. People had strong opinions about the best place to buy a cannoli in the North End. For that matter, people in Massachusetts had strong opinions about everything. You either liked Dunkin’ Donuts or you despised them. You had your favorite pizza place and would argue relentlessly why it was the best. You liked the Red Sox or—wait, no, everyone liked the Red Sox. But cannolis were a whole different thing.
Mike’s Pastry was the first place I’d ever had a cannoli. I’d led a sheltered life when it came to Italian pastries. And no one ever forgets their first cannoli. Others argued it was a tourist trap and that Modern Bakery up the street had fresher cannolis. Then there were the smaller bakeries off Hanover, which some claimed were where the people who lived in the North End went. But I’d seen plenty of Italian mamas standing in line—well, pushing their way past the line—at Mike’s.
I went in. The lines were short, the cases were full, and the selection was dazzling. Cakes, cookies, pastries, so many different kinds of cannoli—my eyes feasted on it all. I kept looking around as I waited my turn, expecting Mike or one of his guys to show up. Part of me still didn’t believe he wasn’t going to help me. I wanted to give him ample time to
think this through and turn his no into a yes. But by the time it was my turn to order, no one had approached me. I picked out a selection of cannolis, added a lobster tail, a flaky pastry shaped kind of like an actual lobster’s tail and filled with a sweet, delicious ricotta-based cream. I left the store with a cannoli in my mouth and disappointment in my soul. Mike was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 6
An hour and a half later, I stood next to a very tan Tim Spencer at the end of his mother’s hospital bed. He’d flown up from Florida as soon as he heard the news of the attack.
“There’s still no change.” Tim’s shoulders slumped. A thick, red beard covered his jaw and mouth, making it difficult to spot a resemblance between him and his parents.
“It’s only been two days,” I said.
“They think she had a stroke.”
“Oh no.” Mrs. Spencer looked so much smaller in the hospital bed without her big, blustery personality on display.
“Her doctor told me the prognosis is good.” He patted his mom’s foot through the thin hospital blanket.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.
“I’d like to ask you some questions, but not in front of Mom.”
I nodded and followed Tim out of the room to the patient lounge. Several other families sat in groups, but we found an unoccupied corner. They’d tried to make the lounge cheery with bright-colored abstract paintings on the walls and comfortable chairs to sit in. It didn’t ease the tension in Tim’s face though.
“Do you have any idea who did this to my family?” He looked at me with red-rimmed deep brown eyes, the irises almost indistinguishable from his pupils. They had dark circles underneath them, which contrasted with his light red hair. Light and dark seemed to be what my life was all about these past few months.
“Why do you think I’d know?”
He jiggled a knee. “You’ve spent a lot of time with my parents the past couple of weeks.”
I stared at him, trying to figure out if there was a way I could help. If I had any information tucked away in my brain somewhere. I didn’t remember any neighbors or friends stopping over. The phone had rarely rung, and when it had, I’d heard Mrs. Spencer grumbling about telemarketers. Things had been quiet during my time there.
“My mom emails me every day. The last two weeks’ worth of emails were full of you being there and trying to toss or ‘give away’ her things.”
I relaxed a little. “Your mom was very attached to her whipped topping containers even after I told her we could sell them at the garage sale.”
“People buy used containers?”
“Oh, the stories I could tell you about what people buy and sell.”
Tim smiled for a moment. “Did you notice any change in my parents’ behavior?”
“It’s hard for me to judge. I didn’t know them before they hired me.”
Tim looked disappointed. “You spent more time with them the last two weeks than anyone else. Can you describe how they were acting? Maybe I’ll be able to pick up on something.”
Wow, that was a minefield.
“I know my mom is prickly sometimes.”
Sometimes? Most of the time, but I kept it to myself.
“But she was a good mom and didn’t deserve this.” He rolled his shoulders back.
“You’re right. She didn’t, and neither did your dad.” I thought for a moment about how to phrase what I’d observed. “I had carte blanche to roam most of the house. Your parents had packed a lot of what they planned to move and marked the bigger pieces they’d decided to keep.” I remembered a big fight they’d had over a beaten, raggedy-looking couch down in their basement. “Your mom wanted to keep a couch that was the first thing they’d bought as a married couple.”
“The awful plaid thing?” Tim asked.
“That’s exactly what your dad said.” We smiled at each other, and then Tim’s face drooped. “They were pretty upset about it. And when I told your mom I couldn’t sell it, she told me I was fired. Your dad intervened and hauled the couch off to the dump.”
“One of the reasons they were moving closer to me is because Dad was worrying about Mom’s temper. She’s never been the calmest woman, but over the past six months, he said things had gotten worse.”
“He was patient with her. And very loving.”
“That’s my dad for you. It sounds like you didn’t have access to the whole house. Any place in particular?”
“Your parents’ office. But it’s understandable. Who wants someone nosing around in their financial records or personal papers? I went in the first day I was there with your mom and visited with your dad a couple of times. I loved his stories.”
“He could have been a writer.” Tim stood. “I should get back to my mom. If you think of anything else, will you let me know?”
“Of course. I’m sorry I’m not more help. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“There is something. I’d like to finish the sale. I’m hoping to move Mom down to Florida as soon as possible, and the less I have to deal with here, the better.”
“I’m not sure. Your mom was having a hard enough time getting rid of things, and right now she can’t speak for herself.”
“I get it. What if you sold what was already out and go through the house for stuff you know isn’t worth anything?”
“Like her plastic Marshmallow Fluff jars?”
“Exactly.”
“I guess I could. Do you have a time frame in mind?”
“Soon.”
I dug around in my purse and found a business card. I wrote my cell phone number on the back. “Here. Call me when you’re ready.”
Tim shook my hand and headed back toward his mom’s room.
* * *
The hospital doors swished open as I was about to leave. Brad Carson, Carol’s husband, almost ran me over. Brad was an administrator at the VA hospital in Bedford. What was he doing here?
“I’m sorry,” he said over his shoulder as he started to move past.
“Brad,” I called after him. His military-short hair had grown out since he’d retired. It hung over his collar in the back and needed a trim.
He paused and turned.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him. He’d lost weight to the point where his suit hung loosely on his shoulders. Something I hadn’t noticed the last time I’d seen him.
I don’t think he recognized me until then. I hurried over. His gray eyes looked worried. “Are the kids okay?” I asked.
“Sarah. Sorry. I was a million miles away. Everyone’s fine. Are you? Why are you here?”
“I stopped to see Mrs. Spencer. You must have heard her husband was killed during a garage sale I was running for them on Saturday.”
Brad took my right hand, sandwiching it between his two big ones. His skin was cool and smooth. “Of course I heard. I was there that morning, remember?”
I frowned at him. “That’s right. Yeesh. It was such a busy morning, and then with what happened . . .” Who else had been there that I’d forgotten?
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He let my hand go.
“If everyone’s okay, why are you here?” I asked.
“A meeting. A hospital administrators’ thing.” He looked down at his watch. “And I’m late.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek before taking off. Brad quickly crossed the lobby, his suit jacket flapping behind him as he moved.
I turned and bumped into CJ. “Busy place,” I said. I pointed to the elevators. “I just saw Brad.”
“What are you doing here?” CJ asked.
“I was thinking the exact same thing about you.” I smiled.
“Ladies first.”
“I stopped to check in on Mrs. Spencer. You?”
“The same,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
I slipped my phone out of my purse. I’d put it on silent at some point and forgotten to set it back. Five missed calls. “Yes, you did. Anything important?�
�
“I heard about the break-in and wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
I sagged a little. The break-in. It seemed like days ago and reminded me I needed to find Luke. CJ gathered me into his arms.
“You’ve had a rough few days.”
“Indeed.”
“I’ll take you out to dinner.”
Saying no presented too many problems. “Okay.”
“I’ll pick you up around six-thirty if it works for you.”
“Perfect.” It gave me a few hours to track down Luke. But how?
Chapter 7
Luke wasn’t as hard to find as I’d thought he would be. He was sitting on my couch when I got home and almost gave me a heart attack.
“How did you get in?” I asked, as I set the bags full of cheese and the cannolis on the kitchen counter. He followed me into the kitchen, reached around me, and plucked a chocolate mousse cannoli out of the box.
“You need better locks. Any kid could pick that thing.”
“Weren’t you worried someone would see you coming up?”
“There weren’t any cars in your parking lot. I figured it was safe.” He polished off the cannoli in three bites and started on another one. I slapped at his hand, but it was too late.
“Sorry about this morning,” we said to each other at the same time. Then we both smiled because we’d done that a lot as kids.
“We’re going to have to find somewhere else for you to stay.”
“Can’t I crash here tonight?”
“No. I’m not hiding you anymore. Someone is going to see you. And CJ’s taking me to dinner tonight. He usually stays over. I can pay for a room for you somewhere.” While CJ and I might be slowly getting our lives intertwined again, our finances remained completely separate. Fortunately, he had no way of tracking my spending. He’d never know if I paid for Luke’s room.
“Contrary to how it may look, I do have money. You don’t have to pay for a room for me. It’s nice spending some time with you.” He polished off his second cannoli.
I felt all warm and smushy inside. “It’s good to spend time with you too. But I can’t keep moving you around. Someone will see you. Unless you changed your mind about wanting to be seen?”
A Good Day to Buy Page 5