Courting Trouble

by Lisa Scottoline

  “Don’t do that. I don’t want to take a chance of screwing up any photo array the cops show her. We got what we need.”

  Mary slid the red flyer back into her purse. “Mrs. Brown, thank you for talking to us. You’ve helped us very much. We want to call the police now. Will you tell them what you told us? They want to catch this man and put him in jail.”

  “Surely, I will.”

  Bennie was already flipping open her cell phone. “Detective Rafferty, please, it’s Bennie Rosato,” she said, and she didn’t have to wait long. “I’m here with a witness to Anne Murphy’s murder, and she has described Kevin Satorno to a T. One of the neighbors. You want to pick up or shall we deliver?” Bennie paused. “Fine. See you at 2253 Waltin Street in ten minutes.” She snapped the phone closed and turned to Judy. “Carrier, why don’t you take our new messenger to the car and keep her company.”

  “Got it.” Judy thanked Mrs. Brown and started to leave.

  But something kept Anne rooted to the spot. Something bothered her about leaving the old woman alone. Something about a daughter who would desert her mother like this. Then she realized that for all she knew, her own mother was sitting in a stifling room on somebody’s third floor, passing the time until she died.

  “Whatsa matter, child?” Mrs. Brown asked, her voice kind, and she eyed Anne even through her clumsy disguise. Sunglasses, baseball cap, or lipstick, Anne had been hiding something as long as she could remember.

  Everything. “Nothing, thanks,” Anne answered.

  She followed Judy through the remaining room on the floor, Mrs. Brown’s bedroom, scented faintly of drugstore talc. It contained a saggy double bed covered by a thin chenille spread so neat that its worn white tufts lined up like monuments in a military cemetery. Over the bed hung a large wooden crucifix, and on the nightstand a doily runner, a small fake-Tiffany lamp, a yellowed Westclox alarm clock, and a worn Bible that left Anne with a thickness in her throat.

  She hit the stairwell full of emotion she couldn’t begin to sort out, much less express, exacerbated by the annoying clop-clopping of Judy’s wooden clogs on the uncarpeted stair. By the time they reached the second floor, then descended to the first, which was air-conditioned and full of modern smells, Anne couldn’t say goodbye to the son-in-law because she wanted to throttle him, even with the police on the way. She headed for the front door, opened it wide, and came face-to-face with a man about her age, standing on the front stoop, about to knock.

  “Hello!” the man said, and grinned in a toothy way. He wore a tan Australian bush hat with one side pinned up, and a white Weezer T-shirt with loose jeans and black Teva sandals.

  “Uh, hello,” Anne replied, startled.

  “I’m Angus Connolly. Sorry to disturb your holiday, but I was wondering if you’ve seen this man.” He reached into his back pocket and handed Anne her own red flyer. “His name is Kevin Satorno.”

  Anne was so shocked she couldn’t find her voice. Not even her inner voice.

  “I was just wondering if you’ve seen his man. He’s a suspect in the murder of one of your neighbors down the block, last night. Just two doors away.” The man turned and pointed at Anne’s house.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m a reporter. With City Beat.”

  “City Beat?” Anne eyed him for a press pass but found none. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “We’re a free newspaper, and I’m trying to make a name for myself, me and my friends. We’re investigating this murder and asking all the neighbors if they saw this man last night.” He frowned. “Wait a minute, you do live here, don’t you?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Judy answered, coming up behind Anne. “And she hasn’t seen that man. But I know someone who has. She’s right upstairs and she’s about to tell her story to the cops, who will be here any minute. Looks like you got the scoop, dude.”

  “For real?” The man climbed the stoop, and at the same moment, Anne felt Judy’s knuckle in the small of her back, nudging her out of harm’s way.

  “Go right upstairs,” Judy continued. “Bennie Rosato’s there, too. She’ll answer any questions you have.”

  “Bennie Rosato? The Bennie Rosato? Oh my God!” The wanna-be reporter whipped a cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans. “I need a photographer fast,” he was saying into it when he hustled inside the house.

  “Go, go, go, girl!” Judy whispered, falling into step beside Anne, pushing her forward by her elbow. “You want the cops and the press to recognize you?”

  “No, of course not,” Anne said, but her heart felt so full. What’s the matter with me? Why am I acting like such a loser? Tears came to her eyes, and fatigue washed over her. Maybe it was all catching up to her at once. She let Judy lead her down the street, hurrying her along, past her own house and the cellophane-wrapped bouquets on her front stoop. She looked over and stopped at the sight of one of them. A bouquet of daisies, wrapped by a white ribbon. It hadn’t been there before. She bent down and picked it up.

  “What are you doing?” Judy asked, between gritted teeth.

  A couple passing by were scowling at Anne, their disapproval undisguised, but she couldn’t speak. She stared down at the daisy bouquet. A pink card attached to it had been typed, as if the flower order had been phoned in. It read simply:

  Love, Mom.

  14

  Bennie steered the Mustang through the city traffic, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror. By now Anne had learned enough about Bennie to know it wasn’t the traffic that had her worried. Judy kept glancing back at her, and Mary was permanently affixed to her right hand.

  “Don’t worry, everybody, I’m fine,” Anne said, though she sat in the backseat clutching her mother’s daisies like a baby blanket. Mental note: You can know you’re acting like a dope and still not be able to stop it.

  “There’s really nothing to worry about,” Mary said, squeezing her hand from the seat next to her. “We couldn’t have planned it this well. The cops will get Kevin’s ID from Mrs. Brown, and the news will run the story tonight. It’s probably all over the web already. Everybody in the city will be looking for Kevin Satorno.”

  “Yeah, Anne.” Judy twisted around in the front seat, the last of the day’s light filtering through her sunny hair, her bandanna blowing in the wind. “The heat will be on him. They’ll have Kevin in custody in time for us to take a field trip to the fireworks.”

  The Mustang cruised forward to a red light, and Bennie braked. “Only problem is, it may discourage him from showing up at the memorial service, if he’s still a fugitive.”

  “He’ll be there,” Anne said, with absolute certainty. They were getting closer to catching Kevin, and Bennie’s reaction to Plan B had been much better than she had expected, though she wasn’t sure why. “He’ll find a way to be there.”

  The Mustang idled in traffic, and Bennie tapped her finger on the wheel. “Let’s think about that. How will he do it? Talk to me, Murphy. It was your idea.”

  “Well, I used to think he’d come as a guest, a mourner in some half-assed disguise, but now I’m beginning to wonder.” Anne wondered if Bennie was just trying to engage her, but played along because it was such a nice thing to do. “Not with the cops and every reporter in the city, looking to make his mark. I’m thinking now he might try to come in another way.”

  “Like what?” Judy asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe as staff of some kind?”

  “Secret agent stuff.” Judy smiled. “Yowza!”

  “So, what’s at a memorial service, ladies? Let’s brainstorm,” Bennie gave the car some gas. “We’re having it at the Chestnut Club, in town. What staff will be there? Any?”

  “Only the head lady, because it’s closed.” Anne had made the arrangements for her memorial service, posing on the telephone as a cousin from California. The Chestnut was one of the oldest eating clubs in Philadelphia, with two stories of dining rooms and waiters in white jackets with time-warp Nehru collars. “They subcontrac
t out the catering. The lack of house staff will make it easier for Kevin.”

  Mary frowned. “How?”

  “Well, Kevin is smart. It’s not beyond him to anticipate that my firm would hold a memorial service of some kind, especially after you offered the reward. I took out ads in the Sunday papers, announcing the service, open to the public. He’s got to see one of them and find out where it is, then maybe he’ll get hired by the caterer or something.”

  “Really.” Mary sounded almost respectful, and Anne knew the feeling.

  “I know. My stalker is a genius.”

  “There’ll be flowers,” Judy offered, thinking aloud. “He might come as a flower delivery guy.”

  It sent a chill through Anne. “Very possible. Kevin’s a red-roses kind of psycho. Sent them to me every day, a single one.”

  The Mustang accelerated down Race Street. “Here’s how it’ll go down,” Bennie said, wind blowing blond tendrils into her eyes. “I’ll backstop everybody, but we all need our own jobs. Carrier, you quiz the flower delivery guys. DiNunzio, you deal with the press. Don’t let them in the service, but check their IDs anyway. Satorno may use it as a way to get close.”

  Mary nodded. “Got it.”

  “Thanks,” Anne said, touched by their willingness to help. “I can cover food and drink. The kitchen staff is from Custom Catering. They were the only ones not booked this weekend.”

  “I’ll help with the food,” Judy chirped, and Mary laughed.

  “There’s a surprise.”

  Bennie glanced over. “Carrier, make sure you get a list of the kitchen staff. Does that cover everyone?”

  Anne tried to picture it. “Folding chairs, and a lectern. Microphones. I rented them all from a caterer the club uses. I’ll check chair guys, too.”

  “Okay, that’s it, I think.” Bennie turned left onto Broad Street and steered south. The parade had gone but the street was still full of partiers, drinking beer and hanging out, waiting for dusk and the laser show. “The cops will be there, and I’ll hire security. Rent-a-muscle guys, and we’ll have Herb, too.”

  Anne cringed. “In case our breasts need protecting.”

  “Be nice, Murphy. He knows his stuff, and he was very upset when your chest passed on.” Bennie laughed. “Ladies, it’s almost dark and you’re all ordered home to bed. DiNunzio, I’m dropping you off first, then Carrier. Murphy, you’re staying with me tonight. You’ll be safe at my house.”

  Anne looked up in surprise. She hadn’t planned that far ahead. She couldn’t very well turn Bennie down. She knew from the movies that sleepovers were a big deal with girlfriends. But she thought of Mel, alone in the office, and then, of Matt. She wished she could tell him she was alive. She wondered what kind of a night he’d be having.

  “Agreed, Murphy?” It was Bennie, jolting Anne from her thoughts.

  “Sure, yes. Thanks. But we have a stop to make first.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Bennie checked the rearview. “You’re not too tired? You’ve had a helluva day.”

  “Not worse than hers,” Anne said, looking out the window, as night came on.

  Judy looked at Bennie, confused. “What are you guys talking about? Where are you going?”

  Anne let Bennie answer. It hurt too much to say.

  Fitler Square was one of Philadelphia’s historic pocket-parks, a square block limned by privet hedge and wrought-iron fence, with tasteful wooden benches around a center fountain and newly refurbished brickwork underfoot. Fitler Square didn’t get half the attention of Rittenhouse Square, which was roughly in the same city neighborhood, but Anne found Fitler more charming. It was out of the way of the business district, at Twenty-sixth and Pine, and any time she had gone past it in a cab, it was full of moms pushing strollers and toddlers dropping Cheerios or scribbling sidewalk pictures with chubby pastel chalks.

  But the neighborhood, Willa’s neighborhood, had been changed for her, too, and tonight the scene was different and felt strange. Fitler Square was almost empty, and the black Victorian gaslights that anchored the park’s four corners flickered in the darkness, barely illuminating a couple on one of the benches, their arms around each other. The Mustang cruised around the square, looking for a space, and headed to Keeley Street. Anne edged forward on her seat as they rounded the block and pulled into a space at the end of the row.

  Bennie parked and shut off the engine. “Got the purse?”

  “Yes,” she answered, taking Willa’s purse from the seat between them. It was a striped cloth sack from Guatemala, and she had retrieved the purse from a locker at the gym, where Willa had left it last night. A quick check inside revealed that it contained no wallet. Anne figured that Willa, like her, didn’t bring her wallet to the gym, because the lockers didn’t lock. The little bag held only keys, sunglasses, and a bruised organic apple, and Anne felt funny carrying it as she fell in step with the taller Bennie and walked to Willa’s house.

  The night air was punctuated with the popping of distant fireworks, and the short heels of Anne’s mules dragged on the sidewalk. Fatigue and emotion were catching up with her, but she set both aside. She owed this to Willa. It was awful that it had taken her all day to get here. She had to find Willa’s family before the day was over, and tell them the worst news of their lives.

  They passed 2685, then 2687. The rowhouses on the skinny back-street reminded Anne of Fairmount and were of the same colonial vintage; a lineup of attached brick homes, two-stories high and with a door flanked by two front windows, distinguished by the paint color of their shutters or the occasional clay flowerpot on the step. Anne’s stomach tensed when they reached 2689. She opened Willa’s purse for the keys, feeling terribly like they were invading the dead woman’s privacy. Going into her purse. Entering her home.

  “You want to wait outside?” Bennie asked, but Anne shook her head.

  “No, thanks. I’m the one who owes her.”

  “Don’t think about it that way.” Bennie’s tone softened, though Anne couldn’t make out her expression in the dark. The only streetlamp was down the block. It would have been what Anne’s own street looked like last night, when Willa opened her front door.

  Anne fished for Willa’s keys and inserted them in the lock until she found the one that clicked. She opened Willa’s front door and stepped into the darkness. Please God don’t let there be an entrance hall. A light went on suddenly, and she turned.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Bennie was standing behind her, one hand on a switch on the wall, and the other closing the door behind them with a solid click.

  “I’m fine.” Anne turned back and looked around. There was no entrance hall, and the light switch illuminated a white parchment sphere with red Chinese characters which hung over the small living room. But this was like no living room Anne had ever seen. Every inch of wall space was covered with a drawing. Skilled, detailed charcoal cityscapes had been tacked up, cheek by jowl, floor to ceiling. Sketches of storefronts in the Italian Market. Skyscrapers in the business district. The concrete lace of an Expressway interchange. The lights on the boathouses along the Schuylkill River.

  “Wow,” Bennie said quietly. “Look at these drawings. There must be hundreds.”

  “She was so talented.” Anne tasted bitterness in her mouth. Kevin would have to pay for this. For taking Willa.

  “Notice anything unusual about them, by the way?”

  “Not really.” Anne scanned at the drawings. “All of them are black-and-white, I guess.”

  “True, and there are no people in them.”

  Anne double-checked and saw that Bennie was right. The series of drawings of Fitler Square focused on the gaslights and the shadows they cast, or the intricate pattern of the wrought-iron fence. There were no babies, no mothers, no kids. A study of Rittenhouse Square depicted its statues—a frog, a goat—but none of the people who used the statues as meeting places. Anne wasn’t immediately sure what it meant.

  “I like art with people,” Bennie said. “You
’ve seen my Thomas Eakins prints of rowing.”

  “Sure.” Hate them. “Love them.”

  “They’re from the exhibition at the Art Museum. Did you see it?”

  “Missed it.” But I’ve been to the Lucy-Desi Museum in Jamestown, New York. Does that count?

  Anne surveyed the rest of the living room. It contained no TV or VCR, only a sixties-retro sling chair in white, sitting in front of a cordless phone, a stereo system and stacks of CDs on a white entertainment center. It was more gallery than living room and contained no clues about Willa’s family, but Anne couldn’t help but linger in it, breathing in the faintest smell of dust and lead. It was all that was left of Willa, that and a misidentified body, cold in a morgue.

  “Here we go,” Bennie said, crossing to the telephone and picking up the receiver. “Here’s a way to reach her family and friends instantly. They’ll be on speed-dial.”

  “Good idea.” Anne wondered why she wasn’t thinking of this good stuff. She felt suddenly so passive, a half-step behind. “Maybe I should be the one to tell them.”

  “No, let me handle this. When my mother was alive, she was in the number-one spot. Actually she still is. I don’t have the heart to take her off.” Bennie pressed the first speed-dial button, listened into the receiver, then frowned. “No number in the first spot.” She pressed the second button. “No number in the second spot.” She pressed another button. “Strike three,” she said, after a minute, then hung up the phone. “Evidently, Willa didn’t set up her speed-dial. So there’s nobody she calls all the time. That seems strange.”

  “Not really,” Anne blurted out almost defensively. She hadn’t set up her speed-dial either.

  “Maybe not. Come along.” Bennie touched Anne’s arm. “There has to be something, somewhere, that can help us. Bills, correspondence, old birthday cards with a return address. Something that would tell us more about her, or where her family is. How old did you say she was, again?”

  “My age.”