“Yeah, I know. You’ve been threatening me all morning with a new residence in a bad part of town with unsavory neighbors.” I slid sideways and went around him. The man had a way of nosing into my space. “Not that it’s any of your business,” I said, trotting out my haughtiest voice, “but I went downtown for some art supplies.”
One eyebrow rose up as he glanced pointedly at my hands, finding them both suspiciously empty of shopping bags.
“Show me what you bought.”
Great. One misstep and the guy was all over me.
“They didn’t have what I needed.”
“You know, it would be an easy thing for me to check out your story.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t want to save me the time and try the truth out for a change, would you?”
“Look, Detective, you asked where I went and I told you. If you want to double-check everything I say, feel free to do so, but.. .”
“But what?”
I shrugged. “Why don’t you have someone follow me around, or better yet, why don’t you handcuff me to the refrigerator if you’re so worried about where I am every single moment? With me off your back, you might have time to act like a real detective... you know, gathering clues, interviewing possible suspects, making phone calls, things like that.” I opened my eyes as though a bolt of lightning had suddenly hit me. “Hey! You might even find the murderer!”
His mouth thinned into a straight line as he glared at me.
“Obviously, humor is not your strong suit,” I said, nervously trying to fill in what was rapidly becoming a deafening silence.
“I could say the same thing about you, Maggie. Your attempts at humor leave something to be desired,” he countered quietly, his face so serious I had to turn away.
“Look, Villari, I’m already nervous as a cat, and humor, weak as it may be, is my way of protecting myself. You’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since this whole thing started and I’ve run out of ways to deal with your incessant snooping.” I swung around, mentally pulled back my shoulders, and stood my ground. “I had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death and I resent the fact that I’m too busy looking for the murderer myself to have time to mourn.”
He stared at me for several seconds, completely still except for the small muscle jumping at the base of his jaw. “Exactly what do you mean you’ve been looking for the murderer yourself?”
Me and my big mouth. The man stood there just waiting to pounce. I backed away. “I just meant that I—” The words stumbled forth. “I’ve been so busy defending myself against your accusations that I’ve had to start thinking about who could have killed Elizabeth.”
“Maggie,” he warned, “I told you to stay out of this.” I held up my hands to stop him.
“I’m not doing anything. I’ve just made a couple of lists, weighed a few pros and cons. Nothing dangerous.”
He ran his hand through his hair. With that habit, it was no wonder it was perennially rumpled. Without saying a word, he stepped back, turned, and walked to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair, swiveled it around, and straddled it so he was facing me. This was beginning to feel familiar.
“Let’s see the lists.”
God, the man was relentless.
“No.” I shook my head firmly. I had to. I was lying like crazy. “They’re mine.”
“Like hell. If you’ve got information, hand it over.”
“Like hell. When you put a warrant in my hand, then I’ll hand it over.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and stared at him, determined not to flinch. “Go ahead and put me in that jail cell you keep dangling in front of me,” I said boldly, hoping like hell that he couldn’t see my knees trembling.
A slow grin crept across his face. “Nah, I’m going to do something a lot worse."
Like cowardly rats on a sinking ship, I felt every drop of confidence drain from my body as I managed one single word. “What?”
"I'm taking you to my mother’s house for dinner.”
Chapter Nine
“There’s no way I’m eating dinner with Mamacita tonight,” I said firmly, my hands propped on my hips. “I’ve got enough trouble in my life without subjecting myself to a bunch of Italians.”
Villari cocked his head to the side. “You’ve got a problem with Italians?”
I nodded. “As I said earlier, I’ve got a big problem with the whole hand-waving, pasta-loving, testosterone-struttin’ group of you.”
He had the audacity to smile. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. You were married to an Italian once, weren’t you?”
“Once too many.”
“I guess it wouldn’t help if I mentioned that we’re not all alike.” He stretched his long legs in front of the chair. It was impossible to miss the muscles bunching against his jeans.
“Tell you what. Just to be fair, I’ll give you a quiz, like the ones you find in magazines. If you answer no to any of the five questions, I’ll shut up and eat spaghetti with you tonight.” I took a deep breath. “Otherwise, if you answer yes to any—and, as I suspect, every—question, you’ll leave me in peace tonight. And you won’t interrogate me when I leave for the fifteen minutes it will take me to buy my very American cheeseburger and fries.”
He studied me closely. “I think I’m being bamboozled here.”
“No, you’re not. I’m just taking you to task for your statement that all Italians are not complete clones.”
“Okay, shoot.” He leaned back and rested against the table, his legs still extended like two perfectly sculpted examples of hard athleticism.
I paced in a circle around the kitchen as I ticked off my questions on the fingers of one hand. “Is your family Catholic? Do you have lots of siblings and scads and scads of relatives? Does your family eat pasta, in some form, whether it’s cannelloni, mastaciolli, ravioli, or some other ‘oli’ word, at least three times a week? Is there an unspoken rule that every family member must attend every get-together, occurring on a weekly basis, functions that include all birthdays, holidays, graduations, first Communions, baptisms, and of course, the celebration of all celebrations—Mother’s Day? Do your brothers fawn over your mother while her daughters-in-law run in the other direction?” I paused long enough to take a breath. “Should I go on?”
The man sat there with a blank look on his face. I didn’t know what to think until I saw the gleam in his eye and heard the soft rumble of a chuckle. He clasped his hands behind his head and the chuckle escalated into a deep, hearty laugh.
“Let me guess,” I said dryly. “It was a unanimous ‘yes’ all the way down the list.” I leaned my elbows on the counter and waited calmly for his reply.
“Yeah, it’s all true. I’ve got three brothers, two sisters, tons of Catholic relatives, and we get together and eat as often as possible.” He sat forward, bent his legs, and stood up. “I do love my mother and I think my sisters-in-law are scared to death of her,” he said quietly as he walked toward me. “But I’m still taking you to dinner tonight.”
I started to straighten up, but before I could move away, he rounded the corner of the counter and put his hands on my arms, pulling me toward him.
“Hey! I won the quiz. You reneging on the bet?”
“I have to,” he assured me.
“Why? What happened to police integrity? The ‘you can depend on the guys in blue’ spirit?”
“Because I already told my mother I invited a guest.”
“So un-invite me.”
He shook his head and pulled me closer. “You obviously don’t know everything about Italians. They hate being stood up, especially after spending the whole day in the kitchen cooking lasagna. If I don’t bring you, I’ll never hear the end of it. Besides,” he concluded, with a mischievous smile, “you’re too damned skinny. Italian men like a little meat on their women.”
And with that, his lips settled over mine.
He left soon afterward. But not until he had taken his finger and dragged it softly down the side of my face, gently pushing a strand o
f hair behind my ear. He grinned that ultra-charming smile of his and walked away, disarming me completely, leaving me standing there like a speechless idiot. Opening the front door, he hesitated for a moment and turned to face me.
“I’ll pick you up at six.” He scratched his chin. “One suggestion. My mother’s name is Toni Villari. You might want to can the Mamacita comments. She’s a stubborn, bullheaded lady who’s not afraid to fight.” His eyes flicked over me and he shrugged. “But then, God help us, so are you,” at which point he stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind him.
I peered through the window and watched his car pull out of the driveway. I was so restless I resumed my earlier pacing, except this time I didn’t confine myself to the kitchen. The man had a way of getting under my skin and I didn’t know what the hell to do about it. I was beginning to feel schizophrenic. One moment I was being threatened with a life sentence in the penitentiary and the next moment I was being kissed so thoroughly I was left breathless and shaky. On the other hand, maybe he was the one with the problem. His temper was so volatile and unpredictable, I never knew when he was going to pick me up and toss me into a pit of rattlesnakes and when he would seduce me with that crooked smile of his. But split personality aside, the man could kiss. I could feel it right down to my toes. And, believe me, my toes hadn’t curled like that in a long time.
I shuddered. My neighbor had just been killed and here I was cuddling with a cop who still considered me a suspect, even if my name was way down the list. Why was he taking me to dinner? Was he really going to check on my church story? Obviously, his mother wasn’t going to recognize me. Villari was right. I hadn’t set foot in a church since I was in high school. But she couldn’t prove anything, even if she did have a reserved seat in heaven and one in the neighborhood chapel. As the detective said himself, it was all circumstantial evidence.
Before I knew it, I found myself in the back of the house, turning circles in my bedroom, mimicking the actions of a dog getting ready for bed, twisting around and around before plopping down and falling asleep for the night. Finally, from sheer exhaustion, I did the same thing. I flopped down on the floor, lay on my back, and threw my arms over my head. I stretched in both directions at the same time, my upper half pulling one way, the bottom half, toes pointing, pushing the opposite way. It was the beginning of an exercise routine I performed regularly to alleviate the cramps in the small of my back after long hours of sculpting or sketching while sitting on a hard stool.
Slipping smoothly into the second exercise and then the third, I groaned aloud as I felt the pull of muscles. I stayed in this position for a long time, longer than usual, because I found myself staring at Elizabeth’s picture propped up against my wall.
It was a soft watercolor landscape, its subject a small pond dotted with snowy-white ducks and circled by high green grass that was ruffling in the wind. But as I studied the picture more closely, I realized it was a study of light and darkness and that the serenity evoked by the soft pastels was deceiving. Looming in the background was a dark mountain etched in charcoal. The face of the mountain, bare of pine trees, flowers, or other foliage, stood scarred with ragged lines, sharp stones and boulders. Stormy clouds hovered menacingly over the pond, twisting in the air like a child in the throes of a tantrum. Beyond the pond sat a dilapidated wooden bench, its green paint peeling, boards cracking, half-hidden in the tall thin reeds. The picture no longer seemed peaceful or even angry, but lonely and sad, like a person warring within himself. The landscape turned into a forlorn scene, one of emptiness. Of isolation.
It was the first time I had ever seen Elizabeth’s work. She had spoken often of her attempts to paint in her youth and her regret that she had given up her art when she married, but this was the first painting of hers I had seen, and it surprised me. Although her talent was obvious, I had expected something different, something more vibrant and dramatic, like the scarves she wore. Where was the flair, the boldness, and the pride? This picture spoke of pain and hopelessness, of resignation—the antithesis of the Elizabeth I knew.
But then, I wondered, how much do we really know of anyone? The image an individual chooses to present to the world doesn’t necessarily match the person inside. More often than not, the outside facade may actually mask personal pain, depression, and sadness. Moving into my fourth and last stretch, I pretended to stick my finger down my throat and gag. Whenever I attempted heavy philosophical thought, I ended up sounding like talk radio psychobabble. Soul-searching just wasn’t my forte.
All of this ruminating was getting me nowhere and I still had two basic problems. One: Elizabeth’s murder. What was the next step? I had to find the person who committed the crime. Two: Dinner this evening. It had all the signs of being a disaster...a real shame considering how much I loved to eat. Leave it to an Italian to wreck my favorite part of the day.
I finished stretching and decided to hit the studio. Summer has always been my favorite time for sculpting. With no lesson plans to write, report cards to finish, behavior problems to deal with, or parents to call, I could really relax and enjoy the process. For nine months out of the year, I struggled to squeeze my art into the few hours I had left each evening after teaching and planning for the following day. But each year, when June finally arrives, I feel drugged by the sheer freedom of blue skies and warm afternoons. I will admit, though, after a few days of blissful immersion in clay, oil, and charcoal, I notice that my productivity lessens and imaginative ideas slow to a dribble as I realize once again that making art is real work.
Every summer I plan full days of sculpting in my studio, but sooner or later hours are carved out to make time to plant my flowers, experiment with new recipes, hike in the woods, and play pool with my buddies. Procrastination is the name of the game. I’m definitely not one of those Type-A personalities who find it hard to relax and waste time. I’ve always labeled myself a Type-R personality—“tends to recreate.”
It’s hard to be disciplined with the sun banging on my window and beckoning me outside to play. Before I know it, I’m idle and lazy. And now, with the death of my dear friend, I found it harder to push myself into the studio, but I knew Elizabeth would want me to do exactly that. It made me wistful to remember her walking into my house to visit, although her walk was actually more of a march, with her upright carriage and firm steps. She always knocked briskly, and then just swooped in without waiting for an answer, as though she had every right to barge into my house uninvited and start making demands. And of course, she did. Have the right, that is.
It wasn’t always that way, though. I could still recall the first time I met her. She strode over to my house, her heels clacking against the wooden porch steps, and rapped sharply on my door.
I cautiously pulled it open a few inches.
“You’re my neighbor,” she announced as though it was headline news.
“Yes, I know that. I’ve seen you out and about,” I said, impatiently tapping my sock-clad foot against the wooden floor, waiting for this lady to get to her point, if indeed she had one. If this was the neighborhood welcome wagon, I wasn’t too anxious for it to stay. At that moment I was afraid I had a dotty old lady standing on my porch with no intention of ever leaving or finding her way back home.
“I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Elizabeth Boyer,” she stated in that regal voice of hers.
She stuck out her hand, forcing me to open the door a bit more. When I reached out, I was totally dumbstruck. All I could do was stare at the thing. Not at her hand, but the huge diamond solitaire on her fourth finger.
“Awfully large, isn’t it?” she noted when she saw me gawking at her jewelry. “I know it borders on being gaudy... actually it is most definitely gaudy, but it’s a family ring, my mother’s, and I just can’t bear to part with it and there’s no point in keeping it locked away in a vault.”
“It’s lovely,” I stammered, blown away by a rock the size of a shooter marble.
“It’s not l
ovely at all, dear, but it’s very polite of you to say so,” she said, clasping my hand firmly and giving it a quick shake. She smiled. “Now that the preliminaries are over and we are officially introduced, I’d like to invite you over for a cup of coffee one morning this week.”
“That would be great,” I said with a thin, phony smile, “but I work every morning.”
“Do you?” she asked dubiously. “Well, then, perhaps some other time.” Elizabeth Boyer turned to go, leaving me completely free to return to my nice, peaceful, uncluttered life. But I knew she didn’t believe me, and in spite of a strong intuition that this woman would raise havoc wherever she descended, I just couldn’t let her leave thinking she lived next door to a dishonest recluse of a neighbor.
“I work out of the house. I’m an artist,” I explained. “At least, that’s what I’m working to be.”
“Really?” A gleam of interest shone in her eyes. “What is your medium?”
“Clay. Bronze. I sculpt.”
She nodded. “And who is your agent?”
“No one at the moment. I’m at the bottom of the learning curve with a steep hill to climb.”
“Are you taking lessons?”
I shook my head. “I can’t afford a teacher right now.”
“Well, let me see what you’ve done,” she stated boldly... and firmly. “You can’t be an artist in a vacuum. You need to show your work and let people—knowledgeable people,” she amended, “suggest and critique.” She checked me up and down. “From what little I know of you already, and I’m a fairly good judge of character, you’re very independent and you like to keep to yourself. The problem is, the art world doesn’t promote wallflowers. You have to promote yourself. ‘Nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent’,” she quoted, staring off into space. “I don’t remember who said that, but it’s true. I see it all the time.”
I’m sure I stood gaping like an idiot as she delivered this monologue. Who was this lady who was apparently intent on invading my life? And more importantly, how in the hell did I get rid of her?
Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) Page 11