Love Thy Sister (Mina's Adventures Book 1)

by Maria Grazia Swan

  As she opened Paola’s lingerie drawer, the scent of lavender wafted up. Tied with a white ribbon, the stems of the dried, blue flowers formed a divider between the panties and the matching bras.

  Lavanda. Their mother used to keep the same kinds of dry bouquets in her linen drawers. Every spring, she would purchase fresh ones from the mountain people and put the old ones in the folds of the wool blankets being stored until next winter. Mina wondered where Paola’s lavender flowers came from.

  Her hand was a little shaky as she rummaged through the drawer, looking for the smallest pair of panties. Beneath the underwear, Mina found a white folder with bold blue letters, the same folder she’d gone to fetch for Paola last Saturday when Rachel died. Why were her sister’s business papers in with her underwear? Consumed with curiosity, she opened the folder.

  Inside were two white envelopes, larger than legal size. One was sealed; the other had been opened, and the edges looked yellowish and worn. It was addressed to Paola, in their mother’s slanted handwriting.

  Mina sat on the bed, holding the letter in her trembling fingers. Mamma had been dead for almost six years now. The postmark over the Italian stamps read twenty-five Agosto. Two days after her own fifteenth birthday.

  She lifted the flap of the unsealed envelope. It contained about a dozen photographs. Old photographs. Mina smiled. There were pictures of her, some with her mother, some with both her parents, but most of her alone. She was just a child, almost a baby.

  She checked the envelope again to make sure nothing more was in it, but there were no letters, not even a note. Just a bunch of old family pictures.

  Something was wrong, but she couldn’t pin point what it was. She turned the pictures over. Some were dated. Others were blank.

  Holding those photos full of memories, she lost track of time. Then it hit her, the oddity, and the missing piece. Paola wasn’t in any of the pictures.

  The ringing telephone jolted her. Damn it. She’d forgotten about Margo and the cops.

  Mina returned the pictures to the envelope, placed both envelopes in the folder, and laid it on the bottom of the drawer.

  Going back, she grabbed the first pair of jeans that caught her eye. The Guns N’ Roses sweatshirt would have to do. To hell with the underwear.

  The phone was still ringing when she locked the door behind her and got into her Bug.

  West Coast Software’s parking lot was full, so Mina parked on a side street and walked over. She didn’t see any police cars. Maybe they had left.

  Margo, wearing a neon yellow jacket over an orange shell, greeted her as she entered the office. “What took you so long?”

  “Margo, mamma mia. You’re going to blind somebody with that outfit.”

  “You noticed, huh?”

  “Noticed? I’ll bet it glows in the dark. Where’s Paola?”

  Margo jumped up, leaned over the desk and whispered, “You’ll never guess what I found out.”

  “You made me rush over here with some story about the cops and my sister losing her cool. Save your gossip. Where’s my sister?”

  “Shhh—she’s in there, she’s going to flip when she sees your shirt.” Margo motioned over Mina’s shoulder, toward Michael’s office, “She is with them.”

  “Them who?”

  “You know, that oriental hunk, Detective De Fiore. They wanted to talk to you. Paula told me to call right away, and that was hours ago.”

  “You said `they’.”

  “De Fiore and the other fellow.”

  Mina’s heart beat a little harder. “Brian Starrs?”

  “No, some other policeman, I didn’t get his name. He isn’t my type.”

  Mina thought that unlikely. All men were Margo’s type. This one must be married.

  “It’s about Rachel.” Margo said.

  “What about her? Did they found out what was wrong with her heart?”

  “I don’t know, but mine is going crazy. Sexy De Fiore complimented me on my dress and asked for one of my chocolates. He likes them so much, he wanted to know where I bought them. He is sooo sexy.”

  “Margo, I don’t care about cutie-face. What about Rachel?”

  “He told me she OD’d.”

  Maledizione, Brian was right. It was drugs. “On what?”

  “I don’t know, but listen. You’ll never guess, not in a million years—”

  “Margo!”

  “Okay, okay! Rachel Fernandez was pregnant.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “I thought I heard your voice.” Paola spoke from the doorway of her office. Beyond her, Mina saw Michael sitting at his desk, and De Fiore in front of him. “Do me a favor and go get Paco. Detective De Fiore needs to speak to both of you.”

  Mina tried to read Paola’s thoughts. Did she know? Rachel pregnant! How was she supposed to nod and act as if nothing happened, nothing was wrong? Povera Paola, she must have heard about Rachel. No wonder she wanted Mina to rush over. She seemed different though—not frantic, but not calm either.

  Mina’s heart went out to her sister. Michael, bastardo, how could he?

  “Signorina, unless you’re telepathic, you’re not going to find Paco while standing there.” Paola’s eyes were locked on hers, as if trying to convey a silent message. But what? “Come on, De Fiore’s been waiting for you all morning.”

  “Right,” Mina said. “Just as soon as I’m done talking to Margo.”

  Paola put a hand on her hip and tilted her head.

  Mina got the message. “Va bene, va bene, I’m going.” After her sister shut the door, Mina whispered, “Margo, how did you find out about Rachel?”

  The receptionist smiled sweetly. “You don’t have time for gossip, remember? You heard your sister. Scoot.”

  Since West Coast Software’s operations were divided between two buildings, the quickest way to the production building was through the warehouse. The back building housed the expensive disk duplication equipment. There the programmed discs were boxed and shipped by a flock of unskilled workers.

  Mina wasn’t knowledgeable about all that technical stuff however she did understand that it had to do with programs and information created by others. Paola liked to say that her company was the safe keeper of intellectual secrets.

  Leaving the warehouse, Mina came face to face with a noisy yellow forklift, its prongs loaded with huge boxes. She couldn’t see the operator. Assuming it was Paco, she walked up to the open side. An olive-skinned stranger sat in the driver’s seat. Short crooked teeth shone white under his thin mustache. He smiled at her, but his eyes—mere slits—remained unreadable

  Without logic or warning, chills ran down her spine. She stepped back and the stranger maneuvered the machine away.

  “Hi, Mina.” Paco’s voice behind her was a relief.

  “Thank God, Paco. Paola sent me to get you.” Mina slipped a hand through the crook in his arm, steered him toward the open bay door. “Who is that guy?”

  The forklift operator jerked his head around and looked at her. Surely he couldn’t hear her over the racket.

  “Ishmael Fernandez,” Paco replied.

  “Fernandez? Another one?”

  “Their brother.”

  “What do you know—the old man had some male chromosomes after all.”

  “Well, some man did.”

  She laughed, the fear gone. They crossed the warehouse.

  “Paco, how come all the Fernandezes have Jewish names?”

  “Not Jewish—biblical. Old lady Fernandez was probably trying to make up for past sins. Lot of good it did her. I’ve never seen a more ungodly bunch, except maybe for Sarah, and she is the only one I have hopes for.” As they headed into the reception room, he asked, “How about your name. Where does ‘Mina’ come from?”

  “Oh, it’s the name of a famous singer. Mina is Italy’s version of Barbara Streisand. A great voice. I bet Mina was the first singer to go by a first name only. Way before Madonna.” She paused and then added, “but she doesn’t go out in pu
blic anymore. At least not while I was living there. She had a really sad life. And when she was young and at the peak of her career, she gave birth to a love child. We are talking a long time ago here. And all that in our old fashioned, narrow minded, Catholic Italy. You’ve got to admire the lady. Anyhow, she became a recluse in her big villa by the Swiss border, and then she got big. I mean, fat. So, now she records in her own studio and never, never sings in public. Poor lady.”

  “That’s a very sad story. I guess what they say about money not buying happiness applies to all countries.” Paco said. “Mina, where are we going?”

  “Michael’s office. De Fiore wants to talk to us.

  When they entered the office. De Fiore rose and shook Paco’s hand. His smile was polite, but not friendly. He grabbed two chairs and motioned them to sit. Michael remained seated behind his desk, Paola to his right. A Dunkin’ Donuts box rested in the center of a round table in the corner. Cops and doughnuts—try to explain that to an Italian. Still, Mina hoped they’d left her a chocolate-covered one.

  “Now that we have established the time and cause of death in the Fernandez case,” De Fiore began, “I would like—”

  “Excuse me.” Mina raised her hand like a schoolgirl.

  “Yes Miss Calvi, what is it?” De Fiore asked.

  “Oh, you do know my last name. Did Paola tell—” His scowl stopped her. Not in the mood for chitchat. Better get to the point. “Before you give us the third degree, what about Rachel? You never gave us the whole story.”

  “The whole story? An interesting choice of words.” De Fiore tented his forefingers. “Rachel Fernandez ingested approximately one gram of cocaine—”

  “Ingested?” Mina interrupted. “You mean she ate it? I thought you were supposed to sniff it or smoke it or something.”

  “Miss Calvi.” De Fiore’s voice was ice water.

  Mina shut up.

  “The liquefied cocaine was injected into a chocolate cherry cordial,” he continued. “Fifteen to twenty minutes after eating it, Rachel would have gone into convulsions. We know this from stomach contents and rate of digestion. She was probably trying to get help when she fell down the stairs.”

  Paco looked confused. “She died of an overdose? I thought it was a heart attack.”

  “Taken internally, cocaine causes a heart attack.”

  A chocolate cherry cordial, red patent pumps, a speeding Thunderbird and Paola’s empty bedroom. Mina felt like a huge twister grabbed her and spun her around and around until the truth and the lies all blended together.

  “Mina, are you all right?” Paola’s voice brought her back to reality. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

  Were her doubts written on her face? She jumped up, grabbed a doughnut from the box and stuffed it in her mouth. “Hungry,” Mina said, puffing out a cloud of powdered sugar. “Starving to death, sorry.” She took another big bite, avoiding De Fiore’s speculative stare.

  “Time of death, approximately two p.m.,” he said. “Mina, do you have something you want to tell me?”

  “I was home by then,” Mina said. Dio mio, the spiral of deceit was sucking her in.

  Paola’s tone was calm and sweet. “Detective De Fiore wants to know if you saw Rachel that Saturday. He’s asking everybody who was in the building.”

  “Elena was here; I spoke to her.” There, that was a non-answer. After all, she wasn’t positive it was Rachel in the red shoes. Paola smiled at her. “Excuse me, but what exactly are you investigating?” This time, Mina met his gaze.

  “We’re investigating the murder of Rachel Fernandez.”

  Paola smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her suede skirt. “Maybe it would be helpful, Detective, if you ran down the particulars of the case. Perhaps that way, we’ll be better able to help you.”

  Mina sensed the game of give and take her sister and De Fiore played—who would tell, and how much?

  De Fiore ran a finger between his shirt collar and his neck. A move to buy time while considering the answer?

  “On Saturday, November fourth,” he said. “Rachel left home while the rest of her family slept. We don’t know when she arrived at West Coast Software. She may have already been wearing Sarah’s smock or she may have put it on here.” His tone reminded Mina of the old Parroco, the parish priest, and his Sunday’s sermon. “At some point, she ate a chocolate covered cherry cordial, went upstairs to the loft and died. We are interviewing all the people who were on the premises last Saturday.”

  “What people?” Michael said.

  The detective ticked them off on his fingers. “Two workers in the back. Mr. Mendez, here, traveled between the two buildings, doing inventory and keeping an eye on the duplication room. Elena, who I understand cleans the offices but not the loft. And of course, Miss Calvi,” he bent his head in Mina’s direction, “came to get some papers for her sister, who was at home. You, Mr. Davies, called from Chicago, thinking your wife would be here catching up on paperwork, and instead spoke to your sister-in-law.” He let his hand drop to his lap. “That was between eleven-thirty and twelve, our time, which covers Elena’s approximate time of arrival. All these people here and still, no one saw Rachel.”

  “I wonder how Rachel got here,” Paco said. “Maybe someone saw her on the bus.”

  “We’re checking that out,” the detective said.

  Mina cleared her throat, and De Fiore glanced at her. “Maybe Rachel got the poisoned candy on Halloween night,” she said.

  “These chocolate cherry cordials are very popular around here, aren’t they?” When no one replied, he continued, “Elena mentioned that Mina was searching around for some chocolate that Saturday and was disturbed when she couldn’t find any.”

  Mina choked.

  “Something wrong, Miss Calvi?”

  “No, no. Elena hallucinates, you know. All that cleaning fluid.” Wait till she caught up with Miss No Comprendo.

  “Your receptionist keeps a supply of them in her desk,” De Fiore said, “and yet everyone refers to them as `Mrs. Davies’ chocolates’. I understand that you, Mr. Davies, put one of these candies in your wife’s in-box every time you leave on a trip. Sort of a love ritual, I gather?”

  Michael looked at Paola with the same twinkle in his eyes Mina had seen when they came to her hometown in Italy for their honeymoon. No doubt about it; it was a look of love. But if Michael still loved his wife, then why Rachel? Or Sarah? And the fights or, worse yet, the silences.

  “These are not exotic bon-bons,” De Fiore said. “They can be bought in most supermarkets. You, Mr. Davies, get yours from the Hallmark store. Lately the owner remembers you buying romantic cards in Spanish. You told her your wife was Italian, but you thought Spanish would be close enough.”

  Mina’s brother-in-law had turned cardinal-red and was doodling ferociously. Paola sat like a wax Madonna, except for a tiny muscle twitching at the corner of her red lips.

  But the detective wasn’t finished yet. “The owner of the Hallmark Store didn’t work last Saturday, but the salesgirl distinctly recalls a lady who bought a box of chocolate cherry cordials. It was around twelve-thirty and she appeared to be in a great hurry. She made quite an impression on the young clerk, who described the shopper as ‘a striking brunette with wild hair and wearing a fabulous violet silk blouse, the same color as her eyes’.”

  The pen slipped from Michael’s grasp, slowly rolled to the edge of the table, and dropped to the floor.

  Her chin quivering and her eyes filled with tears, Mina looked at Paola. “My sister was home in bed all day long,” she said.

  “Mrs. Davies,” De Fiore said, “perhaps we should discuss this in private?”

  “Perhaps,” Paola answered. She lifted her hand in a gesture of dismissal. “How about you people getting back to work while detective De Fiore and I chat a while?” she said.

  “But, Paola—”

  “You too, Mina. The detective is not a big, bad wolf. Trust me.” Her smile seemed sincere enough but only
lips deep.

  Dismissed. Why was Paola always treating her like a child?

  Mina walked to the front room in time to see Michael closing the warehouse door behind him.

  “In a big hurry to disappear, isn’t he?” she said to Margo. But when the receptionist’s chair spun around, Mina found herself facing Brian Starrs. “What are you doing here?”

  “Answering the telephone.” The smile started in his eyes, spread to his lips.

  “Where’s Margo? Wait, don’t tell me.” Mina knew she sounded brittle and catty, but she didn’t care. “She urgently had to go to the ladies’ room. What’ll it be this time, I wonder; a permanent, a pedicure or a simple nose job?”

  “What happened in there? Nothing good from the look on your face.”

  “Ask your buddy, Mr. Detective. He seems to have all the answers. I’m leaving.”

  “Can I give you a ride?”

  “No.” She had to get outside before the tears started again. Heading out the door, she closed it after her. Brian pushed it open and grabbed her arm before she made it to the parking lot.

  “What is it with you? You’re always acting as if the whole world is out to get you. Were you born this way, or do you put on a performance around me because you think it’s cute?”

  She pulled away, “You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m not.” He loosened his grip but didn’t let go completely. “Why are you so mad at Dan? What happened in there?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “Mina, I swear, I didn’t even know he was here. I stopped by to say hello. Margo told me about the meeting, so I decided to wait—that’s when I got roped into answering the phones.”

  “He accused my sister of poisoning Rachel.”

  “What?”

  “Well, maybe accused isn’t the right word, but still.”

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk about it.” He let her arm go, but stayed close. “We can take my car.”

  “No. I need some air; I need to move. This is crazy. I should do something. Adams should be here. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll call Adams.” She walked fast, almost running. Brian strode along.

  “Adams is in court,” he said.