by Maddy Hunter
Nana had announced her decision to skip a formal lunch rather simply. “We’re not doin’ no sit-down meal for lunch on account of we’re gonna whip up a few things and just let you graze all afternoon.”
The gang really got into the whole grazing thing, but in between snacking, they’d flop down in the lounge with their suitcases by their side and simply stare at each other.
“Who’s bored?” asked Dick Teig.
Ten hands flew into the air.
“We wouldn’t be bored if we had our cell phones,” lamented Alice.
They cast forlorn looks at their suitcases.
George scratched his head. “What did we do for excitement before cell phones?”
“I never did anything exciting before cell phones,” said Alice.
Helen pulled a face. “Hold on. I’m remembering something. Didn’t we used to…talk?”
“You mean…to each other?” questioned Osmond.
“I believe our most exciting pursuit was watching the Dicks act like buffoons,” recalled Tilly.
“Yeah,” Dick Teig agreed. “Those were the glory days.”
“Anyone know what time it is?” asked Dick Stolee.
They cast more forlorn looks at their suitcases.
“I could dig my Timex out of my grip,” offered Lucille as she massaged her naked wrist. “It only cost twenty bucks, so if it gets stolen, it won’t be that big a loss.”
Spencer strode into the lounge looking both curious and annoyed. “The racket in this place is never-ending. Did you hear that noise just now?”
Shrugs. Vacant stares.
“What did it sound like?” asked Tilly.
“I don’t know. But I’ve never heard anything like it before.”
“Gurgling?” asked Helen. “Swashing? Bubbling?”
“Maybe a little.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Does anyone have a gas relief tablet for Dick?”
“It was more than that, though,” urged Spencer. “It was more like…like what a dragon would sound like if he had bronchitis.”
The room went quiet as questioning glances were exchanged.
“What kind of dragon are you talking about, son?” needled Dick Teig. “The kind you see in the movie theater or a real one?”
Helen thwacked her husband’s shoulder. “Don’t encourage him. If he’s one of those loonies, he could go after you.”
Margi threw Dick a terrified look. “What do you mean, real one?”
A sudden pounding on the front door sent me to my feet, but before I could cross the floor, three unexpected guests emerged from the foyer to stand in sullen silence before us. Two men were dressed in cat burglar black with physiques like Russian nesting dolls—squat and hefty, with shaved heads, dark eyes, four o’clock shadows, and mysterious lumps in their sports coats. The woman who stood between them was white-haired and pear-shaped, with an enormous fanny pack sitting at her waist below bosoms that were big as punching bags. She had a puffy face, eyes like black buttons, and a forbidding aura that hung over her like a thundercloud. She looked like the kind of person who might enjoy cracking walnuts open with her teeth.
And, for some reason, she looked vaguely familiar.
“I’m Maria Cacciatore,” she announced without introduction. “Which one of you killed my boy?”
eighteen
Omigod. It was Lance’s family from the wall photo—the ones I’d facetiously nicknamed Frankie Two Fingers and Sammy the Snitch.
“What’d you say your name was?” asked Dick Teig.
“Maria Cacciatore,” she repeated, the hard vowels of her New Jersey accent piercing the air like darts.
“Like the chicken?” Margi called out. “Chicken cacciatore was one of my mother’s favorite Sunday dinner standbys, although I wasn’t too fond of the tomatoes, onions, peppers, or potatoes that went with it.”
“There are no potatoes in chicken cacciatore,” challenged Helen.
“Are so,” said Margi.
“Are not,” said Helen.
Acting on a subtle nod from Maria, Two Fingers and the Snitch removed the lumps from their pockets and aimed the barrels in the general vicinity of the cushy chairs and loveseats.
“Are those real guns?” questioned Alice.
“They can’t be,” insisted Osmond. “Handguns are outlawed in England.”
“Manufacturers certainly make authentic-looking toys these days,” said Lucille.
Maria nodded to the Snitch.
bang! He shot a hole in the floor an inch away from his feet.
“I bet that wasn’t a real bullet,” scoffed Grace.
Osmond sprang out of his chair. “Show of hands. How many— dang.” He slumped back down. “I keep forgetting.”
“Was that real ammo or a blank?” George called out.
Maria nodded to Two Fingers, who trained his gun on George.
“No!” I cried, sprinting in front of the furniture grouping with my arms spread wide like a human shield. “They’re real bullets. We believe you. Just…just no more shooting, okay?”
Nana raced out of the kitchen to the lounge, her tone scolding. “Keep it down in here, would ya? Jackie’s got a mousse in the oven.” She glanced at me. She glanced at the newcomers. She gave a little suck on her uppers. “Are them guns real?”
“yes!” I yelled before the boys took aim again. “They’re real, and they’re loaded.”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Didn’t no one tell you fellas that guns what look like them are illegal over here?”
“Rules don’t apply to us,” Maria allowed. “We make our own.”
“Hey, Ma,” Two Fingers enthused. “She’s got a moose in the oven. I’ve never tasted moose. Can we stay ’til it’s done?”
“Yoohoo!” Helen waved her hand over her head. “Excuse me. I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Mousse is never baked in the oven. It’s always chilled in the refrigerator.”
“So the old broad lied?” said Two Fingers, sneering.
Maria smacked the back of his head with her open palm. “What’d I teach you? You never ever disrespect your elders. Now apologize to the lady.”
Two Fingers lowered his gaze in repentance. “Sorry.”
“This question is for Marion,” Margi jumped in. “If moose is on the menu for tonight, can we make substitutions?”
“No substitutions,” huffed Dick Stolee. “Remember? Marion said if we started complaining, she’d stop cooking, so you’d better well eat what she puts in front of you.”
Nana let out a disdainful snort. “Just so’s you know, the mousse what Jackie’s got in the oven isn’t no hunk of meat. It’s a chocolate mousse cake that don’t need no chillin’.”
“Oh, thank God,” choked Margi. “I was worried what the antlers might do to my dental work.”
“Chocolate cake, Ma,” Two Fingers pleaded. “That’s even better. Can we stay now?”
My ears perked up at the sound of footsteps running down the hallway, but before I could think of a way to send up a warning flare, Wally appeared with August, Spencer, Mason, and Kathryn bunched up behind him. “Did I just hear a gunshot?” He ground to a sudden stop when he spied the guns. “Holy hell. Are those—”
“They’re real!” I cried, cutting him off.
Up went his hands. “I surrender.” Up went the bloggers’ hands. “They surrender, too.”
“It might be too late to ask now,” said Margi, “but when the two boys flashed their weapons, were we supposed to put our hands up?”
“Will you put a lid on it?” growled Dick Teig.
Maria extended a hand toward Wally and the bloggers. “Please. I invite you to take a seat. Including you,” she said to Nana. “There. Is everyone here?”
“What about the one cooking the moose?” asked the Snitch.
Maria snapped her fingers, which sent him galumphing toward the kitchen. “Hey, Ma,” he said, pausing as he passed the sideboard. “There’s a picture of us hanging up on the wall here. A real nice one. Youse oughta see it.”
“Am I in it?” asked Two Fingers as he lumbered off for an apparent look-see.
Maria grabbed his arm. “One more step and I’ll take that gun away and use it on you myself. Get back where you were.”
“Geez, Ma,” he whined, slinking back to her side. “Youse know what a picture buff I am.”
Jackie marched into the lounge at gunpoint, with her hands up and a horrified expression on her face. “I’m well aware that you’re holding me at gunpoint,” she railed at the Snitch, “but when my timer goes off, will you at least let me check my cake for doneness? It’s my first ever and I’ll die if it’s overcooked.”
Given the situation, I wondered if another idiom might have been more appropriate.
Jackie and I got hustled into a loveseat together while Maria assumed center stage. “For the newcomers in the group, I’m Maria Cacciatore, and I want to know which one of you killed my boy Anthony.”
“Who’s Anthony?” asked Helen.
“Anthony Cacciatore.”
“Like the chicken?” questioned Dick Stolee.
I hung my head and slapped my hands over my face.
“He changed his name,” wisecracked the Snitch. “He was gonna be a big-shot chef, so he wanted a name with more star power.”
Two Fingers screwed his mouth into a sour contortion. “Somethin’ that would look good trending on the frickin’ Twittersphere.”
“He ripped his mother’s heart out of her chest,” Maria wailed, clutching her hands over her bosom as if to hide the wound. “Trashing the name his own father gave him the day he was baptized. Sacrilege!” She paused in counterpoint. “Of course, that no- good SOB father of his didn’t care that I already had a name for the baby. Why should he ask me? Me—who blew up like an air mattress the minute his sperm landed. Me—who had to wear flipflops all winter because I couldn’t squeeze my fat sausage feet and ankles into my shoes. But according to him, he was the one who suffered for nine long months because he had to share his bed with the Goodyear Blimp.”
“Right on, sister! Men are such pigs,” Jackie blurted, amending her outburst when Two Fingers and the Snitch redirected the barrels of their guns at her. “I hope you know I mean that in a general sense. Not specifically…or literally.”
Two Fingers wrinkled his brow as he riveted his gaze on her. “What?”
Maria cuffed the side of his head. “Quiet. I’m talking. So when we get to the church for the christening, Mr. I’ve Had To Suffer For So Many Months says, ‘We’re namin’ the kid Anthony, after me.’ No negotiation. No back and forth. Whatever Anthony said was law. The no-good SOB.” Her voice oozed bitterness.
“What name had you picked out for him?” I asked in a feeble attempt at hostage cordiality.
Her face brightened. “I was going to call him Caesar.”
“Like the salad?” asked Dick Stolee.
“Like the conqueror,” she fired back. “I imagined him taking his place as the head of all the families one day. Just like the Roman emperor. Caesar Cacciatore.” She smiled beatifically. “Besides, I liked the alliteration.”
All the families? Holy crap. I was getting a very bad feeling about this—even worse than I’d had before.
“But my firstborn, my Anthony, does he want to become head of the families? No. He wants to cook. Wants to be like his idol, Julia Child. So he needs to change his name. He likes Lance, he tells me. Lance Tori. It’s more streamlined, he says. More efficient. Three syllables instead of seven, just like Julia Child. He rips my heart out of my chest again.”
“And starts batting for the other team,” sniggered the Snitch.
Maria whacked his head. “You don’t ever laugh at your brother.”
“Excuse me?” Margi waved her hand. “Have you read any of the recent medical reports on concussions?”
“My Anthony was a good son. Smart. Focused. Articulate, if you could get past the lisp. I didn’t do right by him when he told me he switched teams. I reacted like that no-good SOB father of his would have acted instead of behaving like the mother who loved him. I never should have done that.” Her eyes screamed regret. “I’ve been paying for it ever since.” She wagged a cautionary finger at the gang. “A mother should never turn her back on a son because, in the end, she’s the one who suffers the most. And now, because of someone in this room, I can’t even tell him I’m sorry. I have to spend the rest of my life living in guilt. So…which one of you killed him?”
I inched my hand into the air.
“You?” Maria bellowed, snapping her fingers at the boys to take action.
“No! I only want to ask a question.”
Snitch scuffed his foot on the floor in disappointment. “Mother#!&*#!” he spat.
Maria whacked him harder. “You’re not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap, mister.”
“I’d really make a point of reading those concussion reports if I were you,” advised Margi.
I took a chance and stood up, hoping to ease the chaos. “Enyon mentioned that since Lance had been disowned by his family, he didn’t feel obligated to notify you of his death. Did he change his mind and call you?”
“I read it in the blogs,” said Two Fingers. “It was in all my favorites: Knife and Fork, Will Travel; the Ten-Dollar-a-Day Traveler; Standard Suite, Please. And he didn’t just die, he got whacked. Hey.” He jerked to attention as if he’d just been electrocuted by the light bulb that went on over his head. “I just thoughta somethin’. They’re here in this room—all the famous bloggers. Where are youse hiding?”
August, Spencer, and Mason elevated their hands with the enthusiasm of volunteers being asked to serve as targets for live-round firing squad practice.
“Look, Ma. It’s my bloggers!” Two Fingers thrust his hand inside his jacket, pulling out not a bigger gun, but what looked like a wrinkled merchandise receipt. “Can I have youse autographs? I love youse guys.”
“I have a pen,” offered Helen, reaching into her pocket. “Anyone need it?” She flashed the implement into the air.
“That’s not a pen,” rasped Dick. “It’s your eyebrow pencil.”
“No autographs,” Maria snapped at Fingers. “Not until the guilty party fesses up.”
Sidelong glances. Quiet gulps.
Wally joined the discourse. “The constable in charge of the investigation hasn’t found any evidence linking anyone in this room to Lance’s death, Mrs. Cacciatore. No motive. No fingerprints. No opportunity. Nothing.”
Had I told Wally about Kathryn’s no-good SOB ex-husband, the chef? Maybe not.
“So if you’re planning to hold us at gunpoint until someone confesses, you could be in for a very long wait.”
Maria lifted her brows nonchalantly. “Do we look like we’re in a hurry?”
“How’d you get those guns into the country anyway?” razzed Dick Teig.
“We didn’t have to get them into the country,” said Maria. “They were already here. You think we don’t have associates in the UK? We have a whole network in place that’s part of our global initiative.”
“Did your associates tell you about the reputation Lance had earned for himself in the village?” asked Tilly in her professor’s voice. “He feuded with everyone: the merchants, the fishermen, complete strangers. He was possessed of a violent temper that apparently erupted like Old Faithful on a daily basis.”
“He got that from his father,” defended Maria. “The no-good SOB.”
“It’s quite obvious he didn’t inherit the trait from you,” flattered Tilly. “So might I suggest you may be barking up the wrong tree by accusing someone in this room of your son’s murder? Be
cause there’s an entire village a few miles away from here whose residents shed no tears when he passed away.”
“How do you know that?” challenged Maria.
Tilly sighed. “Google search. Shall I send you a link?”
“Would anyone mind terribly if I dashed into the kitchen to see how my cake is doing?” asked Jackie.
“No one leaves the room,” warned Maria.
“Ever?” croaked Margi.
“What if we gotta use the potty?” asked Nana. “We’re old. We got plumbin’ issues.”
“Quiet!” Maria rubbed her temples as if she were suffering from sensory overload with a migraine chaser.
“What if they got cell phones, Ma?” fretted Snitch. “They could call the police while they’re in the can.”
Maria cast a suspicious look at us. “Yes. They. Could.” She punched Two Fingers in the arm. “You leaving everything to your brother now? How come you didn’t think of that?”
“Much better,” commended Margi, bursting into applause.
“Lemme see your cell phones,” Maria demanded. “And don’t pull any funny business and try to hide ’em. My boys don’t take kindly to cheats.”
I raised my phone over my head with reluctance, unsure of how we’d message anyone for help now. With a nod from their mother, Fingers and Snitch collected my phone as well as Jackie’s, Wally’s, and the bloggers’ and piled them on the dining table.
“What about the rest of you?” Maria eyed the gang. “You expect me to believe that not one of you has a cell phone?”
“They’re in our bags,” Helen offered helpfully. “Technically, we have them, but we’re not using them, so that’s pretty much the same as not having them, isn’t it?”
The boys methodically unzipped every suitcase and removed every phone, adding them to the stack on the dining table. “Hey, Ma, shouldn’t we stow these things someplace to keep ’em safe?” asked Snitch.
“That’s why we had them in our luggage,” deadpanned Helen.
“Empty out one of their suitcases and dump ’em all inside,” instructed Maria. “Then lock it up tight.” She regarded the suitcases scattered about the room. “Do you people schlep those things around with you everywhere you go? Even on day trips?”