J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 05 - Season for Murder

by J. M. Griffin

  “Nothing. That was it,” I sidestepped with a lie.

  “What about Mrs. Galumpky?”

  “What about her?” I asked.

  “She’s dead. I heard it on the news. What do you know about that?”

  Again, I wasn’t sure if I should answer honestly, so I took the easy way out, easy for me, anyway.

  “I identified her at the morgue. She was killed by a blow to the head from a blunt instrument. Other than that, I have no idea of the ‘why’ end of it.”

  “Huh, people seem to drop like flies around you, Vinnie.” Rafael smirked.

  “I guess I’m just lucky,” I answered with an offhand attitude.

  He rose from the chair and bid us goodbye as he ambled from the apartment. I sat still for a few minutes until the door closed and then jumped from my seat.

  “Why is he so interested in Mrs. Galumpky?” I demanded of Lola.

  With a shrug of one slight shoulder, she raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

  “I haven’t a clue, Vin.”

  “Then tell me what he did for a living in Boston, and why he suddenly moved here.” Knowing what he’d told me, I wanted to make sure it was true.

  “He’s a photographer of some sort. Our families are related somehow down through the bloodline. I know him pretty well and Bobby trusts him. If my brother trusts someone, then they’re okay by me. Bobby said Rafe always had the second sight, even when we were kids. He was a scrawny kid, then, not the handsome guy he is now. Rafe used to freak out the neighborhood punks who tried to beat him up.”

  “He’s a strange one, for sure,” I conceded. “He drifts in and out of the house whenever he pleases. He did mention he’ll be off to the Caribbean soon.”

  “You don’t seem uncomfortable with him around, but I’m sure you’ll be happy when Aaron returns from Washington.” Lola smiled her Julia Roberts smile.

  “Rafe is easy on the eyes, and he has a nice way about him, but I do miss Aaron,” I said. “We wouldn’t be nosing around half as much if Aaron was here, though. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “Uh, huh. Why do you think Mrs. Galumpky was killed?”

  I shrugged. “Tomorrow we’ll see what we can find out.” I chewed my lip a minute and then said, “If there’s a money laundering scheme in place, maybe Galumpky was involved and got greedy, or something to that effect.”

  There had been no outward sign that Mrs. Galumpky was doing anything illegal, but I’d never had much contact with her. I was sure Mom wouldn’t know anything, either. Warm and fuzzy weren’t words I would be inclined to use when describing Mrs. Galumpky. I knew her as more of a stern, no-nonsense type of woman who didn’t interact with the staff or volunteers, if she could help it.

  Lola shuffled her feet as she stood up.

  “It’s a mystery, Vin. You’ll figure it out, just as you always do. I need to get going.” Lola walked toward the door and turned back. “This isn’t the first time the center has been used for laundering money. Remember that time Muffy got into trouble? That was connected to money laundering, right?”

  I nodded as she scooted out the door with a wave. I watched her and the Mini Cooper sweep from the driveway and head out of town. I smiled a bit and wondered if she’d felt uncomfortable by Rafael’s questions.

  He sauntered back into the apartment after she’d driven off.

  “Get your coat. We’re taking a ride,” he ordered in a silky tone of voice.

  “Where are we going?” I asked while donning a jacket and pocketing my house keys.

  “Just for a ride. You’ll see.”

  It was apparent he wasn’t about to tell me. My curiosity flying high, I couldn’t help but go with him. What interested me was he hadn’t invited me, he’d subtly ordered me. Why I complied, I couldn’t say. Just plain curiosity, I guessed.

  We rolled into Cranston in his Saab. I figured we were about to visit my mother. When Rafael took a right turn onto the street where my mother lived, I knew I’d been right. It isn’t always pleasant to be right, but there it is.

  The motor fell silent when he turned the ignition key. Rafe reached across me and opened the passenger door.

  “After you, my dear,” he said with a sly smile.

  I did as instructed. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the reason for his behavior would become clear. Until that happened, I’d go along with him.

  Warm lights glowed from the Christmas tree, and soft lamplight filtered through the kitchen as we entered the unlocked back door. I tossed my coat onto the back of a kitchen chair and called to my mother.

  There was no answer, so I called to my father. He didn’t answer, either. I rambled through the house checking rooms. My heart pounded in my chest. If I came across something unreasonable, like my parents in a compromising situation or worse, I’d either feel stupid or more worried than I had already become. The entire house was empty and both cars were missing from the yard. On top of that, the door had been left unlocked.

  I returned to the living room to find Rafe in front of the decorated tree. His eyes lit with laughter. He stared at the homemade ornaments from my, and Giovanni’s, youth. As twins we’d managed to keep my parents on their toes, but we had both been creative, as well. We’d done paper-crafted ornaments in our early years of elementary school.

  He pointed to the mutilated star with its little specks of glitter left around its edges. “You made this, huh?”

  “It was mandatory in grade school to make our family an ornament every year. Much to my chagrin, my mother still hangs them on the tree.” I smiled at the age-old, now decrepit star, and walked into the kitchen.

  “I think it’s kind of sweet,” Rafe remarked, his eyes twinkling with humor.

  “You would.” I lifted the polished aluminum cover off the cake dish. Inside was a three-layer chocolate cake with white frosting. Snowman sprinkles had been added on top of the frosting and a quarter of the cake was missing. “Want some cake?” I asked.

  “No, that pastry Lola made was filling. She’s one helluva cook, isn’t she?” His gaze roamed the room as he spoke.

  I wondered if he searched for something specific, like the journal. My mother wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave the letters and journal in plain sight. I was sure of it. It isn’t any fun to be wrong, but I was. My mother, the Bake Sale Sleuth, had done just that. Several cookbooks lay piled on the counter, topped with the journal and letters she’d retrieved from Iva’s apartment.

  I laid the cake dish cover atop the pile and sliced a piece of cake. Eating the delicious confection, I stood in front of the cake cover and cookbooks.

  A car pulled into the yard and my mother tumbled through the door burdened with shopping bags. I stared at the look of surprise on her face. It lasted a moment, and then she looked worried.

  “What are you two doing here?” she asked, a might breathless.

  “We came to have some of your famous chocolate cake and have a chat,” Rafael assured her with irresistible charm oozing from every word.

  We were in trouble the minute those words came from his mouth. My mother and I were, in fact, on the hot seat. I knew this would be an interrogation concerning my mother’s activities at the senior center, and of the old folks themselves. My nerves tightened as I strived to remain calm. I wondered why Rafe had developed this sudden interest in the senior center.

  “Let me help you with those bags, Mom,” I said and put the half-eaten slice of cake on the table. The bags were filled with small packages and I wondered who they were for.

  “Been shopping?” I asked.

  “No, Marietta and I have been wrapping gifts for the seniors. Tomorrow, we’ll place them under the tree at the center.” She removed her coat and asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “I have a confession to make, Mrs. Esposito,” Rafael admitted as he sat at the table.

  “You do?” Her eyes roamed his face and then, with a question on hers, she glanced at me.

  A shrug was all I could offer
her since I wasn’t sure where this was going. I only knew that it had to do with the senior center and murder.

  “It has become plain to me that you and your daughter are in danger at the senior center. Now, I can’t explain why. I just know it’s so. You and Vinnie must cease your investigation into the death of Mrs. Lindon, please.” Rafe leaned back as my mouth hung open.

  He’d told her a bald-faced lie. I couldn’t believe it. I was surprised that he’d do that to my mother right now. There had to be a reason for it. I realized he wouldn’t have said it without an ulterior motive. To my surprise, I’d become a tad suspicious of Rafe.

  “Lavinia, what do you think of this?” Mom wanted to know.

  “Rafael has issued this warning before, and then Monica repeated as much to me. She said you have no idea how close the danger is. Sorry, Mom.”

  Her eyes swept back and forth to Rafael and me.

  “It’s kind of you to share those feelings with us, but we aren’t involved in anything dangerous at all, are we, Lavinia?”

  “I’m aware Vinnie’s investigating the deaths at the senior center, Mrs. Esposito. You might have information that could be useful to others without knowing it. Those others may be willing to act irrationally to get that information, or to silence you. All I’m asking is that you stay clear of the center until the police have made an arrest.”

  “What makes you think I know anything of use? I merely run bake sales and help the seniors with fundraising for their trips.”

  Mom slid onto a chair opposite Rafael. I remained standing in front of the cake cover that hid the journal.

  “You’re sure you know nothing of interest to anyone?”

  “No, nothing. I’m sorry, Rafael. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Hmm.” He glanced at me again and asked if I’d take a seat.

  After settling at the table, I waited for him to begin again. He looked around the room and caught sight of the cookbooks covered by the cake lid. He wandered over, picked the cake lid up and placed it over the cake. I held my breath for a second and waited.

  He told my mother that he was aware she’d had the chance to look at Mrs. Lindon’s apartment. When he mentioned it, my mother glanced at me and then back at him. She waited without uttering a sound. I was surprised by her behavior, but kept my mouth shut.

  “Did you find anything in the apartment that would indicate why Mrs. Lindon was killed?”

  I smiled what I hoped was encouragement at her and nodded.

  “When I went into the apartment, I didn’t find anything of that nature. As a matter of fact, I only found some love letters that she’d held onto from the old days. They didn’t have anything to do with why she would be murdered.”

  The journal held something my mother was unwilling to discuss with Rafael. In an effort to support her, I reached out and took her hand.

  Rafe stepped back to the counter and lifted the letters from the top of the cookbooks. “These letters?” he asked.

  Mom nodded, withdrew her hand from mine, and fiddled with her gloves that lay on the table. It was a giveaway that she’d become agitated and the activity wasn’t lost on me.

  “May I have a look at these?” he asked her.

  She nodded again and he stuffed them into his jacket pocket.

  “Have you noticed anyone unusual entering or leaving the building?”

  She said she hadn’t, but unless people entered the dayroom where the activities were held, she wouldn’t normally see them.

  These types of questions continued until my father entered the house. Once he sat at the table with us, the conversation changed to mundane topics. My father glanced at me several times, but I never mentioned why we had come to visit. I would leave that up to my mother.

  After a short time, Rafael rose from the table and said we should be going. I agreed and couldn’t wait to get out of the house before my father asked a question that I might be reluctant to answer. He was no fool and knew we hadn’t stopped by for a chat over cake and coffee. Other than my half-eaten piece of cake, the only thing on the table was my mother’s gloves.

  My jacket hung on the chair. I swung it over my shoulder. When Rafe turned toward the door, I grabbed the journal and tucked it inside my jacket and zipped it up. My mother nodded, while my father merely watched the scene as I walked out behind Rafe.

  At the door, I turned back and said Lola would be giving us a hand the following day. My mother smiled and thanked us for stopping by. The smile wasn’t a success. I felt sorry for her since she’d have to come up with a story for my father. He disliked it when she did things that lent themselves to my sort of actions.

  We rode home in near silence. I wondered why Rafe had told my mother of his feelings. He must be worried to have done so.

  “Your mother should be careful. If she knows something she shouldn’t, it could be dangerous for her, Vin.”

  “I know. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m concerned about you both. Now Lola has been brought into the mix, and that complicates things even more,” Rafe remarked with an arched brow and a quick glance toward me.

  The light from the dashboard illuminated his face. I realized how right he was. Our safety was important, but my mother’s innocence was even more so. I didn’t say anything. Lost in thought, I leaned my head against the back of the seat.

  Chapter 14

  Sunshine illuminated the kitchen as I padded in for coffee. The night had dragged on and on, until I thought I’d never get any sleep. Eventually, I fell into a fitful slumber.

  The hour was early. I had to bake for the sale. A lone coffee cake mix sat in the cupboard. Opening the package, I mixed the ingredients in a bowl and slid the filled baking pan into the oven. As I set the timer, I poured coffee and pulled the journal from my handbag.

  The book, frayed along the edges from use, required careful handling. Gingerly, I opened the cover. Chicken scratch handwriting scrawled across the pages as I gently thumbed through them. The memories of someone called Dona Desmaris scrawled across the pages. Not Iva Lindon’s memories. I wished I’d read the darned thing the night before, but Rafael had stayed late after we got back to the house. I’d been too tired to bother. Dang, I hate when that happens.

  Interested in the pages’ contents, I read until the oven timer sounded. Placing the book aside, I slid the sweet-smelling, cinnamon swirl confection from the oven, setting it to cool on a rack while I read more of the journal.

  Dona Desmaris, an articulate woman from my grandmother’s era, had chronicled her life. She wrote in an overview way, covering a week or more at a time in just two pages. If a spectacular event took place, she gave it an extra page or so. I’d reached the middle of the journal when I realized who Dona Desmaris was. She had married Gino Carochi, after my grandmother had broken off the relationship with him. Nonni was a mere mention, though nothing bad was said of her.

  Moved by the depth of feeling this woman had for her husband, I was pulled further into the story. It ended abruptly for some time, starting again about ten years later. Dona’s love had turned to disappointment. Anguish over the man she’d married was plain by her revelations. Gino’s gambling and womanizing habits were there for the reading, along with his money laundering business, and other activities that mob wives only surmise, but rarely knew for certain.

  Three quarters of the way through the book, Dona had written several such entries. The dates were more current, with several earlier in this year alone. Slouched back in the chair, the book in hand, I tapped my lips with my fingertips as I read.

  A reference to Mrs. Galumpky glared from the page, as though written in blood. Galumpky had her hands in the till, the wrong till. She’d taken to skimming money off the books, the mobs books.

  Called away on an emergency, Mrs. Galumpky had mistakenly left the office open late in the day, with everyone else gone from their offices. Dona, having an issue of her own, went to see Mrs. Galumpky, but found her offi
ce empty. While waiting for the woman to return, Dona noticed the account books on the desk and read them. A computer sat nearby. Dona scanned the set of figures in the book that were in black, and then repeated in red next to them.

  Unable to work the computer, Dona wrote how she’d studied the paper accounts on the desk and found they were the same as those on the computer screen. She’d stolen the sheets from the room and hidden them in her apartment. The journal entries ended there for a while.

  Aware of why Mrs. Galumpky was now dead, my hand shook as I set the book down. The cake had cooled. I slid off the chair and removed it from the pan onto a cake dish. I squeezed glaze over the top of it from the packet included in the box.

  My mind raced ahead while I worked. Mrs. Galumpky had stolen from the mob. Unlike the IRS, who just tossed your ass in jail for hustling them, the mob put a stop to your greedy act with a resounding finality that eliminated any chance of forgiveness.

  After I showered and dressed for the day, I locked the book in the chest next to my bed. The hollowed leg of the lion sculpture was too small to hold the journal in its hidden compartment.

  The covered cake was ready to go when I decided to call Nonni. My nerves trembled as the phone rang. No one answered and the machine picked up. With an exasperated sigh, I left a brief message about attending the bake sale. I said I hoped to see her there, and I wanted to know more about Dona Desmaris. Only Nonni would know.

  In haste, I drove toward the senior center. All the while, I considered the journal. It should, by rights, be turned over to the Providence Police investigation team. Not today. I needed to get through the bake sale with my mother and search Iva Lindon’s apartment once more.

  The parking lot was jammed with cars. Parked four spaces down from the center, the door locks clicked when I hit the key fob. Carrying the coffee cake, I rushed toward the oversized, connected buildings.

  People crowded the dayroom. Some were from the old folks’ living quarters, while others were complete strangers. It didn’t take long to figure out they had come to gawk and stare at the Bake Sale Queen. The media had arrived for an interview, leaving me worried over how that would end up.