Stephanie rolled her eyes. “My older sister Bethany is a pathological liar. So I guess he just assumed I was too.”
“Or it was convenient to believe that.”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t want to have to get a new coach, after all. Or suspend any of the players.”
“Stephanie, I’m sorry to have to ask this, but did the coach know what happened?”
“Know? Mrs. C., he was there.”
Chapter Fifteen
On the way home, Rita had to pull over twice. The first time, she vomited beside a pond, into the tall grasses that swayed gently in the breeze, while a chorus of frogs protested loudly. The second time was in the parking lot of a seedy motel. As she clutched her stomach and dry-heaved over the weedy, cracked asphalt, she agonized about whether to tell Sal. There was one thing she knew for sure: she would be resigning her membership in the Athletic Boosters tomorrow morning. But if she told Sal, would he? Part of her was afraid to find out. Rita tried to convince herself that even if Sal lacked chivalry, he still retained some sense of common decency. But then she would recall one of times he’d dismissed yet another of Vinnie’s misadventures with “boys will be boys,” and she began to doubt.
This was a lot more than boys being boys. This was about boys being predators and subjecting their classmates to the worst kind of humiliation possible. And one that the coach knew about.
And covered up.
Maybe even encouraged.
She gagged again, wiped her mouth with a tissue, and staggered back into the driver’s seat. Rita silently ticked off the facts on her fingers. Vinnie and Rocco had engineered the prank at the pool as retribution for what had happened to Stephanie. Sean and Mike had been encouraged—coerced? — by Coach Stiglitz to keep playing even after receiving multiple concussions and had subsequently committed suicide. Sean’s mother had an alibi for Monday, but Mike’s mother did not. Coach Stiglitz had covered up horrific behavior by his players, so Stephanie and the other victims had a strong motive. Stephanie had an alibi for all of Monday, except for the hours between three and five, when she claimed to have been at home, watching TV. Rita doubted that two hours was enough time to drive from Albany to Acorn Hollow and back, but she supposed it was narrowly within the bounds of possibility if someone drove twenty miles over the speed limit. But that still left the other victim—whom Stephanie wouldn’t name. Miss Simms, she supposed, also had a motive as the outraged protector of these girls.
Then there were the drugs. Coach Stiglitz had gotten his steroid supply via mail order, taken some himself, and then distributed the rest to his players—none of whom appeared to have fallen ill.
There was something about that last point that bothered Rita. Pulling out her phone, she scrolled to the C’s and perused a long list of Calabreses. Sal’s family was huge and, much as it pained Rita to admit, contained more than its fair share of unsavory characters.
Calvino. That was it. “Baldy” wasn’t his real name, of course. It was something much more respectable, something that wouldn’t have made the priest bat an eye at his baptism. (Giovanni? Francesco? Rita couldn’t remember.) But Calvino was what everyone called him, and that’s how he was listed in Rita’s contact list.
Rita held her breath as the phone rang.
On the fourth ring, he picked up and barked, “Yeah?”
“Calvino?”
“Who wants to know?”
“This is Rita, Sal’s wife.”
“Oh, Rita!” His voice changed at once. He sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her. “How’s my favorite cousin’s better half?”
Rita winced, unsure if she really wanted Sal to be Calvino’s favorite cousin. “Oh, fine.”
They chatted about their respective families for a few minutes. Danielle, his oldest, was “studying to be a beauty-itician,” he told Rita proudly. “You know, learning all that hocus-pocus women do to make themselves man magnets.”
“Uh-huh,” Rita murmured, picturing a bunch of refrigerator magnets with bouffant hair-dos marching out of Danielle’s salon. “And what about Frankie?”
“Just got out of the clink,” he said, as if he were announcing that his son had just cured cancer. “Got a job lined up in construction with a buddy of mine. And the best part? It’s under the table, so he don’t have to pay no taxes.”
“Calvino,” Rita said gently, “he still has to pay taxes. Otherwise it’s tax evasion.”
“Huh.”
Rita took advantage of the awkward silence to change the subject. “Anyway, I have a new job as a reporter and—”
“Sal know about that?”
Rita bristled. “Of course.”
“And he’s okay with that?”
“He loves it.” Rita smiled through her lie. “I’m out of his hair and making the big bucks.”
Calvino grunted, sounding unconvinced.
“I’m writing a story about steroids, and I thought that even though you don’t sell them since it is, after all”—she coughed—“illegal, you might have customers at your vitamin shop—”
“Emporium.”
“Excuse me?”
“Emporium. It’s the Atlantic City Vitamin Emporium. I thought of calling it a palace, but Danielle convinced me that emporium sounded even more high-class. Plus, it sounds Roman. I’m pretty sure I’m descended from Roman gladiators.”
Rita thought it more likely that he was descended from Calabrian peasants, but she limited herself to remarking, “Oh, how interesting. So, as you say, you may have customers at your vitamin emporium that dabble in performance-enhancing drugs and so you might know something about this topic.”
“I might.”
His voice was gruff, defensive.
“Wonderful,” Rita said. “So first, do you know how often a user would typically inject steroids?”
“Once a day, probably. The important thing is to pick a time of day and stick with it.”
She jotted that down. “And how many doses would be in a single bottle?”
“Dunno. It depends. Ten, maybe fifteen.”
Through the phone, Rita could hear the sound of a crowd roaring.
“Hey, Rita,” Calvino said, “it’s been good talking to you, but I gotta go. WWE’s on now. And it’s a girl fight tonight. Claws are out.”
He let out a creepy little howl. “Give my best to Sal and the kids.”
Rita sighed. “Ciao, Calvino.”
She hung up and then immediately gave Angelica a call. “How full was the bottle when you found him?” she asked.
“Half full. Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Rita said slowly. “I think it does.”
But instead of explaining herself, she hung up and called Rose. “Was there an open house at the coach’s house last Saturday?” Rita asked.
“No. The coach said he didn’t want to show the house that day. His cleaning lady needed to make everything spic-and-span for the Athletic Boosters party.”
“So no one toured the coach’s house that day?”
“I don’t think so. As far as I know, the last time the house was shown was the Thursday before the party. Anne Parsons had a potential buyer. But now…well, that fell through.”
“Thanks, Rose.”
Rita put the car in drive and edged back onto the road. If Angelica was telling the truth and Rose was right, that meant that the bottle could only have been tampered with after the coach had injected his previous dose—probably Saturday morning—and before Sunday morning.
And in that twenty-four-hour period, the only people who had access to the coach’s bathroom were Sandra, the cleaning lady; Angelica; the guests at the Athletic Boosters party; and the coach himself.
Rita needn’t have worried. When she heaved her weary limbs into bed that night and poured her heart out to Sal (careful, of course, not to reveal Stephanie’s identity), he shook his head in amazement.
“Che coglioni,” he growled, shaking his fist. Unlike Rita, Sal rarely spoke in Italian, and when he did, it was a
lways when his blood was at a rolling boil. Suddenly, he frowned. “You don’t think—? Gina, our little Gina, no one could—I mean, no one would lay a hand on her, right? She didn’t go to football parties, right?”
Rita shook her head. “No, caro. Not that I know of. She was always off studying with Sharon and Melanie. Or going to a debate tournament.”
Sal relaxed slightly. “Still.”
“Still,” Rita agreed, curling up next to him. “Stephanie’s someone’s daughter. And Vinnie’s friend.”
“Marco,” he said hoarsely, “would never do that.”
Rita was relieved Jay Stiglitz had not been the coach when Marco was playing for the Acorn Hollow Squirrels, but she still had a tiny niggling doubt. What if the previous coach had encouraged similar behavior? The boys Stephanie had mentioned didn’t seem like the type either; peer pressure could make people do strange things.
“No, he wouldn’t,” she said, partly to convince herself.
Sal kissed the top of her forehead. “My little investigative reporter. Maybe I should start calling you Eve instead of Rita.”
“Why?”
“You’ve eaten the apple.”
“And now,” she muttered, “I’ve fallen from the paradise of Acorn Hollow. And I used to think everyone in this town was so good.”
Sal nodded absentmindedly. His eyelids started to droop, and he sank deeper into the pillow.
“The widow Schmalzgruben,” Rita mused, “tells me that no one is exactly who he or she seems.”
“Did she?” he murmured sleepily.
“What have you been hiding from me, Sal?”
“What do I—oh”—his eyelids fluttered open, but his deep brown pupils were still glassy—“I buy a lottery ticket every week.”
“Anything else?” she asked suspiciously. There must be more than that.
“What? Oh, no, cara.”
His breathing slowed, and his mouth gaped open. His little mouse snores filled the room.
Rita turned over and stared at the clock. One-fifteen—well past her bedtime. She tried to still her mind, to think of black nothingness. She was just about to fall asleep when Sal suddenly mumbled something in his sleep.
Rita flipped over. “What did you say?” she murmured softly. Sal had a habit of talking in his sleep, and she had no desire to wake him.
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered, still fast asleep, “and sometimes I can’t help myself and I watch Emily bend over while she weeds, and Vinnie’s back in school.”
She sat bolt upright in bed. His confession about Emily—a sweet twentysomething who worked at the nursery—bothered her. But what bothered her even more was that he hadn’t told her about Vinnie.
Chapter Sixteen
Rita slept until almost eleven. When she went downstairs, Sal was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading her article about Mr. Bowman’s stamp collection.
She eyed him suspiciously. “Shouldn’t you be at the nursery?”
“I was. I just popped in to check on you. Vinnie’s got things under control, I’m sure.”
“Huh.” She put the kettle on to boil. “Do you think he’ll ever go back to school?”
“Hard to say,” he mumbled, fingering his collar nervously. Sal was a terrible liar. “What are you up to today?”
“The Homecoming parade’s at noon.” She popped two slices of bread in the toaster. “Then I’ve got the blood drive at St. Vincent’s. And then”—she licked her lips in a manner that she hoped was seductive—“go out and really bend down and do some weeding.”
She emphasized the words “bend down” and “weeding,” but Sal’s expression was more concerned than titillated. “Well, don’t overdo it, cara. I don’t want you to throw your back out again.” He blew on his coffee. “After all, you’re not a spring chicken anymore.”
Rita’s eyes narrowed. “How much do you pay Emily these days?”
“Ten seventy-five an hour. Why?”
“Oh, just curious.”
He got up and kissed her on the cheek. “Ciao, bella. I’ll be home by five so we can get to the game early.”
She returned the kiss. “Ciao, bello.”
Sal left, and Rita sat down to enjoy—if that was the word for it—a breakfast of dry toast and weak tea. After last night, it seemed best to go easy on her stomach.
She found herself humming “Ah, Fuggi Il Traditore” from Don Giovanni. She wasn’t as unhinged as the spurned Donna Elvira, but even so, she had a score to settle.
Slowly, an idea took shape in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. When she had washed down the last bit of cardboard toast with a final swig of weak tea—“thank goodness I’m not British,” she muttered—she grabbed her coat, purse, and umbrella and headed out the door.
It was three wet, blustery blocks to Main Street. Rita arrived wet and bedraggled, with her umbrella turned inside out, and a quick glance confirmed that her friends and neighbors had fared much the same. But the weather did nothing to dampen their spirits. Homecoming was an event in Acorn Hollow—perhaps the event, in fact, of the year.
She had arrived in the nick of time. A police car passed slowly, its lights flashing, to signal that the parade was about to begin. Chief D’Agostino and Detective Benedetto were leaning out of the windows, waving like celebrities.
They were followed by the marching band and the flag corps. Behind them were the high school cheerleaders, who waved sopping wet purple pompoms, their white sneakers squish-squashing with each step. The two most petite cheerleaders were dressed as a squirrel and a hawk. Halting right in front of Rita, they formed two pyramids and then the squirrel and the hawk got a running start, performed a double hand spring, and launched themselves on top of their respective pyramids.
“I can’t look,” Marge from bridge club hissed into Rita’s ear. “Tell me when it’s over.”
“Why?”
“This didn’t go well at practice.”
“Well, at least Amy”—that was Marge’s middle daughter, the one with horrible acne but perfect SATs— “is at the bottom.”
Marge grunted. “There have to be some benefits to being big-boned.”
The two pyramids moved towards each other menacingly, and Rita held her breath. She raised her camera and snapped a photo, capturing the exact moment the squirrel leapt into the air and snatched the hawk. The two tumbled gracefully to the ground with balletic precision.
The hawk, predictably, was vanquished, and the crowd erupted into thunderous applause. Rita nudged Marge. “You can look now.”
The middle school cheerleaders were next. They ranged from the gawky to the adorable and, wisely, they didn’t try any acrobatics. Instead they led the crowd in a cheer. “Give me an S—” they shouted.
“S!” the crowd roared.
“Give me a Q!”
“Q!”
Rita nudged Marge again. “Hey, how much does Bob pay his receptionists?”
“Eleven fifty an hour. Don’t tell me you’re tired of journalism already!”
“Oh, no. I was thinking of Emily Bachmann.”
“Doesn’t she work at the nursery?”
“Yes, but Sal was saying just the other day that she could do so much more. She’s really very talented. She has excellent customer service skills.”
“So he wouldn’t be offended if Bob called her for an interview?”
“Oh, no. He’d be grateful.”
“I’ll tell him then.”
“See that you do.” Rita squeezed her friend’s arm. “And please tell Amy how much I enjoyed the cheerleaders’ performance.”
With a little wave, she moved on through the crowd. Rita hadn’t gone more than twenty feet when she heard Marion Von Beek’s piercing voice behind her. “Rita!” she called. “The cake walk was quite a success, thanks to you.”
Marion slipped past four or five people, all of whom were craning their necks to see Jane Sanders, Acorn Hollow’s only stilt-walker. She had marched i
n the last twenty-nine Homecoming parades on stilts, dressed as a giant purple fire-breathing squirrel.
“The Lopilatos paid eighty dollars for your cake,” Marion said, looking very impressed.
“Glad to be of help,” Rita said. “Do you know if your cousin Beth ever found someone to work the front desk at the Best Western in Mount Washington?”
“I could ask.”
“I think you should,” Rita began. “I have just the young lady…”
By the time the mayor had marched past, and the Homecoming King and Queen, and the football team, and Rita had seen every kind of float that involved acorns and hawks and squirrels and footballs, Rita had sung the praises of Emily Bachmann to at least twenty people.
No more bending and weeding for fair Emily, Rita thought triumphantly. She’ll get a pay raise, and Sal will get less comely help. Rita already had a few candidates in mind—all healthy, strong young men.
************************
By two o’clock, Rita was manning the refreshments table at the St. Vincent’s blood drive, pushing orange juice and sugar cookies on anyone who looked the least bit peaked.
She knew nearly everyone who came through the door. The conversations started out innocuous enough—everyone groused about the weather, gushed about the parade, and offered their pre-game assessment of the coming showdown—but inevitably devolved to the subject on everyone’s mind: Coach Stiglitz’s death.
“It’s got to be weighing on the players,” Phil Baldassaro said, shaking his head as he helped himself to a sugar cookie. Phil had drafted Rita’s will—and that of probably two-thirds of the town. He also chased ambulances, sued the school district on occasion, and took the odd divorce or child custody case. Such was the life of a small-town lawyer.
“I mean, can you imagine?” he said. “Their coach has just been murdered—maybe by a Mount Washington Hawk. Their blood has got to be boiling.”
Rita sighed. “Poor Angelica.”
Phil nodded solemnly, regarding Rita with those startlingly blue eyes that drove female jurors wild. He lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but the good news is that at least she’ll inherit something. Not that it’s much a consolation.”
The Secret Poison Garden (Rita Calabrese Book 1) Page 10