Murder at Veronica's Diner

by J. D. Griffo

  “For that to be true, the person who threw the rock had to follow Alberta, Jinx, and Veronica on the drive from the diner to Alberta’s house, because there would be no other way of knowing Veronica would be here,” Helen laid out. “Plus, we didn’t hear a car pull up and there’s no way the person could’ve seen them at the diner and walked over to Alberta’s in that short amount of time.”

  “When she’s right, she’s right,” Alberta said.

  “Which is most of the time, thank you very much,” Helen replied, winning her fourth straight game.

  “So whoever was out there the other night and whoever threw that rock through my window was after me, and not Veronica,” Alberta summed up.

  “Which doesn’t mean Veronica is completely innocent,” Helen commented.

  “You don’t trust her?” Alberta asked.

  “Not in the least,” Helen answered.

  “Also too, did you hear that?” Joyce asked.

  The ladies stopped talking, and just as Alberta was going to tell Joyce she didn’t hear anything, they all heard a sound that made them jump.

  “He’s back!” Alberta screamed. “Give me the broom!”

  Joyce grabbed the broom and handed it to Alberta, who positioned herself in front of the door. Running to her left, Joyce picked up Lola in one arm, and then a frying pan that had been resting in the drainer next to the sink, in the other, while Helen stood on Alberta’s right, raising a ladle defiantly. The women might not be dangerous, but they were armed. When the door burst open they were grateful to see a friendly face.

  “Ah mannaggia!!” Alberta shrieked. “Vinny, I could kill you with my bare hands! You scared the bejesus out of us!”

  Unable to hold in his laughter, it took Vinny a moment to control himself so he could speak. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I’m glad to see that you’re taking self-defense classes.”

  “Shut up, Vin, or I’ll clobber you with this ladle,” Helen declared.

  “No need for that, I wanted to bring you this.”

  Vinny placed a sundial on Alberta’s table. It got the women even angrier than when they thought there was a stalker trying, yet again, to break into the house.

  “Watch it, Vin,” Helen snapped. “We’re old, but we’re not that old.”

  Even Lola was miffed. She turned up her nose at the sundial and leapt from Joyce’s arms, landing on the floor before scampering toward the fridge.

  “It’s not a gift,” Vinny replied. “It’s what was thrown through the window. It must’ve been on your property.”

  “It was!” Joyce exclaimed. “I bought it for you, Berta, when you first moved in here.”

  “That’s right,” Alberta confirmed. “But it doesn’t make sense that someone would use the sundial, because it’s nowhere near the window. I kept it by the lake, and it was hidden by the bushes. I almost forgot it was there.”

  “If the person came around the lake instead of from the front street, they could have easily passed by it,” Vinny deduced. “It was probably just some kids making mischief.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Alberta said.

  She stole glances at Helen and Joyce, and with her eyes told them that she didn’t believe a word of what Vinny was saying. There was no way the incident was random; it was deliberate and it was meant to get Alberta’s attention. The frustrating part was that she had no idea what she was supposed to pay attention to.

  “Regardless, I’m keeping a patrol car outside for the night so you can rest easy,” Vinny said.

  “Thanks, Vin, I appreciate that,” Alberta replied. “Do you want something to eat? I have leftover veal cacciatore.”

  Vinny peered into Alberta’s refrigerator, and although he was strongly enticed, he turned down the invitation. “I’d love to, but I’m trying to lose a few pounds. I’m on a new diet, no eating after seven p.m.”

  “That, Vincenzo Hugo D’Angelo, is cruel and unusual punishment,” Alberta said.

  “A midnight snack isn’t quite the same before seven,” Helen added.

  “Also too, you look fine, Vinny,” Joyce finished.

  “Thanks, but as much as my stomach’s begging for some veal cacciatore, I’m maintaining my willpower,” Vinny declared.

  He shut the fridge door and turned to leave, but his willpower proved to be more stable than his balance, and he teetered back and forth until he pressed his hand into the door jamb leading into the living room to prevent himself from falling over.

  “You see what diets do!” Alberta cried. “They make you light-headed. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Vinny said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s this whippersnapper’s fault.”

  He turned his back to the ladies, bent down, and when he got back up to face them, they saw the reason for his near fall was none other than Lola. Vinny held the cat in his arms and Lola, belly up, stretched in all directions, looking like she was luxuriating in a hot bath.

  “Miss Gina Lollobrigida!” Alberta shouted, using Lola’s full name so the cat knew she was in trouble. “You have been causing much too much trouble lately. What am I going to do with you?”

  Lola’s smug purr was not the response Alberta was hoping for, but knowing her cat the way she did, it was the response she expected.

  “Irrispettosa, this one is,” Alberta said. “No respect whatsoever.”

  When Alberta tried to take Lola from Vinny’s arms, the cat, sensing she might get yelled at again, leapt into the air, landed on the side table to the left of the entrance to the living room, and expertly shifted direction to the right as she jumped to the floor and disappeared out of view. She escaped, but she left some ruins in her path.

  When she jumped on the side table, she knocked into a box, causing it to teeter from side to side. Vinny proved he was in full control of his body and twisted around to catch the box before it fell to the ground. Gingerly he placed it back onto the table.

  “Sorry, there was almost another casualty in Lola’s wake,” Vinny joked.

  “Don’t worry, that’s mine,” Helen said.

  The women knew she was lying, but they also knew they needed to keep her secret. After Vinny left, Helen grabbed the box from the side table and shook it softly to make sure that whatever was inside of it wasn’t broken. When she didn’t hear the sound of shattered glass or any other telltale noise that would indicate an item was demolished into bits and pieces, she was relieved. She didn’t know what was in the box, but it was important. It was also the final link to her friend.

  “That was good thinking, Helen,” Alberta said. “I forgot that box was there.”

  “I did too, until Vinny reminded us,” Helen confessed, placing the box in the center of the kitchen table. “It must be important if Teri Jo gave it to us with explicit instructions to make a special delivery.”

  “It could also be dangerous,” Joyce advised. “Fai attenzione a un estraneo con regali.”

  “Teri Jo wasn’t really a stranger, Joyce,” Alberta said, translating the phrase. “And we’re not entirely sure this box is a gift.”

  Whatever it was, it was mysterious. The women sat around the table in silence and stared at the box as if it was going to do a trick. They half expected something to jump out or, God forbid, for the box itself to explode. They hadn’t heard any ticking sounds, so if there was a bomb inside that was set to blow up, it would have done so already.

  Nothing about the box was interesting. It was an ordinary cardboard box about sixteen inches all around, blank except for a white label with a name and address handwritten on it. From what Helen knew of Teri Jo’s handwriting from seeing her scribbles on her diner checks, the writing on the label was not hers; someone else had filled in the pertinent information. The writing was large, with each letter rounded, while Teri Jo’s was more like chicken scratch. She could have overcompensated to make the address legible on the label, but it was more likely that someone else wrote it. But who? And who was it to be delivered to? And was it a
coincidence that Teri Jo handed them the box moments before she was murdered?

  “I don’t know how, but this box has got to be linked to Teri Jo’s murder,” Helen stated.

  “This is one instance where I hate to agree with you, Helen,” Joyce confessed. “But I have no choice.”

  “Then, ladies,” Alberta said, “there’s only one thing for us to do.”

  “I’m afraid to ask what that is,” Joyce said.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Alberta asked. “We have to carry out Teri Jo’s last wish and deliver this box.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Il tempo può essere sia un amico che un nemico.

  As had become the norm when the Ferrara ladies went on a road trip, either for fun or while investigating a case, Helen was the chauffeur. She wasn’t the best driver in the group, but the rest of the ladies knew that it gave Helen a sense of purpose to be behind the wheel. Plus, she did have the biggest car.

  Her beige Buick LaCrosse was roomy, got great gas mileage, and its traditional-looking exterior blended in with the rest of the cars on the road. When trying to go undercover, it was always good not to stand out. Although when the four Ferraras traveled in a pack, it wasn’t always easy to blend.

  Sitting next to Helen in the front seat, Alberta rested her arm on top of the package that lay between her and her sister, and wondered to herself where this trip would lead them. Would it be a clue to finding out who killed Teri Jo and possibly why? Or would it be a dead end? For all they knew, Teri Jo could have been a Mary Kay saleswoman on the side and the box merely contained an assortment of cosmetics and beauty products.

  In the back seat, Jinx and Joyce were discussing the different ways Jinx could approach her reporting on the murder for The Upper Sussex Herald. Since she was, in fact, given the plum assignment as lead reporter on the case, she was able—to a certain degree—to dictate the editorial. Her boss, Wyck Wycknowski, who was the editor-in-chief, of course had the final say, but Wyck was a firm believer in giving the reporters on his staff who had proved themselves free rein to control the narrative of their stories. That meant Jinx, for the first time in her career, could really take control of how she presented her work. Sometimes freedom creates uncertainty, and Jinx wasn’t sure what style would be best.

  “I’ve already done the first-person approach, so I don’t want to repeat myself,” Jinx said. “What about if I adopted a straightforward, hard-nosed journalistic style? That might get noticed.”

  Joyce smoothed down the brim of the brown fedora she held in her lap and scrunched up her face. “I think it might get noticed for the wrong reasons,” Joyce said.

  “What do you mean?” Jinx asked.

  “For all its in-depth reporting, The Herald is a small-town paper whose readers live in a small town,” Joyce replied.

  “That doesn’t mean they’re small-minded,” Jinx protested.

  “I never said that, and you should never confuse the two,” Joyce said. “But it’s like my mother used to say, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it.”

  “Meaning the information in my articles isn’t as important as the tone I use to write the articles?” Jinx asked.

  “Correct,” Joyce replied. “When I was working on Wall Street I had to learn how to make my voice heard among the throng of white men who liked to shout at the top of their lungs.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I got to know the individuals who made up my audience and adapted to each man’s style,” Joyce explained. “Even though they all yelled, they all yelled differently. Some men’s shouts were filled with passion, some yelled for attention, others screamed because they were afraid to use their real voices. Once I figured out their motives, I knew how to respond to them in the most persuasive way.”

  “That’s brilliant, Aunt Joyce!” Jinx squealed. “No wonder you made a mint in the stock trade.”

  Laughing, Joyce placed the fedora on her head, making sure the brim slanted rakishly over her left eye. “I made a mint because I was damn good at my job, and so are you. Don’t you forget it.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate the support,” Jinx replied. “And I think I know the approach to use.”

  “What is it?” Joyce asked.

  “The subject of the story really isn’t Teri Jo,” Jinx replied. “It’s the residents of Tranquility.”

  “Because they bore witness to her murder,” Joyce surmised.

  “Exactly!” Jinx cried. “Teri Jo was murdered surrounded by her small-town neighbors. Why not put the small town front-and-center in my reporting?”

  “Meravigliosa!” Alberta said, turning around to face Jinx. “That’s a marvelous idea. Wyck was smart to give you this assignment.”

  “Thanks, Gram. Small-town paper or not, I plan on making my mark in this world, just like the three of you have.”

  Alberta smiled and was delighted to hear the conviction in her granddaughter’s voice, a strength she’d never had at Jinx’s age. Although Alberta didn’t feel as if she had contributed to society as much as Helen and Joyce had, she wasn’t going to contradict Jinx. Helen, however, did feel the need to point out a discrepancy stemming from Jinx’s comment.

  “I don’t think we’re in a small town anymore,” Helen observed. “This looks nothing like Tranquility.”

  The women looked around and realized Helen was right. The trip to Dover, New Jersey, had only taken thirty minutes, but when they entered the town it was clear that they weren’t in Tranquility any longer.

  There was nothing at all wrong with Dover, but it was a city whose crowded landscape was primarily filled with brick, concrete, and high-rise buildings. So far they hadn’t seen one park and very few trees. It reminded Alberta and Helen of Hoboken, where they grew up, although Dover was larger and more expansive.

  “It’s hard to tell, but it seems safe,” Alberta said.

  “I think you’re right,” Joyce agreed. “It’s like any city in the world, just a little rough around the edges.”

  Helen made a left on East McFarlan Street to enter Berry Street, which was their destination, and the women immediately surveyed the area. The row of narrow, semidetached houses on either side were nearly identical and all seemed to have been built in 1940s, when such construction was popular. Some looked as if they could use a bit of tender loving care and a good power washing, but most were respectable looking and none appeared to be abandoned.

  They parked across from 1352 Berry Street and they all stared at the house they would soon visit. Helen turned off the engine and said, “C’mon, ladies, let’s do this for Teri Jo.”

  Alberta was about to knock a third time when the door finally opened, its inside chain lock still intact. Oddly, there was no one behind the door for her to greet.

  “Hello.”

  When she heard the tiny voice she looked down and saw that someone had opened the door, but the little boy was only about three feet tall.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Alberta said, her voice automatically rising an octave. “Is your mommy home?”

  The little boy didn’t answer, only stared at Alberta and the women, his black eyes intense and curious.

  “We’re looking for Inez Rosales?” Jinx said, bending down so she could be eye level with the boy. “Is that your mommy?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “But the Snowman took Mommy away.”

  Any chance they had of questioning the boy any further was ruined when an older woman pushed him out of the way and appeared in the small crack of the opening.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  The woman looked to be about thirty-five years old, and while her words were tinged with a Spanish accent, her English was perfect.

  “We have—”

  Before Jinx could finish her sentence, Helen interrupted her. “We wanted Inez to know that Teri Jo passed away.”

  The woman stared at Helen quizzically. “Who? We don’t know any Teri Jo.”

  “I think Inez does,” Alberta said. “Where exactly is sh
e?”

  “Arturo told you what happened,” she replied. “You have to go.”

  Jinx stepped forward and pressed her hand on the door, preventing the woman from pushing it closed. “This is my card,” Jinx said, holding her card in the open space above the chain link. “Please use it if you hear from Inez or if you need our help.”

  Slowly the woman released the chain link from the door and opened it to reveal that the little boy was still next to her, clutching at her leg. She took the card from Jinx’s hand and examined it, her whole demeanor softened, and it appeared that she was ready to invite the women in. They were wrong.

  The woman looked from one Ferrara to the other and then slammed the door in their faces.

  * * *

  An hour later, a fresh pitcher of Red Herrings in the center of Alberta’s kitchen table, surrounded by several varieties of Entenmann’s cakes, the ladies pondered the recent turn of events.

  How were Teri Jo Linbruck and Inez Rosales connected? Why did it appear that the woman, who they assumed was a relative of Inez’s or at least a close friend, was afraid of them and seemingly fearful in general? And where was Inez and who was this Snowman? The women had a lot of questions, which was typical at the onset of an investigation, but in this instance there was the possibility that they had already been given the answers.

  “Ah Madon!” Alberta cried. “The solution is staring us right in the face.”

  Pointing to the box next to the pitcher, they all realized she was right. Whatever was inside the box, which was so important to Teri Jo that she requested they hand deliver it to Inez, was the key to unlocking the mystery of their connection. With the recipient not only missing, but possibly taken somewhere against her will, there was definitely an urgency to finding out what was contained within the cardboard.

  “I know it isn’t a huge moral dilemma, but the box isn’t addressed to us,” Joyce said. “Do we really have the right to open it?”

  “Technically, it could be considered tampering with the mail,” Jinx replied.