Italian Iced

by Kylie Logan

  “He got married.” Spencer must have known that anybody in the world who listened to the news or read the papers or stood in line at the grocery store and saw those celebrity magazines near the checkout would be well aware of this, but I didn’t point it out. He was a kid, after all, and I could see this kid was hurting.

  “Your mom was married a few times.”

  He trailed the tip of his fork through the whipped cream on top of what was left of his pie. “That’s different. Mom was . . .” I let him find the words on his own. “She was needy like that. You know, when it came to men.”

  Big points for a kid so young being so insightful.

  “And your dad?” I asked him.

  “It’s not like he hasn’t had a string of lovers.” They were so blunt, out of any other teenager’s mouth, the words would have seemed odd, but Spencer had grown up in the Hollywood limelight and it was just another fact of life for him. “They’re always lookers, and some of them were gold diggers. You know, just hanging around because Dad is rich and famous.”

  “Do you think his new wife is different?”

  He finished off the last of the pie while he thought about it. “I only met her once,” he admitted. “They made me go to the wedding and Wilma came along, too. You know, on account of how my mom figured I wasn’t old enough to travel that far by myself.”

  “A wedding in Italy must have been very exciting.”

  “I guess.” His shoulders rose and fell. “There were a lot of photographers there and some of the reporters wanted to interview me.”

  “Did your dad let them?”

  “My dad had a car waiting. As soon as the wedding service was over and we took a few pictures, he put me and Wilma into it and sent us back to the airport. I guess . . .” Another shrug. This one made Spencer look like the little kid he was. “I guess once the photographers left, he didn’t need me around anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.” I was, so I wasn’t embarrassed about saying it. “Sometimes a family can be a tough thing to have.”

  “You never had one. How would you know?”

  “I can tell. From listening to people like you talk.”

  “Yeah. Well . . .” There was only a smidgen of whipped cream left, and Spencer laid his fork on its side and ran it all around the plate, making sure to get every last little bit of it. “Like I was saying, if you’re investigating . . . well . . .” He shoved his plate away and sat back. “I want to help.”

  For a few seconds, I was too stunned to think of the best way to respond. I guess I decided on a half-truth because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. “What I’m doing isn’t exactly investigating.”

  “But I could help.” He propped his elbows on the table. “Nobody ever pays any attention to me. That means I hear things. All the time. Sometimes it’s stuff I shouldn’t hear, you know?”

  “Have you heard anything you shouldn’t have heard in regard to your mother’s murder?” I asked him.

  He slumped in his seat. “Not yet. But that doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. I could listen, you know, when nobody thinks I’m paying any attention, when they don’t know I’m around. I can listen and I can remember what they talked about. I’m really good at remembering.”

  “I’m sure you are, but—”

  “But nothing.” Spencer pushed his chair back and jumped to his feet. “You don’t want me to help because you think I’m just a kid and I’m not good for anything. But I’m going to show you, Laurel. I’m going to show everybody. I’m going to figure out who killed my mom. Then you’ll see.”

  “Spencer—” There was no use arguing because he had already walked away and pushed through the front door.

  By the time I paid our bill and got outside, Spencer was long gone.

  Declan, however, was waiting for me out on the sidewalk.

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  He knew exactly what I was talking about. “Over to the bookstore. That should keep him busy for a while. Wilma’s over at the Terminal. I’ll tell her where he is and she can keep an eye on him.”

  “And I can get across the street by myself,” I reminded him.

  “Of course you can.” He fell into step beside me, weaving in and out of the media vans, stepping over wires, sidestepping reporters, just like I did. “What did the kid want?”

  “Validation that there’s somebody in the world who cares about him.”

  We walked back into the Terminal just in time for the early dinner rush and I immediately got to work. As frustrating as it had been to try and talk to Spencer, to try and get him to listen and understand that murder was not something that should involve a seventeen-year-old, my time with him had accomplished one thing—at least when I was talking to Spencer, I wasn’t thinking about the crash of that stack of linen boxes and wondering if my attacker would have another go at me.

  I should have known better than to even consider it. The familiar rat-a-tat of nerves started up inside my rib cage again. Declan was there. Declan was watching. I reminded myself of the fact over and over.

  Still, the blond reporter with the big sunglasses who’d been asking questions about Ben was back and when I took a pitcher of water over to her table, I couldn’t help but glance around. On a normal Wednesday night, the Terminal would be full of patrons, friends. Tonight, like every night lately, it was packed with strangers, and I wondered which of them might come at me.

  Is it my fault a car drove by at that very moment and backfired?

  I jumped a foot. The pitcher slipped out of my hand. Water poured all over the reporter.

  She jumped up and yelled something that sounded like, “Key a Volvo,” but what that had to do with the drenching she got, I wasn’t sure.

  Inez hurried over with plenty of dry napkins. Dolly showed up out of nowhere with apologies falling from her lips. Sophie took over like the Terminal general she was, soothing the reporter, offering a free meal, promising it would never happen again.

  And me?

  Well, I didn’t stick around long. That’s because Declan’s arms went around my waist and he dragged me from the restaurant.

  “What are you doing?” Once we were outside, I fought against his hold, but there was no chance I was going to break it. I kicked and squirmed, anyway.

  “Where are you taking me?” I demanded.

  “Away from here,” he told me. “You need a couple days of rest and relaxation. And I’m going to make sure you get them!”

  Chapter 13

  With my background, I can’t afford to be a snob. Sure, I’d traveled with Meghan to the snazziest places in the world and though I was working while I was there, I still had some time to take advantage of pristine beaches, glorious vistas, and accommodations that weren’t just luxurious, they were decadent.

  But, believe me, I never forgot where I came from.

  Which would explain why I didn’t turn up my nose at Erie, Pennsylvania.

  Even if I was dragged there kicking and screaming.

  “I don’t need witness protection,” I told Declan when we checked into the Sheraton on the Lake Erie waterfront.

  “You do need to relax,” was his response.

  Though I would never admit it, I think the fact that I walked into the hotel room and immediately collapsed on the bed and slept for an hour might have proved his point.

  “Hey, sleepyhead!”

  His smiling face was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. He held up a cup. “I made coffee.”

  “Coffee!” I realized it was the delectable aroma that had roused me from my nap. “That sounds heavenly.”

  “Dinner sounds heavenly.” He got the coffee for me and I sat up in bed and cradled the cup in my hands. “It’s nearly eight.”

  “Is it?” I yawned and stretched. “I’m sorry I made you wait.”

 
There was a magazine on the desk, the kind that features articles on local attractions and is found in every hotel all over the world. Declan picked it up and waved it at me. “I’ve been doing my homework. I thought we could go to the casino.”

  I didn’t mean to turn up my nose—the reaction was automatic. “You’re not a gambler, are you?”

  “I am not,” he assured me. “In fact, I can’t think of anything more boring. But I hear there are a few restaurants to choose from there and that the food’s pretty decent. What do you say?”

  It didn’t take me more than a few minutes to get ready, and a few minutes after that, we found ourselves at the town’s only casino. It was typical of such places—plenty of neon, plenty of noise, plenty of computer-generated sounds playing jolly little tunes intended to entice folks to play the slots or sit down at the card tables.

  Like Declan, I wasn’t a gambler, but I did like the energy and excitement of places like that.

  Well, except when my head was still a little achy.

  “Can we find a restaurant where there isn’t too much noise?” I asked.

  What we found was a bar with plenty of wood, plenty of metal, and a ridiculous number of big-screen TVs. Fortunately there was a table way in the corner that fit the bill for quiet, and we settled down, me facing the bar and Declan with his back to it.

  Our waiter came over with a wine list, and Declan handed it back without even looking at it. “You remember what the doctor said.” He was obviously talking to me, not the waiter. “Alcohol does not mix well with concussions. And if you can’t drink wine, I won’t, either.”

  We both ordered coffee then looked over the menu and placed our orders. I sighed and sat back.

  “See? I was right.” Since Declan grinned when he said this, I didn’t take it personally. At least not too personally. “You did need to get away. You’re finally starting to relax.”

  I was, and I admitted it. “I didn’t even realize how tense I’d been. Now that I’m away from the Terminal . . .” I looked around at the people who sat at the nearby tables, people I didn’t have to worry about knocking over a stack of boxes on top of me. “I do feel better. Thank you.”

  Declan lifted his coffee cup in a toast. “I talked to Sophie while you were sleeping. She said you don’t need to get back to the Terminal until Friday. That gives us almost forty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours—”

  Since I leapt out of my chair, Declan never had a chance to finish what he was saying. “Where are you going?” he asked when I took off.

  “The bar!”

  When he turned in his seat, he saw exactly why.

  A bartender had just come on duty, a skinny woman with bleached-blond hair, tiny eyes, and skin as pale as the half-and-half she was just pouring into a glass to make a White Russian.

  I slid onto the barstool closest to where she worked.

  “Hello, Dulcie!”

  I would have said she paled when she saw me, but she was already so anemic-looking, I don’t think that would be possible. Instead, Dulcie sucked in her lower lip, handed the drink over to the customer who was waiting for it, and said, “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have scotch,” I said, though I had no intention of drinking it. “The most expensive stuff on the shelf.”

  She raised her eyebrows and got to work and when Declan joined me, I asked for the same for him.

  I paid the exorbitant price of the scotch in cash and added just as much for a tip.

  That got Dulcie’s attention. I kept my hand on top of the pile of bills, and her gaze slid from the money to my face.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  I swirled the liquor in my glass and lied like a pro. “It wasn’t hard. I don’t give up easily, not when it’s important for me to talk to someone.”

  “You’re a private investigator.”

  I didn’t confirm or deny.

  “I don’t know nothing,” she assured me.

  Declan had taken the seat next to mine. He leaned his elbows on the bar. “You mean about Meghan Cohan’s murder.”

  “Ain’t seen her in years.”

  A tingle that bordered on excitement zinged through my insides. Declan and I exchanged looks.

  “Any chance we could talk in private?” I asked Dulcie.

  She glanced down to where I drummed my fingers against that stack of money. “I get a break in an hour.”

  “Perfect.” I slid the money her way, left the scotch, and headed back to our table. “That will give us a chance to eat dinner. And it will give me . . .” I sat down, still facing the bar. “It will give me,” I told Declan, “the perfect place to sit so I can keep my eye on her.”

  Dinner was good and since we’d passed on wine, Declan said we were owed the calories and insisted on dessert. I make a better fudge brownie than the one our waiter brought from the kitchen, but I wasn’t complaining. There is something about chocolate that soothes the soul. In my case, I’d hit my own special investigative Triple Crown—someone tried to kill me, I’d spent a night in the hospital, and now I was hoping to interview a woman who was outright hostile when I recently knocked at her trailer door.

  Yes, I needed chocolate.

  I kept a careful eye on the time and when an hour was up, I caught Dulcie’s eye.

  Now? I mouthed the word.

  She stuck a hand in the pocket of the black pants she wore with a white shirt, no doubt reminding herself of the whopping tip I’d left her.

  And she nodded.

  “We’re on,” I told Declan, and when Dulcie walked around to the front of the bar, then headed to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, we followed right along. We found ourselves in a nondescript corridor with a door at the end of it. Dulcie pushed through it, we did, too, and we were in a back parking lot.

  Before she said a word, she lit a cigarette.

  “You knew her,” I said, and the heck with edging into the conversation. I jumped in with both feet. “You said you hadn’t seen Meghan in years. Which means you had seen her years ago. You knew Meghan Cohan.”

  Since the only light out there was from the security light above the door, it was hard to read the expression on Dulcie’s face. If I had to give it a name, it would have been sarcastic.

  She proved it when she laughed. “I never knew Meghan Cohan. No, sirree. But I knew Tina Moretti, that’s for sure.”

  Declan and I can be excused for exchanging quizzical looks. Just like we could be excused when we both said, “Who?”

  Dulcie’s laugh deepened to a good old-fashioned guffaw. She laughed until there were tears in her eyes, until she had to press a hand to her stomach, and she coughed, deep and nasty and for what seemed like forever.

  When she finally caught her breath, she finished the last puff of her cigarette, dropped the butt on the ground, and ground it under the sole of her black shoe.

  She eyed me up and down. “Some private investigator you are. You don’t know much of nothing.”

  “If I knew everything I needed to know, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.” Notice how smoothly I sidestepped the whole private-investigator subject. “What do you know, Dulcie? And who’s Tina?”

  “Me and Tina, we went to acting school together.”

  All right, this at least was starting to make sense. If Dulcie and Tina went to acting school, maybe Meghan was a friend of Tina’s. Maybe that’s how Dulcie and Meghan knew each other?

  “Are you doing any acting these days?” I asked, more because I was trying to be polite than because I cared.

  Dulcie’s top lip curled over those stained, straight teeth of hers. “The only acting I do these days is acting like I’m interested in the crap people tell me when they sit at the bar and drink. And, you know what? I’m just about as not interested in what they have to say as I am in what you have to say.”

 
She would have pushed right past us and gone back inside if I didn’t slap a hand to my shoulder bag.

  “I’ll pay you,” I said, and I ignored the look Declan gave me, the one that clearly reminded me that if I paid Dulcie any more now, she’d only drag out this conversation for as long as she could and for as much as she could.

  “I don’t have deep pockets.” I told her the truth. “But I’ve got some cash with me.” To prove it, I got out my wallet and counted the bills inside it. “One hundred dollars,” I said, and looked at Declan.

  It took him a second to catch on and reach for his wallet. “I’ve got one hundred and twenty.” He handed the money over to me.

  Just to make myself perfectly clear, I clutched the money when I said, “Not one penny more. But you’ve got to tell me what you know about Meghan, and who this Tina person is and why she matters.”

  She glanced down at my wallet. “Two hundred and twenty?”

  Just so she could see, I counted out all the bills, but I didn’t hand them over.

  “Two hundred and twenty.” I waved the money in her direction. “Start talking.”

  She ran her tongue over her lips. “And if I do and you end up thinking I killed Miss Meghan Cohan, what then?”

  “Did you kill her?” Declan asked the question before I could.

  Dulcie lit another cigarette and leaned her back against the building. “Like I said, I ain’t seen her in years. So if I ain’t seen her, I can’t be the one who killed her.”

  “Then whatever you tell us, it won’t be more than background.” I didn’t want to look as eager as I felt so I took a careful step toward Dulcie. “Give us a break here, Dulcie. You said you saw Meghan years ago, but then you said you didn’t know Meghan but you knew someone named—”

  Blame it on the concussion. When what felt like a cherry bomb exploded in my brain, I winced and my mouth fell open.

  “So you’re not as dumb as you look,” Dulcie purred.

  I reviewed the thought pounding through my head one last time before I dared to put it into words. “Are you telling me Meghan’s real name was Tina Moretti?”