Die for Me

by Karen Rose

  “Oh, man.” The words came from the kitchen, quickly followed by his eleven-year-old nephew Connor, who looked both annoyed and mildly alarmed. “You came home.”

  “I do that most every night,” Vito returned dryly, then winced as a blur of blue flannel hurled itself at his legs. “Careful.” He leaned over and pried five-year-old Pierce’s arms from around his knees, lifting him with a puzzled squint. “What’s on your face, Pierce?”

  “Chocolate frosting,” Pierce said proudly and Vito laughed, a good deal of his weariness dissipated. He swung Pierce to his hip and hugged him hard.

  Connor shook his head. “I tried to tell him not to eat it, but you know how kids are.”

  Vito nodded. “Yeah, I know how kids are. You have frosting on your chin, Connor.”

  Connor’s cheeks darkened. “We made a cake.”

  “Did you save any for me?”

  Pierce made a face. “Not much.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, because I’m so hungry I could eat a cow.” Vito eyed Pierce. “Or maybe a little boy. You look like you’d be pretty tasty.”

  Pierce giggled, familiar with the game. “I’m all gristle, but Dante’s got lots of meat.”

  Dante popped up from behind the sofa, flexing his biceps. “It’s muscle. Not meat.”

  “I think he’s all ham,” Vito whispered loudly, making Pierce giggle again. “Dante, the battle’s over for the night. You guys have to go to bed.”

  “Why?” he whined. “We were just having fun.” At nine he was a big boy, nearly bigger than Connor. He rolled over the back of the sofa, and Vito cringed as the movement sent the vase teetering. Dante rolled off the sofa and caught the vase like it was a football. “Ciccotelli makes the touchdown,” he crowed. “And the crowd goes wild.”

  “The crowd is going to bed,” Vito said. “And don’t even think about the extra point.”

  Dante slid the vase to the middle of the table with a grin, indicating he’d been contemplating exactly that. “Lighten up, Uncle Vito,” he chided. “You’re way too tight.”

  Pierce sniffed him. “And you smell really bad. Like the dog when he rolls in something dead. Mom always makes us give him a bath outside when that happens.”

  Images of the bodies flashed in his mind and he pushed them away. “I’ll give myself a bath. But inside. It’s cold out there. What are you guys doing here anyway?”

  “Dad took Mom to the hospital,” Connor said, suddenly serious. “Tino brought us over here. We brought our sleeping bags.”

  “But…” Vito caught Connor’s warning glance at his two brothers and bit back the question. He’d have to get the details later. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

  “No, ’cause it’s Martin Luther King Day,” Pierce informed him. “Uncle Tino said we can stay up all night.”

  “Um, no you can’t.” Vito ruffled the boy’s dark hair. “I have to get up early tomorrow and I gotta sleep. So you gotta sleep.”

  “Besides,” Connor said. “Tino didn’t say all night. He said till midnight.”

  “Which is already past,” Vito said. “Go brush your teeth and roll out your sleeping bags on the living room floor. Tomorrow clean up all these cannonballs and put my fishing sinkers back in my tackle box. Okay?”

  Dante grinned. “Okay, but we got some good heft with those sinkers.”

  Vito rubbed his temple which still throbbed. “Yeah, I know. Where’s Tino?”

  “Downstairs trying to get Gus to sleep,” Connor said, hustling Pierce back to brush his teeth. “He set up the crib in his living room. And Dominic is downstairs, too, studying for a math test. Dom says he’ll sleep on Tino’s couch, to take care of Gus.”

  Dominic was Dino’s eldest and very responsible. Certainly more responsible than Vito had been at the same age. “I’m going to take a shower and when I come out, I want to see three lumps in sleeping bags, and I want to hear snores, okay?”

  “We’ll be quiet.” Dante hung his head, a martyr now. “We promise.”

  Vito knew they’d try, but he’d played host to his brother’s kids enough times to know their good intentions didn’t last too long. He sniffed his shoulder and grimaced. He did smell awful. He had to take a shower or the stench would keep him awake all night.

  And even though he’d no longer be sleeping on the urge to ask Sophie Johannsen to dinner, he did have to sleep. He had to be back at the four-by-four matrix of graves in less than seven hours.

  Monday, January 15, 12:45

  A.M.

  Sophie let herself into her uncle Harry’s house and quietly closed the door. The television in the living room was on, the volume low, as she’d known it would be.

  “Hot chocolate’s on the stove, Soph.”

  Smiling as she sat on the arm of the recliner, she leaned down and kissed Harry’s balding head. “How do you always know to do that? I didn’t tell you I was coming.”

  She hadn’t planned to. She’d planned to shower, eat, and fall into bed. But Anna’s house was too quiet and the ghosts, both old and new, were too close for comfort.

  “I could say I’m psychic,” Harry said, not taking his eyes from the flickering TV. “But the truth is I can hear your bike as soon as you turn onto Mulberry.”

  Sophie winced. “I bet Miss Sparks complains.”

  “Sure she does. But I think she’d die if she stopped complaining, so consider it your good deed for the day.”

  Sophie laughed softly. “I like the way you think, Uncle Harry.”

  He huffed a chuckle, then looked up with a frown. “Are you wearing perfume?”

  “It’s Gran’s. Too much, huh?” she asked and he nodded.

  “Plus you smell like you’re eighty years old. Why are you wearing Anna’s perfume?”

  “Let’s just say I came in contact with something really bad. It was in my hair, even after I washed it. Four times, even. I was desperate.” She shrugged. “Sorry. But trust me, it’s better than the alternative.”

  He grabbed the mass of hair twisted on the back of her head and squeezed. “Sophie, your hair is still soaking wet. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  She grinned at him. “I might smell like Gran, but you sound like her.”

  He looked disgruntled. Then he laughed. “You’re right. I do. So why did you come all the way over here with your hair all wet, Sophie? Having trouble sleeping?”

  “Yeah. I was hoping you’d be awake.”

  “Me and Bette Davis. Now, Voyager. Hell of a good flick. They just don’t make ’em-”

  “Like this anymore,” she finished his sentence fondly, having heard it hundreds of times during her life. Sophie had learned at an early age that her uncle was a chronic insomniac who dozed in his easy chair in front of the television while old movies played. It had been an enormous comfort, knowing that if she ever needed him, he’d be right here in this chair every night, ready to listen and advise. Or sometimes just to be there.

  And he had been there for her. Always. “The first time I came down and saw you sitting here you were watching Bette Davis. It was Jezebel that time. Hell of a good flick,” she teased, but his face had changed, sobering.

  “I remember,” he said quietly. “You were four years old and you’d had a bad dream. You looked so cute shuffling down the stairs in your footie pajamas.”

  She remembered the dream vividly, remembered the terror of waking up in an unfamiliar bed. The beds had always been unfamiliar up to that point in her life. Harry, Gran, and Katherine changed all that. She owed them a great deal.

  “I loved those footie pajamas.” They’d been handed down from her cousin Paula, then again from her cousin Nina. The feet had been mended and the flannel washed a hundred times, but to Sophie they were the most luxurious thing she’d ever owned. “They were so soft, and I’d never been so warm.”

  Harry’s eyes flickered and his jaw tightened and Sophie knew he was remembering the threadbare cotton pj’s she’d been wearing when she’d been so unceremoniously dumped
on his doorstep. It had been a night as cold as this one and Harry had been so angry. Years later, she understood his anger had been fully directed at her mother.

  “I didn’t even realize you were crying at first. Not until I saw your face.”

  She remembered the night she’d first come down the stairs, terrified and trembling from the dream, but more terrified of making noise. “I was afraid to wake anyone up.” She’d learned never to disturb her mother during the night. “I was afraid you’d get mad and send me away.” She rubbed her thumb over Harry’s forehead to smooth away his frown. “But you didn’t. You just picked me up and sat me on your lap and we watched Jezebel.” And just like that, Sophie had found a safe place for the first time in her life.

  “Why the walk down memory lane, Sophie? What happened today?”

  Where to start? “I spent the day helping Katherine. I can’t tell you the details, but it was in a ‘professional capacity.’” She quirked her fingers, punctuating the air.

  “You saw a dead body.” His tone hardened. “Well, that explains the perfume. That was damn irresponsible of Katherine. No wonder you couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m a big girl now, Uncle Harry. I can handle a body. Besides, Katherine didn’t think I’d actually see one. She felt bad about that.” Turning to meet his eyes, Sophie drew a deep breath. “She felt a lot worse when I saw her zipping the body into the bag.”

  Harry’s shoulders sagged and pain filled his eyes. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m okay. I just couldn’t stay in that house tonight.”

  “So you’ll stay here, in your old room. I’m off tomorrow. I’ll make waffles.”

  He sounded like a kid himself and this time her smile was real. “Tempting, Uncle Harry, but I have to leave early tomorrow. I’ve got to go back to Gran’s and let the dogs out, and then I have to work at the museum all day. But how about dinner?”

  “You shouldn’t be having dinner with an old man like me. You should have a date, Sophie. You’ve been home six months. Haven’t you found anyone you like?”

  Vito Ciccotelli’s handsome face popped into her mind and she scowled. She had liked him, dammit. Worse, she’d respected him. Worse still, she’d wanted him, even after she’d known she couldn’t have him. Now the thought of him left nearly as bad a taste in her mouth as the dead bodies in the field.

  “No. Everyone I’ve met is either married, dating, or a rat.” Her eyes narrowed. “And sometimes they even act like they’re decent and get you to share your beef jerky.”

  He looked alarmed. “Please tell me beef jerky is not a new euphemism for sex.”

  Confused, she glared at him, then she laughed so hard she nearly fell off the arm of the chair. Quickly she covered her mouth so as not to wake Aunt Freya. “No, Uncle Harry. To my knowledge, beef jerky is still beef jerky.”

  “You’re the linguist. You should know.”

  She stood up. “So what about dinner? I’ll take you to Lou’s.”

  “Lou’s?” His mouth bent down as he considered it. “For cheesesteaks?”

  “No, for wheat germ.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course for cheesesteaks.”

  His eyes gleamed. “With Cheez Whiz?”

  She kissed the top of his head. “Always. I’ll meet you at seven. Don’t be late.”

  She was halfway up the stairs to her old room when she heard his chair creak. “Sophie.” She turned to find him staring up at her, a sad look on his face. “Not all men are rats. You’ll find someone and he’ll be honorable. You deserve the best.”

  Sophie’s throat closed and resolutely she swallowed. “I’m too late, Uncle Harry. Aunt Freya got the best. The rest of us just have to settle. See you tomorrow night.”

  Monday, January 15, 12:55

  A.M.

  Tino was sitting at the kitchen table when Vito got out of the shower. His brother pointed to a plate piled with linguini and Grandma Chick’s red sauce. “I nuked it.”

  Vito slumped in a chair with a sigh. “Thanks. I didn’t have a chance to eat.”

  Tino’s eyes narrowed in concern. “You went to the cemetery?”

  Besides Nick, Tino was the only other person who knew what today was and how Andrea had died. Nick knew because he’d been there when it happened. Tino knew because Vito had too much to drink a year ago today and spilled his guts. But his secret was as safe with Tino as it was with Nick.

  “Yeah, but not the one you mean.” Today’s field was a far cry from the neatly maintained cemetery where two years ago he’d buried Andrea next to her baby brother.

  Tino’s brows went up. “What, you found graves today?”

  Vito looked around the corner at the boys asleep on the living room floor. “Sshh.”

  Tino grimaced. “Sorry. Bad case?”

  “Yeah.” He devoured two helpings without speaking, then piled a third on his plate.

  Tino watched him with mild astonishment. “When did you last eat, man?”

  “Breakfast.” A picture flashed in his mind-Sophie Johannsen, her face streaked with tears, offering to share her chocolate milk, beef jerky, and Ho Hos. “Actually, that’s not true. I had some beef jerky an hour or so ago.”

  Tino laughed out loud. “Beef jerky? You? Mr. Picky?”

  “I was hungry.” And taking it from Sophie’s hand had made the snack far more palatable than he would have guessed. She’d nagged at his thoughts all the way home, but now more urgent matters pressed. He lowered his voice. “I tried to call Dino, but his cell went right to voice mail. What happened tonight?”

  Tino leaned forward. “Dino called at about six,” he murmured. “Molly had been having numbness and she just collapsed. They think it was a mild stroke.”

  Stunned, Vito stared. “She’s only thirty-seven.”

  “I know.” Tino leaned in a little closer. “Dino sent Dominic to a neighbor’s with the kids so they wouldn’t see the ambulance take her away, then he called here looking for us, to get us to take the kids. He sounded scared to death. I went over to get them.”

  Vito pushed his plate aside, no longer hungry. “So how is she?”

  “Dad called two hours ago. She’s stable.”

  “And Dad?” Michael Ciccotelli had a very bad heart. This kind of stress wasn’t good.

  “He was ecstatic that Molly was okay and Mom was nagging him to calm down.” Tino studied him for a moment. “So you didn’t make it to the cemetery.”

  “No, but I’m okay. It’s not like last year,” Vito added. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “So you’ve paced your bedroom floor every night for the last week because you’re fine.” He lifted a brow when Vito opened his mouth to protest. “Your bedroom’s right over mine, man. I hear every creak of your floorboards.”

  “I guess it’s only fair then. I hear every ‘Oh Tino.’”

  Tino had the grace to pretend to be embarrassed. “I haven’t had a woman in my bed in weeks, and it doesn’t look like I will again anytime soon. But it’s okay. I had a custom portrait to finish. Thanks to your pacing I’ve finished Mrs. Sorrell’s painting ahead of schedule.” He waggled his brows. “You know the painting I mean.”

  “I know,” Vito said dryly. The woman had contracted Tino to paint her portrait from a boudoir photo as a gift for her husband. “The one with the really nice-” He heard a rustle in the living room. “Sweaters,” he finished firmly and Tino grinned.

  “Hey, I’m just glad I finished before the boys came over today. That job was decidedly… M for mature. Mr. Sorrell’s a lucky man.”

  Vito shook his head, mostly to clear the image of Sophie Johannsen in her snug sweater that had popped up in his mind. “Tino, you’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days, painting naughty pictures of other men’s wives.”

  Tino laughed. “Dante’s right, you really are too tight. Mrs. Sorrell has a sister.”

  Vito shook his head again. “No thanks.”

  Tino sobered abruptly. “It’s been two years s
ince Andrea died,” he said gently.

  Since Andrea died was far too sanitized a phrase, but Vito didn’t have the energy to argue the point tonight. “I know how long it’s been. Down to the minute.”

  Tino was quiet for a long moment. “Then you know you’ve paid long enough.”

  Vito looked at him. “How long is long enough, Tino?”

  “To grieve? I don’t know. But to blame yourself… Five minutes was too long. Let it go, Vito. It happened. It was an accident. But you’re not gonna accept that until you’re ready. I just hope you’re ready soon or you’ll end up a lonely man.”

  Vito had nothing to say to that and Tino got up and pulled a plate from the fridge. “I saved you a piece of the boys’ cake. I supervised the baking, so it’s safe to eat.”

  Vito frowned at the plate. “It’s all frosting. Where’s the cake?”

  Tino’s lips twitched. “Not much of the batter made it into the pan.” He shrugged. “When they got here, they were scared about Molly. I figured what was the harm?”

  Startled when his eyes stung, Vito dropped his eyes to the cake, concentrating on peeling off the plastic wrap. He cleared his throat. “That was nice of you, Tino.”

  Tino shrugged again, embarrassed by the praise. “They’re our kids. Family.”

  Vito thought about Sophie’s praise, sincere and unaffected. He hadn’t felt embarrassed. He’d felt warm and more comfortable than he’d felt in a very long time. From the corner of his eye he saw Tino rise.

  “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow will be a better day, all the way around.”

  Suddenly the need to speak hit him like a club. Keeping his gaze locked on the frosting-covered plate, he pushed the words out. “I met someone today.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Tino sit back down. “Oh? Another cop?”

  No. No more cops. Not in a million years. “No. An archeologist.”

  Now Tino blinked. “An archeologist? Like… as in Indiana Jones?”

  Vito had to chuckle at the mental picture of Sophie Johannsen slashing through the jungle in a dusty fedora. “No. More like…” He realized a swift comparison was not easily conjured. “She dug up castles in France. She knows ten languages.” Three of them deader than the body you just left. She’d been ashamed at her insensitivity. She’d more than made up for it later. So what had happened in those last few moments?