“But true,” Marvin assured him, not sure whether what he was saying was in fact true or not. “She’s very protective when it comes to you.” Which was an accurate statement.
“Then don’t tell her,” Sean snapped. “She doesn’t need to know everything.”
So much for that plan, Marvin thought. He’d been about to chirp, “I see we’re a little grumpy today,” but his sense of self-preservation prevailed and the words died on his lips when he saw the expression on Sean’s face. Instead, he focused on driving the car, while Sean opened the window, lit his third cigarette of the day, and thought about what he’d observed at the Connor estate and what it meant—if anything.
While Sean ruminated, Marvin thought about how much he wished Libby’s dad still had his own car, but short of a miracle, that wasn’t going to happen. He’d just have to get used to this. With that in mind, Marvin drove slowly, careful to keep his eyes on the road, hoping to avoid any more confrontations with Mr. Simmons.
Occasionally, he glanced at his watch. He had a casket consultation at the funeral home in an hour and a half. Hopefully, he would be back there with time to spare. If not, one of his associates would have to take it. Not that his father would be happy about that. He always told Marvin that a good businessman was a man who tended his business instead of going gallivanting over the countryside. He didn’t approve of his son driving Mr. Simmons around, nor did he approve of Marvin playing detective, as he put it. An opinion he expressed often and loudly.
The place Marvin was driving Sean to was ten minutes away. It was located on the outskirts of Longely, and despite its name, it didn’t have a golf course or anything to do with Council Park, which was located five and a half miles farther down the road. For that matter, the place wasn’t really a club, either, since no dues were paid or membership applications tendered.
The building had been thrown up in the fifties by one Albert Farnelli as a “screw you” to the Oaks Club, which had refused him membership. Farnelli had envisioned his club as the ultimate country club. It was to be constructed out of sandstone and marble and was to boast two swimming pools, a golf course, and a state-of-the art locker room with a sauna, a Jacuzzi, and a steam room. But fate had had something different in store. The only thing that remained from Farnelli’s original plan was the kitchen. It wasn’t a work of art, but at least it turned out a decent lunch.
The building was a ramshackle affair that looked as if it had been built with an Erector set. It was covered in cheap aluminum siding, and the walls meandered this way and that, finally ending at a concrete patio that overlooked a small pond, which housed a duck family grown fat on tossed bread. The golf course and the swimming pools had never materialized. By that time Farnelli had run out of money, but he’d been too cheap to change the sign hanging over the front door, so he had kept it the way it was.
Over the years, the CGC, as the place was referred to by its habitués, had become the default hangout for a group of guys who liked the fact that their wives didn’t like to be there, that the kitchen served the kind of food their wives wouldn’t let them eat at home, and that the bartender knew how to make a generous drink.
Leon Caputti was one of the founding members of the group and could be found there five days a week, between the hours of noon and 3:00 p.m. He called the club his office, which it was. The people in the club who knew what Caputti did didn’t discuss it, and the ones who didn’t know were smart enough not to ask.
“You want me to go in with you?” Marvin inquired when they pulled up in front of the club.
Sean shook his head. God forbid. “This could take a while,” he said instead. “Go home.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.” Which he was. Sean needed privacy for the conversation he was about to have.
“But how will you get back?” Marvin asked, visions of an enraged Libby dancing in his head. He could hear her now. What did he mean, he’d left her father somewhere? There was no good answer for that.
“I’ll Uber it,” Sean assured him.
“Do you have the app?” Marvin asked.
“App,” Sean blustered. Who knew that you needed an app? Not that he was going to admit that. Sean drew himself up. “Of course I have the app. And if they don’t come, I can always call a cab. Or Michelle.” Michelle was his fiancée.
“I’m—” Marvin began, but Sean cut him off before he completed his sentence.
“Marvin,” Sean said. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m perfectly capable of doing this, and if you don’t leave, I’m going to have to tell Libby you’re cheating and eating Snickers in your car.” Marvin had promised Libby he’d lose ten pounds. “I know,” Sean told him, anticipating Marvin’s next question, “because the wrappers are sticking out from underneath your seat.”
Marvin groaned. This was the reward he got for being Mr. Nice Guy, he thought bitterly. “You don’t play fair,” Marvin complained, regretting the words the moment they were out of his mouth.
Sean smiled. “I never said I did. Really, Marvin, this is for your benefit. You want deniability.”
Marvin thought about that for a moment. Mr. Simmons was right. His father wouldn’t be happy if he found out he was anywhere around Caputti. “A funeral director must be a man of unblemished character,” his dad was fond of saying, although when Marvin had asked him why that was the case, his dad had glared at him and walked away.
“Well, if you get stuck . . . ,” Marvin began.
“I’ll call,” Sean assured him.
As Sean watched Marvin drive away, Sean reflected that the kid had a good heart. Probably better than his. He certainly wouldn’t have been carting his girlfriend’s dad around when he was Marvin’s age. And then he put those thoughts away, pushed the door to the club open, and walked inside. Nothing had changed since Sean had been there last. Not that he expected it would. It was that kind of place.
Chapter 25
Sean passed the desk where you were supposed to sign in, a formality that had been dispensed with a long time ago, or at least that was what Sean supposed, since he’d never seen a sign-in log on the counter or a person behind it in all the times he had come here.
He walked by the lounge, where a television was going and three elderly men were dozing in their chairs, their snoring competing with the news announcer; then he went down the long hallway that led to the dining room. The walls were hung with dusty photos of groups of men that had been taken twenty years ago, and the tan carpet on the floor had a path worn down the center.
Sean could hear the sound of chatter rising and falling at the other end of the hallway. A moment later, he was in the dining room, a banquet hall that Farnelli had envisioned capable of serving two hundred, but fifty was the largest number it had ever achieved. The room itself was paneled in knotty pine, with crests mounted every ten feet or so. The effect was log cabin meets medieval castle.
“Hey,” someone shouted.
Sean turned around and looked to see who was yelling. It was Caputti motioning him over. As Sean moved in his direction, he thought that Caputti had aged well. Unlike himself. Caputti had always been a handsome man, and he still was. His silver hair was styled just so; his bright blue eyes were as sharp as ever; his face was a little plumper, which softened his features. The polo shirt he was wearing was blindingly white, and his tan set off the Rolex he was wearing on his left wrist.
“It’s been a while,” Caputti said as Sean took a seat across the way from him. “Still a Jameson man?” Caputti asked him as he put his hand up to attract a waiter’s attention. Sean nodded as the waiter arrived, and Caputti ordered a bottle, two glasses, and two espressos.
“How’s it going?” Sean asked Caputti.
Caputti shrugged. “I’m an old man now. I take it easy.”
“Me too,” Sean said.
Ten minutes later the waiter arrived with their order. The two men watched the waiter put down the coffees, cream, sugar, two shot glasses, and the bott
le of Jameson and then leave.
“Too bad about Rose,” Caputti said.
“And Stella,” Sean replied. He’d always expected his wife would outlive him, and he suspected Caputti had thought the same.
Caputti nodded. “But the girls are good?”
“Very. And yours?”
“Excellent.” Caputti poured each of them a shot. “We’re lucky we have daughters.”
“Indeed, we are,” Sean said, and he lifted his glass. “A toast,” he said.
“To our girls,” Caputti said and drank. Sean followed suit. Caputti poured out two more shots, and Sean downed that one, as well. “I hear your girls are still pursuing their sideline,” Caputti said as he put his glass down.
“Yes, they are,” Sean replied.
“Rose would not be pleased,” Caputti noted.
“No, she would not.” Sean held out his palms. “She hated my business. But the girls are adults. They do what they want.”
“Even worse,” Caputti said, “now they tell us what to do, as well.”
Sean laughed. “Tell me about it,” he agreed.
Caputti smiled. “I also hear that you have someone else to keep you busy these days. Congratulations. I’m impressed.”
“You do hear everything, don’t you?” Sean noted.
Caputti gave a modest shrug. “People talk, and I listen. If I recall, you’re a pretty good listener yourself.”
“I’ve had my moments,” Sean allowed.
“I was surprised you never opened up your own agency after what happened with your department,” Caputti continued.
“Well,” Sean said, “in the beginning, when I got kicked out, I was going to. But I kept putting it off, and after a while I realized I didn’t want to do that anymore.”
“Except to help your daughters,” Caputti clarified.
Sean took a sip of his espresso. It was excellent. “Yes, except to help them. And,” he went on, “when something puzzles me.”
“You don’t like to be puzzled?” Caputti asked.
Sean shook his head. “No. It annoys me, and I’m too old to be annoyed.”
“Except by your girlfriend,” Caputti said.
Sean laughed again and took another sip of his espresso. “They can do that, can’t they?”
“Indeed, they can,” Caputti said. “But at our age we’re smart enough to do what they want. Makes life”—he hesitated for a moment—“more pleasant.” Then he finished his espresso and changed the subject. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I have some questions.”
“What makes you think I can answer them?” Caputti asked.
Sean spread his hands out. “You said it yourself. You hear things.”
“And I do owe you,” Caputti said after nodding to a man walking by the table. Sean had helped Caputti out with his youngest daughter a couple of years ago, when she’d been going down a bad road.
“I wasn’t going to say that,” Sean replied. And he hadn’t intended to.
“You don’t have to. What do you want to know?”
Sean picked up his teaspoon and balanced it across his espresso cup. “Let’s start with Andy Dupont, shall we?”
Caputti made a disgusted noise. “Totally out of control. I’d be surprised if he’s around much longer.”
“How so?”
“You know what happens when someone fails to show the proper respect in this business.”
Indeed, Sean did. “That bad?”
Caputti grimaced. “He thinks he’s Al Capone.”
“And his father can’t do anything?”
“Believe me, his father has tried,” Caputti said. “I’ve even tried, after his father asked me to have a talk with him.”
“And?”
Caputti’s eyes grew hard. “I won’t repeat what he said to me. The only reason nothing’s happened to him is out of respect to his father.”
“So, Andy runs a gambling operation,” Sean asked, making sure his facts were accurate.
“A small one in the scheme of things. Not really worth bothering about.” Caputti poured Sean another shot of Jameson and filled his own glass, as well. “Which might be his saving grace. Literally.”
Sean picked up the drink and knocked it back as he reflected that it was a good thing he wasn’t driving today. “Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that someone was late paying Andy back.”
“I take it you’re referring to Ralph Abrams,” Caputti asked after he’d downed his shot.
Sean gave a small nod of admiration. “You do know everything.”
“Word gets around.”
“So it would seem,” Sean said. “Did you happen to hear how much Ralph was into him for?”
“Somewhere between fifteen and twenty large, but I could be wrong.”
“And if Ralph couldn’t pay it back?” Sean asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew what the answer would be.
Caputti steepled his fingers together. “I’m told Andy’s an old-fashioned kind of guy.”
Sean raised an eyebrow. “Ah.”
“He has people,” Caputti said.
“We’re not talking social secretary here, I assume,” Sean replied, thinking of Libby and Bernie’s description of Andy’s friends.
“I’ve been told that sometimes his people engage in more . . . strenuous physical activities than managing his calendar,” Caputti said.
“Activities that could cause physical harm?”
“Among other things. But I’m an old guy. I just know what I hear.” Caputti’s foot started to jiggle up and down. “But if I were Ralph and those guys showed up at my door and I had an aunt with lots of cash, I’d ask her for some, and if she didn’t give it to me, I’d be really pissed.”
Sean leaned forward. “You know this for a fact?”
“No. I’m just . . .” Caputti waved his hand in the air. “How you say . . . ? Hypothesizing . . .”
“You’re saying Ralph killed his aunt out of anger?”
Caputti shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It’s possible.”
“Anything is possible.” Sean paused for a moment. Then he said, “You’re not trying to point me in another direction, are you?”
Caputti laughed. “Why would I do that?”
“Because of this.” And Sean reached into his pants pocket and took out the pieces of paper he’d taken from Susie’s legal pad, smoothed them out with the edge of his hand, and passed them on to Caputti.
Caputti looked at the papers, then looked up at Sean. “What am I looking for here?”
Sean pointed to Caputti’s name in the middle of the page. “Your name. It’s circled.”
Caputti reached over, took the reading glasses that were sitting on the table, and put them on. He read his name on the page. “Fancy that,” he said, then slipping the glasses off and putting them back where they had been. “And your point is what?”
Sean lifted an eyebrow. “You knew her.”
“Since when is that a crime?”
“I’m not saying it is.”
“Of course I knew her, Sean. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a small town,” Caputti protested.
“And you two met at the local library and just happened to hit it off?”
“In a way. We met at the fund-raiser for the new high school football field.”
“That was very civic minded of you,” Sean commented as he folded his arms across his chest and watched Caputti fiddle with his watch.
“I like to contribute to the community when I can,” Caputti said.
“Very commendable,” Sean said. “Come on,” he said after a minute had gone by. “Why is your name on this pad?”
“Because Susie was inviting me to tea.”
“Seriously,” Sean urged. “This isn’t an official inquiry. I’m just trying to help out my girls and put some of the pieces together for them. Keep them out of Lucy’s way.”
Caputti relented. “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you. I lent her some money. She wan
ted to buy the paper on a couple of her neighbors’ houses.”
“Surely, she must have had the money for that?”
“She said her money was tied up. I didn’t ask. It was none of my business.” Caputti paused for a minute before continuing. “She was a spiteful woman. Taking someone’s house away because they said something bad about your cats. The house you’ve grown up in.” He shook his head. “Who would do something like that?”
“Evidently, she would,” Sean replied.
“That was a rhetorical question,” Caputti observed.
“I know,” Sean said. “I was just emphasizing the point.”
Satisfied, Caputti continued. “She was just one of those people who couldn’t let anything go. You got on the wrong side of her and”—Caputti snapped his fingers—“she’d go for your throat. I’d rather deal with someone like Andy Dupont. At least you know what you got there. Susie would smile to your face, stab you in the back, and twist the blade till it came out the other side. She was a mean, mean lady.”
“And yet you did business with her,” Sean pointed out.
“Money is money. I wouldn’t have if I’d known that someone was going to kill her,” Caputti added.
“You lost money?” Sean asked.
“Well, you don’t make money from a corpse,” Caputti replied, pointing out the obvious. “Unless, of course, you’re an undertaker. There’s a definite downside to doing things off the books,” he reflected.
“I suppose there is.” This was not a problem that Sean anticipated having. He looked at his watch. It was time to go home.
Chapter 26
When Sean left the club and went to call a cab, he realized two things: he’d forgotten his phone and his wallet at home. This was not good. Now, some people would have gone back inside and used Caputti’s phone to call a taxi, then paid for it when they got back to their flat. Some people. But Sean wasn’t one of them. That would have been an admission that he was losing his marbles. Instead, he decided to walk a couple of miles and hitch the rest of the way.
Why not? he reasoned. It was a perfect day. Low seventies. A light breeze. Sunshine. In short, a good day to be outside. Anyway, he might not get a chance to do this again. Who knew how long the MS remission he was in would last? According to his doctor, he could go back to having to use a cane at any time. He should take advantage of this opportunity while he could.
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