A petite woman with a turned-up nose and big dark hair came teetering by on boots spiked with three-inch heels. Her oversized sweater made a valiant attempt to underplay the disproportionate breasts preceding the rest of her body.
“Group pictures,” she said, holding up a camera designed for serious photography. She backed up, stopped in front of Francesca, and waved a handful of bejeweled fingers as she spoke. “Not only am I one hopeless soccer mom, but also a scrapbook fanatic.”
“Meet Felicia Aquinas,” Pilar said. “Her son plays forward too.”
But not as well as Matt, according to Ria. Francesca made herself smile.
“Welcome, Francesca Canelli. Your little girl I already know from the tryouts. Ria is quite the charmer, especially with her broken arm. Did you see I signed her cast with a single Pegasus?” She didn’t wait for Francesca to reply but wiggled her fingers again. “Adios for now; we will talk later.”
“This Vince Valente, does he have children?” Pilar asked.
“He’s a widower with two grown daughters,” Francesca said. “They live in California.”
“Good. I hope they stay there for the holidays.”
The comment forced Francesca to respond. “I don’t understand.”
“With the Meredith’s, we always gave a whole ham for Easter and a turkey for Thanksgiving. Last year we were in Mexico for my father’s funeral and forgot the turkey. So, on Christmas after dinner I had to leave my dirty kitchen in order to clean Sunny’s. She wanted me to come back the next day to work on the bathrooms but when I complained about my sore knees, she didn’t push it. Thank god.”
“Who would’ve guessed,” Francesca said with a straight face. “Well, you don’t have to worry about Vince. He has plenty of money to support his lifestyle.”
“We shall see. Only time will tell.”
Francesca watched Felicia Aquinas circle the room until she stopped at the fireplace and set her camera on a waiting tripod. “Tall people in back,” she called out, pointing to the wall of carved limestone. “Shorties such as yours truly in front, everybody else find a spot in the middle or back row. Come on, folks. Don’t make me do my fire dance. An evening such as this must be immortalized.”
Had Ria not reminded Francesca to apply some makeup before leaving home, this would’ve been her cue to duck out without the fanfare of long goodbyes.
“Don’t even think about escaping,” Pilar said to her. “There’s always somebody blocking the stairs.”
More attention Francesca didn’t need. She followed Pilar to the photo op, but couldn’t bring herself to sit beside her. Instead, she chose one end of the middle row. From behind came a firm grip to her shoulder, reassuring her she wasn’t alone in this group of near strangers. She didn’t have to turn around to around to know the hand belonged to Vince. And when Felicia the Historian opened her red lips to yell “cheese” before taking her place in front, Francesca didn’t think twice about smiling. She’d managed to take another step forward. Hopefully, with each step there’d be no going back.
Francesca drove home sober and reasonably happy. She found Matt in the family room, his mouth stretched to attack a folded triangle of pizza, the freezer to oven variety claiming to rival home delivered. No grass growing under her kid’s feet; he could follow package directions as well as she could. He tucked his pizza chew into the pocket of his right cheek and flashed a wide grin before speaking. “You don’t have to tell me. I already know.”
“What, that it’s past your bedtime.” She picked up the last triangle, employed Matt’s practical approach to consuming it.
“I’m talking about Vince,” he said. “Adam already called to give me the news. Boy, was he one hyped-up dude.”
“Just don’t get overly confident, I mean about the family connection.”
“Come on, whadaya take me for, some kind of fool? Don’t forget, I am my father’s son.”
Making his mother the some kind of fool, only Matt didn’t know how big a one, although he must’ve noticed her mouth drop, a spontaneous gesture she immediately regretted.
“I’m your son too, Mom, but at this stage of my soccer life I don’t need anybody paving the way for me. Not that Vince would ever do such a thing. I respect him and I hope he feels the same about me. If I can’t make it on my own, I have no business playing on Pegasi, or any other team.”
Time out. Was he referring to her? There’s no way he could’ve known. She considered bringing up Ted Logan’s non-existent brother but instead bent over and surprised Matt with a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, dear one, you’re growing up so fast I can’t keep up with you.”
CHAPTER 16
The next afternoon Detectives Winchester and Reardan paid Francesca another visit, this time bringing along their crime scene investigator, a squat woman decked out in various shades of black—bomber jacket, twill trousers, and cushioned oxfords. Fran Abbot projected the aura of a somber undertaker when she followed the detectives into Francesca’s living room. They plunked down on the sofa, still litter-free from the day before, their lack of cordiality making it easy for Francesca to dispense with any offer of refreshments.
“We’re stepping up our investigation into the death of Rex Meredith,” Winchester said. “It’s officially been ruled a homicide.”
Francesca didn’t allow as much as the twitch of a muscle, facial or otherwise. No-nonsense Fran inspected a hangnail on her thumb and Reardan adjusted his belly to a comfortable overlap of his trouser belt.
“You don’t seem surprised,” Reardan said.
“It merely confirms the rumor I heard last night while attending a meeting for Pegasi parents,” Francesca said.
“Ah, life goes on.” Reardan shook his head. “I thought the team might take a break. You know, regroup or something, out of respect for the deceased, if nothing else.”
“Evidently you don’t know select soccer, Detective. The team sponsor already hired a new coach. Perhaps you’ve heard of Vince Valente.”
Reardan tilted his head in her direction. “Who hasn’t heard of the great Valente. I graduated from CBC High, Mrs. Canelli. We were state soccer champs my senior year.”
Christian Brothers High in Clayton, how impressive. Rex had graduated from Clayton’s impressive public school. Parochial versus public, good versus evil, Rex versus the soccer slut—no, the other way around—Francesca versus the devil and now he’s dead and she’s sorry. If not, she sure as hell ought to be. Dammit, Francesca, stay on track. CBC would make the detective Catholic but not necessarily one who came from money. Thirty-five years had inflated the prestigious school’s tuition beyond the means of its less affluent alumni. She couldn’t resisting asking, “And what about your kids, Detective Reardan?”
He spread the fingers of one meaty hand. “Five, all girls, Cathedral and Rosati Kain.”
Affordable but impressive Catholic elementary and secondary schools in the city’s Central West End, Reardan probably resided, in one of those nineteenth century high-ceiled charmers, one that guzzled fuel faster than a Hummer navigating in city traffic. Maybe his wife had inherited the place. Nah, if the wife came from money, she’d have done better than this doughboy. Rehabbers on a budget, that’s what Francesca figured the Reardans were. Of course it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d figured wrong.
“Me, I played hoops for Vashon, point guard.” This from Winchester, who stretched out his public school legs to show off their length.
Vashon in the all-black section of North St. Louis turned out top basketball players who went on to play with college scholarships. Francesca figured him for a stud then, and now. One ear was pierced but unadorned. He might’ve started out disadvantaged but poverty was not the image he now projected.
She couldn’t resist mentioning her own background. “I went to St. Joseph’s on a four-year scholarship.”
Reardan and Winchester nodded, as if they approved, while Fran Abbot checked her watch, a sure as hell indication she hadn’t grown
up in the city or the county of St. Louis. The locals didn’t give a rat’s ass where out-of-towners went to high school. “Nice, but could we get on with this,” the investigator said. “I don’t have all afternoon.”
“Yeah, but don’t forget who’s in charge.” Reardan held his belly and coughed before continuing. “Vince Valente seems a bit long in the tooth to coach any team, let alone fifteen-year-olds. Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Canelli?”
He was fishing in the wrong pond, did the man take her for a fool. “You’re posing a question I can’t answer, Detective Reardan.”
“But we do have a few you can answer.” Winchester pulled out his notebook, flipped to a page of scribbled notes. “On the night of Rex Meredith’s death you spoke to him via cell phone, correct?”
“That’s what I told you before.”
Fran peered from over the top of granny specs too delicate for her broad face. “Were you ever in the back seat of the deceased’s car, Mrs. Canelli?”
“What a ridiculous question.”
“Only if you can’t answer it with a simple yes or no,” Winchester said.
“Does my mom need a lawyer?” Ria again, leaning her good shoulder against the doorjamb, and not nearly as confident as she’d been during the detectives’ first visit.
“Let’s just say she’s on the verge of being considered a person of interest,” Winchester said.
His comment initiated an unexpected burst of tears from Ria, her first since the funeral, at least to Francesca’s knowledge.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” she said, this time meeting Winchester’s gaze with one just as intense.
Reardan intervened, raising his voice to a take-charge level. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation at the precinct.”
“Come on, Sam. Is that really necessary?” Winchester playing the good cop. “Maybe if the kid left—”
“Okay, okay, I’m out of here.” Just like that, Ria turned off her tear ducts and backed out of the room.
“Now, where were we,” Winchester said. “Oh yeah, were you ever in the back seat of Rex Meredith’s van?”
He said van; Francesca said car. She gave in to a single gulp but not to wetting her lips, so dry they felt as if she’d been wandering through Death Valley. Death Valley, whatever made her think of the California desert, a place she had no desire to visit. Maybe she meant the Valley of Death, maybe Rex, a graduate of Clayton High, was sending her a message from beyond.
“Mrs. Canelli,” Winchester said. “Are you all right?”
What the hell, she licked her lips. “I hardly knew the man. We talked a few times during the tryout sessions, as did many of the parents.”
“Nevertheless, would you mind submitting a saliva sample?” asked Fran, approaching her with the kit in her hand already opened. “You know, for DNA, the same procedure you see on television.”
“I might add, you’re not the only person we’re asking to submit,” Winchester said. “It’s our way of ruling out the unlikeliest of candidates.”
Candidates sounded less threatening than suspects, of which Francesca certainly didn’t consider herself one. Figuring it would take a while before the results were known and by then the case would be resolved, she didn’t hesitate to open wide and allow Fran’s cotton swab inside her mouth. Winchester waited for it to close before posing his next question.
“Is there anything you want to share with us, Mrs. Canelli, anything which might contribute to this case?”
“I can’t imagine what, Detective.” Was that another flush, a hot flash? Perhaps an early entry into menopause, God knows she wasn’t ready for middle age, not after her romp in the backseat of Rex Meredith, now deceased. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure my daughter’s all right. She’s still grieving for her father, you know.”
Francesca showed her visitors the door and when they left, closed it with both hands shaking. Standing back from the living room window, she watched the threesome lingering on the flagstones, no doubt discussing Mrs. Canelli’s feeble attempts to smooth over her half-truths, trying to make them more palatable than the outright lies.
CHAPTER 17
“Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock,” the female caller said in response to Francesca’s hello. “Meet me at Starbuck’s, you know, the one near my house.”
She hadn’t bothered to identify herself but Francesca recognized the low-pitched voice, a less than perfect match to its owner’s diminutive stature. “Wait, Sunny, don’t hang up yet. I don’t even know where you live.”
“Of course you do. Everybody from Pegasi knows the Meredith house. Oh poop, I keep forgetting Matt’s new to the team, which means you’ve never been here at least to my knowledge. Not to worry, my address is listed on the POP roster, in case you ever need it, which I’m sure you will at some time or other. Gosh, it now seems like an eternity ago but last Christmas all the soccer parents sent us such wonderful holiday greetings. Some even dropped by bearing gifts, totally unexpected but oh so thoughtful. Rex was touched beyond words, as was I.”
Sunny sniffed into the phone, gave directions to the coffee house, along with a warning not to be late, and hung up with so much as a goodbye. Not that Francesca cared one way or the other. She went through the motions of another day, every minute bringing her closer to bedtime and Ben’s pillow.
The next morning Matt left for school without eating, a rarity for him. Francesca, on the other hand, stood over the kitchen counter and snarfed down another one of Ria’s breakfasts, this time French toast from the box into the toaster and slathered with maple syrup. As soon as Ria skipped out the door, Francesca went upstairs and rummaged through every shelve and rack of her walk-in closet. What to wear, what to wear, more importantly, whatever fits. She resolved the dilemma by selecting an oversized sweater and the only pair of jeans allowing her to exhale after they’d been zipped. The acceptable choice of clothing brought Francesca closer to her more serious dilemma: whether to keep the coffee date at Starbuck’s or develop a debilitating headache which threatened to hang on for days without proper bed rest. She checked her bedside clock, still time to call Sunny and beg off. But Sunny being Sunny would insist on rescheduling. Another day would only postpone the inevitable, a game of cat and mouse with Francesca cast in the loser’s bracket.
*****
Forty-five minutes later she was resting her elbows on a Starbuck’s table, sipping decaf double latte while Sunny swirled whipped cream into an elaborate concoction loaded with calories. Considering her status as the more recent of two widows, Sunny didn’t appear terribly distraught. No red-rimmed eyes, no puffy face or runny nose, just Barbie minus her Ken, forever. She wore a fur trimmed jacket, the kind destined to never hit the sale rack. Compared to Francesca’s … damn, the same jacket she wore those nights with Rex, the one she should’ve taken to the cleaners but kept forgetting. She’d grabbed it this morning on her way out the door. How could she have been so stupid. Take it off, now.
“Don’t,” Sunny said.
Had she read Francesca’s mind, even worse, the guilt plaguing her face.
“The place is freezing, something about a heating issue according to the manager.” Sunny spoke while rubbing her hands together, just as Rex had done. “I don’t suppose you expected to hear from me so soon, a lousy six days after we buried Rex. Does it mean I don’t care?”
With a lift of her shoulders, Francesca managed to say, “Well—”
“Of course not, we all handle grief in a different way, and I for one have no intentions of throwing my one hundred and ten pounds onto a funeral pyre.”
“But wasn’t he … never mind.” Buried, just say it.
“Rex and I were a team, Francesca, but make no mistake, he was the captain and I was the flunky who cleaned up after him. My marriage, my whole life, revolved around him and later, it included Payton. From the moment I delivered our precious nine-pounder into Rex’s waiting hands, we both swore allegiance to our baby.”
“
I know the feeling.”
“Rex, Payton, and me, we formed this perfect triangle.” Sunny made one with her thumbs and forefingers. “Then Rex brought Angel home and made us square.” She chuckled, made a two-handed square in midair. “I must admit to being skeptical at first but after seeing him and Payton together, I knew Rex had made the right decision. Angel’s a terrific kid and I have no intention of sending him back, unless his mother insists, which I don’t expect she will.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Oh but I do. Now, everybody wants to help, which is great, but I don’t need another casserole or apple pie or invitation to dinner. What I need is a confidante, someone who understands firsthand what I’m going through, which eliminates my immediate friends. They still enjoy the luxury of complaining about husbands who don’t take out the garbage or find excuses not to visit the in-laws. So-o, unfortunately, you and I now have more in common than our Pegasi connection. Tragedy has united us, Francesca. We are widow sisters and dammit, as far as I’m concerned, this period of mourning everyone expects from us is highly overrated. Actually, it just plain sucks.”
Sonny paused, as if waiting for Francesca to comment. The best she could offer was, “Time, everybody says to give it time.”
“A tired cliché if ever there was. Give me a break, please. Rex has been gone a whole week and for the life of me I cannot believe I still miss the jerk.”
“I don’t understand.” Jerk, yes, but not the part about missing him.
“Well, halleluiah,” Sunny said. “Evidently, Rex hadn’t gotten around to corrupting you yet. But he would have, as soon as he figured out what you could do for him. Don’t look so surprised, Francesca. My late husband was a bona fide unmitigated asshole, to the nth degree. He used people and people used him, which usually evened out by the end of the season. But sometimes he went too far.”
In the backseat, for example, even now Francesca wanted out. “Would you like another coffee, Sunny? This time I’m buying.”
“Thanks, I’m still working on this yummy frappucino, but don’t let me stop you.”
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