“No, I’m fine too.” Like hell, with gas gurgling in her stomach, sending acid upwards into the esophagus, next stop, her throat. “Maybe a biscotti or a muffin?”
“Nada. Anyway as I was about to say: Rex probably pushed the wrong person once too often and got what he deserved, which doesn’t mean I’m condoning the horrific murder. Sure, he had enemies, most pretended to be his friends. The others, he treated worse than pond scum. And what about his most recent conquest, just wait ‘til I sink my incisors into her.”
Another pause gave Francesca no choice but to cluck her tongue in mock disgust. “Maybe the husband found out.”
“If the whore even had one, Rex preferred the most vulnerable but he also enjoyed the thrill of competition. After all, he lived for the game, any game. Whoever killed Rex, male or female, wanted to humiliate him too—the soccer field of all places, how revolting. He loved that park almost as much as our home.” Sunny choked up, started digging through her purse.
Francesca handed her a rumpled tissue. “It’s clean, I think.”
After a quick inspection Sunny dabbed each eye, taking care not to smear her mascara. “Did I tell you? I was escorted to the morgue in the backseat of a police car. Just a formality the detective said, but as next of kin, it was up to me to identify the body.” She folded the tissue, held it to her nose, and blew. “Rex was stretched out on that table, covered with nothing more than a sheet. His face … that hunky body … no wife should ever … sorry I didn’t mean to make you cry too. Was it the same for you?”
“Close enough.”
She leaned across the table, squeezed Francesca’s hand. “We won’t go there anymore.”
Thank god for small favors. Francesca glanced at her watch. “Would you look at the time, I really should—”
“If it’s not too much trouble, I could use that second coffee now.”
“Sure, no problem.” Not yet, anyway. Francesca pushed the chair back and forced herself into a standing position. Her legs felt tree-trunk heavy, defiant with each step taking her to the counter. She imagined a scarlet letter stamped on the back of her sex-with-Rex jacket, the big “A” revealing her as a bona fide unmitigated asshole adulteress to Sunny and every other Starbuck customer. Evidently, Sunny hadn’t noticed the imaginary letter because her signature smile greeted Francesca on her return with the coffee.
“Thanks, Sis,” Sunny said with a giggle. “I didn’t grow up with a real sister, just two annoying brothers. And you?”
Francesca responded with an answer that always served her well. “An only child, but never a lonely one.”
“Until this past month … sorry, I promised not to go there. Kids are great but they can’t take the place of a sexy mate. In that respect Rex was unsurpassed; he just couldn’t contain himself. The man had no scruples. For example, we’d been chilling this bottle of sparkling wine, a gift from some grateful parent, a romantic evening for Rex and me. Well, it seems the bottle went missing, how long ago I don’t know. All I know is I didn’t drink any of it and Rex never drank alone.” Sunny held the cup to her lips, eyes searching Francesca’s, at last forcing them to blink. “Those detectives came to your house; why didn’t you tell me?”
First the wine, now the detectives, Francesca gulped, allowing the coffee her mouth was cooling an excuse to burn a path down her throat, into the waiting acid of her stomach. She scrunched up her face, launched into a coughing spell, all the while trying to establish a credible response to the loaded question. A drink of water from Sunny resolved the problem and Francesca leaned back to regain her composure. “Sorry about that. I prefer my coffee sipping hot but—”
“You forgot to sip, been there, done that. Anyway, as I was about to say, according to Detective Winchester, Rex called you several times before his death. Naturally, I told him I had no idea why, unless to talk about Matt.”
“And Ria. He suggested an orthopedist for her broken arm.”
“So I heard. The man owed him a favor, didn’t everybody? But that’s neither here nor there. It’s your son who concerns me. It must’ve been tough for Matt, going from top scorer on a basement team to scrambling for a spot on Pegasi United.”
“Not any spot, Matt earned a starting position.”
“Francesca, Francesca, you don’t get what I’m trying to tell you. Sometimes Rex singled out certain boys, built them up only to let them down, played games with their heads, their hearts too, because they loved soccer so much. Again, those most vulnerable, these fourteen and fifteen-year-olds don’t have enough maturity to deal with that kind of pressure off the field.”
“Matt can deal with pressure.” Words tumbled from Francesca’s mouth. “He’s a fierce competitor. He never complained.”
“Not to you, a distraught mom with too much on her plate.”
This time Sunny had crossed the line. “When it comes to my kids, I make room on my plate, even if it means pushing something else off.” Francesca stood up, her ring of keys already dangling from one finger. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have cookies to bake, chocolate and peanut butter and … and tons of others.”
Home, Francesca needed her sanctuary, her safety net. Back in the parking lot she started the engine and shifted into drive. Somehow, Sybil headed in the direction of Richmond Heights, enabling Francesca to reflect on her coffee talk. The nerve of Sunny Meredith, insinuating Matt could be vulnerable, an ordinary kid capable of caving in to pressure from Rex. Not Matt, no way. His mother may’ve been a soccer whore, but Matt was tough to the core. He was his father’s son. Besides, what more could Rex have possibly wanted from Matt than he wasn’t already giving? One hundred ten percent was more than enough.
That afternoon Francesca made sure Matt’s nose would lead him to her and the kitchen. Lifting his head, he sniffed with appreciation. “Hm-m, do I smell brownies?”
“Just the way you like them, straight from that special bakery in Clayton.” She poured a chilled pilsner of milk for him, a goblet of wine for herself. “Sit down. I want to hear all about your day.”
“What’s to tell?” He remained standing, the nerve of him ignoring the bait she’d thrown his way. “One A in geometry, another in English comp.”
“Terrific. How’s soccer, are you getting along with the new coach.”
“As if you have to ask, Vince’s great. All of us get along with him.”
“So, how would you compare Vince to Coach Meredith?”
“Him again, could we please get through an entire day without Coach Meredith.” Matt grabbed a handful of brownies and the milk. He headed for the door, his next words reverberating through the kitchen. “The man is dead, Mom. He’s burnt toast, as in over … done … the end … fini.”
CHAPTER 18
The next morning after performing the usual mom duties, Francesca permitted herself the ultimate luxury of going back to bed. With feet propped up and round slices of cucumbers soothing her closed eyes, she attempted to recapture those peaceful hours which had eluded her for the past six weeks. Today, however, proved to be no exception; the doorbell rang within the first minutes of her makeshift spa. After popping the cucumbers into her mouth, she rolled out of bed and padded with bare feet to the window. Damn, parked in her driveway, the police car from hell. What must the neighbors be thinking? While the doorbell continued to ring at predictable intervals, she slipped into a set of stretchy knits, applied a dab of lipstick, and blew her nose, using the same tissue to swipe dust which had accumulated on her dresser. On the tenth ring of the doorbell she strolled down the stairs and on the eleventh she opened the door.
The demonic Reardan and Winchester were standing there, but without their stodgy female investigator. Francesca motioned the detectives inside and like adversaries respectful of the other’s turf they each drifted to their customary seats in the living room.
“We’ve been interviewing the other soccer parents,” Winchester began. “One of them provided us recent photos of your booster club.”
At
POP we partner with our sons, Francesca wanted to say, not really. What she really wanted was the detectives gone, out of her house, out of her life. Winchester handed her several eight by ten glossies.
“We showed these pics around the general vicinity of Mr. Meredith’s death,” he said.
She glanced at the pictures, noting the pathetic slut sitting in front of Vince Valente hadn’t exposed the extra poundage that had been dogging her for weeks. “Nice,” she said, returning the photos to Winchester.
“Your face struck a familiar chord with a counter girl who works the White Castle near Show Me,” he said. “She remembers your being there recently, maybe on the night of Mr. Meredith’s murder. She said you ordered a diet coke but no burgers.”
“And appeared downright miserable,” said Reardan. “Her words, not mine.”
“According to the aforementioned, you answered your cell phone. It had a distinctive ring, maybe Bach or Beethoven I’m thinking from the audio sampling she demonstrated. You took off right away, around nine-fifteen. She remembered the time because her shift ends at nine-thirty.”
“Nine-fifteen, that’s when Rex Meredith called you.” Reardan again. “But you told us you were home at nine-fifteen.”
Dear god, what had she gotten herself into, all this over a select soccer team. “Maybe I should call my attorney, although I don’t believe he handles … this kind of law.”
“No problem,” Reardan said. “He could meet us at the Fourth Precinct.”
“On Telegraph Road, in case you didn’t know.”
“Why would I know where the Fourth Precinct is, Detective Winchester, since I’ve never had any business to conduct there. After all, I’m not a criminal. Nor do I associate with criminals, at least, none I know as such.” Words spilled from her mouth faster than water from a broken damn. “Whoever killed Rex Meredith would be considered a criminal, unless, of course, his death was ruled an accident, and then I don’t really know what the aforementioned perpetrator or perpetrators would be considered. In any case, please don’t make me go there, I mean to the Fourth Precinct or any other precinct because I need to be here for my daughter when she gets home from school. Ria, her name is Ria.”
“A sweet child,” Reardan said, “reminds me of my daughters.”
Winchester leaned forward, eyes now warm and soft, inviting her confidence. “Suppose you tell us what happened that night, Mrs. Canelli.”
“Would you like something to drink, detectives? I could put on a fresh pot of coffee, or maybe some tea, green or apple cinnamon. Green is healthier but, in my opinion, the cinnamon tastes better. No, I didn’t think so. Neither of you look like tea drinkers, not that I’m in the habit of typecasting so please don’t hold this against me.” Francesca pressed her fingertips to her temples, buying another thirty seconds before the silence demanded she speak again. She had no choice but to tell a plausible version of that night.
“It’s true. I was in the back seat of Rex’s car. Actually, he referred to it as Sunny’s buggy. But we only sat there because earlier he’d spilled coffee all over the front seat and said it was too cold to carry on a conversation outside. He wanted to talk about Matt making the team.”
“He couldn’t tell you this over the phone?” Winchester asked.
“Well, yes, I suppose he could have but I didn’t know him well enough to insist, after all, he was the coach, the man in charge. In retrospect I suppose I should have. Anyway, we agreed to meet at White Castle but Rex called to say he lost his watch at Show Me and needed to find it so could I meet him there instead. By the time I arrived, the watch—according to him, a Rolex—was back on his wrist.” She drew a breath and waited.
“Go on.” Winchester said.
“Well, there didn’t seem much point in driving all the way back to White Castle, especially since I wasn’t sure if they’d agree with my sensitive stomach. And you?”
“Not a problem. You were saying?”
“Well, we talked, I left, end of story.”
“And Tuesday, the night he died.”
“We talked again, this time inside his SUV.”
“Why the back seat,” Reardan said, “more spilled coffee?”
“Rex thought we’d be more comfortable. As I recall, the weather was … you had to be there—I mean to understand—it was no big deal.”
“When did he take off his ring?” Reardan again.
“His ring?” She lifted her eyes to a cobweb dangling from the ceiling, another testament to the descent of her housekeeping routine. “Oh, yeah, he might’ve said something about an itchy rash on his finger, although I didn’t actually see the rash, nor did I feel the need to. After all I’m not a nurse. It’s all I can do, tending to my own injuries and those of my children. As a matter of fact, my daughter—you knew about her arm, right?”
“Uh-huh. So, Coach Meredith removed his wedding band while the two of you occupied the back seat.”
Who asked that, Winchester or Reardan? They were playing her harder than two kids kicking a soccer ball. “I’m not sure … maybe he did. My memory’s been kind of hazy since the accident, Ben’s I mean. I do know a ring was on his finger during the wake.”
“How observant of you, I’m impressed.” Winchester’s voice had melted into butter, waiting for her to slip. “Most people don’t notice the small details.”
“What I’m hearing from you is there was no hanky-panky,” Reardan said.
“Hanky-panky, Detective? Really, that term belongs in the last century, as far back as the Jazz Age.”
“Okay, then what about sex?”
“With my son’s soccer coach, please, how god-awful tacky. As I said before, I hardly knew the man.”
“You didn’t, but why all the secrecy?”
“I didn’t want Matt getting the wrong idea, or Ria. I still don’t. Kids have such wild imaginations. I’m sure you can relate to that, Detective Reardan, what with your five girls.” As for his sidekick, no rings on the fingers, no ties that bind. “And what about you, Detective Winchester, any children?”
He ignored the question. Better yet, he stood up which was fine with her. “We’re leaving now, Mrs. Canelli, which is not to say we won’t be back.”
Of course they’d be back; she showed them the door. Winchester and Reardan had given up too quickly, an attempt to throw her off guard while they made further inquiries into her character and possible motives she might’ve had. Get over it, Francesca. She pinched herself. Rex was dead and never coming back, even though he appeared to be occupying more time in her brain than in his own wife’s. Sunny and her sisterhood malarkey—don’t even go there.
Ten-thirty in the morning, is that all? Damn, too late for breakfast, too early for lunch. No Bud, no wine. Had cigarettes been among Francesca’s current addictions, she would’ve shoved one in her mouth and lit the damn thing. Held the smoke low in her throat until it crept upwards into her mouth and curled out her lips, and the leftovers through her nose. Of course, nothing was stopping her from going out to buy a pack, maybe Virginia Slims. They used to carry the most glamorous ads. But she’d eventually have to finish the whole pack, or waste them, and Francesca prided herself on not being wasteful although she had been throwing out quite a few leftovers since Hector Manuel made her a leftover widow. Or was it Ben, if only he’d been …
Wait a minute, what about his occasional vice, the stash he kept in his den. Francesca went to the cubbyhole, selected a cigar from his walnut humidor, a fortieth birthday gift from Vince. Ben had loved him so, almost as much as his own dad. Now Vince would do the same for her son, even if Matt never put his foot to another soccer ball. In the guest bathroom that cried out for new wallpaper she turned on the exhaust fan, and sat her fat ass on the toilet seat lid. She puffed five or six times, all the while knocking ashes into the hand bowl in need of a good cleaning. She leaned back against the toilet tank, and puffed some more. If Matt could see her now, this disgusting excuse for a soccer mom, whatever would he think? And wh
at about Ria? She deserved better too. So busy playing nursemaid the child didn’t have time to grumble about her broken wing and how it kept her from gymnastics, or was that the dream of a mom who’d never competed in the athletic arena. Time, the eyes were starting to water her cheeks. She doused the cigar, carried it to her kitchen, and fed tobacco shreds to Fiona the Ficus, a gardening tip courtesy of her mother. Was it her imagination or did Fiona’s leaves suddenly perk up and salute her.
The telephone rang. Francesca checked the caller ID, took a deep breath, and pressed talk. Instead of the standard hello, she projected an air of confidence she didn’t feel.
“Is this a crazy coincidence, or what? I was just thinking about you.”
Holding the receiver inches from her ear, she nodded and nodded some more. “I miss you too … you’re still in the cast, that’s good … I mean too bad … yes, it’s a shame you couldn’t make the funeral. No, I don’t think so … really, I mean it … of course, the kids are getting enough to eat … trust me, the doctor’s no quack … yes, widowhood sucks at any age … well, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call him … I know, I know, he died in the arms of crazed nymphomaniac … young enough to be his daughter, I saw her too. Okay, okay, maybe the dirty rotten cheat deserves to rot in hell.” God rest his soul and you, little snowbird, stay where you belong in Florida. I love you too … ciao, Mama … right, I keep forgetting … ciao, Perri.”
CHAPTER 19
Saturday afternoon marked Pegasi United’s return to Show Me, the team’s first home game since the death of Coach … Whatshisname. How quickly everyone wanted to forget Rex Meredith, especially with Vince Valente now at the helm. Of course, Francesca would never forget, but she had managed to blur certain details, giving her the advantage of a hazy memory. At the end of the first half, neither team had scored and deservedly so. Both had blown countless opportunities, which at this point Francesca didn’t care because the sluggish game couldn’t be attributed to Matt. He hadn’t lost the ball or made any bad passes. Nor were the other players ignoring him. Nor had Vince shown any favoritism. He’d gathered the boys in a circle, probably to explain a different strategy for the second half. While Ria circulated through the stands, Francesca leaned back in her bleacher chair and with closed eyes, lifted her face to absorb the sun’s comforting rays. She breathed in the sweetness of early spring, its buddy trees and tender new grass, but only for a precious moment.
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