“You were right about the new coach,” she heard Pilar Manuel say. “Vince Valente, he’s an okay guy.”
“You bet.” Francesca kept her face to the sun. “He respects the boys and they respect him.”
“More so than the other coach. Maybe that’s why somebody killed him.”
Francesca’s eyes flew open. She made them focus on the pitch. “Forget Rex Meredith. The second half is starting.”
A bland comment Pilar must’ve interpreted as an invitation to sit. She opened her bleacher chair and wiggled those ample hips into the cushioned seat. Like it or not, Francesca couldn’t help feeling she was about to acquire the last person she wanted as a friend. Still, the woman did have certain connections.
“Your brother, the policeman, what does he say?” Francesca asked.
“That murder by hanging often involves more than one person. But this is not always the case. Who knows, maybe an angry lover.”
“But she’d need help, right?”
“Not if he was big and strong.”
“Surely, you don’t think—”
“I hardly knew the man, Francesca. Nor did Hector; he works two jobs. As for Jeff, he’s got no time … look, he just passed the ball to Matt. Matt kicked it in; he kicked it in. Bravo!”
Four rows of parents stood and cheered. Those for the opposition sat and shook their heads, a reaction Francesca knew all too well from previous years. Matt’s first goal of the season, a family moment worth sharing. Francesca shifted to her right, perused the bleachers upward to the announcer’s booth. She located Ria leaning out the open window, with thumb and forefinger of her good hand forming an okay circle. Then the circle broke with the drop of her thumb, the forefinger extended in Francesca’s direction.
What now? Satan’s messenger again. He’d switched from the usual business attire to tailored jeans and a leather jacket. His shoes were Nike casuals, similar to a pair Ben had lovingly caressed but couldn’t bring himself to buy. Detective Winchester moved down one row in front of her and took the end seat. He turned around and asked, “Was that your boy, Mrs. Canelli?”
“Uh, yes,” she said, keeping her eyes on the pitch.
“And mine,” said Pilar Manuel. “Jeff got the assist.”
“Ah, Mrs. Manuel, sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Detective Winchester said. “You’ll have to excuse my limited knowledge of soccer.”
“Right, you played basketball.”
“For Vashon,” he said.
So, the police had been interviewing other parents, meaning Francesca wasn’t a stand-alone. She was just another person of interest, one who hadn’t actually lied, just refrained from telling certain truths. Still, of all the seats Winchester could’ve taken, did he have to park himself in front of her knees? She felt those piercing eyes scanning her face, probing for some sign of weakness.
Not today, Detective. Today, the Widow Canelli was in charge. She spoke without looking at him. “I thought detectives traveled in pairs, like yesterday’s nuns in their dark flowing habits.”
“My partner’s attending a dance recital, the youngest daughter, I think. We both took the day off, our first since Mr. Meredith’s death.”
“Good, you policemen work too hard.” Pilar said, relieving Francesca from having to continue the conversation. “So you came here to learn about soccer.”
“Among other things. Any help from you ladies would be greatly appreciated. For instance, I was wondering about two boys in the bleachers—don’t turn around—they’re sitting to your left and one row back.”
“I know who you mean,” Pilar said. “Zach Stilworth and Oliver Billings, they’re good boys so leave them alone.”
“They didn’t return to the team this year. Was there a problem with the coach?’
“According to my Jeff, no, and whatever he says is good enough for me.” She stood up and folded her chair with a bang. “Now if you’ll excuse me I gotta go. The game’s almost over.”
Francesca waited for Pilar to leave before she got up, minutes before the game would be ending.
“One more thing, Mrs. Canelli.”
She sat back down, leaned forward so the detective wouldn’t have to raise his voice. More to the point, so no one else would hear.
“We, my partner and I, would like to talk with you again, this time at the station.”
“What more is there to say? I’ve already told you everything I know.”
“It’s just a matter of confirming certain details, a few loopholes needing closure.”
“I have a household to run, Detective, bills to pay, kids to feed and cart everywhere. Matt’s only fifteen, too young to drive, did I tell you that before?”
“No, but I’ll make a note of it.” He pulled out the little book from his pocket and scribbled a few words, a patronizing gesture more annoying than comforting. “Shall we say ten o’clock Monday morning, the Fourth Precinct in South County? I believe we already discussed the location, but it’s listed on my business card in case you forget.”
Damn. Francesca took another card from him, stuffed it in her pocket, and walked away.
*****
What a difference contributing to the first win makes. For one thing, the drive home couldn’t have been sweeter. Matt seemed distracted at first; he didn’t even complain about Francesca’s classic rock station. She was relieved when he and Ria started singing “Hotel California” along with The Eagles, which allowed her to stew over Winchester nearly ruining the game for her, plus the impending meeting on Monday. What more could those detectives possibly squeeze from her overwrought brain. Tonight she would take a long soak in the tub—maybe add a ton of bubbles—review every detail of her time with Rex, get her story straight, resolve those loopholes that needed closure.
The dusk of evening had settled over Windsor Lane when Francesca pulled into the driveway. Before she could turn off the ignition, Matt stopped singing, right in the middle of “Sweet Home Alabama.” He leaned forward, squinted through Sybil’s windshield for a better view of the house.
“Mom, did you lock the front door when we left?”
“Of course I did. Security is one thing I never forget.”
“In that case, we’ve got a problem ‘cause the door is cracked open.”
“No way are we going in there,” Ria said, her voice trembling. “Whoever killed Mr. Meredith could be hiding somewhere in our house. Maybe this time he’ll shoot, or cut our hearts out with a butcher knife. Remember that Indiana Jones movie, the beating heart some weirdo held in his hand.”
“Forget about murder, I’m thinking a robbery in progress,” Matt said. “Call the police. Now, Mom, now.”
CHAPTER 20
“Now,” Matt had said. But first things first: the cell phone. Oops, it slipped out of Francesca’s hand. She located the damn thing between her feet, flipped it open. One shaking finger was preparing to punch in 911 when he put his hand over hers.
“Don’t bother,” he said with a sheepish grin. “It’s only Grandma.”
Only Grandma, only Grandma, damn, damn, damn. Through the misting windshield Francesca saw an older but trimmer version of herself waving from the doorway. This version was wearing bright pink knitwear, the Capri pants distinguished by a plaster walking cast encasing her left foot and ankle. She blew a kiss from fingertips to her mouth. Great, just what Francesca needed: another mouth in the house. Only this one she couldn’t order to shut up. Dear god, would her troubles never end. Forget the slice of happiness or even a sliver of peace. Without Ben, no amount of life’s pizza could satisfy her yearning. But how about some kick-ass balls, whatever it would take to deal with her demons. Those damn detectives and Sunny’s sisters in widowhood nonsense and now the incomparable Perri Rivola.
“Yippee, real food for supper tonight,” Ria said. She unfastened her seatbelt, opened Sybil’s back door. “I hope Grandma never ever leaves us, unless she dies.”
“Shut up, Pickle Face, you’re making Mom miserable again.”<
br />
“Enough, both of you. Now go kiss your Grandma.”
Matt and Ria hopped out and hurried toward Perri Rivola’s waiting arms, leaving Francesca to settle Sybil in the garage. Why now, what had she said over the phone to deserve this premature visit from her mother. The woman wasn’t supposed to make her St. Louis pilgrimage until the Holy Week of Easter. Yes, the two of them were close, too close. Mama always knew what was best for Francesca and if Francesca didn’t agree, Mama wouldn’t rest until she convinced her otherwise.
Francesca’s cell phone rang, a call identified as originating from inside the house, her home phone which she didn’t bother to answer. At least Mama hadn’t yelled her name from the front door, as if she were still a kid living in the Holly Hills neighborhood. Their family home, a two-story brick, had exuded charm with its clay tiled roof and pillared entryway. Unfortunately, Mama experienced a life-altering epiphany and sold the house to finance a condo in Clearwater, her new playground for six months of every year. The remaining money she earmarked for a second condo near Francesca, one she had yet to purchase after a haphazard two-year search, which meant when in St. Louis, she required temporary shelter in the Canelli household. Matt and Ria loved having her around, especially in the kitchen. So had Ben, and for the same reason. The woman could cook onion rings around a gourmet chef.
No point in putting off the inevitable any longer. Francesca climbed down from Sybil and kicked aside some empty cartons on the garage floor. She punched the close button harder than necessary, quickly exited before the door rolled down, and then strolled up the walk. Already she could detect an unmistakable scent wafting from the doorway. Goodbye sweet fragrances of spring, hello to La Cucina Perri. Not a bad trade-off, Francesca had to admit. Before she could say roasted peppers and hand-rolled gnocchi, she was bombarded with a shower of hugs and kisses.
“What took so long in the garage?” her mother said as they walked arm in arm toward the kitchen. “I don’t suppose you thought to clean the filthy windshield on your truck.”
“SUV, her name is Sybil.”
“It’s a mode of transportation, Francesca, not a pet.”
“Sybil is part of the family,” said Ria to the rescue. She and Matt were already drinking mugs of hot chocolate.”
“One that won’t last forever, little one,” Mama said with a cautionary finger. “We mustn’t attach our feelings to objects designed for eventual destruction, which is why farmers avoid naming the livestock they intend to butcher.”
“Not that again. Ria got so upset—”
“Please, I may be honest but I’m never cruel.”
“Excuse me?”
“Let’s not argue. I was referring to the balance of nature and science.”
“And commerce,” Matt said. “It’s called planned obsolesce.”
“Francesca, the boy takes after me. He’s an absolute genius.” She grabbed Matt’s face between her hands, planted a kiss on his forehead. He almost grinned, almost.
Fresh coffee filled the sparkling carafe; Francesca had settled for the instant variety ever since Ben because the gourmet blends reminded her of a pleasure they no longer shared. She poured two cups, carried them to the family room where Mama had already parked herself in the only recliner, Francesca’s. Mama motioned her to sit next to her on the adjacent sofa.
The child within Francesca rebelled and chose the far end of the sofa. Warming the cup between her hands, she sipped the best coffee she’d tasted in months. She closed her eyes, and would’ve closed her ears too, but Mama had already taken control of the moment.
“I cleaned the coffeemaker, Francesca.” Tsk, tsk, she shook her head in disgust. “You’re lucky the health department doesn’t make house calls or the Canelli kitchen would’ve received an inferior rating. Just imagine this sign adorning your front window, the big fat D warning people to eat at their own risk. And what have you been feeding my poor grandchildren. The cupboard was as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s. Since I couldn’t get to the grocery store,” she tapped the plaster cast, “I borrowed a few staples from your neighbors. Not much, some eggs and flour from one, garlic and anchovies from another, a wedge of cheese from across the street. The canned peppers I brought myself, from a specialty shop in Clearwater. Had I known money was an issue with you, I’d have notified the St. Vincent de Paul Society to lend a helping hand. There’s no shame in poverty, Francesca, especially when it’s temporary. Not that I’m suggesting you return to work, at least not yet.”
Dear God, give me strength. “Not to worry, Mama.”
“It’s Perri, dear. I thought we agreed.”
“Sorry, Perri, I keep forgetting. Anyway, we’re fine, really.”
“Like hell, I know you better than you know yourself. Seventy-two hours of excruciating labor creates a bond between mother and child that can never be broken, no matter how many the miles separating them. The other day over the phone, I suspected your problems went beyond the loss of Ben, God rest his soul and damn the quest for perfection that … sorry. I feel like crying too.”
“I’m not crying.”
“Inside you are, don’t lie to me. Fortunately, your neighbors were more than happy to fill in a multitude of gaps. If only I could’ve been here for the funeral and—”
“Who could’ve predicted you’d break your foot.”
“Certainly not that idiotic skycap. Not only did he grab the suitcases right out of my hands, the damn fool knocked me down. He stepped on my foot; my fragile bones snapped like twigs during an ice storm.”
“The poor man only wanted to help.”
She winced. “At those prices I don’t think so. Did I tell you? The airport has agreed to cover all my medical expenses. I should’ve sued; it’s still not too late.”
“You should’ve stayed in Florida.”
“Not when my family needs me.” She reached down and massaged her cast. “I’ve already arranged to get this damn thing removed in St. Louis. God only knows when I’ll get back to Clearwater. Maybe next fall, maybe never.”
Maybe forever. “More coffee?”
She gestured a no. “Enough with the coffee talk. What I could really use is a nice glass of Chianti.”
“Uh, I think we’re all out.”
“Really?” Perri raised her brow. “Why am I not surprised.”
“Don’t give me that look. I just haven’t had a chance to restock.”
“First thing Monday morning we’ll go to my favorite groceria on The Hill.”
The Hill, St. Louis’s Italian section, Francesca hadn’t shopped there in months. “Can’t, I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Well it’s about time. While you’re at the beauty shop, be sure to get those eyebrows waxed.”
“They’ll have to wait. Make a list; I’ll get your supplies on my way home.”
Another lift of Perri’s brow. “Francesca?”
“Okay, if you must know, my ten o’clock is at the police station.” She made a show of palms to offset her mother’s gaping mouth. “It’s just a formality, an ongoing investigation. Matt’s soccer coach was found dead several weeks ago.”
“Yes, I already know, thanks to your concerned neighbors, the horrendous murder, those police hounding you, as if you were a common criminal, my daughter of all people.”
“I’m not the only soccer parent they questioned.”
“As if you don’t have enough on your mind already, what with Ben gone and no one to look after the home and kids. Speaking of … I could use some help pulling dinner together.”
What better reason for Francesca to stand up. “Stay where you are, Perri. I’ll take care of dinner.”
“Not without me telling you what to do. Now get me out of this damn chair.”
Francesca obeyed with a gentle yank to Perri’s outstretched hands. She followed her limping mother into the kitchen and as they passed the table, Perri tapped Ria on the shoulder.
“Put the homework away, little one. Let’s see if you still r
emember what I taught you about proper cooking. Even with my bum foot and your bum arm, I say we can still run circles around your mother.”
“You bet, Grandma. Someday I’m going to be a chef, have my own TV show.”
“And support us all in the manner we rightly deserve.”
Three people in the kitchen were two too many. If only Francesca could’ve escaped but to where? Her home was no longer her sanctuary. Perri had taken over her pathetic life.
“Ria sweetheart, first set the table and then help me assemble all this wonderful food I’ve already prepped. Francesca, you clean out all those questionable leftovers contaminating the fridge. Since when do we keep food until—”
“If it’s fuzzy, it belongs to Matt, Grandma. He’s trying to make penicillin.”
“No project requires that much green mold. Science be damned, I want it out by morning. Hand me the vinegar and oil, please. Not that one, the extra virgin. Watch the foot, Francesca. The damn thing hurts like hell, especially if somebody happens to stomp on it. Not that I’m implying you’re a heavy weight but … wait a minute, don’t tell me you’re taking cortisone.”
“What if she is?”
“I’m not taking cortisone, Ria.”
“Well, if she were, it’s just possible her face could swell to humongous proportions.” Perri kept expanding the circle she’d formed with her hands. “As round as the moon, Ria. Not that I’m suggesting it’s your mother’s problem. I may not be a physician—”
“Or a registered nurse,” Francesca said. “Nor does Grandma have special powers.”
“Then you’re really not a witch?”
Lethal Play Page 12