Lethal Play

by Loretta Giacoletto

  “Good grief, Francesca, what nonsense have you been feeding this child?”

  “So, who’s hungry?”

  Evidently Matt and Ria. They ate with such relish Francesca squirmed with embarrassment when she thought about the mediocre scraps she’d been feeding them for almost six weeks. To Perri’s credit she refrained from any further comment on her daughter’s culinary skills. Nor did she hold her glass tumbler to the light although Francesca noticed a telltale smudge on the bowl. Nor did Perri apologize for not preparing dessert since no suitable ingredients could be found in the pantry or the fridge. The kids didn’t seem to mind, considering the amount of Perri’s lighter-than-air gnocchi they managed to consume. What magic, from a mix of potatoes, egg, and flour rolled over the tines of a fork and boiled in water. Matt and Ria even cleared off the table and filled the dishwasher without fighting while she and Perri resumed their conversation in the family room, most of which centered on Perri’s active social life in Florida and those legions of unworthy widowers constantly pursuing her. When she finally took a break from her one-sided chatter, Francesca suggested she invite Vince Valente over since the two of them had been an on-again-off-again item for years.

  “Vince? I don’t think so.” Perri screwed up her face. “He might be getting too old for me.”

  “What’s a mere six or seven years between the best of friends.”

  “Eight, but who’s counting.”

  “I thought you enjoyed his company, all those dinners, those movies and sporting events.”

  “Yeah, whenever my turn rolled around. But as you already know, this is one filly who absolutely refuses to be part of an aging stud’s stable.”

  “You should’ve married Vince when he asked.”

  “Bad vibes, bad timing. You may recall I’d just found out how your father really died.”

  “You can’t blame Vince for another man’s sins. He’s top of the line, a man of honor.”

  “Perhaps, but at this point of my life, I’m not sure I care anymore. As for tonight, there’s a ton of work ahead of me before I can even think about going to bed. My grandchildren expect a decent breakfast tomorrow, which means I’ve got to tackle your deplorable kitchen right now.”

  “With that cast, I don’t think so. I made the mess; I’ll clean it.”

  “You’ll move all the small appliances, use a toothpick in the stubborn corners, and polish the stainless steel?”

  All good deeds come with a price, especially those with ulterior motives. Thirty minutes later Francesca found herself scrubbing the kitchen walls and countertops while listening to Perri and Vince entertain each other in the family room. They sat side by side on the sofa, Perri with her bum leg elevated on a king-size pillow buffering the coffee table, Vince with one ankle cranked to his other knee. Francesca couldn’t help but admire the handsome couple—Perri with her tanned and supple complexion complimenting Vince’s rugged creases. Both trim and toned, they could’ve made a commercial for health-conscience retirees, or one for the romantic benefits of male enhancement. But Perri was right about no woman wanting to share her main squeeze with another woman. As for men in general … Sexy Rexy, Sexy Rexy … damn, what made him pop into her brain? Their first back seat encounter skirted through her brain, threw her balance off. Ugh, nasty, nasty. She shook her head, only to bring up the second encounter, worse than nasty, downright ugly. Sometimes her side still smarted from where he kneed her. She licked her lips, the desert thing again. Was Rex sending her an eerie message, warning her they’d meet again, in the Valley of Death, or worse. Everybody has faults, some less forgivable than others. She went to the sink, splashed cold water on her face, and eavesdropped on the nearby conversation.

  “Florida agrees with you,” Vince said to Perri, “but I didn’t expect you back this soon. You should’ve stayed ‘til the foot healed.”

  Perri dropped her voice but not enough to escape Francesca’s ears. “You should’ve told me, Vince.”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “What’s to tell? She’ll toughen up, dig her own way out. Losing a mate can be worse than wading through the watery fires of hell.”

  “Not when he’s a no-good lying cheat.”

  “You didn’t know that when Lou died.”

  “You should’ve told me that too. Oh, silly me, I almost forgot. Friends don’t snitch on friends.”

  Francesca moved to a counter closer to the family room and scrubbed more caked-on gook. Mama … Perri had been right about the dirt; it’s a miracle no one had contacted ptomaine poisoning.

  “Okay, Perri, you got me there. I should’ve said: losing a mate through illness or an accident.”

  Bravo, Vince. He would make Perri a wonderful second mate. Too bad he preferred the four seasons of St. Louis to the year-round sunshine of Florida. Besides, Matt needed him in St. Louis, as did Francesca. Perri would have to find someone else, a Floridian with money.

  “What about murder, that soccer coach.” Perri’s voice dropped again; Francesca could barely hear. “The police think my daughter is involved.”

  “What they think ain’t worth a good squat. According to my sources this Rex Meredith made enemies faster than he made friends.”

  “But he coached a winning team.”

  “So will I. These kids, my kids now including Matt, are going to the nationals.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Monday morning came too fast for Francesca and brought temperatures too cold for early spring. In the unheated garage Sybil sputtered a few times but when her engine finally turned over, she started humming sweeter than any songbird gracing the Canelli landscape. The dashboard clock registered nine-fifteen as Francesca backed out the driveway. Although the dreaded ten o’clock appointment was no more than a thirty-minute drive, she couldn’t wait to escape her own home, the sanctity Perri had now taken such pleasure in disrupting.

  During the past day and a half she and Perri had spent every waking hour together, including Sunday Mass at St. Luke’s followed by coffee and donuts (Perri actually slapped Francesca’s hand when she reached for a cream-filled), five sit-down meals (Perri cooked; Francesca cleaned), four coffee talks (Perri talked; Francesca listened), a three-minute drive through Jiffy Car Wash (Perri talked; Francesca sanitized Sybil’s dashboard). Francesca had suffered those hours longer than she’d labored to bring Matt into the world. But as with the pain of Matt’s entry into the Canelli family, the pain of Perri’s re-entry into the Canelli household also brought an upside: Matt seemed more relaxed and Ria hadn’t stop smiling. No matter what this obnoxious, overbearing, outrageous excuse for a grandma said or did, they saw the humor in her take-no-prisoners attitude. Not only did they love her cooking and her jokes, they loved her company. And she adored them.

  “Whenever I hear the word Grandma, I can’t help thinking old lady,” Perri had announced over tiramisu the previous evening.

  Matt winked, just as Ben used to do when Perri pushed herself into the limelight, and Ria played along, the perfect little foil. “Not all grandmas are old. I know one who’s only forty,”

  “Yes, dear, but is she prettier than me?”

  “Not by a long shot,” Matt said.

  “He’s right, Grandma.”

  “Then how about showing me some respect.”

  Who could refuse the simple request of a loving grandma? Without hesitation or a string of lame jokes, Matt and Ria had agreed to call her Perri.

  *****

  At nine forty-five Francesca pulled into the parking lot of the South County Precinct Station. She turned off the ignition and unhooked her seatbelt, but remained behind the wheel. Ten minutes she’d promised herself, ten minutes to review every detail of her relationship with Rex Meredith. She’d already memorized the answers to questions already asked, in case the detectives asked them again, and was about to review those they might still ask, when in her peripheral vision she caught sight of Detective Winchester. How long he’d been standing there, Francesca didn’t know. She got ou
t, and mustering a pleasant smile asked if she needed an escort inside.

  “Not into the waiting area,” Winchester said. “I just happened by and recognized your SUV. I saw your lips moving and thought you were talking to someone but obviously I was mistaken.”

  Just happened by, Francesca didn’t think so. Yes, her lips had been moving, how else could she practice her lines? She crossed the parking lot with Winchester at her side but once inside the precinct station she backed off and let him lead the way. He opened a door marked Interview Room, which seemed less intimidating than Interrogation or Inquisition or Torture Chamber. There at a small table sat Detective Reardan, drinking coffee from a stained mug which made a perfect prop for the profile she’d created for him. Holding up the mug, he raised his brow, a lazy man’s way of asking if she’d like something to drink.

  “No thanks, I brought my own.” She produced a bottle of water from her handbag, a show of confidence she’d rehearsed in her mind.

  “In that case, Mrs. Canelli, make yourself comfortable,” Reardan said, directing her to the chair across from him.

  Serving as coaster for his mug was a nine-by-twelve manila envelope placed diagonally on a corner of the table. The table butted against one wall and above the wall a picture window presented a pitch black view of nothingness. The window threw her. She’d expected a mirror, even thought about making a show of checking out her teeth for any remnants of the undigested breakfast her stomach kept shooting into her throat. GERD—gastro esophageal reflux disease according to her research on the family computer she rarely used since Ben.

  “Is this one of those two-way deals for hardened criminals?” she asked. “Of which I’m certainly not one, nor am I guilty of anything.” Winchester said nothing to reassure her otherwise. Nor did she expect the sheet of paper that materialized in his hand.

  “It’s just a formality,” he explained, giving the document to her. “But since this is an official meeting, I do have to read you your rights, after which you will sign off on each segment to verify you understand.”

  Francesca listened; she nodded; and using her best penmanship, she signed her name on each page. Only after the final signing did she think to object. “Perhaps I should call a lawyer.”

  “Of course, that’s your prerogative,” Winchester said. “Detective Reardan and I have all day. And then some, whatever it takes.”

  All day here, with Perri back there wringing her hands. And what about Matt and Ria when they got home? “Uh, never mind about the lawyer. Ask away, I don’t have a thing to hide.”

  Winchester checked his watch, said something about phone calls to return, and left her with Reardan. No problem, she could handle the Pillsbury doughboy.

  “Would you prefer I call you by your first name?” Reardan asked with a smile.

  She matched her smile to his. “Only if I can call you by yours, Detective.”

  Reardan’s smile faded with his next words, “Another time, another place, Mrs. Canelli.” He opened his notebook, flipped through it before settling on one particular page. He spoke without looking up. “There are some details we should go over, starting with those secret meetings between you and Mr. Meredith.”

  “Discussions, Detective. You make them sound like some kind of conspiracy.”

  “Well, from my perspective it does seem rather odd. Not wanting your kids to know, especially Matt. You’d think he would’ve welcomed the intervention, whatever it took for him to play with Pegasi.”

  “No offense, but you’re thinking like a girls-only daddy. How many did you say, five? Don’t confuse sons and daughters, there’s a huge difference in their expectations.”

  “Oh really, perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  She looked into the window. Was Winchester watching from the other side? Perhaps he’d learn something about everyday parenting skills, even though she’d been negligent about hers. “Girls crave attention; boys crave independence. Matt would’ve been horrified to learn I’d interfered, even if the end result benefited him. Besides, good intentions sometimes have a way of getting blown out of proportion.”

  “Good intentions can also pave the road to Hell, Mrs. Canelli.” Reardan moved his sloppy mug, leaving a fresh stain on the envelope, one he smeared away with his thumb. Four fingers, as plump as Olive Garden breadsticks but oh so stubby, began a rat-a-tat drumming on the envelope. “So, let’s get down to the specific details. What did you and Mr. Meredith actually discuss?”

  “Well, let me think a minute.” Francesca screwed her face into the trying-to-recall mode she’d practiced in front of her mirror. “He did suggest I become an active member of POP.”

  Reardan leaned his chins on the fist of his hand not drumming. “A no-brainer, Mrs. Canelli, one that in no way required a clandestine one-on-one between you and the deceased. It must’ve been tough.” Tippity, tippity, tippity, tap, Reardan sending another message. “Your son, a star player from a defunct team makes the coveted Pegasi United but winds up a second string riding the bench. How’d that make you feel?”

  “Compared to what: the grief of losing my husband—the love of my life and best friend, the father of our children who he adored without reservation. I felt nothing, Detective, absolutely nothing.”

  “Not for yourself but what about Matt? From what little I’ve seen, he doesn’t come off like a mama’s boy, but even the toughest of athletes have been known to panic over any threat to their long-term goals. I kid you not; some of these hotshots remind me of thoroughbred racehorses, temperamental and prone to irrational behavior. Murders get committed every day for a lot less.”

  “Not by my son, Detective.” He’d pushed one button too many, and most certainly one Francesca couldn’t abide. She jumped up, shook her bottled water at him. “Don’t even think about going there.”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Canelli. I call the shots here and at this point I’m thinking we should invite your son for a separate interview. Not here but the Juvenile Division in Clayton.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Matt barely has time to brush his teeth, let alone kill so much as a cockroach, not that we have any but you know what I mean. When I left that night, he was exhausted and getting ready for bed.”

  “So you want to believe. And want us to believe.” Tippity, tippity, tippity, tap.

  “Detective, do you mind?” She pointed to his stubby breadsticks.

  The breadsticks stopped in mid-air. “Sorry, it was not my intention to annoy you.” Reardan lifted the envelope flap, pulled out three eight by ten photographs, and laid them out on the table in front of her. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is the purpose of our meeting today.”

  The detective had made his point, forcing Francesca to look at the photos. She sucked in her breath, nearly aspirated before releasing it to a stifled gag. Rex Meredith in the aftermath of death didn’t do justice to the cocksure persona that had defined his life. His face marred with abrasions resembled that of a boxer, after losing to the champ. A deep cut slashed through one eyebrow. Swollen lids strained without success to cover eyes bulging from their sockets. A line of bruises circled his neck. Francesca’s eyes welled with tears. One trickled down her cheek, wiped away with the back of her hand. Rex had done the same with his thumb before … damn, why did it have to end like this. How heart wrenching for Sunny, having to identify the battered remains of her husband, just as Francesca had done with Ben.

  She heard the door open and close behind her. She felt Winchester breathing down her back but saw no reason to turn around. He told Reardan the Sergeant needed him right away. After Reardan left, Winchester took his warmed seat.

  “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Canelli?”

  “Yes, a quick exit out of here.”

  “Good, at least we’re on the same page. Now let’s take it from the top again, starting with your first meeting with Mr. Meredith.”

  “Of course I want to cooperate but how many times do we have to rehash this.”

  “I have all day, Mrs. Cane
lli. Do you?”

  She unscrewed the cap from her water and drank in gulps but stopped before emptying the bottle. Winchester offered her a soda or some coffee but she refused. A glass of wine, perhaps—fat chance of that happening. Besides, it was still morning and no amount of alcohol would cover her naked humiliation, nor would the spiritual cloak of her beloved Ben. At this moment she needed a living, breathing, pushy non-legal advocate, someone she could sic onto this.

  “Would it be okay if I called my mother?”

  “Not unless she’s your lawyer.”

  Winchester slid the photographs back into the envelope. Perhaps he did have a heart after all. She forgot about whose eyes might be lurking behind the window, and focused hers on him.

  “About those meetings with Rex, my children must never find out, from you or anyone else. You’ve got to promise me.”

  He opened his basketball-player hands. “All I can say is: we’ll do our best.”

  She took another deep breath and slowly exhaled while aligning the engagement and wedding rings on her finger. At some point, the rings have to come off, a decision too premature for her to make. Tell the truth, or some version of it, Ben would’ve advised her, whatever it takes to get your sweet ass out of here.

  “Mrs. Canelli, are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course, just gathering my thoughts. When I think back, the whole thing seems so ridiculous—Rex badgering me about Matt not being good enough for Pegasi, Rex wanting to meet one-on-one with me, as if I could make Matt a better player.”

  “You played the game?”

  “Soccer? Only from the sidelines, and then rather poorly—you know, the politics, the parental sparring, the petty jealousies. Anyway about Rex, during the Pegasi tryouts he suggests we talk by telephone. I actually forget because … well, just because. Then Ria breaks her arm minutes before our second scheduled meeting. Rex lets it pass. He even suggests an orthopedic surgeon, one who gets her in right away. And does an excellent job, I might add.”

  “What’s his name?”