Vince waved her off. “It’s not a loan, Francesca, never was. Consider Fred Montgomery an investment in Matt’s future.”
He stepped into his house and closed the door, leaving her no choice but to climb into Sybil and head for Windsor Lane. Of course, Matt had been right about needing room to breathe. Her overabundance of love had almost crushed his spirit. Matt, on the other hand, had proved he was growing up, learning the art of gentle resistance. The time had come for her to grow up too. And quit blaming Perri for everything that went wrong.
When Francesca arrived at home, the computer in her brain was transmitting signals of approaching hibernation. Downstairs, the house had entered its sleep mode, except for a flashing light she followed into the family room. Jay Leno’s face filled the TV screen and to Francesca’s immediate joy, no one was sitting in her recliner. Halleluiah, Perri must’ve called it a night.
“Is Matt in jail?” a voice blurted out.
Ria. Francesca’s mind was so cluttered, she hadn’t notice her daughter dressed in pink satin pajamas and stretched out on the sofa. She bent over and kissed the top of Ria’s head. Her hair smelled of lavender, Perri’s shampoo of choice. “No, Sweetie, Matt most definitely is not in jail. He just decided to spend another night with Uncle Vince.”
“Good, because we really need to talk, just the two of us.” Ria sat up, pointed to Francesca and to herself. “You and me and nobody else.”
“Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Francesca stifled a yawn. “I’m really bushed.”
“No, Mom, it can’t wait.” She dangled her slippered feet over the sofa’s edge. In another year those slender feet would touch the floor. “I’ve already sent Perri to bed.”
Hm-m, Perri following orders from her student, Francesca was impressed. It had never worked for her. “Okay, I’ll fix hot chocolate for you, a little wine for me.”
“Nothing for me, nothing for you.” Ria patted the cushion next to her. “Sit.”
Perri had taught her well, too well. Francesca obeyed. She reached for the clicker, only to realize her child had commandeered the precious gadget. It was Ria who sent Jay Leno into the air waves, and the two of them into a dark place, one with no electronic distractions. “Okay, so talk,” Francesca said, her voice all but echoing.
“Thanks, ‘cause you’re not about to like what I have to say.”
“Go ahead … Sweetie.” Francesca almost called her Perri. “Lay it on me. I’m a big girl.”
“No, you’re not, at least not since Daddy left us, which isn’t your fault, or mine or Matt’s. But I’m tired of playing the grown up, even worse, second string. It’s all about you and Matt. And now that he’s staying with Vince, you’ll be sick with worry until he comes back. And I’ll have to be extra nice so as not to upset you even more. And when he does come home, you’ll find something else to worry about but it won’t be me ‘cause I never do anything wrong. So when do I get my turn, I mean about coming first with you?”
“I’m so sorry, Sweetie.” Francesca put her arms around Ria, hugged her tight, in a way Matt never would’ve allowed. Perri, this was her doing, no wonder she didn’t stick around for the bloodletting.
Ria pulled away and moved to the end of the sofa. “You say you’re sorry but you don’t mean it, not really. If I had someplace to go, I’d leave too. I guess to Florida, but that won’t work ‘cause Perri’s already here in Missouri. Maybe I can talk her into going back, and taking me with her. Then you’ll be even more miserable, which should make you very happy.”
The words spewing from Ria’s mouth stung harder than any slap to the face. What’s more, she’d spoken the truth. Francesca buried her face in her hands. It took another minute before she found her Mom’s voice. “I’ll make this up to you, Sweetie. Starting tomorrow I promise … I’ll … Ria?”
Alone, Ria had left her too, but without so much as the usual goodnight kiss. Francesca could blame no one but herself. Forget the pity party, the wallowing in shame. She blew a fingertip kiss to Ben, wherever he was, and called it a night.
*****
And in Holly Hills, Vince Valente was preparing to call it a night too. He perused the well-stocked bar in his dining room, poured a snifter of his best brandy, and carried it upstairs to the master suite. After stripping down to his T-shirt and boxer shorts, he slipped into a terrycloth robe and lit the gas fireplace with the flick of a switch. He settled into his leather club chair, resting his tender athlete’s legs on the matching ottoman. The warmth of the brandy and the glow of the burning logs invited his eyes to close and should’ve lulled him into a state of well-being but his brain wasn’t ready to surrender to the night. Had his knees been more forgiving, he would’ve knelt beside his bed for the comforting routine he’d started after his wife died, and only recently relocated to any place he could meditate without the distraction of decades-old pain.
Tonight he prayed for a different kind of strength, to be the man of honor he’d professed to be. “Dear God, it ain’t been so easy, this looking after the family of Al Canelli. First, keeping secrets from Ben’s mother-in-law, all the while wanting her for myself, even before my own wife passed into a better world. Then, keeping Ben on the straight and narrow when he felt an occasional need to stray, for which I’m passing no judgment since that’s out of my bailiwick. But now I’ve taken on his desperate widow and humiliated son—first her, then him, now both of them. They’re not out of the woods yet—You and I both know that—but I will do whatever it takes to save Matt and Francesca Canelli from their two worst enemies: themselves.
*****
Downstairs in the Valente den Matt was trying to make sense of homework strewn across the massive desk Vince rarely used. At least, that’s what Vince had said when he turned the room over to Matt and told him to make himself comfortable. Somewhere under Matt’s paper mess, a desk set of leather imported from Italy made a statement that fit Vince’s admirable profile, a man of distinction. Black and white action shots of Vince in the prime of his soccer career lined the walls paneled with wood, not the cheap imitation kind but the kind that smelled of money. He’d given Matt the choice of two upstairs bedrooms—one pale pink, the other just peachy—or this small den with no bed but a stretch-out couch softer than butter. For Matt, it was a no-brainer. Leather and oak fit him to a fucking masculine T.
Vince rocked as a coach; all the guys felt that way. He spent time with each player, demonstrated techniques they’d never tried before. This was Pegasi’s year to make the nationals and Matt’s to finally get his chance. Vince had come to his rescue more than once and now this never-ending soap opera … ugh, his mom making deals with that sleaze ball Rex, how could she have doubted her own son’s ability. No wonder none of Rex’s players ever passed him the ball. He must’ve been the laughing stock of the whole team. And what about Ted Logan, the poor shit. What the shit was he thinking? Not just this morning but the night Rex wound up dancing from the fucking crossbar.
Matt hated going there, back to that night, but he couldn’t give it a rest. After the game Logan had dropped by the house, talked about his older brother waiting in the SUV outside, and invited Matt along for a cruise. Maybe get something to eat, Logan had suggested. Matt didn’t hesitate but when they got outside, he found out there was no brother, just Logan showing off a fake driver’s license with a photo that could’ve passed for his very own. Visions of irresistible pizza were dancing in Matt’s head, anything to make up for the crap he’d been eating at home. He climbed into the Durango and drove off with Logan behind the wheel. Stupid, yes, but not a crime, not on Matt’s part, at least he didn’t think so then. And everything would’ve been okay, if only Logan hadn’t insisted on getting another batch of sliders from White Castle. Damn, damn, damn, if only …
Tomorrow, he’d get his story straight tomorrow, whichever one he decided to use. He stretched his mouth into a satisfying yawn, the same for his arms overhead. He gathered up his homework, organized every page before slipping the entire
stack into his backpack. The desk looked decent enough, better than his at home, which wasn’t saying much. As for the rest of the Canelli house—big improvement since Perri showed up, even though his mom couldn’t stand the competition.
His mental workout at the precinct had been shittier than any physical workout on the pitch, shittier than any soccer game he’d ever played. Games that played with his head were the shittiest of all games, the absolute pits. As for gamey pits, he sent his nose for a whiff under one arm. Shit, no need to check out the other. He reeked worse than skunk road kill, but what the hell, the shower he needed could wait until morning. No point in letting the noisy plumbing wake Vince. The old guy was probably sawing logs louder than a Minnesota lumberjack, another reason Matt had opted to sleep downstairs. Except sleep would be a problem tonight, that he already knew, even though his mom had played her poor-me ringer, convincing the lawyer to drop everything for their immediate defense. Poor slob had spent his dinner hour drooling over her, and she’d been too wrapped up in herself to realize it. Not yet but give her time, she’d already proven herself in that arena. Jeez, with Rex of all people. She should’ve known better but she wasn’t the only one who fell for his promises.
As for falling, hell, after going two intensive rounds with the Strongarm Queen, no way could he fall asleep just because his head hit the pillow. Names, the woman had wanted the White Castle names. What she planned to do with them was anybody’s guess. At least she hadn’t asked about the night Rex died. Let her play with somebody else’s head for a while. Matt leaned over, picked up the telephone, and with one finger tapped seven familiar keys. It only took a single ring to get the voice he expected to hear.
“Good, you’re still up,” he said. “I figured you’d be waiting for my call.”
*****
Meanwhile back at the precinct, Winchester and Reardan had ended their day, this one later than most and sadly lacking in any earth-shattering conclusions. Winchester’s final word to Reardan as they walked out of the building together couldn’t have been more succinct than his one-word statement, “Tomorrow.”
Reardan responded with a grunt Winchester could only interpret as, “Until then don’t bother me.”
Some nerve, Winchester thought. It was Reardan who usually called him at three in the morning, Reardan who couldn’t wait another six hours to unload his latest theory regarding their current unsolved case. This evening Reardan moved like a man on a mission, probably to answer nature’s call in the privacy of his remodeled bathroom or fulfill one of those fatherly duties that kicked in at the end of each day. He was already exiting the parking area when Winchester pulled out the remote and unlocked his car.
“I see you’re still driving that itty-bitty sports model,” a voice in the night said as Winchester was easing his taut body into the driver’s seat.
He closed the door and with the press of a button, rolled down the window, and spoke with the stingiest of words. “Nice interview.”
Quinella Armstrong leaned into the open window, her luscious boobs tempting him with their musky fragrance.
“Thanks,” she said, “too bad about the lawyer though. Soccer boy knows a heap more than he revealed.”
“Yeah, I just need to check out some details before we invite him back.”
“Round two, I do so love the challenge.” She straightened up and pushed her hands into the small of her back, jutting those remarkable Grand Tetons in his face. “In the meantime I’ll have to work my charm on our suicide-watch boy. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And don’t you be late.” She started to leave but changed her mind. “Say, you going straight home or stopping off somewhere for a nightcap?”
Guy turned on the ignition key, let the motor idle. “It’s that time of month, you know, when I balance my mother’s checkbook.”
“Yes indeed, I do recall those evenings. In fact, I may have given you a hand, or was it two.” She circled her tongue over her lips, showed him the gap between her teeth. “I wouldn’t mind helping again.”
“I appreciate the offer but not tonight. Mother’s arthritis has been acting up again. Good night, Quinella.”
He rolled up the window, shifted into reverse, and tried not to leave her in a cloud of dust. For a brief moment he thought about turning around and taking her to the new digs she’d never seen, but tonight was not the night. Tonight he needed to fly solo, what with the Meredith case playing hoops in his brain and now Ted Logan’s failed suicide, or his cry for attention, maybe both. Kids, whether ghetto or suburbia, they all fell out of his jurisdiction, which was just as well since he didn’t have the patience of Job, nor of Quinella Armstrong. Damn, the woman knew her stuff. But he did too. So much to consider, so little time, tomorrow wasn’t soon enough.
As soon as Winchester walked into his apartment, he caught the strong aroma of lemon oil—the cleaning lady’s way of letting him know she’d polished the furniture. He opened the fridge. Too late for leftovers, she cleaned him out of every carton of Chinese take-out. Also, chicken wings from the night before, and the remains of a Philly steak he couldn’t bring himself to discard. He was debating between coffee and a longneck when the cell phone started ringing in his pocket. Expecting Reardan on the other end, he answered accordingly. “You thought of something. Damn you’re good.”
“Why thank you,” Quinella purred. “Can I come up? No pillow talk, I promise. Tonight these lips are strictly reserved for business, unless you decide to take them elsewhere.”
He looked out his window. There, in the parking area below Quinella was leaning against her car, the phone to her ear. Damn, how finger-licking good could one woman be—those long legs, those wide hips and tight ass. As for his own ass, Winchester figured his head must’ve been up it when he drove all the way home without realizing she’d been following him.
CHAPTER 28
Another restless night, what else could Francesca expect after a day like the one before, and those preceding it. Leaning over the counter, she took a sip of coffee and watched Perri drag her foot into the kitchen.
“Well, well, well. Look who got up with the baby chicks,” Perri said, scooting her slender hips onto a stool. “And where, pray tell, is our darling Ria?”
“Fed and off to school,” Francesca replied while folding the morning paper. She poured coffee for Perri and another for herself, but rather than take a seat she kept her feet firmly grounded, hoping they’d send the same message to her head.
“Darn, I should’ve set my alarm last night,” Perri said. “Ria and I usually have coffee together.”
“Somehow we managed on our own, just as we’ve always done.”
Perri stirred a sugar cube into the steaming brew. “Well, so much for making small talk with my daughter so let’s go back to your daughter. Did Ria have her little talk with you?”
“Last night, she waited up for me.” Francesca held her cup in one hand, used the other to spray green cleanser over the countertop.
“And?”
“I listened. Ria made her point.” A few swishes of paper towel removed the patch of smudges and crumbs which had started to annoy her as much as those dinner potatoes on Fred Montgomery’s chin last night. A week ago she wouldn’t have noticed either.
“Good for Ria,” Perri said with a chuckle. “Now about Matt and the horrific police interrogation, did all go well?”
“As well as could be expected,” Francesca said.
“I knew it, I knew it. Matt’s involved, all because of you.”
“Not me, one of the Pegasi players had a problem and turned to Matt for help.”
“You mean the suicide attempt, Sunny already told me.”
Francesca wasn’t surprised. Her next words had been well scripted. “Matt told what little he knew, after Vince got us a decent lawyer”
“Mother of Mary, another hand dipping into your shallow pockets, wherever will this end. Pass me the newspaper.” After flipping through the sections, she returned one to Francesca. “Better chec
k out the employment ads. Surely, there’s some type of work you’re capable of performing.”
“Do my ears deceive me,” Francesca said, “this from the dyed in-the-wool-stay-at-home-mom of my youth?”
“The same, and where did all those years of sacrifice get me.” Perri rattled her empty cup onto the saucer. “If only I’d put myself first, perhaps your father would’ve followed my lead.”
“More coffee?”
“If you insist, it’s not half bad.” She pushed the cup and saucer toward Francesca, waited for her to pour. “Do you have any honey? Calorie-wise—not a problem for me—honey ranks the same as sugar, but health-wise honey proves to be far superior. Ahem … Francesca?”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Never mind, just add honey to the shopping list I started for you. Not on the fridge, those nasty magnets chip the finish. There, pinned to the bulletin board. Honey, h-o-n-e-y, honey.”
Francesca snapped the pencil clutched between her fingers and pitched the pieces into the waste basket. She’d already decided against buying the honey.
“I rather enjoyed Sunny Meredith’s company yesterday afternoon,” Perri said. “Of course, I made no mention of you and the deceased.”
“Thanks, Perri. I appreciate your discretion.”
“Another scandal in the family we don’t need. Besides, the woman is so distraught she actually wants you for a friend.”
“I suppose she can’t help herself. Anything else?”
Perri took thirty seconds before answering. “Hm-m, nothing comes to mind.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Meanwhile, it’s time you and I had our own little talk.”
“This sounds serious.” Perri slid off the stool. “I’d better put my feet up.”
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