Lethal Play
Page 25
Sunny propped herself onto a stool and crossed her legs. She ran one hand through a clump of limp hair, pushing it back to reveal a tear-streaked, puffy face surpassing the one she’d wore for her husband’s wake. Francesca turned to the counter and with invigorated efficiency started working on the coffee, at the same time relieved for an excuse to avoid Sunny’s unyielding scrutiny.
“I suppose you’ve heard,” Sunny said. “The whole world has—Rex, a child molester, an abuser of those who trusted in him. I swear to God, I didn’t know and yet, something tells me the accusations could very well have merit. Otherwise, why would those boys have lashed out in such a wretched manner? They truly hated him, which I can understand. I would’ve killed Rex myself, if only I’d known. How could I have been so stupid, all those years trusting him to behave around the boys he brought to countless soccer victories. This was Pegasi United, for godssake, a dream we built together—not only for Payton but the others too. Is the coffee ready?”
“Give it another few minutes.”
“This much I do know: Rex did not lay a hand on Payton or Angel—they both assured me of this and I believe them. I have to believe them. Yesterday those smarmy detectives paid me a courtesy visit. You know, Batman and Robin.”
“You mean Reardan and Winchester.”
“Whatever. They disclosed the boys’ names—that much they owed me—and a ghastly explanation of what really happened that night. Absoludicrous! Those boys beat Rex up, for godssake they pummeled his face and body like a side of beef. No wonder I barely recognized him at the morgue.
“How devastating for you, I mean seeing Rex that way.”
“Hell, yes. I’m not a monster, Francesca. I do have feelings although I don’t always show them. Rex may’ve had his dark side—the lies, the cheating, the et cetera—but he was an excellent father and a damned good coach. His family came first, then Pegasi. I wonder how the Soccer Association will react. What if they blame me too?”
“Oh, Sunny, of course they won’t.”
“Don’t be so sure. Perhaps I should hire a good lawyer. Last evening Angel’s mother came over, concerned about his welfare, as if I’m not. Both of us talked to him, one-on-one and then together. Angel still wants to stay with Payton and me. The mother’s not so sure. What am I going to do? Payton depends on Angel. They’re best buddies. It’s just not fair. I was a somebody, the wife of a nationwide winning coach. Now I’m the widow of an accused molester. As for the slut who instigated this, somehow the detectives skirted the issue and left without naming her. If only I’d been thinking straight.”
“Forget about her. You’ve got to move on.”
“Easy for you to say, and what about the new coach—”
“Vince Valente, he’s a wonderful man. Trust me, everything will work out.” Francesca set out the cups and saucers. She opened the fridge, pretended to search for Perri’s half and half, which was in plain view, and finally poured some into a pitcher.
“You and I, Francesca, we truly are sisters in widowhood. Tragedy has bound us together.”
Yes, in a strange, twisted way. Francesca did feel a connection with Sunny, Payton and Angel too. The coffee pot beeped, and she filled Sunny’s waiting cup. Her own too, knowing she wouldn’t drink it. Tea better suited the moment, if only she’d bought some when Perri reminded her. She could’ve used Perri now. Perri thrived on what she called OPP, Other People’s Problems. Not so different from those of POP, Parents of Pegasi.
Sunny held the cup to her lips at the same time watching Francesca from over the rim, just as she’d done that day in Starbucks but this time without bothering to sip. After a long thirty seconds she set the cup in its saucer and narrowed puffy eyes refusing to leave Francesca’s face.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out,” Sunny said. “I may be blond but don’t associate me with the dumb variety and never ever underestimate me again. You were the slut screwing with Rex the night he died, weren’t you.”
Mia culpa, mia culpa, mia culpa. Francesca mustered up enough courage to end the farce before it went any further.
“Forgive me, Sunny. I never meant to hurt you or your family.”
“Really, I suspected from the gitgo, but wanted to hear the words from your deceitful mouth.” Sunny took a deep breath and continued. “Rex’s horrific death, those boys facing juvenile detention, my family shattered—all because of you, Francesca Canelli. You should’ve come to me when Rex first approached you.”
“I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“Please, you wouldn’t have been the first over-the-top soccer mom I saved from Rex. It took Stella Logan almost two years before she came clean with me. Within one day, I confronted Sexy Rexy—as he often referred to himself—and immediately ended their stupid affair. The Logan marriage almost ended too until I convinced John otherwise. You underestimated me, Francesca. All of this could’ve been avoided, if only … if only. You do understand what this means: we can never be friends again. If, our boys continue to play on the same team, make no attempt to speak with me. If, we happen to be at the same soccer game, don’t even look in my direction. Or stand next to me at the POP meetings. Or park your pile of junk next to my Lincoln—regardless of the location or the circumstances. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, of course, I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
“Before I leave, I’d like more coffee, please.”
Francesca poured with a shaky hand, set the pot back onto the burner.
Balancing the filled cup with one hand, Sunny slid off the stool. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I really must be running.”
Francesca saw it coming. She didn’t think to duck but did close her eyes, right before Sunny hurled the coffee in her face.
“Soccer slut,” Sunny yelled. “You deserve worse but I have nothing left to give. By the way, your coffee stinks.”
She heard Sunny’s footsteps fade into the hallway, the front door open and close. The coffee wasn’t hot enough to burn her face, but it did sting creeping into her pores, and probably ruined JaMe’s facial from Saturday. Say goodbye, Francesca, to Sunny and the Sisterhood of Widows. Some friendships were never meant to last, nor should they.
CHAPTER 35
One more sit down, that’s all Guy Winchester needed, one more crack at resolving some unanswered questions, whether they altered the outcome or didn’t change a damn thing. He returned to Francesca Canelli’s house and was approaching the front door when Sunny Meredith bolted out like a filly from the starting gate.
“Can’t stop to talk,” she told him, “but do go in. The bitch needs all the help she can get.”
He couldn’t resist asking, “There’s a problem?”
By this time the widow had opened her car door, and called out, “You’ll find her in the … confessional, kitchen, whatever—messing with the coffee.”
Messing with the coffee, you bet. Mama Canelli looked as if she’d taken a direct hit, standing with her back to the sink, her face buried in a kitchen towel, the kind his mother wouldn’t dream of using but hung on the stove handle for show. A neo-splash of liquid was scattered across this mama’s pink T-shirt, creating one of those ink spot patterns supposedly revealing a person’s true feelings.
“Nice artwork,” he said.
Her feet left the floor, a good two inches. She muffled a yell and slid the towel away from a face flushed with heat or embarrassment or both.
“Not you again,” was the extent of her communication.
Winchester extended one arm, his way of warding off a verbal attack. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Mrs. Meredith invited me in on her way out, made some weird comment about you and the coffee. Now I understand what she meant.”
Mama Canelli hadn’t spilled any tears but her nose had sprung a leak. She blew into the towel, folded into it thirds and thirds again. She opened a drawer, intending to stick the neat package inside when he stopped her by asking, “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“I figured as much from Mrs. Meredith. Why don’t you sit down.”
“We’re on my turf now and I prefer to stand.”
He backed off, not wanting to antagonize her. She leaned against the counter, the color in her face returning to a natural shade but paler than he’d remembered.
“I suppose you’re wondering what happened between Sunny and me,” she said. “We had a rather nasty showdown. More to the point, Sunny put on the show, with yours truly as her target.”
“Blame it on the latest revelations. Mrs. Meredith has been under considerable stress.” Not the response he should’ve given. Reardan was better with the snappy comebacks and Mama Canelli had come a long way since their first encounter, tougher and not so defensive.
“I know about stress too,” she said. “The gift that never stops giving. You told Sunny about my being with Rex the night he died, didn’t you.”
“Didn’t have to, she already knew when we dropped by her house.”
“But you or your partner would have, if the soccer mom clique hadn’t gotten to Sunny first.”
“She deserved some explanation of her husband’s death, Mrs. Canelli. This very afternoon the Assistant DA and the defense lawyers hammered out an arrangement acceptable to all parties. I suspect the boys will receive extensive therapy along with time in a Juvenile facility and later have their records expunged.”
“That’s encouraging, considering all they’ve been through. Had it not been for me, none of this would’ve happened.”
“Which brings us to the purpose of my visit: I need to tie up a few loose ends.”
She folded her arms, a protective gesture. “Without your sidekick, what is his name, I keep forgetting.”
Forget, no way, not Mrs. Canelli. A little lie but nevertheless a lie. And some lies have a way of growing. “Detective Reardan, he’s taking care of business elsewhere.”
“Too bad, he should take off a few days. Get reacquainted with the family, a wife and five daughters as I recall. And you?”
She’d asked a similar question before, a memory lapse or distraction ploy. “Unattached but not dissatisfied,” he said. “No current prospects.”
“Really, what about the female cohort?”
“Who?” He drew a blank before realizing she meant Quinella. “If you’re referring to Ms. Armstrong, she and I don’t go to the same church.”
“As in you don’t see eye to eye, hm-m, I never would’ve guessed. Sit down, Detective Winchester.” She motioned to the table. He figured a good choice since the counter stools needed cleaning after the Sunny showdown.
“The coffee’s still fresh,” she said. “Would you like some?”
He thought she’d never ask. Damn, a throwback to Reardan who never turned down free caffeine. “No cream, no sugar, black,” he said and almost added, just like me, in case she hadn’t noticed. He pulled out a chair and sat down, stretching his legs into their comfort zone.
She brought him a steaming mug, none for her, and sat across the table. After thanking her, he took a swallow and then another, told her the joe was perfect, just the way he liked it.
“You didn’t come here for my coffee, Detective. What about those loose ends.”
He pulled out his faithful prop, flipped to a page of meaningless scribbles and faking bewilderment, scratched his head. “The boys—Ted, Ian, and Zach—witnessed the entire scene between you and Mr. Meredith, including your leaving him in the cold. An altercation between the boys and their coach followed, evolved into a gang-style beating and from there, to a mock hanging.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard—the netting, the cooler, the unfortunate result. My son Matt heard too, and Sunny Meredith, and every other person within a fifty-mile radius of St. Louis. And maybe the entire youth soccer association of America, as if they still care.”
She was playing him—too late, too bad. The house may’ve belonged to her but he’d worked his way inside her head and was here to call the shots. “Deadly affairs intrigue the masses, Mrs. Canelli, but the abuse of teenage boys piques the interest of every loony within a hundred-mile radius. Just be glad this outcome landed on page three of the Post Dispatch, with no names or specific details. Anyway, back to Mr. Meredith, alive and positioned in his mummy stance—as the boys were driving away, they indicated seeing another vehicle approach from behind.” He paused, waiting for her reaction.
She tried playing it cool but couldn’t keep the color from leaving her face. “And your point is?”
“That Matt showed up, perhaps to avenge his mother’s honor.”
Another slow response: a turn of her head, thumb rubbing her mouth, anything to buy some time. “Mrs. Canelli?”
“You’re heading down the wrong road, Detective. Matt doesn’t drive and even if he could, Sybil was with me. We’re a single-vehicle family so Matt was stuck at home.”
“Not necessarily. After all, what are friends for if not to provide a set of wheels?” The poor woman, she just didn’t get it. Or maybe she did. “Of course, we won’t know for sure what happened until we—I mean Ms. Armstrong—until she interviews Matt again.”
“That show-off, that self-serving egotistical excuse for a female; give me a break, please. Another afternoon and possible evening down the drain, just so she can justify her paycheck. Matt needs time to practice, time to study. In order to get a really good soccer scholarship to a Division One university he needs—”
“He needs to get this straightened out first, Mrs. Canelli.” Enough, he pushed his cup aside and stood up.
“But you don’t understand.”
“Ah, but I do. It took me a while but I finally got it. As we speak, Detective Reardan is picking up Matt from school.” He expected the release of pent-up tears from her but got none.
“You couldn’t wait until he came home? Shame on you, shame on that fat slob you call a partner.”
Yeah, he had that coming, Reardan too. The surprise move on mother and son had been Reardan’s idea. “I suggest you call your lawyer, Mrs. Canelli. Tell him to meet us at the precinct. You can ride with me if you like.”
“Choose you over Sybil, I think not. At least with Sybil I know where I stand.”
She latched onto the table and pushed herself up. He envisioned her knees shaking under those stretch pants. He’d seen it in others, not necessarily a sign of guilt but anything was possible.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, Detective, I have to phone my mother, and arrange for Ria. She’s only eleven, you know. Ria, I mean. About my mother, she’s … never mind, it’s no concern of yours.”
He let her ramble; it was the least he could do.
“I need to change my clothes, that horrible woman. Can I trust you to let yourself out? No, I’ll show you the door, even though you know damn well where it is because you let yourself in without my permission.”
He followed her into the foyer, waited as she yanked on the doorknob. Her fingers slipped, she yanked again, this time opening the door.
“I should report you and maybe I will when all this is over. Goodbye, Detective Winchester, until we meet for the last time.”
CHAPTER 36
After watching Winchester back his cruiser out of the driveway, Francesca hurried stairs, changed clothes, and slapped on a dab of makeup in no way resembling the care JaMe had taken during her Saturday excursion with … Ria, my god, she’d almost forgotten Ria. On the way out the door she called Perri’s cell phone, listened to the expected tirade before Perri agreed to rearrange her plans to accommodate her darling Ria. Driving to the precinct felt surreal, with Sybil gliding along on autopilot and Francesca wishing she’d fortified herself with a glass of two of milk before leaving home. She’d underestimated Detective Winchester, a mistake she vowed never to make again, one that also applied to Detective Reardan and that woman claiming to u
phold and protect the interests of juveniles.
This time no one-man committee welcomed her; she figured Fred Montgomery was already inside, hopefully advising Matt. Instead she found Fred in the hallway conferring with Detectives Reardan and Winchester, both of whom she ignored.
“Where’s Matt,” she asked Fred. “What have they done with him?”
“He’s waiting in the conference room,” Winchester said.
“With that horrible woman I suppose. Or is she off praying somewhere. Or icing up the soda and ordering pizza.”
Fred put his arm around her shoulder, an annoying gesture she thought about brushing off but couldn’t muster up the courage. “Calm down, Francesca. Your being upset won’t help Matt. He needs to know you’re behind him, no matter what.”
“Of course I am. How could he possibly think otherwise.”
“You can have a few more minutes with your client before we get started,” Reardan said.
“I should hope so,” Fred said, “considering the outrageous mental anguish you’ve forced upon him and his mother.”
As soon as Francesca walked into the conference room with Fred, she rushed to Matt’s side, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Don’t volunteer a single word, not even a syllable. Let Fred take care of this.”
“We’ve already talked to him, Mom.”
“We, you and who else?” she said, no longer whispering.
“Me, Francesca,” Vince said. “I was with Perri when you called. She asked me to meet you here. Of course, I would’ve without her asking. You know I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Oh, Vince, I didn’t see you sitting there. Thank you for coming. Can you believe they … he … that doughboy detective … took Matt out of school for this.”
“Don’t worry,” Vince said. “Fred’ll take care of everything, right Fred?”
“Absolutely, now everybody sit. And Matt, whatever else you haven’t told me, you’d better cough up now.”
“Nothing, it happened just like I said.”
More acid reflux, Francesca ignored the creeping up her throat. “What did you say, Matt? Tell me now.”