by D. M. Pulley
“Who . . . who’s there?” Beatrice called as she backed away from the sound. Her eyes darted around the apartment until they locked onto a kitchen knife.
“It’s Max.”
Beatrice rushed to the peephole. Max was standing in the stairwell, tapping her foot. “Max! What are you doing here? I mean, how did you find me?”
“You’re not hard to find, kid. Open the door.”
“But . . .” She cut herself off and frowned. Max had never taken her home, and Beatrice had given a false address at work. She unbolted the door.
“So is the Wicked Witch of the West home?” Max pushed her way into the apartment.
“No, she’s at work.”
“Nice place.”
“Thanks. It’s not much but . . .” Beatrice looked around the tiny two-room apartment she called home at a loss for words.
“Say, is that what you’re wearing?” Max asked.
Beatrice looked down at her bell-bottom jeans and the oversized shirt knotted at her waist and shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“You’re coming to Thanksgiving, remember?”
Beatrice looked at the clock. It was 12:30 p.m. “Isn’t it a bit early?”
“We do Thanksgiving dinner at 1:00 p.m. at my house. If we don’t start early, we never finish.” Max laughed.
Beatrice hesitated, thinking about Doris, but she could always stop by the diner on the way home. “Okay. What should I wear?”
An hour later they arrived at the McDonnell home in Lakewood, a small working-class suburb just west of Cleveland. The house had a large front porch with a bench swing hanging at one end, and two rocking chairs at the other. The stone stairs were worn down from millions of footsteps. Max swung the door open, and the chatter of the crowd inside spilled out onto the porch. The tiny house was stuffed to the brim with people and the warm smell of turkey fat and baked pumpkin.
Max dragged Beatrice into the crush of people. The names and faces flew in rapid succession—Rhoda, Ricky, Mary, Timmy, Sean, Patrick. Max rattled off the introductions, and after the first ten, Beatrice gave up trying to keep track. Every new face had a smile and a nod. Small children weaved in and out of the forest of pants and panty hose that filled the long and narrow living room. Crying babies were bouncing on hips. Max pulled Beatrice deeper into the house until they reached the kitchen.
Chafing dishes and foil-wrapped pans covered the counter from end to end. A two-foot stack of paper plates sat near the sink, and two women were busy preparing the meal.
“No room for more cooks!” the older woman sang cheerfully without looking up.
“Hey, Mom. I want you to meet somebody.”
Max’s mother glanced up from a large pot. Her face was thin and worn, but her blue eyes were mirror images of her daughter’s. Her graying hair was pulled back in the French twist that Max often wore. In her apron and pearls, she was a page from a 1950s Better Homes and Gardens magazine.
“You must be Beatrice. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Evelyn McDonnell.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Beatrice said shyly, and shook the woman’s flour-covered hand.
“Hi, Beatrice! I’m Darlene.” Darlene’s loose shirt had several food stains, and her hair was a mess of red curls.
“Hi!” Beatrice waved back and said to them both, “Thank you for having me to dinner.”
“It’s our pleasure, dear!” Evelyn beamed.
Beatrice marveled at the endless array of food on the counter and Evelyn’s serene smile as she stirred pots and pulled sheet pans from the oven.
“Maxine, would you please let everyone know that we’ll be eating in ten minutes. And ask your father to come carve this bird.”
“Stay here,” Max ordered Beatrice and then pushed her way through the crowd.
Beatrice played with her hands awkwardly, standing in the corner. There was nowhere to sit in the small, square kitchen. Evelyn lifted what looked like a prehistoric bird of prey from the oven and set it on the butcher block in the center of the kitchen. It was the biggest turkey Beatrice had ever laid eyes on. It was amazing the tiny woman could lift the thing.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Beatrice asked, feeling awkward and useless.
“Not a thing! You’re a guest in our house. I’m just so glad to finally meet a friend of Maxine’s.”
“Yeah, she usually only hangs out with old men,” Max’s sister snorted.
Evelyn narrowed her eyes. “Darlene, honey, why don’t you go get some more napkins from the cellar?”
Darlene opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. She exited the kitchen with the gait of a Mack truck.
“You’ll have to forgive Darlene.” Evelyn waved an oven mitt. “She’s always been a little jealous of her sister.”
Beatrice smiled to make light of the incident. “Max has been a wonderful friend. She’s really helped me fit in over at the bank.”
“Well, she’s been working there for a long time,” Evelyn said, laying tinfoil on top of the enormous turkey. She turned to pull the carving set from a drawer. “I just hope they get to the bottom of all those accusations. It’s such a scandal!”
“Scandal?”
Evelyn nodded, sharpening the carving knife against a honing rod. “What bank doesn’t keep reliable records of their deposits? The whole thing is simply mad. They’ll be lucky if the police don’t get involved.”
Beatrice’s jaw nearly dropped at the word “police.”
“Is somebody talking about me?” a deep voice asked.
Beatrice turned and saw a young man waltz into the kitchen.
“Oh, Anthony. Don’t be silly,” Evelyn scolded him with a smile.
He bent down and kissed her on the top of her head.
“Hi, Mom! Who’s your friend?” He motioned to Beatrice. His broad shoulders, square jaw, and heavy brow were offset by boyish blue eyes and dimples.
“This is Beatrice,” Evelyn said, wiping the carving knife with a rag. “She works with Max at the bank. We were just talking about the crazy mess they’re trying to sort out over there.”
“Are you harassing my friend, Tony?” Max said from the doorway.
Tony’s face broke into a smile again as he spun around. “That’s Detective Anthony McDonnell to you!”
“Don’t mind him, Beatrice. He’s been insufferable ever since he made detective last year. Mom, I can’t find Dad anywhere, but the masses are growing restless.”
“Oh, he’s probably out smoking a cigarette in the garage. I’ll go get him. Anthony, please start slicing up that beast.”
Max pulled Beatrice out of the kitchen. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”
They fought their way through the packed living room to the front porch. Somewhere along the way Max had managed to grab two drinks. She handed one to Beatrice and plopped down on the porch swing to light a cigarette.
“Your mom is very nice,” Beatrice began.
“Yeah, she’s amazing. I have no idea how she manages to deal with all of this. I don’t think I could do it. Hell, I have no desire to do it.”
“Yeah.” Beatrice turned to the window. A red-faced toddler was pulling at her mother’s hair. “What did your mother mean about a scandal at the bank?”
Max stopped sucking on her cigarette and raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure. What did she say?”
Beatrice recounted what Evelyn had said about the deposits and the police, trying not to sound as though Mr. Halloran had given her an assignment to spy on her friend.
“Oh God!” Max shook her head, clearly irritated. She downed her cocktail and hit her cigarette again. “My mother is an idiot! There is no fraud or police investigation. The bank lost some records, and I’m helping to reconstruct them.”
“Is that the special project you’ve been working on with Mr.
Thompson?”
Max paused, studying Beatrice’s face. “Yeah. I took an irate phone call from a customer a few years back. Seems like the bank lost her safe deposit box. I went to Mr. Thompson, and he asked me to work on the problem. The whole project had been sort of hush-hush because Bill didn’t want a bunch of rumors flying around the office.”
Beatrice nodded, even though what Max had said made no sense to her. For one thing, why would Mr. Halloran care about an audit of the safe deposits? And why did Max’s mother know so much if the whole thing was hush-hush?
Max saw her scowling and sighed. “My mother was worried I was having some sort of affair, since I was working so many late nights at the office. I had to tell her something so she wouldn’t cart me off to the nunnery. I could kill her for being such a loudmouth. Can you keep this a secret? Bill might fire me if he thinks I’m blabbing this stuff all over the office. If I can get this job done for him, I might even get a promotion.”
“Of course!” She couldn’t look Max in the eye.
Maxine stood up and threw her cigarette into the snow piled up against the side of the porch. She linked elbows with Beatrice and said, “Great! Let’s go eat. I’m starving!”
CHAPTER 15
Beatrice had never eaten so much food in her life. Three glasses of wine and four courses into the meal, she thought her stomach would burst. In the chorus of clinking glasses and silverware, Beatrice had learned about Aunt Mae’s rose garden, a sister’s cat, and a nephew’s potty habits. Her face ached from smiling, and her neck was stiff from nodding. She whispered to Max she would be back, and hoisted herself up from the chair.
She waded past four crowded tables to the door. The air out on the front porch was blessedly cold and still. She blew out a long trail of steam. There had to be a way to leave the party gracefully. She was exhausted from all the chatter. Besides, Doris might be missing her at the diner. There were so many questions she wanted to ask her.
Max’s brother Tony was slouched in the bench swing, smoking a cigar. “Nice night.”
“Yeah it is.”
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Oh, no, thanks. I feel like I’ve been sitting for hours.”
“I know what you mean.” He grinned. “I’m impressed you were brave enough to face the entire McDonnell clan. How are you holding up?”
“Oh, I’m having a lovely time.” As she spoke, she glanced through the steamed window, looking for Max. Her chair was empty.
“Well, Maxie must really like you. She never brings friends home.” He tapped his cigar on the porch rail and asked, “Do you have family near here?”
“I live with my aunt on the east side. I really should be getting back soon. My aunt is working, and I’d feel terrible if I didn’t wish her a happy Thanksgiving.”
“Well, you are in a pickle, aren’t you?” His dimples were back. “I mean, my mom hasn’t even brought out the desserts yet.”
“Oh gosh. I don’t want to be rude,” she said, feeling a twinge of desperation. The sun was beginning to set behind the house.
“I don’t know about you, but I can’t eat another bite,” he said, patting his perfectly flat abdomen. He stood up. “What do you say we bust out of here?”
“What do you mean?”
“Leave it to me.” He opened the front door for her and whispered, “Let me do the talking.”
Five minutes later, Beatrice was in Tony’s unmarked Ford LTD, staring at the dull red emergency light on top of the dash. Max had protested them leaving, but no one ever seemed to argue with Tony. He had them all wrapped around his finger. Beatrice made a mental note to apologize to Max on Monday.
The CB scanner buzzed softly below the eight-track player as they drove through the snow across the crooked river.
Tony seemed amused at her fascination with the dashboard. “You ever been inside a police car?”
Beatrice shook her head.
“I’d been in plenty before I joined the force. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right?” The way he chuckled reminded her of Max. “Say, I hope my sister isn’t getting you into too much trouble there at the bank.”
“Trouble?” Beatrice frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, she’s such a busybody, getting into everyone’s business. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she should have been the detective.”
“Do you mean the missing records?” She tried to seem casual.
“That and a million other little intrigues. She’s always coming up with conspiracy theories about the rich families in town and their relationships with the bank. You know, First Bank of Cleveland has the highest deposits of any bank in northeast Ohio. You should be proud to work there.” He rolled the car off the freeway and began making his way south toward Little Italy. “You live up Mayfield, is that right?”
She blinked and realized she hadn’t told him where they were headed. “Um, yeah. Did Max tell you where I live?”
“Not exactly. Let’s just say it was discussed.”
“Discussed?”
“Maxie was all worked up about some mix-up at the bank on your address. You may want to look into that, by the way. Apparently, your file has an error in it. It says you live at a restaurant or something.”
Beatrice gaped at him. Someone had discovered that she had lied on her employee questionnaire, and it was Max.
“I told you she’s a busybody. She even had me look you up in the police records.” He flashed her a reassuring grin. “Don’t worry. You weren’t in there.”
“Is that legal? Why would she do that?” Her voice was becoming shrill.
“Well, it’s all public record. I just have better access. What can I say? I’m a sucker for my little sister.”
Beatrice opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Tony turned toward her at a stoplight. “Don’t worry so much. Max really likes you. Besides, what have you got to hide?” He patted her knee as if that settled the matter.
Beatrice smiled uneasily. “Could you drop me off at the diner up there? My aunt is working.”
Tony slowed the car, and Beatrice tried to relax. Perhaps Max’s snooping was truly harmless. She’d invited her to Thanksgiving after all. Maybe she really was just a busybody. Beatrice decided to change the subject.
“So, did you just say that the bank works with all of the richest families in town?”
“Yep, from Carnegie to Rockefeller, it seems like they all preferred the First Bank of Cleveland. Half of ’em actually sit on the board of directors. Brodinger, Swede, Mathias, Wackerly, Halloran . . .”
Beatrice had heard of Rockefeller, but none of the other names registered until he said Halloran.
“Some even speculate the Covelli family holds an interest at the bank.”
“Who?”
“You live in Little Italy and haven’t heard of the Covellis?” He raised an eyebrow.
Her expression was blank.
“They’re the last family in town that’s still connected to Sicily, or so we think.”
Beatrice nodded, even though she wasn’t sure what he was talking about. The car slowed, and he pulled to the curb in front of the diner where her aunt was pulling a double shift. Tony got out of the car and escorted her to the front door.
“It was very nice meeting you, Beatrice. If you ever need anything,”—he reached into the pocket of his wool overcoat and handed her a card—“call me.”
She took the card. It read “Detective Anthony McDonnell, Cleveland Police Department.” It wasn’t quite clear if he was offering her police protection or flirting with her. “Thank you, Detective,” she said shyly.
He chucked her chin. “Happy Thanksgiving, Beatrice.”
The unmarked police car left tracks in the snow as she stood there holding the detective’s card in her hand.
CHAPTER 16
Beatrice walked into the greasy heat of the diner and looked for Doris. The bright lights made everything seem more dingy. Random customers, mostly older men, were scattered around the room, sipping coffee and eating pie. The diner was running a skeleton crew from the looks of things. There was only one cook in the back and one waitress, limping around with a pot of black coffee.
Beatrice waved her down. “Hi, Gladys. Happy Thanksgiving! Is Doris here?”
“Oh dear!” The old woman set down her scorched pot on the breakfast counter. “Beatrice.”
Beatrice’s smile disappeared.
Gladys grabbed her hand and led her to a chair. “I had no idea how to reach you. I’m so sorry, but Doris is at the hospital.”
“What? What happened?” Beatrice felt the blood drain from her face.
“Oh, honey.” Gladys patted Beatrice’s hand. “I’m not really sure what happened. One minute she was fine, and the next thing we knew she was on the ground. The ambulance came and took her to University Hospitals. Mick went with her. That was two hours ago.”
As Gladys explained, her voice sounded farther and farther away. Beatrice sank down onto one of the stools at the lunch counter.
“Let me call you a cab so you can get to the hospital.” Gladys patted her hand.
Beatrice might have nodded, she wasn’t sure. She had no idea how many minutes she sat there staring at the floor until Gladys helped her into a taxi and paid the driver to take her to the emergency room. The icy air outside the diner forced her to blink.
She turned to Gladys and managed to whisper, “Thank you.”
The emergency room was bedlam. Every seat was full. People were leaning against the walls. There was a baby crying somewhere. One woman clutched a wet red towel around her hand. A man sat with his head between his knees. There was a line five people deep at the registration counter. Beatrice kept her eyes on her feet as she waited to talk with the nurse.
When she finally reached the counter, the nurse was busy writing something on a clipboard. “Um, excuse me? I’m looking for Doris Davis. I think an ambulance brought her here.”