by A W Hartoin
“I’ve had enough of that sanctimonious bastard.”
Oh no! Not the sanctimonious.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Give him a chance to apologize.”
“He compared my work to Sheldon Hawke,” said Uncle Morty in a low, hateful tone.
Sheldon Hawke? Why’d it have to be him? Uncle Morty considered him to be a hack writer. I thought he was pretty decent, but my opinion didn’t count.
“Then he said that I don’t have any discipline. I just make things up.”
“Um…” I didn’t know how to combat that. Uncle Morty was a fantasy writer. He did make things up, hence the fantasy label. That would’ve been fine if Melvin wasn’t a historical fiction writer, known for his exquisite attention to detail and historical accuracy. The fight about who was the better, more valid writer was long-running and tedious.
Then it came to me. “You’re very disciplined. Super disciplined. Go home and tell Melvin I said so.”
“I don’t have to research, he said. I can do anything I want, he said.” Uncle Morty ground his fist into his hand.
“Tell him I said—”
“He don’t care what you think. You’re a kid.”
I was too tired to inform him that I was hardly a kid, so I elbowed him aside and put my key in the door. It was only a week. I could stand anything for a week. “Minnie’s going to be mad.”
“I’ll explain it to my mother,” he said.
“Good luck with that.” I sighed and opened the door wide enough to see a figure standing in the middle of my tiny living room. It was a trim man with dark, wavy hair, wearing pastel golfing clothes. Oz Urbani, nephew of mafia queen, Calpurnia Fibonacci. He was the last man Uncle Morty should see in my living room. My parents would kill me if they knew about our association. I slammed the door, my heart pounding.
“What’re you doing?” Morty grabbed the doorknob.
“Mom and Dad.”
“What about your parents?”
I peeled his thick fingers off the knob. “You should stay with Mom and Dad. They have six bedrooms. They’ll never notice you’re there.”
That wasn’t true. Nobody could miss Morty. He was unmissable.
“Your place was closer,” he said.
Think Mercy. Think.
“That’s no way to choose your living arrangements for the next week. I don’t have any food.”
“I’ll order pizza.”
Oh my god. Not the pizza.
“I’m not quiet. Aren’t you editing the new book? I’ll bother you.”
“Screw that. I’m here.”
I smiled and hoped it looked genuine, not incredibly panicked. “Okay. If you insist. Hey, I can play you the new Taylor Swift album. You’re going to love it. It’s so happy.”
“I hate happy.” He frowned and unzipped his jacket, revealing large pit stains. I had to get rid of him for so many reasons.
“But Taylor will make you happy, I swear. Have you been looking at YouTube lately? I have the cutest collection of cat videos to show—”
“I’m outta here.” He picked up his backpack and stomped down the stairs. Thank God.
I leaned on the door to slow my breathing and to work myself up to facing whatever Oz wanted. It couldn’t be good. I owed Calpurnia Fibonacci my life. The Costilla gang had put a price on my head a few months ago just because I happened to shoot Richard Costilla in the face when he tried to knife me. Calpurnia took care of it without being asked and now I owed her a favor. It was time to ante up. I’d been dreading this eventuality since the day Oz told me Calpurnia spared my life.
The knob turned in my hand, and Oz said through the opening, “Are you coming in?”
“I guess I have to.”
“You do live here.”
“Now seems like a good time to move,” I said.
“Don’t be like that. We’ve always been friends.”
I pushed open the door and walked in past Oz. We had always been friends, but it was a peculiar kind of friendship. I saved his sister in Honduras. Calpurnia helped out my godmothers in a family squabble to repay me and so forth. I was starting to get the feeling that once you got involved with Calpurnia, you were stuck. At least Oz was nice and his handsome face didn’t hurt either. He sat on my sofa and my cat, Skanky, leapt on his lap and began purring like a buzz saw. Some watchcat he was. If a homicidal manic broke in, he’d give my would-be murderer love.
“What’s your cat’s name?” asked Oz, giving my worthless feline a serious scratch.
“Skanky.”
He gave my cat the once-over. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing now.” I dropped my purse on a chair and pulled the ponytail holder out of my hair.
“I have to ask,” he said. “What happened to you?”
“Twinkie fight.”
He eyed my scrubs. “Weren’t you at work?”
“Yep. All in a nurse’s day’s work. Lay it on me, Oz. What does she want?”
“What makes you think I’m here for my aunt? Maybe I wanted to hang out with you,” he said with a winning grin. Oz was smooth. I’d give him that. He looked perfect, sitting there in his bright pink golf shirt that showed off his deep tan, courtesy of the June sunshine. Oz was a golf pro and not supposed to be part of the Fibonacci family business, but I had my doubts as to his involvement.
“Yeah. We always hang out,” I said.
“We could. I like you.”
“My parents would freak. How did you get in here?”
“I’m better at picking locks than Morty,” he said.
“What if he’d gotten in?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It didn’t happen. Why worry about it?”
“Fine. Somebody could’ve been here,” I said.
“Like who? That cop you’re dating?” Oz smiled wickedly at me.
“Well, yeah.”
My parents would freak if they knew my connection to the Fibonaccis, but it was nothing to how Chuck would react. He wasn’t a retired cop like my father. He was a St. Louis police detective and having a girlfriend with organized crime connections would be bad for his career and could possibly call into question his cases. If I was involved with Calpurnia, who was to say he wasn’t?
“Not likely,” he said.
“Why not?”
“He’s not spending the night.”
“Creepy,” I said. “How do you know that?’
“Aunt Calpurnia likes to keep track of the friends of her friends.”
“Fantastic. So what does she want?”
“I don’t know, but she made it clear that I’m not to let you slip away. She wants to see you today at her house.”
I shook off the dread and said, “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Not like that. This is Calpurnia Fibonacci. You can’t go in scrubs, and you’ve got stuff.” Oz stood up and plucked a brown spongey glob out of my hair. “What is this?”
“There were Dingdongs, too.”
“Your life fascinates me.”
“I’m glad it fascinates somebody, ‘cause it irritates me,” I said.
Oz spun me around and pushed me toward my bathroom. “Shower and I’ll take you over.”
“Do I have to be blindfolded?” I asked before heading into the bathroom.
“What in the world for?” he asked with frown.
“Maybe I’m not supposed to know where she lives.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes.
“I don’t know. I was just asking.”
“Everyone knows where Calpurnia lives, from the FBI to the lowliest beat cop in our fair city.”
I sucked in a breath. “What if her house is under surveillance? I’ll be seen going in.”
“It’s not. I checked.”
“How do you know?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think my aunt doesn’t know when she’s being watched?”
“Never mind.”
I took a boiling hot shower to get the sugar off and mulled over what to
wear until Oz yelled for me to hurry it up.
“I’m coming. What should I wear?” I yelled back.
“Something sexy and conservative,” he said through the door.
“Those things don’t go together.”
“Yes, they do. Hurry up. Calpurnia doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I had no idea what to wear, but the choice seemed important. After another ten minutes of pondering and Oz squawking through the door, I choose a1930’s dress that I bought at the vintage shop on McPherson Avenue. It was oxblood red with a full skirt and a snug waist. It covered everything, but Chuck called it sexy. When I emerged from the bedroom, Oz whistled. “Perfect.”
My dress was the only thing that was perfect about that day.
Chapter Three
Oz drove through an open gate onto Calpurnia’s property. No wonder Oz rolled his eyes at me. Fibonacci was written in cursive wrought iron in an arch over the entrance. I guess Calpurnia didn’t believe in either subtlety or hiding. I had to respect the lack of pretense.
We drove down a winding driveway, past a small golf course and a driving range with well-manicured trees and flowers in free-form beds.
“Does your aunt golf?” I asked to break the silence.
“No. She put those in for me,” Oz said.
“You must be her favorite.”
“One of them.”
“Please. You’re the favorite,” I said.
He grinned at me. “Could be.”
I wondered if that was why he was allowed to stay out of the family business. Being a favorite has its privileges, not that I would know. I was an only child, but Chuck was my father’s favorite. His mother married my uncle, who adopted Chuck before Delilah dumped him. Chuck was the son I refused to be. He was a cop, very impressed with Dad, and was the only detective on the force with a rep that rivaled my father’s. I was the disobedient daughter who became a nurse and thought she ought to be paid to surveil cheating husbands and gym rats claiming disability. Chuck would’ve done it for free and thanked Dad for the opportunity. What a suck-up. Constantly making me look bad. It was a good thing he was so hot and charming and unexpectedly sweet or I would’ve had nothing to say to him.
Oz pulled up in front of an ultra-modern house, all straight lines and glass. It reminded me of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Falling Water but less blocky. We got out and walked up the slate stairs to the door that was unlocked. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly. I hadn’t given Calpurnia’s home any thought whatsoever, but I wouldn’t have expected this house if I had. A woman named Calpurnia Fibonacci, who headed a mafia family, should’ve had a traditional home, old world with lots of wood and creaking, not some modern masterpiece. There weren’t even any knuckle-cracking goombahs playing cards in the foyer while protecting the house. There was no one there at all.
“How do you like the house?” asked Oz.
“It’s gorgeous.” And it was. The blond hardwood floors gleamed like glass and all the furniture was Danish Modern in design. It was totally different from my style—early garage sale—but I liked the clean, crisp feel of it.
Oz pressed an intercom button next to the door. “Aunt Cal? It’s Oz.”
“Kitchen, baby,” said a throaty voice that could almost have belonged to a man. Calpurnia Fibonacci. I was so nervous, I think I peed a little.
Oz put his hand on the small of my back and guided me through the house. The clean lines continued throughout. We passed through a living room with a fireplace that covered the entire wide wall. Displayed there were dozens of family photos, a happy family, a normal, average family. I had a hard time reconciling what little I knew of the Fibonaccis with those faces. How could bad look so good?
Calpurnia read Architectural Digest, La Cucina Italiana, and Harper’s. Was she a murderer? A drug trafficker or worse, a human trafficker? I hoped Calpurnia would give me a clue. From the look of her house, if she did, it would only confuse me.
We turned into a short hall and the smell of garlic and searing meat reached us along with the sound of Linda Ronstadt singing “You’re No Good.” Oz breathed in deeply. “Dinner.”
Dinner smelled awesome, but I wasn’t staying if I could possibly help it. We walked into a large bright kitchen done in a cappuccino brown and cream. Sun streamed in through a glass wall, highlighting the big center island, topped by a huge slab of blue and silver swirled granite. Calpurnia stood behind the island, opposite us with her back turned. Oz walked me to the island and then stopped, waiting patiently while she stared down into a pale blue Le Creuset Dutch oven, the big one.
Calpurnia might’ve had a deep voice, but she was no man. She wore a snug black lace dress with cap sleeves. There was a hot pink apron tied around her neck and narrow waist. The dress hugged her curves down to her shapely calves. Her thick, dark brown hair wound around the back of her head in a silky halo and her feet were bare. This was Calpurnia Fibonacci, the woman who saved my life. The woman many men feared and, if I went by the expression on Oz’s face, loved and respected. I felt a rush of gratitude to be on her good side. Whatever she asked of me, I would do it as long as it wasn’t too illegal. For the first time, I wasn’t sorry to owe such a woman. I had my life and it was proper to be grateful. I’d rather owe her than a man anyway.
“Do you like pizziola, Miss Watts?” asked Calpurnia in her throaty voice laced with a subtle Italian accent.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had it,” I said. “Smells great.”
Calpurnia turned, revealing a chiseled jawline and a hooked nose. She smiled at me over her shoulder with a mouth a bit too wide for her face and well-coated in ruby red lipstick. “I knew I’d like you.”
“Really? Why?” I asked.
“You aren’t afraid.”
“I was nervous.”
She raised an elegant eyebrow, thickened with a brow pencil. “No more?”
“No,” I said.
“Good. Now open that can of tomato paste for me.” She pointed to a small can on the counter beside her. I glanced at Oz and he shrugged. I found an opener in a drawer and opened the can, setting it closer to her.
“Oz, baby, come here,” said Calpurnia.
Oz went over dutifully. She kissed his tanned cheek and then rubbed away the ruby smudge with her thumb. “Go out and skim the pool for me. We’ve been invaded by grasshoppers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Oz nodded to me and left through a set of French doors in the glass wall.
Calpurnia got out a chipped platter and took four ribeye steaks out of the pot. They were seared to a rich reddish brown and made me involuntarily lick my lips.
“What do you think is on those?” she asked.
I channeled my inner Aaron. Aaron was my so-called investigating partner and a master cook. “Powdered garlic, salt, and pepper.”
“Very good.” She took the tomato paste and scooped it into the smoking pan, instantly caramelizing the paste. She worked it around the pot with a wooden spoon and added oregano and red pepper flakes. When the paste was a rusty orange, she lowered the heat and added a whole box of chicken stock.
“Any idea why you’re here?” asked Calpurnia.
“Not even a little bit.”
“I want you to do something for me.”
“Okay,” I said.
“That’s all you have to say?”
“Pretty much.”
She smiled at me. Her teeth were as white and even as her nephew’s. “That’s what I like to hear.” She went on to add salt and pepper to the pot, taste the mixture, and then add more. When she was satisfied, she put the steaks back in, poking them down with a wickedly sharp meat fork. I put the lid on for her and she put the pot in the oven, closing the door with her foot.
“Chianti?” Calpurnia asked.
“Yes, please.”
She uncorked a bottle, grabbed a couple glasses, and tucked a plain manila folder under her arm. We followed Oz’s path out the French doors to a stone patio made up of several levels. Winding sta
irs led down to the ice blue pool where, Oz was skimming the water with a long-handled net. We sat at a table covered with an ornate mosaic of a Roman villa.
I poured the Chianti, a Barberino Val d’Elsa vintage. Calpurnia swirled the lux red liquid in her crystal glass and breathed in the scent, closing her light brown eyes, before taking a sip. I followed suit because I didn’t know what else to do. She wasn’t in a hurry to get to the point and I definitely wasn’t in charge.
Oz yelled up, yanking us out of our silence. “Aunt Calpurnia, I’m going to check the water. It smells off.”
His aunt raised her glass and nodded before switching her warm, yet piercing gaze on me.
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.
“You may.”
“I thought the Fibonaccis had been in St. Louis for generations. Why do you have an Italian accent?”
She laughed, a surprisingly musical sound for her deep voice. “My mother was a great beauty with an even greater temper. When I was two, she decided my father had been unfaithful to her and took us to her family in Rome. He wasn’t able to bring us back to St. Louis until Cosmo and I were sixteen.”
“You didn’t see your father for fourteen years?”
“Oh no. He was a constant presence in our lives. My sister, Giada, Oz’s mother, was born in Rome. Papa couldn’t resist my mother. Few could.”
“Some women are like that,” I said.
Her eyes roved over my face. “It is an advantage. No?”
A smile broke out on my face despite my trying to suppress it. “It is.”
We laughed and sipped our fabulous wine under the constant glances of Oz, who checked the pool chemicals and rearranged the deck chairs.
“Miss Watts, does the name Angela Riley mean anything to you?”
I thought it over and said, “Sorry, no.”
Calpurnia opened the folder and gave me an eight by ten glossy photo of a family of five. The husband was a balding blond man in his thirties. The wife, also mid-thirties, was a pretty brunette with green eyes and a mass of curls. The children were also brunettes with shy smiles. The little girl was about six and the boys were older, maybe nine and ten.