by Anna Drake
"We went to Bella's Place for Gary's bachelor party," Stepich said. "The food was great."
Josh caught my gaze in the rearview mirror. "Is that okay with you?"
"It's fine,” I said. “If you turn left at the corner ahead and stay on Lafayette Street, the road will take you straight to the restaurant."
Josh nodded and hit the gas. We shot off into the darkening night.
A bank of clouds loomed off to our west. Lightning flickered in their upper reaches. Muted rumbles of thunder could be heard in the distance. We’d suffered a dry spring so far. I knew farmers would be eager for the rain. I only hoped the system would deliver a mild storm, not the kind that roars in with strong winds and damaging hail.
As Josh drove, I watched the town flit past the car window. Mostly filled with old homes, Cloverton’s population hovered just under twenty thousand. Clapboard houses were the norm, most of them built around the turn of the last century. An outbreak of brick ranch houses had arisen during the fifties and sixties. But today’s recent McMansions had bypassed us completely.
We were a quiet, gentle community where the biggest sport revolved around sticking our noses into each other’s business.
Returning my attention to inside the car, I discovered Josh and Tony in the front seat swapping life stories. "You know, I grew up in New York City," Stepich announced. "I couldn't imagine living in an isolated spot like this one." He twisted his head sideways to get a better look at me. "No offense meant."
"None taken,” I answered, barely managing to curb my wish to respond in kind. I’m sure I could have come up with a few well-chosen words about his home town, too. I sighed. “I know Cloverton's easier to put up with if you are raised here."
Living in Cloverton had been the biggest bone of contention between my college heartthrob and me. He’d informed me on breaking up that he’d find life in Cloverton to be like living in a snow globe — all shut off from the world and surrounded by drifting soap flakes. I would have laughed off his comment, except I understood the earnestness of his words.
"Anyway,” Stepich rushed on, “my family runs an import-export business." He chuckled. "After college, I sort of moved right in."
"Do you like the work?" Josh asked.
"Yeah. The job's interesting. The operation isn’t the kind of thing that would ever go over in this burg, though."
Somewhat offended on Cloverton’s behalf, I struggled to keep my tone neutral. "Well, of course we’re not exactly sitting next door to an ocean. That makes a difference, you must admit.”
"You're not next door to nothing," Stepich answered. He turned toward Josh. "How about you? Do you think you could live in a small town like this?"
"Actually, my mom was a Cloverton native," Josh said. "And I was already planning to stay on for a few days to get to know the area. Mother never talked much about the town she grew up in."
"The sooner I’m back to New York, the better. I was planning to fly home tomorrow. But now with Gary’s murder, I’ll be staying for the funeral."
"That's nice of you," I said.
"It’s not all my choice," Stepich replied. "That old goat of a cop pretty much made it clear he expects me to hang around. That is until he says it’s okay to leave. Can you imagine? He actually delivered that dreaded ‘don’t leave town’ speech to me."
"I'm sure Gary's parents will appreciate your staying on."
“Yeah, that's probably true. But you don’t know my dad. He expects me back home, pronto.”
“No, I don’t,” I replied, although I thought his father was probably no more demanding than mine. Not considering the new version of Dad I’d dealt with tonight.
Moving beyond Cloverton proper, we came to corn fields and the aging two-lane highway that carried traffic from the Interstate to town. Then, we rounded a curve and the bright lights of the popular restaurant came into view.
"Guess we’re here?" Josh asked me, giving his head a nod toward a glowing neon sign signaling Bella's Place.
“Yup. Well done. You’ve struck the target.”
Part truck stop, part upscale restaurant, Bella’s Place was hardly ever without customers. On this Saturday night its densely-packed parking lot was stuffed full of semis, SUVs, vans, passenger cars, and subcompacts. Bella’s Place drew an interesting mix of locals, tourists, and truckers. The food was good, the ambiance upbeat.
"And just wait till you meet Bella," Stepich said.
THREE
In a conservative, rural area like this one, people usually try to blend in with their surroundings, but Bella Gravits failed to view life that way. Her bright red hair came straight out of a bottle. Her nails were long enough to make a Chinese emperor swoon. And her clothes recalled a more dramatic age. Bella was, in short, a widely recognized county landmark, who would remain so whether she owned this singular restaurant or not.
She was also the fourth generation member of the Gioratelli family to run the business. The place had begun life as a speakeasy during Prohibition. Local matrons had protested its operation then. One even went so far as to chain herself to a nearby tree. But the restaurant flourished anyway and moved on to become the popular eatery it was today.
Go figure.
"Well Melanie," Bella said as she studied my two companions, "Aren't you going to introduce us?" She hiked a sagging shawl onto her bony shoulder and gave my companions a welcoming grin.
I did the honors. Bella in turn offered each man a hand. Her gaze fell on Stepich. She gave him an exaggerated wink. "I remember you from the bachelor party. That was some performance, my friend."
His face flushed a vivid shade of red.
Meanwhile, I wondered what kind of behavior had triggered that reaction?
She turned to face Devon, her gaze giving him an intense once over. “I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”
He laughed. “That’s probably because it’s my first visit to your fair eatery.”
“Our treat then. Make sure you come again.”
Bella raised a hand heavy with jewels and summoned her son to escort us to a table.
Lots of people said Jimmy Gravits was a mirror image of the restaurant’s famous founder. Even at somewhere around forty, his barrel-chested build, dark, curly hair, and strong facial features were all said to link him directly to his gin-running and liquor swilling great–great grandfather — or so the old-timers said.
“Good evening,” He crooned.. “Delighted you would join us for dinner.”
With his dark looks and bad-boy attitude, I could almost picture this man making nice with a mobster or two. Not that there were any of those around — not here. Guys like that, I suspected, had mostly transformed themselves into respectable businessmen. And I supposed they now looked much like this man.
Our escort turned and led us us through the crowded restaurant. The place sported rustic decor with wooden tables and chairs and aged Chianti bottles stuffed with candles. The decorations managed to suggest the restaurant’s roadhouse origin. Still, the room’s ambiance was warm, the scents from the kitchen heady, and around us cutlery clinked comfortingly against china plates.
Devon’s glance flitted across the room. “Where are all the truckers?”
Not wanting to offend our host, I leaned in close. “They have a separate dining room behind this one. From what I hear, they prefer it that way. Keeps them away from the riff-raff like us. Plus, their orders take preference over ours.”
Truckers were a boon to Bella’s business, and it was said she spared no effort to express her gratitude for their patronage.
Our host seated us at a table with a flourish. He handed round the menus and told us our waitress would join us shortly. She arrived soon after we were seated and collected our drink orders.
I opted for coffee. The guys went with beer. The young waitress gave us a nod. “Back in a jiffy.” Her blonde ponytail bounced along behind her as she scooted to the bar.
Stepich glanced at each of us in turn. “The ste
aks here are outstanding. Juicy and thick.”
Devon slapped his menu closed and stacked it on top of is companion’s. “Sounds good to me.”
I don't know why I bothered to check my menu. I always ordered fried chicken at Bella’s. It was the one dish Dad had never mastered. He didn’t like fussing much with hot oil, while Bella made the best fried chicken to be had within a hundred miles.
The drinks arrived. Our dinner orders went into the kitchen. We settled back in our chairs.
“Bella’s quite the star, all right,” Devon said. His glance took in the room around us. “She seems a bit of an odd fit for a town like Cloverton.”
I lifted my coffee cup and shared the family's claim to fame. “Apparently, drama runs in their blood. Bella's the great-granddaughter of the original owner, Jimmy Gioratelli. He was rumored to be a personal friend of Al Capone.”
Wow," Stepich said. “Ties to Capone, no less. And the operation stayed in family hands for all these years? That's really something.”
"It's not that rare. As you’ve probably heard, my father owns the newspaper. The Gazette was launched in the late 1850s. Dad and I are direct descendants from the founder. As a matter of fact many of the farmers here worked land bought by their ancestors back then as well."
Stepich displayed a cocky grin. "Yeah, well we New Yorkers go back to the 1630s at least.
Devon looked amused. "Early comers, are you? What about native Americans? I think they might predate you by a bit.”
"Okay, I guess you have a point. My family didn't actually plant our feet on these shores until the early 1900s. But our arrival has served us well — especially me. After graduation I moved right into the family’s business. I’m a little like you,” he said, raising his glass in a salute to me.
I felt my face flush. Being the only reporter in a shop owned by my father didn’t necessarily speak well for my journalistic skills. But someday, Dad expected me to take over the paper. My wish to do so was why I’d been so determined to move back home after college. Still, I had to believe the work I did at the newspaper was worthy. That was another reason being pulled off the murder story hurt so badly. I was missing out on an opportunity to prove myself.
Thankfully, Josh and Stepich shifted to business discussions for a while. Then, our food showed up. We all tucked in. The chicken looked and tasted and smelled as good as ever, but I struggled with my appetite. Thoughts of Gary’s body among the roses kept flitting through my mind.
Nearing the end of our meal, Josh paused with a forkful of beef halfway to his mouth. He studied Stepich. “So, can you think of any reason for Gary to have been killed?”
I leaned forward in my chair, eager to hear the answer.
Stepich fingered his beer glass briefly before responding. “I don’t have any ideas to explain what happened. Gary was one of the good guys. We teamed up in college. Stayed in touch all this time. I can’t believe someone as nice as Gary got himself murdered.”
I dropped a French fry I’d been holding back onto my plate and wiped my finger with a napkin. “I can come up with a long list of candidates who might have deserved such a fate. But Gary certainly wouldn’t be among their number.”
“I hear he was working in his father’s bank,” Josh said.
“Yes,” I answered. “His dad was so proud. I guess in that way Gary and I were alike. We both felt committed to the family business. Still, I can’t see what working at a bank would have to do with being murdered.”
“Could he have made enemies there?”
I shrugged. “How would he do that?”
Josh’s brows lowered. “Maybe he turned down a loan application? Denied somebody credit?”
“Those are rather routine actions for a bank executive, and nobody seems to have wiped the others in those kinds of positions out.”
Josh’s expression became even more perplexed. “Was there something in his personal life that might have ticked someone off?”
“I doubt it,” I replied. “Gary was an honorable person. He treated everyone he met with respect.”
Stepich spoke up. “Besides, the two of us were tight. If Gary was worried over something, he would have told me.”
“Did he make friends easily?” Josh asked.
I bit back a grin. “Are you planning to investigate Gary’s murder?”
No wonder Josh hadn’t invited Ginger to this little session.
Josh grinned. “Not at all. I’m just trying to figure out what went so wrong in Gary’s life that somebody killed him.”
Stepich wiped his chin with his napkin before answering. “I don’t know about his friends here, so much. But he was good with the people at college. He almost never hacked anyone off. Plus, he kept a low profile and minded his own business.”
“In short,” Josh chimed in, “Gary was a saint. Right?”
“I don’t know about that,” Stepich replied. “I’ve never met one.”
Nearing the end of our outing now, I turned the conversation to my major interest. “Tell me," I said, leaning confidentially toward Stepich. "Do you know why Gary left the church so close to the start of the wedding?"
“Yeah." Stepich signaled the waitress and pointed to his beer glass. "He got a phone call. After disconnecting, he took off nearly running down the aisle and out the door."
I put down my napkin, eager to learn more. "Did he say what the caller wanted?"
Stepich shook his head. "Gary said not one word to me. He just took the call and ran for the door at full tilt. Obviously, he was real hopped up over something. His face was beet red.”
Josh returned his beer glass to the table. "You didn't try to stop him?"
"Hey, I was his best man, not his mother. In hindsight, of course… I wish I had."
"You have no idea who the caller was?" I asked.
"Nope. As I said, Gary didn't say word one. He just left me standing there.”
“What time did the call come in?” Josh asked.
Stepich shrugged. “I never checked my watch. We got to the church way early. The call might have happened as soon as a half hour before the shindig was due to kick in.”
"Was Gary nervous before the call?" I pressed.
Stepich gave me a disbelieving look. "Well, sure. He was about to tie the knot, you know? Why wouldn't he be on edge? I can tell you I would be."
I listened to this man's words and wondered how Gary, or at least the Gary I knew, could have selected Stepich as his best man?
Still, even given that weakness, Gary as a murder victim made no sense to me.
Maybe Ginger had been right. Maybe the two of us should do what we could to help unravel this mess.
I’d seen Cordelia. She was reeling. Someone needed to hunt down the killer quickly. A speedy resolution to Gary’s death might help her move past her trauma, or at least that’s what I told myself. If Ginger and I could hurry along the investigation, maybe we should get involved. And what had earlier today seemed a lunatic idea, now appealed to me.
I needed to get back in touch with Ginger, pronto.
FOUR
Ginger turned out to be as accessible as I’d hoped she'd be. Within twenty minutes of being dropped off home, I was at her place. She lived on Elm Street in a 1960s ranch house. Ginger might pursue dreams of conquering every available man, but when she turned her mind to the business aspects of life, she could be frighteningly practical.
Now, she opened the front door of her home and welcomed me inside. She wore jeans and a T-shirt, but her hair still bore the marks of the special arrangement she’d had done up for the wedding. It had been elegant and gorgeous like the woman whose head it topped. But now parts of it had somehow slipped a bit sideways. A hymn to the trauma we’d endured on this frightful day, I ruefully thought.
“Follow me,” she said as she lit out for the kitchen at a fast clip.
The living room she led me through was modern and sleek and looked barely lived in. Everything in the room was useful and tasteful and appeared
to have cost her top dollar. Colors were crisp. The atmosphere formal. Ushering me into the kitchen now, she nodded toward a chair, and I sat
Copper highlights from the overhead lighting glinted off her messy tresses. Dark circles showed beneath her hazel eyes. I doubted she’d gotten any rest since I last saw her. But then for that matter, neither had I.
“Just think,” she said, “if things had gone as planned tonight, we'd be dancing and dining and having a blast. Instead, we're moping around here.” She glanced about the space, her face a vision of distaste. She returned her attention to her duties and poured us each a coffee. “Anyway, what’s up?” she asked setting a mug in front of me.
“I think you might have had a valid point earlier.”
“About what?” Ginger asked, sinking into her seat.
“About our investigating Gary’s murder.”
Her face broke into a happy grin. Her expression was so infectious, I even found myself smiling in return.
She lifted her coffee mug and toasted us. “Oh, goody. You and me working together. This is going to be a blast.”
“That’s hardly how I’d describe it. Gary’s dead. There’s a killer on the loose. This is serious business we’re about to embark on.”
My friend’s brows drew into a puzzled frown. “So, why the change of heart?”
I expelled a lungful of air. “I stopped by Cordelia’s house on the way home from the church. She’s in a world of pain.”
Ginger scoffed. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know.”
“Then, when I had dinner with Josh and Tony Stepich tonight, I realized Gary’s death really does revolve around our world, the people we know. Gossford’s a good lawman….” Ginger opened her mouth to protest. I raised a hand to cut her off. “But as you noted, he’s at least thirty years older than we are. He doesn’t understand us or our friends or our ins and outs. Now, do you want to know what I learned?”
She nodded. “Do I!”
“Apparently, Stepich misbehaved somehow at the bachelor party.”