I stood next to my front door and pushed aside the sheer curtain that covered the narrow windows adjacent to it, peering through and hoping the person ringing the bell didn’t see me.
Unless she had eyes in the back of her head, she didn’t. The petite, dark-haired woman standing on my front porch had her back to me as she glanced around her. One hand was on the small of her back, rubbing as though it ached. The other leaned against the side of the house. She didn’t seem like a threat, so I turned the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Oh, thank God. I was afraid you weren’t here, and you’re my last delivery of the day.” She arched her back, facing me fully, revealing a very round pregnancy bump. “My feet are killing me. I know it’s late, but this one just came in, and all my boys had left for the night. I could’ve called one of them back, but I saw the address, and you’re right on my way home. So I decided to just make the drop myself.”
She bent over, lifted a white and red cooler and handed it to me. “Here you go. Ms. Reilly? Mrs. Reilly?”
I took the box automatically while my brain tried to catch up. “I—um—”
“My name’s Nichelle DeWare. I own the company that’ll be delivering for you. I got your paperwork right here.” She twisted a little and dug into the big black leather bag that hung from her shoulder. “It was all set up for you, but you’ll need to confirm a few things and set up times and so on. It’s easy enough, and if you’d rather do it online, the website is on the cover page. I highlighted it.”
I finally found my voice. “I think there’s a mistake. I’m not expecting a delivery, and I’m not Ms. Reilly.” My heart sunk; so was there a Mrs. Reilly after all? Did Lucas have a wife?
“No, I’m sure that’s right.” Nichelle rubbed her belly as she squinted at the paper in her hand. “L. Reilly, it says right here. 3505 Mitchell Terrace. One cooler, twice a week. O negative.”
My mind tripped over all information pouring in. “No, see, this is 3503.” I pointed over her shoulder to the faded number on the front of my garage. “My name isn’t Reilly. But my new neighbor, right over there next door, is Lucas Reilly. I bet that’s who you want.”
The woman struck her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Oh my God, I’m an idiot.” She peered up at me through the dimness of my porch light. “Do you have kids?”
“Uh. . .” This question felt oddly random, but on the other hand, nothing had made sense since I’d opened the front door. “No, I don’t.”
Nichelle nodded. “See, what happens is, you get pregnancy brain, and you lose brain cells. No one tells you this when you’re thinking of the cute little bundle, but it’s the truth.” She sighed, heavily, and shook her head. “I got two other kids at home. They’re two and four, and I love them like mad, but I’m telling you, they suck it all away. I’m seven months along with this one, and it’s only getting worse.”
I had no idea how to respond to this. “I’m sorry?”
“No, I’m sorry for bothering you.” She pointed at Lucas’s house. “So that’s where Mr. Reilly lives?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure he’s home. The house has been dark all night.” I spoke without thinking again, and I wanted to bite off my tongue. Not that I’d been watching or anything.
But Nichelle didn’t seem to notice. “Well, crud. He was expecting this delivery so you’d think. . .” She turned back to look at me again. “See, that’s another thing. I used to be able swear with the best of them. I had a potty mouth that got me almost kicked out of high school ‘cause I couldn’t rein it in. But I had a kid, and suddenly shit, damn and hell become crud, dang and heck.” She flashed me a wide smile. “But you don’t have kids, and it’s just us grown-ups here, so what the fuck, right? This guy needs to get his shit together, because I can’t just leave the cooler on his step. That’s not how this works. Damn men, you know? They just think the world revolves around them.”
“Yeah, I guess. He knew you were coming?” I leaned out and peered around her.
“Well, not me, in particular, but he’d be waiting for a delivery.” Her eyes narrowed as she followed my gaze. “Maybe he’s just sitting in the dark? Or—oh, look. A light just went on.” She bent over, letting out a soft groan as she gripped the cooler again. “So I’m sorry for disturbing your night, um. . .” She trailed off, question in her tone.
“Jackie. I’m Jackie O’Brien.”
“Okay, nice to meet you, Jackie O’Brien.” She cocked her head and stared at me. “You wouldn’t by any chance be the same Jackie O’Brien who writes for Food International, would you?”
I’d never met anyone outside the magazine and my family or friends who recognized my name. “Yeah, I am.”
Nichelle’s mouth dropped. “Oh my GOD. I read your column every week. I never buy a cookbook you haven’t reviewed. Okay, well, mostly I just like to read about you cooking, because you’re funny as hell, you know? Wow. You’re Jackie O’Brien.”
I couldn’t hide my grin. “Thanks so much. You have no idea how much this means.” Inspiration struck me. “Hey, do you want a cookbook? Do you like to cook?”
“Yeah, I love it. That’s why I follow you. Hell, yeah, I want a cookbook. Will you sign it?”
I had already turned around to pick up the book. “Sure, but you know I didn’t write the book, right?” I held up Feeling French and Frisky on the Cheap. “But I’ll be reviewing a recipe from this book next week in my column.”
“Oh my God, how cool is that. Yeah, I still want you to sign it.” She watched me fumble for a pen. “It’s Nichelle, like Michelle but with an N. Okay?”
I scrawled a brief inscription. “Here you go. And thanks for being a reader. Now and then I wonder if anyone’s following.”
She held up her right hand as though she were taking an oath. “Never miss a week, and I tell all my friends. And my mom reads you, too. Oh my God, they’re going to die when they hear I met the Jackie O’Brien. Hand to God.” She glanced over to Lucas’s house. “I guess I better go make that delivery, but thanks so much for this.” She lifted the book. “I can’t wait to read what you made.”
“It was nice to meet you.”
“Oh, and hey. If you could. . .just forget about what I said, about the delivery and everything, okay? We’re big on discretion. Our clients can be kind of funny about any of their business getting out. I have no idea what happens after I leave. None of mine, you know? But I can’t afford for any of them to get jumpy and start canceling on me.”
“Sure. Of course, I understand. Never happened.” I made a zipper motion across my mouth.
“Awesome. Okay, catch you later. Thanks again.”
I waved as she stalked back down my front walk and cut across the grass. For a pregnant lady, she moved pretty fast.
“Well, if that wasn’t weirdest thing I’ve ever heard, it’s got to be in the top five.” Talking to myself was a bad habit, but at least most of the time I could pretend I was really talking to the dog. I looked down at him, still sacked out. “Glad you jumped up to protect me, oh fearless one.”
He didn’t even stir.
***
AFTER I CLOSED the front door behind Nichelle, I turned off all the lights in my living room, sat down on the sofa in the dark and watched the house next door. Nichelle knocked on Lucas’s door, and moments after he opened it, spilling light onto the porch, she disappeared inside.
I didn’t move, but my mind was shouting. She’d said O negative. That had to be blood, right? So she was delivering blood? Who knew there was such a thing? And why in the hell did Lucas need blood? It supported my tragic-illness theory, though I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard of even the sickest patients requiring blood that often. And wouldn’t he have to have a medical professional give him a transfusion if he needed it?
About ten minutes after Nichelle went inside, the door opened again. She tossed a quick wave over her shoulder and stomped toward her car, which was still parked at the curb in front of my house. As she climbed in and started i
t up, Lucas leaned outside. He looked over toward my house, and I froze; it was impossible, but it felt as though he could see me across the yard and through my window.
A shiver ran down my spine. Maybe it wasn’t really blood. If Leesa’s witness protection theory were accurate, what if Nichelle was actually some kind of messenger, and I’d accidentally intercepted the package? Was O negative code? But that was crazy. Nichelle was seven months pregnant. She was the least likely candidate for a government agent. Or maybe that was the point.
Lucas stared for a few more moments before he stepped back inside and closed the door. The light on the porch went out, leaving our block in velvet darkness.
When I felt like it was safe to move, I checked the locks on the front and back doors, scooped up Makani and took him into my bedroom. And I’m not ashamed to say I locked that door, too, and kept one light burning all night.
The next morning, everything that had terrified me the night before seemed silly. There had to be a perfectly rational explanation for Nichelle and her delivery. She hadn’t exactly come out and said she had blood in the cooler; I had inferred that, and I must’ve misunderstood. Or maybe there was a simple answer; the blood was needed for transfusions and they delivered it directly, but then a nurse would come and set it up. Or maybe she hadn’t even said O negative.
I walked around muttering the two words to myself. “O negative. Ah nagative. Ah neg. Aneg ateeve.” I couldn’t come up with a single phrase that matched that one and actually meant something.
I kept a surreptitious eye on the house next door, but I didn’t see Lucas or any visitors all morning. It was quiet.
At noon, I sat down and gave myself a stern talking-to. “Jackie, you’re making a big deal about nothing. And you know why you’re doing this? Because you have no life. No life. You’re turning a new neighbor who, okay, might be a little odd, into a tragic hero or some kind of criminal. He’s just a guy. Just guy who moved down here into his aunt’s house. People probably thought it was weird when you moved into Nana’s house, too. Well, maybe not so much since you took care of her here for a year before she died, but still. Now get your ass in gear and go somewhere. Get out, go see people, act like you’re normal.”
I decided I’d given myself good advice. I crated Makani, grabbed my keys and got in the car, not even sparing one glance next door. Or not much of one, at least. Since my stomach was growling, my first stop was Leone’s, the old diner at the corner just outside our development.
Alfonso Leone and my Nana had been good friends since she’d moved to Florida. He was old-school Italian, with the charm and class that captivated all women from the age of two to ninety-eight. I’d fallen in love with him the minute Nana introduced us, and if he wasn’t fifty years older than me, I knew we’d be making love in Venice even now. He’d been with me when my grandmother passed in the middle of the night before my parents could get there. He’d held my hand during the bleak days that followed, and he was one of the main reasons I’d chosen to stay in Florida.
The bell rang over the door, and the heads of six customers sitting at the counter swiveled toward me in unison. Al was standing just outside the swinging kitchen door, talking to one of the waitresses. He caught sight of me, and his smile bloomed.
“Cara mia! Buon pomeriggio. You here for lunch, sweetheart?”
I took a deep, appreciative sniff. “I could smell your pomodoro all the way from my front door, Al. I’m in the mood for some pasta.”
He pointed to my regular booth, empty and waiting for me. “Sit down. I fix you right up.” Al leaned into the kitchen and spouted off a string of Italian too fast for me to translate, but I caught the words capellini and veloce. He moved with agility that belied his eighty years as he filled a goblet with ice and water, adding a wedge of lime and a straw before he brought it to me. He slid into the seat across the table.
“So, what’s wrong, tesoro? I can see it in your eyes. You’re troubled. Is it the new man?”
I gaped at him. “What new man? What do you know?”
He flipped his hand, shaking his head. “Does not matter.” When I tilted my head and stared, waiting, he sighed. “All right. You pull it out of me. Anna was in this morning with her card-playing group. They were talking about the new man who moved in next to you, and how maybe the two of you, eh, you know. . .” He waggled his eyebrows. “At last maybe you find the right one.”
I slumped back on the padded bench. Mrs. Mac and her big mouth. “Really? You, too? I’m beginning to think you’ve all been looking at me like a lost cause, and I didn’t even know it. The first eligible guy comes along, and you’re ready to send me down the aisle.”
“No, no. We just want you to be happy. I want you to be happy. To have what I did with my Elisabett, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself, and instinctively I did the same. I’d never met his late wife, since she’d passed away long before even Nana had moved down here, but I’d seen pictures and heard stories enough to know that she’d been the love of his life.
I rested my chin on my hands. “Maybe not everyone is cut out to have that, Al. Maybe some people are meant to be on their own. Fend for themselves.”
He humphed. “Maybe some people, but not you. You have so much joy to give, cara. I see you with people. You bring the sunshine, yes? You need someone to share that with. Someone so you won’t always be so alone.”
“I’m not lonely. I have you, and Mrs. Mac, and all the people in the community. And Leesa and my parents and Bret and Tim, too.” My older brothers both lived within ten minutes of the house where we’d grown up. “I mean, yeah, I don’t see them that much, but still, we talk. I’m not a hermit.”
“No one is saying you are, sweetheart, but. . .ah! Here is your food. Thank you, Mary.”
We both lapsed into silence as the waitress arranged a small green salad and a plate overflowing with angel hair and red sauce. Mary smiled at me and patted my shoulder as she left, making me wonder if she’d been in on the poor-Jackie conversation earlier, too.
“Eat now, we’ll talk later.” Al began to rise, and I reached across to lay a hand on his arm.
“No, don’t go. I didn’t mean to jump on you. It’s just that you’re not the first person in the last few days to say I need to get a life.”
“We worry. Everyone loves you, and all your friends and family want to see you happy.” Before it’s too late was the part he left off, although it hung in the air between us.
“I appreciate that.” I twirled a healthy bite of pasta around my fork. “But just because a man moves into the neighborhood doesn’t mean he’s the one for me.” I closed my eyes and hummed a little as I lifted the fork to my mouth. “Oh, Al. This is like heaven.”
“Of course it is. Someday, when you write my cookbook for me, that’s what we’ll call it. Food Like Heaven, yes?”
I nodded. “That’s a perfect title. We need to jump on that. I can’t keep reviewing other people’s cookbooks when there’s one just begging to be written, right?”
“Yes, and so much better than the others. I just read your column from last week. The book was called Pasta for a Pittance. Why do people write such nonsense? Food is the ultimate luxury. Even if you can’t afford much, you can make a meal so good, it transports you.”
“I wish you’d write that down. It could be our introduction to the cookbook.” I took a sip of water. “We really need to get serious about this, Al. Just think of how huge it’s going to be.”
“Yes!” He smacked the edge of the table with his hand. “Let’s make a plan. When does it work for you? Maybe we can start meeting in the afternoon, after the lunch rush but before dinner. Would that be okay?”
“That would be perfect.” I pushed aside my plate and dug into the salad. “So what did Mrs. Mac tell you about Lucas?”
He smiled. “Nothing much. Just that he was younger, closer to your age. And that you ran over to meet him yesterday, dressed in your night clothes.” Al’s grin broadened, which told me he kn
ew the truth and was choosing to tease me.
“Yup. Nothing on but a smile. Hey, if I’m going to catch a man, I need to pull out all the stops, right?” I bit into a tomato, and the juice spurted out, staining the white paper napkin on the table. It looked like a blood spatter pattern. Which reminded me. . .
“Al, do you know anything about the mob?”
His thick white eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “What?! Why would you ask me such a thing?”
“I just had some questions.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m not saying you’re connected with the mafia, but you know things. You knew a lot of people when you still lived up north.”
“Everyone knows people. If you lived where I did, you knew someone who was connected. But you don’t talk about it.” He thumped at his chest. “I don’t talk about it.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not asking you to do an exposé, Al. I just wanted to pick your brain.”
He sat back and closed his eyes, exhaling. “All right. Ask.”
I glanced around us. The lunch crowd, already sparse since it was later, had dwindled to almost nothing. Still, I hunched my shoulders as I spoke. I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. “If someone was in witness protection, hiding out from the mob, how would the government contact them? Would they maybe use a messenger? Or do they just call people?”
Al wrinkled his forehead. “Why are you asking me about this? Are you in trouble?”
“No, not me.” I folded my napkin, hiding the blood-red tomato stain. “Lucas. The new guy next door. He’s. . .there’s something odd, Al. I know I only met him yesterday, and maybe I’m being dramatic and crazy, but it’s just weird. He seems like he’s afraid of something.” I fiddled with the fork resting on the edge of my plate. “And then last night, this chick came over with a delivery. She came to my house by mistake, and when she realized it, she asked me to keep it on the down low.”
Al spread his hands, shrugging. “Maybe it was something private. People are funny about their business, cara. Sometimes there are secrets, and it is better that they stay buried. Secrets that could only hurt other people.” He looked down at the table, at his hands. “All of what you told me doesn’t mean this man is a mob informant. There are a million other answers.” His eyes narrowed. “Is he Italian?”
Death Fricassee Page 4