by Peg Cochran
Lucille didn’t know about the Greeks, but she sure knew her Italian food—pasta, pizza, calzones, chicken parmigiana, cannoli. She knew she could manage this diet just fine. She wouldn’t even have to give up much—the occasional hamburger she ordered at the Old Glory and that last bit of pumpkin pie left over from Thanksgiving.
It took three tries for Lucille to get the Olds started. Finally it turned over. She plugged in her tape of Little Richard singing “Lucille” and backed down the driveway.
There were a number of cars in the church parking lot when Lucille pulled in. Today was the last day of the novena of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal of the Immaculate Conception and Father Brennan would be conducting a Mass after.
Lucille parked closest to the rectory. The wind had picked up even more, and she didn’t want to have to walk too far.
Jeanette was in the office when Lucille got there. She gave Lucille a look and glanced pointedly at her watch—something she did every time Lucille walked in no matter if she was late or early.
Lucille ignored her and went to her desk. A stack of filing teetered precariously in her in-box. She took the first batch over to the filing cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer. Sheesh, it was getting harder and harder to bend over. Besides, her stomach was in the way. She’d better start that Mediterranean diet today. She could make turkey tetrazzini for dinner with the leftover meat from Thanksgiving. She wasn’t sure if Italians ate that dish or not, but the name was Italian so it ought to be okay.
“How’s your daughter?”
Jeanette was staring at Lucille when Lucille straightened up.
Lucille used to hate when people asked about Bernadette—what do you tell them when your daughter is pregnant, not married and doesn’t have a job? But Bernadette was married now so that was okay.
“She’s real good,” Lucille said with a smile. “She took a bookkeeping course on the computer and got some kind of certificate.”
Lucille still couldn’t believe Bernadette had shown so much get-up-and-go, especially seeing as how she’d flunked out of community college.
“Oh?” Jeanette said, surprised.
Lucille felt smug for a moment and then said a quick prayer to St. Joseph the Worker, patron saint of humility.
“Yeah. Her father and I are real proud of her. And she’s got a job now, too, working part-time.”
Jeanette’s eyebrows went up.
Lucille stood up a little straighter. “She’s the bookkeeper over at the Napoleon Club on Route 10. I’ve never been there, but I imagine it’s a pretty exclusive place. One of them country clubs, you know.”
She tried to look nonchalant, but it was hard. Jeanette had been putting her down since day one on the job. She did it real subtle like, but Lucille wasn’t fooled.
“That’s nice,” Jeanette said, and Lucille could tell the words stuck in her mouth.
She went back to her filing with a feeling of triumph. She didn’t tell Jeanette, or anyone else for that matter, that she was amazed at the transformation in Bernadette. She just hoped it lasted.
By the time Lucille finished her filing, her back and feet ached.
“Could you go check on the church,” Jeanette said as Lucille was about to sit down. “The Mass should be over soon and Father Brennan doesn’t like it when the hymnals are left out on the pews.”
Lucille sighed. She didn’t want to go back out in the cold. She pulled on her leather jacket and headed for the door. The wind hit her in the face as soon as she pulled it open. She looked up at the sky as she made her way across the parking lot. It looked like snow. Winter was coming early this year.
The same cars were still in the parking lot so Lucille figured Mass wasn’t over yet. She would slip into the vestibule and wait there. Anything to get out of this cold.
Lucille spotted Louis’s car parked in the front row half in and half out of a handicapped space. It looked like quitting drinking hadn’t improved his parking none.
As Lucille approached the church, she noticed the right rear tire on Louis’s Impala looked a little flat. He’d have to go over to the Shell Station on Morris Avenue to fill it up. They didn’t charge for air there. Lucille couldn’t understand how a gas station could get away with charging for air. Air was free to breathe—it was all around you all the time. Why should you have to put a couple quarters in that machine in order to get air? It didn’t cost the station nothing.
As Lucille got closer to the Impala, she thought she saw someone sitting in the driver’s seat. It looked like Louis hadn’t gone into church for the Mass but had stayed in the car. He must have dropped Millie off for the novena. Lucille figured she’d go over and say hello. Maybe she could find out more about that lady friend of his.
Lucille went up to the car thinking she’d catch Louis’s eye, but he didn’t move. His head had dropped back against the headrest and his eyes were closed. Looked like he was having a good nap, Lucille thought. She hated to wake him, but Millie was probably going to come out of church any minute now anyway.
“Yoo-hoo,” she called as she approached.
Louis had the window open—he must have been having a smoke and then fell asleep without closing it again. Good thing he hadn’t burned up the car the way he’d set fire to the house he and Millie had been renting.
“Louis,” Lucille called again. She waited, expecting Louis to startle awake any second, but he didn’t. Maybe he’d had a heart attack or something? “Louis, are you okay? Wake up.”
She was about to shake him by the shoulder when she noticed the bullet hole in the side of his head and the trickle of blood going down his cheek and disappearing under the collar of his overcoat.
Lucille began to scream.
Chapter 3
Lucille yanked open the door to the Impala. Maybe Louis wasn’t dead. Maybe she could do that CPR stuff like she’d seen on TV. They said it was real easy. You didn’t even have to blow in the person’s mouth no more—just pound them on the chest.
Louis slid sideways in his seat, nearly tumbling out of the car. Lucille put both hands against his shoulders and shoved him upright. What was she going to do? She didn’t have no cell phone—she’d dropped the one Frankie had insisted on buying her in the toilet. And good riddance to it, she thought. It was too complicated—it even took pictures. If she wanted to take a picture she’d buy herself a camera.
She let go of Louis but he started to slide sideways again. Maybe she could shut the door and run back to the church to get help. But she didn’t want Millie coming out of church and finding her brother dead with a bullet hole in his head.
Before she could move, the doors to the church flew open and organ music drifted out. It swelled to a crescendo and then trickled off. People began meandering out of the church—some stopping on the steps to chat.
A woman headed toward Lucille and the Impala. She was leaning heavily on a cane. Lucille called to her. “Can you give me a hand here?”
The woman looked in Lucille’s direction and then stopped abruptly. She caught sight of Louis and began to scream.
Father Brennan must have heard because he came rushing out of the church. His heel caught on the hem of his cassock and he nearly tumbled down the steps. Lucille held her breath as he flailed his arms in the air trying to catch his balance.
He finally righted himself and hurried over to where the woman stood. She was no longer screaming, but her face had gone so white Lucille was afraid she was going to faint. She sent up a quick prayer to St. Valentine, patron saint against fainting.
“What’s going on?” Father Brennan asked, putting his arm around the woman’s shoulder and glaring at Lucille.
Lucille glared back. It wasn’t her fault she found cousin Louis dead in his own car.
“I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
The wind blew Father Brennan’s hair, and Lucille noticed his bald spot had gotten bigger. Everything felt surreal—like she was in some kind of slow-motion movie. Father Brennan helped t
he woman to her car, where Lucille could hear him telling her to sit and wait for the police.
“Is that Louis?” Father Brennan asked when he returned. He peered at Louis’s head. “Is that a gunshot wound?”
“Yeah. And do you want to give me a hand here?” Lucille was still propping Louis up to keep him from sliding out of the car to the ground.
“Let me call the police first.” Father Brennan pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in some numbers. “They’re on the way,” he said, ending the call.
Minutes later the first patrol car barreled into the parking lot and skidded to a stop near where the Impala was parked. Two policemen jumped out.
Lucille squinted at them. She didn’t recognize either one of them. She was relieved that Gabe hadn’t been on duty, although it would have been nice to see a familiar face. She was beginning to feel a little wobbly. A nice piece of cake would help—she needed something with a little sugar in it to perk her up.
One of the officers started to walk back toward his car.
“Want to give me a little help here?” Lucille was still holding Louis upright and she was getting tired.
The officer traded places with her, and Lucille rolled her shoulders, flexed her hands and pulled down her top.
The second officer was walking back toward them with a roll of black-and-yellow crime tape in his hand.
“Sambucco’s on his way,” he muttered to his partner.
Lucille wanted to groan. What was Richie going to think—her finding another body like this?
Father Brennan was standing slightly apart, his hands clasped in prayer, his lips moving silently. The one officer who was propping Louis up pushed on him slightly in an effort to get the body to stay upright.
“Don’t move anything,” the other officer snapped. “Sambucco will kill you. Remember what happened last time?”
“Yeah, but I can’t stand here forever holding up a corpse.”
It wasn’t a corpse, it was cousin Louis, Lucille wanted to shout. She felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Louis was family. So what if he had lost all the money his parents had left to him and his sister, leaving them with nothing to live on—you didn’t turn your back on family.
“Are you okay, Lucille?” Father Brennan put a hand on Lucille’s arm.
“Yeah, I’ll be okay. It’s the shock. Maybe if I could get something to eat.” She’d start her diet tomorrow, Lucille decided. No one could be expected to diet under these circumstances. She’d dash into the A&P and grab a coffee cake. It wouldn’t count—it was medicinal. Besides, the way her heart was beating in her chest, she must be burning tons of calories.
“I’m afraid you can’t leave the scene,” the officer stringing up the tape said. “Not till Detective Sambucco says it’s okay.”
“Yeah? Well, I hope he gets here soon. On account of I’m about to faint.”
The officer looked at Lucille in alarm, but then his head swiveled to the entrance to the parking lot, where they could hear the purr of a car’s engine.
“He’s here now,” the officer said with a look of relief as Sambucco pulled up in back of Louis’s Impala with a sharp squeal of his brakes.
He took his time getting out of the car—adjusting his leather jacket and pulling up his collar before sauntering over to where Lucille and the other cops were standing.
“So,” he said when he finally reached them. “What have we got here?” He transferred the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other. “Another dead body?” He looked at Lucille. “You some kind of Typhoid Mary?
Lucille bristled. “It’s not a dead body, it’s cousin Louis.”
Sambucco whistled. “Poor bastard.” He examined the corpse carefully, chewing thoughtfully on the toothpick. He pointed to Louis’s head. “Looks like a hit.”
Lucille was confused. “Hit?” She wondered if Richie was losing his touch. “No one hit him. They shot him.”
Sambucco sighed. “I meant a hit like when the mob hires a gunman to kill someone.”
“No!” Lucille exclaimed. “No one would want to kill cousin Louis.”
“Someone did kill him,” Sambucco pointed out. “And they must have had a reason. This doesn’t look like a bullet gone astray.”
Lucille heard footsteps approaching and turned around. Millie had come out of church and was staring at the car.
She began to scream.
Chapter 4
“I can’t find my black shoes,” Frankie yelled down the stairs.
“Did you look under the bed?” Lucille yelled back. “Hurry up. Louis’s funeral is in half an hour and I still have to drop the lasagna off in the church kitchen for the funeral lunch.”
“I’m coming.” Frankie came down the stairs holding a pair of shoes in his right hand. He sat on the bottom step and began to put them on. He was slipping on the right one when he stopped and put a hand on his chest.
“What’s the matter? You getting that pain again?”
“Those hash browns are repeating on me.”
Lucille stuck a hand in her pocket and pulled out a roll of Tums. “Here. Suck on one of these—it’ll help.”
Frankie stuck the lozenge in his mouth. “Are Bernadette and Tony coming with us?”
“No, they’ve gone ahead in their own car. We’ll take the Olds.”
“I wish mine weren’t in the shop,” Frank said, lacing up the second shoe.
“What’s wrong with the Olds?” Lucille crossed her arms over her chest.
Frank looked at her face for a moment. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with the Olds.” He yanked his coat off the hanger in the coat closet. “Let’s get going,” he said impatiently.
Lucille was about to say something but bit her tongue. Here she’d been standing there in her coat for the better part of ten minutes waiting for Frankie to be ready and now he was telling her to hurry up?
Lucille got behind the wheel of the Olds. She didn’t like no one else driving it. You had to treat the Olds right, use the right touch or she would balk on you. She put the key in the ignition and turned it.
Nothing.
“Crap. Now the car’s not going to start,” Frank said, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.
“Give her a minute, would you? She’s got to warm up.”
On the fourth try, Frank opened the door. “We’re going to have to take the JoFra van,” he said, fishing a jangle of keys out of his pocket.
“We can’t go in that,” Lucille said, not budging from the driver’s seat of the Olds.
Frankie looked at his watch. “We got no choice.”
The JoFra van had You got ’em? We’ll get ’em on the side in white lettering and a giant plastic roach lay on its back on the roof.
They got in and Frank put the key in the ignition. He stopped and put a hand on his chest. “You got any more of those Tums? I’m starting to get heartburn again.”
• • •
Lucille nearly fell going down the stairs to the church kitchen. That’s what happened when you hurried. It would have been a fine thing if she dropped the lasagna. She sighed. Frankie never had understood about being on time.
Mrs. DeStefano was in the kitchen presiding over a simmering pot of tomato sauce. With her long pointed nose Lucille thought she looked kind of like a witch stirring a bubbling cauldron.
“You brought the lasagna,” she said, pointing at the foil-wrapped pan in Lucille’s hands. “I hope you put in enough cheese. Otherwise it will be dry.”
“Of course I did. I’ve been making lasagna for how many years now?”
Mrs. DeStefano shrugged and went back to watching her pot.
Lucille peeked into the church hall, where a long table had been set up for the buffet. Women were setting out dishes—there was an antipasto that was making Lucille’s mouth water. Louis was certainly going out in style.
Lucille scurried across the parking lot to the front door of the church. She could hear the organ through the open doors and two w
omen—one with a cane—were heading into the church. It looked like she’d made it on time.
The music stopped as Lucille stepped into the church. There was an expectant silence from the crowd. A baby cried out and Lucille wondered if it was little Lucy. She scanned the pews until she found Frankie. He was up front with Lucille’s mother, Millie, Tony, Bernadette, and Flo. Lucille tiptoed down the aisle, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.
“Move down, would you?” Frank whispered and everyone scooted to their left.
Lucille squeezed into the vacant spot. She was a little out of breath from her dash across the parking lot. She had to start working out. That ought to really speed up her weight loss now that she was going on this Mediterranean diet. She thought about the food she’d seen set out on the buffet tables—all Italian dishes. She’d be able to eat her fill. This diet was going to be a breeze.
The organist began playing and the casket was wheeled down the aisle to the front of the church. Poor Louis, Lucille thought. He’d finally gotten himself straightened out and now this. Everyone figured he’d go from too much alcohol or in a car accident considering the way he drove. No one thought he’d be murdered.
Richie had said it looked like a hit—like by the mob or something. As far as Lucille knew, Louis had no ties to the mob. Why would they want to kill him—an old drunk like that?
The service ended with Sister Mary Margaret singing “Ave Maria.” That song always gave Lucille goose bumps. She felt tears collecting in the corners of her eyes and fumbled in her purse for a tissue. Poor cousin Louis—he never meant no one any harm.
Flo leaned across Frank and waved a tissue in front of Lucille’s face. Lucille took it thankfully and blew her nose.
Finally the service was over, and they were all filing out of the church. Lucille’s stomach was rumbling and she couldn’t wait to get to the food. She hoped Father Brennan would keep the graveside service short.