A Room with a Pew

by Peg Cochran

  “Apparently they do.” Flo grabbed a tissue out of the box on the counter and blew her nose. “I feel terrible. I thought he was cheating and then he thought I was cheating—”

  “Whoa.” Lucille held up a hand. “You’re making me dizzy. First tell me what happened.”

  Rita strolled back, mixing a brownish solution in a small black pot.

  “Hey, Flo, what’s up?”

  “Go on, tell us.” Lucille sat back in her chair as Rita began painting the mixture onto Lucille’s hair.

  Flo gave a shuddering sigh and blew her nose in the tissue. “Richie’s been arrested.”

  Rita paused with the brush over Lucille’s head and a blob of the hair color dripped down the side of Lucille’s face. Rita grabbed a cloth and swiped at it.

  “You know that poker game your cousin Louis was going to?” Flo said.

  Lucille nodded.

  “It was raided.”

  Lucille pictured pirates in eye patches pouring in through the basement windows of Vin’s house and making off with all the gold coins.

  Rita had stopped working on Lucille’s hair altogether and was listening to Flo, her mouth half open, the brush hanging over the pot and hair dye dripping off the end.

  “Richie was the one in charge of the raid. They took away all the money from the game and now they can’t find it. And they’re saying Richie stole it.”

  Lucille gasped. “Is he in jail?”

  “No. He posted bail.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Flo started to cry. “I don’t know. I love Richie, I really do. And now this. What should I do, Lucille?”

  Lucille sat up a little straighter. It was rare that Flo came to her for advice. Usually Flo was the one trying to shove her ideas down Lucille’s throat.

  “I think you need to stand by Richie. No more of this he cheated, she cheated garbage. You guys was meant for each other and now’s the time to admit it. And then we got to figure out who did take that money.”

  • • •

  It was getting late when Lucille left the Clip and Curl. She slipped behind the wheel of the Olds and angled the mirror so she could see herself. Rita had done a nice job. She patted her hair. It didn’t move. Good—Rita had put on plenty of spray to keep it nice.

  She’d have to make a stop at the A&P. She wanted to have something good for dinner tonight to cheer Frankie up.

  She didn’t like the looks of the flank steak she’d need for the braciole she wanted to make, but the butcher went in the back and found a nice piece for her. Frankie was going to be happy.

  Lucille went straight home, unloaded her groceries and tossed her jacket over a kitchen chair. She tied an apron around her waist. She had to get the braciole in the oven right away if it was going to be done on time. She mixed her breadcrumbs with garlic, parsley, grated provolone and Romano cheese, drizzled the mixture with olive oil and stirred it up. She laid the steak out flat on her cutting board, covered the top with the breadcrumbs and rolled it up. Her great-grandmother, who came from Sicily, used to put pignoli and raisins in her braciole, but Frankie didn’t like no raisins. She made it the way his mother, may she rest in peace, used to.

  She would serve the braciole with a side of spaghetti and some spinach sautéed in garlic and oil.

  Lucille was opening the oven to check on the meat when she heard the garage door go up. A minute later Frankie walked in.

  “Hey, babe.” He kissed Lucille’s cheek. “Do I have time to get washed up?”

  “Sure, sure. You go ahead. That will give me a chance to get the table set.”

  Lucille stood at the top of the stairs to the basement rec room. “Bernadette, Tony, dinner’s almost ready.”

  Twenty minutes later they were all seated around the table. Lucille felt contentment wash over her. She had her whole family together with a nice meal in front of them. Soon Lucy would be joining them, but for now Bernadette was spoon-feeding her puréed carrots and chicken.

  “Pass me the spinach, would you?” Frankie reached out a hand.

  Lucille passed him the bowl and watched in satisfaction as he filled his plate.

  “Listen, Bernadette. I wanted to ask you something.” Lucille put down her fork. “Seeing as how you do the bookkeeping for the Napoleon Club, you ought to know.”

  Lucille had already decided not to tell Frankie what kind of club the place was. He’d have a fit. And this was the first job Bernadette had held for any length of time, so she didn’t want nothing messing it up.

  “Yeah?” Bernadette forked up some spaghetti.

  “When me and Angela were going through cousin Louis’s things, we found a deposit slip for ten thousand dollars.”

  Frank stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Where on earth did he get that kind of money?”

  Lucille hesitated. If she told Frankie about the poker games, he’d know she’d been poking around.

  Lucille shrugged. “I don’t know. But it looks like the money went into the account of the Napoleon Club where Bernadette works.”

  Bernadette snorted. “The club gets lots of strange deposits.”

  “Did you ever ask your boss what they was for?”

  “Sure. I’m the bookkeeper, remember? He said the money came from people investing in the club. He also told me not to ask any more questions if I knew what was good for me.”

  Frankie looked up sharply. “Is that place mobbed up? Because if it’s mobbed up, I don’t want you working there.”

  “Listen, Frankie, Bernadette needs that job. She and Tony are saving for a house, remember?” Lucille knew Frankie wanted the house to themselves again as much as she did.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s not like anything’s going to happen to her. Bernadette knows how to keep her mouth shut, don’t you, Bernadette?”

  “I still don’t like it.” Frankie slammed his fork down.

  “Come on, Frankie.”

  Bernadette looked back and forth between her mother and her father as if she was at Wimbledon watching a tennis match.

  Suddenly Frankie put a hand to his chest and hunched over the table.

  Lucille pushed back her chair. “Frankie, what is it?”

  Frank didn’t answer.

  Lucille rushed around to his side of the table. She put her arm around him. “Frankie, are you okay? You choking or something? Do I need to give you that hindlick maneuver?”

  Frank shook his head. “Heartburn,” he gasped.

  “This ain’t no heartburn. I’m getting my purse and we’re going to the ER.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Frank still had his head down and was clutching his chest.

  “I don’t care what you say—we’re going.”

  Lucille sent up a prayer to St. Teresa of Avila, patron saint of heart attack sufferers. Because she was pretty sure Frank wasn’t having no heartburn—he was having a heart attack.

  Chapter 13

  It was late when Lucille brought Frankie home from the hospital. They’d whisked him into the ER right away—sometimes it paid to be having chest pains instead of stomach cramps, you got the VIP treatment.

  Fortunately, Frank hadn’t had a heart attack, but them pains he was getting was most likely caused by something to do with his heart—clogged pipes, the doctor had said. Lucille could hardly believe the kid in the white coat was a doctor—he didn’t look hardly any older than little Lucy.

  Lucille tiptoed into the kitchen and flicked on the light over the sink. She didn’t want to make no noise on account of the baby was asleep. Frank came up behind her.

  “We got anything to eat?” He pulled open the door of the refrigerator.

  Lucille put her hand on the door and slammed it shut. She stood with her hands on her hips.

  “The doctor said you wasn’t to eat anything until after that test tomorrow.”

  Frankie’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. The one where they’re going to stick some kind of wire through my veins and shoot
dye into my body.”

  Lucille put a hand on Frankie’s arm. “I know it sounds horrible, but Mavis, she’s a cashier over at the A&P, had it done and she said it wasn’t nothing. She didn’t feel a thing.”

  “I still don’t see why I can’t have a bite to eat.” Frankie went around Lucille and opened the refrigerator again. “I’m hungry. A slice of your braciole would taste good right now.”

  “Well, you can’t.” Lucille shut the refrigerator. “You don’t want to mess up this test, do you?”

  Frank scowled. “These doctors. They’re all a pain in the neck.”

  “They only want to take care of you so you gotta do what they say. It’s just till after the test, and then I’ll make you a big breakfast—a couple of eggs, bacon, sausage, some fried potatoes.”

  “Geez, Lucille, you’re making me even hungrier.”

  • • •

  Lucille watched as they wheeled Frankie away for his test. The doctor had assured her that everything was going to be okay, but she sent up a prayer to St. Luke the Evangelist, patron saint of surgeons and physicians, just in case. She couldn’t imagine life without her Frankie—she didn’t even want to think about it.

  Poor Frankie, she’d practically had to throw herself in front of the refrigerator to keep him from grabbing something to eat as they were going out the door. She’d make it up to him as soon as they got home.

  The waiting room was surprisingly full for eight o’clock in the morning. Lucille found a seat and picked a magazine up off the end table. It was a cooking magazine and the pictures sure were making her hungry. She hadn’t had any breakfast herself on account of poor Frankie was suffering, and it wouldn’t be right to eat nothing in front of him. Finally she threw the magazine down, collected her purse, and followed the signs to the hospital café.

  She studied the offerings as she waited on line—scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, egg and sausage sandwiches, yogurt parfaits topped with granola and fruit. Lucille wasn’t sure what would be on the Mediterranean diet. The Italians she knew weren’t big breakfast eaters—all her parents and grandparents ever had for their morning meal was a cup of strong coffee and maybe a half slice of leftover pound cake or a piece of raisin toast.

  She really didn’t want to blow her diet—she could tell it was already working. She was hungry though. Some scrambled eggs ought to be okay. Everyone ate eggs, right? And a little bacon to go with it. It wasn’t like the Italians didn’t eat pork like some of those other nationalities.

  By the time Lucille finished her breakfast, Frankie was due to be done with his test. She walked back to the waiting room and took a seat. She couldn’t help thinking about Louis and that money they’d found in his sock. They’d agreed they’d use it to pay for his funeral and burial. If Louis had won that money in the poker game, and it actually belonged to the guy who owned the Napoleon Club, and if they were mobbed up as Frankie said . . . a lot of ifs but it all made sense—Richie had said Louis’s death looked like a hit. Well, who else could pull off that kind of murder but someone in the mob?

  Lucille picked up her magazine again and looked at the clock on the wall. Frankie should have been done fifteen minutes ago. She hoped nothing had gone wrong. She tried to concentrate on her magazine but found she was turning pages without understanding what she was looking at. She was about to throw the magazine back on the pile when the doctor came through the swinging doors and beckoned to Lucille.

  “Doctor, how did it go? Is Frankie okay? Is everything all right?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Mazzarella, fine. We discovered a blockage so we went and put a stent in to open it up. We’ll be keeping your husband overnight as a precaution.”

  Frankie? Staying overnight at the hospital?

  “Really, everything is fine.” The doctor smiled and handed Lucille a sheet of paper. “It would be best if your husband started watching his cholesterol. Here’s a list of the foods he should cut down on or eliminate, along with some sample menus.”

  Lucille felt like she was in some kind of daze. She took the paper from the doctor, collected her purse and followed the signs to the floor where Frankie’s room was going to be.

  He was already in bed when she got there.

  “Lucille, thank God. You’ve got to get me something to eat. I’m starving.”

  “Won’t they bring you some lunch, Frankie?”

  “I can’t wait. Can you see if the cafeteria has a meatball sub? I’ve got a real taste for a meatball sub.”

  Lucille pulled the sheet of paper out of her purse. “This here’s what you’re supposed to eat.” Lucille stabbed the paper with her index finger. “For instance, for lunch, a scoop of tuna salad made with low-fat mayo on a bed of lettuce with carrot sticks on the side.”

  “Do I look like some kind of rabbit?” Frankie bellowed. “Where did you get that?”

  “The doctor gave it to me.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can throw it out. I’m not eating that crap.”

  “Yes, you are. I want you to be around for a long time, Frankie. You gave me a scare today. I’ve got to take care of you.”

  “Excuse me?” An aide stood in the door holding a tray. “I have your lunch.”

  “Finally.” Frank inched himself up on his pillows as the aide put the tray down on his bedside table.

  “Let’s see what you’ve got here.” Lucille lifted the cover off the plate. “It looks like a piece of grilled chicken on a bun, and there’s a packet of low-fat mayo to go with it.” She peered at another container. “And some sugar-free applesauce.”

  “Applesauce? That’s for babies. That’s what little Lucy eats, for chrissakes. You’ve got to at least get me some chips, Lucille. I saw some vending machines in the lobby when we came in.”

  Lucille shook her head. “No, Frankie. You have to stick to your diet. I’m not taking no chances on losing you.”

  • • •

  It was odd not having Frankie around the house. Not that he would be home in the middle of the day, but knowing he was going to be in the hospital overnight made it feel different. Lucille tried not to think about it. She studied the diet the doctor had given her, planning to make Frankie stick to it when he got home. She was going to have to work around it in order to stay on the Mediterranean diet. Like instead of the plain grilled chicken the menu suggested, she could add some tomato sauce and a slice of mozzarella for herself.

  She pinned the menu to the refrigerator with a magnet and got out her dustcloth. Giving the house a good cleaning always took her mind off things.

  She thought about Louis’s murder as she worked. With Flo not talking to Richie, and Gabe not being any closer to the investigation than breathing the same air as the detectives, she didn’t know how the police were making out on the case.

  She thought about Mona’s daughter, Carol, who didn’t have no alibi no matter what she claimed. Lucille hadn’t written her off yet. But then there was the owner of the Napoleon Club, who was probably the person giving Louis his gambling money. It seemed a lot more likely that he was the one who had killed Louis.

  Lucille wondered if the club owner had an alibi? She’d have to check with Bernadette.

  But first she was due at St. Rocco’s in half an hour, so she’d better hurry.

  • • •

  Jeannette had just finished printing out the annual pledge letters when Lucille got to St. Rocco’s. Although Lucille knew she needed to lose a few pounds—for her health if nothing else—Jeannette didn’t seem to have any such qualms. An open box of Dunkin’ Donuts sat on her desk with three of the dozen missing. Lucille eyed the one topped with coconut. It was her favorite. Her fingers twitched. Could a doughnut possibly be on the Mediterranean diet? She almost reached for it but stopped herself. Coconut was tropical and even she knew Italy wasn’t in the tropics and Greece wasn’t either.

  Jeannette handed Lucille a stack of letters and a sheet of address labels. She grabbed another doughnut—the coconut one Lucille had been eyeing—and went back to th
e printer.

  “Have you heard anything about your cousin Louis’s murder?” Jeannette paused with the doughnut halfway to her mouth.

  “Not that I know of,” Lucille said, although she was thinking about Carol and the Napoleon Club’s owner.

  “I saw him talking to some woman right before he was killed.”

  Jeannette pressed the print button, and Lucille almost didn’t hear her over the machine.

  “What?”

  “A woman was sitting in Louis’s car with him. He’d just dropped your cousin Millie off at the church for the novena.”

  “What woman?” Lucille stopped with an address label stuck to her thumb.

  Jeannette shrugged, and Lucille tried to control her irritation.

  “Well, what did she look like?”

  “I only saw her through the window. But I did see that she had brown hair with a blonde streak in front.”

  Brown hair with a blond streak? Carol Bishop, Mona’s daughter, had brown hair with a blond streak in front.

  Lucille realized she still had the mailing label stuck to her thumb. She grabbed an envelope with her other hand and attempted to affix the label. It didn’t want to come off her thumb. It twisted, stuck to itself and then ripped nearly in half.

  Lucille glanced at the name. It looked like Mr. & Mrs. O’Reilly weren’t getting no pledge letter this year. She rolled the label into a small ball and hid it in the pocket of her pants. Jeannette would be all over her if she saw what Lucille had done, and Lucille was in no mood to take any crap.

  If Carol had been seen talking to Louis right before he was killed, maybe she was the murderer after all?

  She had to find out if the owner of the Napoleon Club had an alibi. As soon as she was done with this here mailing, she’d head over there and talk to Bernadette.

  Lucille peeled the last label from the last sheet and stuck it onto an envelope, smoothing it out with her finger. She gathered them all together and put them on Jeannette’s desk.

  “What are these?”

  “The letters. They’re all done.”