by Peg Cochran
“Hmmmph.”
They made their way down a flagstone path toward a crimson door with a Christmas wreath on the front.
“Here goes nothing,” Lucille muttered as she rang the bell.
The door opened and a young man stood on the threshold scratching his head. He had dyed black hair, a ring through his nose and a large tattoo of a guitar on his bicep. Music was blasting from another room.
“Yeah?”
Lucille and Flo looked at each other. He didn’t seem to be put off by their smell.
“Can we borrow your phone,” Lucille asked.
“Sure.”
He walked into the living room and came back with a cell phone. “Help yourselves,” he said, handing it to them.
“Who should we call?” Lucille asked. “I can’t call Frankie.”
“And I can’t call Richie.”
“I’ll call Bernadette.”
“What about the baby?”
“Tony can watch her.”
Lucille dialed Bernadette’s cell phone number and waited. Finally Bernadette came on the line. Lucille explained their predicament, and Bernadette assured Lucille she was on her way.
That was one nice thing about Bernadette, Lucille thought. She had no curiosity whatsoever and she never asked questions.
Chapter 20
Lucille and Flo thanked the young man and went to stand on the sidewalk, waiting for Bernadette to arrive. Ten minutes later she appeared with a squeal of brakes, pulling up to the curb in Lucille’s Olds.
Lucille gasped. Bernadette was driving the Olds. No one drove the Olds but her—not even Frankie. She looked it over real quick—everything seemed to be fine, no dents or dings.
“Why did you take the Olds?” Lucille asked as soon as she opened the driver’s door and motioned for Bernadette to get out. “I’ll drive.”
“Tony needed our car.”
Lucille stopped halfway into the driver’s seat. “Who’s watching the baby?”
“Dad is.”
Lucille shuddered. Last time they’d left Lucy with Frankie, he’d put soda in her sippy cup because they were out of milk.
“First we have to drop Flo at her car.”
“Gabe came by to pick up that book cousin Louis gave him. Did you know that that guy next door is a wanted criminal? Gabe said the police are closing in on him.”
Lucille slammed on the brakes and they jolted to a stop.
“What are you doing, Lucille?”
“Are you sure that’s what Gabe said?” Lucille ignored Flo and looked at Bernadette.
“Yeah.”
“And he was talking about our neighbor? The one right next door?”
“Yeah. The guy you invited to Thanksgiving dinner.”
Lucille ignored the accusatory tone of Bernadette’s voice. “If the police get him before we do, Flo, there won’t be no reward.”
“Geez, you’re right. What do you want to do?”
“We’ve got to bring him in ourselves.”
Bernadette snorted. “You two? You’re kidding, right?” Bernadette looked at Lucille and then turned around to look at Flo. “You aren’t, are you?”
“We’ve got to get to Mario’s place.” Lucille stepped on the gas. “We’ll drop you off home, Bernadette.”
“No way. I’m coming with you.”
“Just how are we going to get Mario to the police station, Lucille? We can’t ask him all polite like to get in the car with us and go for a little drive.”
“You think I don’t know that, Flo? I don’t know what we’re going to do. I’m waiting for instigation to strike.”
“You’d better hurry up—we’re almost there.”
Lucille cut her lights as she made the turn onto her street. She passed Mario’s house real slow. “You see any lights on, Flo?”
“No. The place is as dark as a tomb.”
Lucille shivered. “Do you think the police already picked him up?”
“I doubt it. It wouldn’t be that quick. And, let’s face it, most of the neighborhood would either be standing on their front lawns or peering out their windows.
“What are we going to do now?” Bernadette asked.
“Maybe he’s gone back to Carol’s. I think we should head over there.”
“And you’d better step on it, Lucille,” Flo said. “We’ve got to get there before the cops do. I have plans for that fifty grand, you know.”
“You think I don’t?”
“What about me? I think we should split it three ways,” Bernadette said.
“No way, sister. You haven’t been tossed in a car trunk and then thrown into the town dump and left to die. We’ve earned it,” Flo said.
Finally they were approaching Carol’s house. Lights were on in the front room.
“Looks like Carol’s home, and it looks like she’s got company.” Lucille pointed to Mario’s car parked in the driveway.
She drove on past the house and pulled up to the curb toward the end of the street.
“We’re going to have to be real quiet and sneak up on the house,” Lucille said as she put the car in park.
“How are we going to get inside? And how are we going to capture Mario when we do?”
“I’ll think of something,” Lucille said as she got out of the car. “Maybe Carol’s left the back door open. I always have to remind Frankie to check it before we go up to bed.”
The three of them crept down the street and around to the back of Carol’s house.
“Go on, try the door,” Flo whispered.
Lucille turned the knob. “It’s open.”
“Well go on in then.”
“Why do I have to be first?” Lucille turned to Flo. “Why don’t you go first?”
“I’ll give you five thousand dollars out of my share if you go first,” Flo said.
“Okay, okay.”
Lucille eased the door open and stepped into the darkened kitchen. It appeared to be empty but she couldn’t hardly see on account of it was so dark. She tiptoed further into the room with Flo and Bernadette following behind her. She was halfway across the room when the lights came on.
The three of them found themselves staring at the business end of the gun in Carol’s hand.
“I thought Mario said he’d gotten rid of you two?” She wrinkled her nose. “You two look like a garbage dump.” She waved her gun at them. “And you smell like it, too.”
Flo started to look all huffy, and Lucille gave her a quelling look.
Carol glanced at Bernadette. “Who are you?”
Bernadette stared at Carol. “What difference does it make?”
Carol raised the gun slightly. “I said,” she enunciated the words as carefully as a politician delivering a sound bite, “who are you?”
“Whatever.” Bernadette shrugged and rolled her eyes. “I’m Bernadette, okay?”
“She’s my daughter,” Lucille said. “Don’t pay her no attention. She’s always like that. Kids. You know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t. I never had any.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucille said.
“I’m not.”
Lucille didn’t like the look in Carol’s eyes. She looked like old Mrs. Griego, who ended up in a nursing home on account of she was crazy and tried to stab her daughter with a butter knife completely out of the blue like. They had had to call an ambulance—not for the daughter, who was fine—but for Mrs. Griego so they could give her one of them sedatives to knock her out.
Lucille looked around the kitchen. They had to get that gun out of Carol’s hands. There was no telling what she might do, and there was a big difference between a loaded gun and a butter knife. If Carol shot them, they’d be the ones going out in an ambulance. Or worse—a hearse.
“You can never trust a man to finish a job,” Carol said, moving her finger to the trigger of the gun. “I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
Lucille had the feeling she meant business. She began backing away from Carol until she felt
the edge of the kitchen counter against her waist. There was a block of knives next to the sink but they were too far away to reach.
Carol must have been baking something when she heard them creeping around outside. A bowl was on the counter filled with something that looked like cake batter. Lucille thought she caught a whiff of vanilla . . . and something else. Cinnamon, maybe? It smelled good, and she felt her stomach rumble.
Next to the bowl was a hand mixer. Batter had dripped off the beaters onto the counter. Carol was going to have to clean that up real soon or it was going to harden and stick and she’d have to go at it with a scrubbie.
Carol took a couple of steps so she was standing right in front of Lucille. “You first, I think.” She smiled. “I’m not much of a shot, but at this distance I don’t think I’m going to miss.”
Lucille said a prayer to St. Rita of Cascia. Everyone knew that St. Jude was the patron saint to pray to in impossible situations, and this sure was an impossible situation, but so was St. Rita. For some reason she didn’t get the same respect as good old St. Jude.
Carol raised the gun until it was level with Lucille’s chest. Lucille felt like Carol wasn’t going to need no bullet to stop Lucille’s heart—it was going to stop all by itself on account of she was going to have a heart attack she was so scared.
But St. Rita must have heard her prayer because all of a sudden, Lucille had an idea. She reached behind her real quiet like and grabbed the hand mixer sitting on the counter. She flipped the on switch as she swung it around and lunged at Carol’s face with it. Drops of batter flew off the whirling beaters and splattered against the wall. Carol was going to have her work cut out for her cleaning that up, Lucille thought.
Carol screamed and dropped the gun.
Bernadette stuck out a foot and kicked the gun the length of the kitchen as Flo jumped on Carol’s back from behind.
Carol tried to throw Flo off, but Flo clung to Carol like a piece of plastic wrap. Carol hopped up and down, bent this way and that, but there was no way she was getting rid of Flo.
Bernadette, meanwhile, had sauntered over to the discarded gun and picked it up.
She aimed it at Carol. “I’ve got this. You can get off her now, Aunt Flo.”
Flo released her death grip on Carol, tugged down her top and ran a hand over her hair. She was breathing heavily.
Carol sneered at Bernadette. “You wouldn’t have the nerve to shoot me.”
Bernadette squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit Carol in the foot. She screamed and crumpled to the ground.
“So much for that bitch.” Bernadette put the gun down on the counter.
“Maybe we’d better tie her up or something?” Lucille looked down at Carol’s inert form. She was clutching her foot and blood flowed between her fingers.
“I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” Bernadette said. She looked around the kitchen. “I’m starved. I wonder if they have anything to eat.” She opened the door to what turned out to be a pantry and stepped inside.
“We ought to call the police.” Lucille started toward the old-fashioned wall phone.
“Wait. We still have to find Mario,” Flo said. “Or we’re not getting the reward money.”
“I wonder where he is? His car’s in the driveway.”
“I’m right here.”
They spun around to find Mario at the entrance to the kitchen. He had a big grin on his face and an even bigger gun in his hand.
Chapter 21
Mario sauntered into the room and went over to the small metal kitchen table that was pushed against the wall. He pulled out one of the red plastic-covered chairs and sat down.
“I knew I should have just shot you gals when I had the chance, but where’s the fun in that? I like to be a little creative, you know? Mix things up a little.”
“The police are on to you, you know.” Flo threw out her chest. “They’ll be here any minute.”
“Really?” Mario smiled and Lucille didn’t like the looks of it. “Even if that’s true, you’ll be dead, and I’ll be long gone. I disappeared once, and I can easily do it again.”
“What about me?” Carol gasped from her position on the floor. “You’ve got to take me with you.”
Mario threw back his head and laughed. “Haven’t you ever heard that saying? Something about how you travel fastest alone?”
“You promised.”
Mario held his hands out, palms up. “Yeah, so?”
Carol tried to kick out at him, but stopped abruptly, groaned and clutched her injured foot.
“So which one of yous shot her?” Mario looked from Flo to Lucille and back again. “I’ll bet it was you.” He pointed a finger at Flo. “You look like a gal with some spirit.”
“No. It was me.”
Bernadette came out of the pantry holding a large plastic bucket—the kind you used to wash the floor. Before Mario could react, she pulled it down over his head, giving it an extra tug so it was stuck tight.
“Hey,” Mario screamed, frantically trying to pry the bucket off. He dropped the gun in the process, and Bernadette picked it up.
“I’ve got the gun,” she said as she watched his struggles. “And I’ve already shot Carol so I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”
“We need something to tie him up with.” Flo looked around the kitchen frantically.
“I’ve got some plastic grocery bags in the pantry,” Carol said. “There’s no way I’m letting that bastard get away again.”
“Good idea.” Lucille stuck her head in the pantry.
She pulled out a stash of bags and began to tie them together. With Flo’s help, they secured Mario’s hands and feet. They grabbed a few more and wound them around Mario’s arms and legs. He reminded Lucille of the trussed-up turkey she’d cooked for their Thanksgiving dinner hardly more than a week ago.
Bernadette had found a bag of Stella Dora anisette toast in the pantry and was munching on them while she watched Lucille and Flo.
Mario had finally managed to shake himself free of the bucket and was swearing loudly. Some of the things he was saying was making Lucille blush.
“Hey,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Watch your mouth, okay? We’ve got a young lady in the room.” She jerked her head toward Bernadette.
“How are you going to make me?” Mario taunted her. His face was red and damp with perspiration.
That was it. Lucille had had it. She’d been locked in a car trunk, thrown in a dump, nearly been shot, and now this. She grabbed one of the plastic bags and tied it around Mario’s mouth like a gag.
He continued to make noise, but they could no longer make out the words.
Lucille shot him a look of triumph, and he glared back.
They were tying Carol’s hands—just to be on the safe side—when they heard police sirens coming down the street, getting louder and louder as the cars approached the house.
Flo grinned at Lucille and Lucille grinned back.
“High five, girlfriend,” Flo said, holding out her hand. “I think we did it.”
Chapter 22
Lucille hurried into the kitchen, her slippers making a slapping sound against the wood floor. The water was boiling—she could hear it from the living room—hissing and spitting against the pot. She’d gone to put her feet up for a moment. She was still tired from everything that had happened on Friday night—it was enough to give a person a heart attack.
Company was arriving at any moment. Funny how she still thought of everyone as company even though they’d been coming for Sunday dinner for years. Maybe when Bernadette and Tony got their own house, Bernadette would take over making the dinner, at least once in a while.
A chocolate cake sat out on a plate on the counter. Lucille looked at it with pride. Bernadette had made it. It sagged a little on one side and the frosting was uneven, but Lucille thought it was pretty spectacular for a first try. She didn’t know what had gotten into Bernadette—maybe shooting Carol in the foot had given her confidenc
e.
Lucille was going to talk to Frankie about giving Bernadette and Tony some of the reward money so that the two of them could finally put a down payment on a house. She and Frankie didn’t need all that money—although Lucille planned to save some for the trip to Italy she’d wanted to take for years. But she didn’t need nothing else—she had her home and her family and that’s all she cared about.
The front door opened. “Hello,” Angela called from the foyer.
“In the kitchen, Ang,” Lucille shouted back.
Angela walked into the kitchen carrying a large platter covered with tinfoil.
“What do you have there?” Lucille peered at it.
“I made an antipasto. Loretto picked up some of that sopressata you like from that butcher in Berkeley Heights and I had a nice piece of provolone so I thought I’d throw something together.”
“You can put it in the fridge for now. There should be some room on the bottom shelf.”
Angela opened the refrigerator door and peered inside. “Is that a bottle of champagne?” She looked over her shoulder at Lucille.
“Yeah—a little Asti Spumonti. I thought we’d have it with dessert.” Lucille nodded at the cake on the counter. “Bernadette made us a nice chocolate cake.”
“What are we celebrating?” Angela asked as she slid the antipasto platter onto the shelf.
“Never mind. I’ll tell you all about it at dinner. That way I don’t have to repeat it four times.”
Angela looked miffed but didn’t say anything. She slid out of her coat, folded it in half and draped it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She was wearing a gray pleated skirt and pale blue sweater set.
Lucille looked down at her slippers. The fur around the edges was matted and dirty. She’d had them forever. She’d run up and put some shoes on as soon as she finished peeling the potatoes.
“Where is everybody? Did Father Brennan come with you?”
“Yeah. The guys went downstairs to watch the game with Frankie, and Millie’s in the dining room sitting at the table.” Angela made a circular motion around her head with her finger. “She’s getting worse, I think. Like her brother.”