"Tina did," Brian replied. "Apparently the two women don't get along. No surprise there. I already know what you're thinking, Sally, so don't go there. The service is private—for family members only. You won't be able to get in."
That was fine with me. I'd been to enough funerals over the past couple of years. "I'd like to stop and see Tina, either tonight or tomorrow, and at least offer my sympathy." And to see if she was in on the scheme with Trevor. And David.
Brian's mouth twisted into a frown. "I thought you didn't know her."
"Did I say that?" I gave him a small impish smile, but he clearly wasn't falling for it.
Brian pursed his lips. "Sally, I've lost track of how many times I've told you this before, but you need to stay out of police—"
"Look," I interrupted. "Trevor cheated my husband, Brian. If there's a chance that the gunmen who killed Trevor were in on it too, they might have access to Mike's personal information. And what if they do this to someone else?"
A sudden gleam came into Brian's eyes. "I know this is personal, but does Mike have a lot of money in his bank account? Maybe he could leave a couple of hundred for bait, in case they try to make another withdrawal? Then we'd have an opportunity to catch them."
"Trevor's already taken care of that." My tone was bitter. "All Mike has left is a few hundred bucks."
Brian looked sympathetic. "God, I hate to see innocent people taken advantage of like this. If you know Tina, I can't stop you from going to see her. But my advice is to be careful about what you say. She might be in on it as well."
"Yes, I've thought of that. At least it gives me a place to start."
Brian stared down at the floor. "Do you know if Mike got any references for Trevor when he hired him?"
"Yes, there was one man. Mike has his information at home, but I haven't gotten around to finding it yet. Can I text it to you later?"
He nodded. "Please. As soon as possible." Another awkward silence stretched between us.
I cleared my throat. "When are you leaving for Boston?"
The lines around Brian's mouth tightened. "I don't know for certain yet. Maybe a week or two. I'm staying at the Colwestern Hotel until then."
This wasn't what I wanted to hear. "A hotel?"
"Ally and I had a huge fight last night. I told her I was going back to Boston and that we needed to take a break. She, in turn, told me to get out of the apartment and never come back."
My heart sank at the news. "I'm so sorry, Brian."
"It's not your problem, Sally." He looked into my eyes, and the sadness that I saw in them made me want to weep again. "This is all my own doing."
Without another word, Brian turned and walked out of the hospital. Guilt spread through my body as I stared after him. Yes, it was my problem—my fault. At least it felt like it. I had ruined Brian's chance at a permanent relationship with Ally. He'd pretty much told me last night that he couldn't have the one thing he wanted—me.
Perhaps no one could have everything that they wanted. I'd wished in vain for a child for many years. Before I married Colin, he'd told me that he didn't want kids—ever. I was certain he'd change his mind, but it hadn't happened. As a little boy, Mike had wanted a real family. Instead, his own father had abandoned him when he was five years old, his mother died of cirrhosis due to alcoholism, and his stepfather was abusive. Josie had longed to be a pastry chef in Paris but had gotten pregnant before she could finish culinary school. My father wanted to be a mortician, then a hearse driver, and now a New York Times best-selling author. Okay, so maybe he wasn't the best example to use when compared to everyone else's dreams.
I waited a couple of minutes until I figured Brian had driven off, and then I left the hospital. As I drove to my parents' house, I found myself wishing, of all things, that I could be more like them. Despite their strange behavior, they were good people. My mother and father loved each other, my grandmother, Gianna, and me. They adored Mike and Johnny and were excited about becoming grandparents. Despite all of this though, they did what they wanted, no matter how crazy or outlandish, and always seemed to have a good time. Maybe they were doing life right, while the rest of us were doing it wrong. It seemed to work for them, so who was I to judge?
There was no room in my parents' driveway since a television van occupied most of the area, with another unfamiliar vehicle parked behind it. For a brief second, I thought about leaving the fortune cookies in the mailbox and running away as fast as I could. The media was most likely there to talk about Dad's book, and I wanted no part of it.
While I debated what to do, someone tapped on my car window and I jumped. A leathery, lined face stared in at me. Nicoletta Gavelli was dressed in a black coat and hood that resembled a shroud. Great. If I left, she'd tell my parents. After my breathing had returned to normal, I waited for her to step away from the car before I opened the door.
Nicoletta's dislike of me had been cemented when she caught Johnny and me playing doctor in her garage. I'd only been six years old at the time, and he'd lured me in there with promises of ice cream after we'd played a "new, fun game." Nicoletta had immediately branded me a hussy, and now, 24 years later, not much had changed. Over the years, I'd learned that her bark was worse than her bite and that she was often snippy with the people she most cared about.
My grandmother had once told me that I resembled Nicoletta's daughter, Sophia, who'd died of a drug overdose when Johnny was five. She thought Nicoletta might have associated me with Sophia in some ways and acted mean to cover up her true feelings. Who knew? The one person who could put Nicoletta in her place and get away with it was my grandmother. She was truly a miracle worker.
Nicoletta grunted at me. "Your papa—he really off his rocker now."
"What's going on?" I asked.
She turned her back on me and started up the driveway, gesturing with her bony finger for me to follow. I was worried about her trudging up the icy path in those black Birkenstocks she always wore, but she managed it better than I did.
"Your papa hire publicist for this pazza book of his." Pazza meant crazy in Italian. "They get him television interview. He walk around like he some big star." She puffed out her chest in an exaggerated manner. "Think he too good for the rest of us. Come. You see."
"Maybe we shouldn't interrupt if they're taping," I said, not wanting to see.
"Bah. They sit around and talk about coffins. Your papa say Josie make cookies shaped like them. This I gotta see. He tells them book signing to be at your bakery. It good you here then." She gave me a sly smile. "They wanna talk to you."
"Oh, darn," I said. "I need to get back over to the hospital. Will you tell Dad that I'll stop by later and—"
But it was too late. The front door opened, and my father stuck his head outside. He grinned and waved at me. "Baby girl, come on in! We need you!"
This day was getting longer and weirder by the moment. Defeated, I started toward the house when Nicoletta touched my arm and spoke gruffly. "Your man. How he feel? Johnny say he lucky to be here, not dead like other guy. The good Lord watch over him."
I was touched that she'd asked about Mike. Nicoletta was difficult to read at times, and although my grandmother insisted that she truly liked and cared about me, I wasn't always convinced. "He's in a lot of pain, but I'm just thankful that he's alive."
Nicoletta's coal-colored eyes softened for a second. If I'd blinked, I might have missed the stark, raw emotion in them. She grunted and nodded. "I glad he be all right. Too bad about his worker, but I no trust that man—not ever. Shifty eyes. Maybe he rob stores too."
Puzzled, I stared at her. "What do you mean? Trevor fixed your water heater." And we'd charged her next to nothing. She couldn't have heard anything about Trevor's scam yet. "Did he say something offensive when he was at your house?"
She gave me a sour look. "I not meant that time. He have shifty eyes when I see him before." Her gaze zeroed in on the plastic bag in my hand. "You give me fortune cookies, and I tell you more."
The woman always had an ulterior motive. With a sigh, I opened the bag and watched as she selected three cookies. Two she put into her coat pockets, and the other one she cracked open in front of me. I prayed she'd get a good message for once.
Nicoletta read the strip of paper aloud and then waved it at me like a fan. "Ha. It say, 'You are the sunshine of your neighborhood.' What you think about that, Miss Hot Shot Baker?"
No way. "Let me see that." Yes, that was exactly what the message said. Wow. I guess these messages were not as reliable as I'd once thought. "Where did you see Trevor before?"
"When Ronald and I go to eat at Casa Diner. Couple of weeks ago." Ronald Feathers was Nicoletta's eighty-something-year-old main squeeze. He was hard of hearing, probably one reason he found Nicoletta so appealing. "We drive out of lot, and I see him waiting next to garbage dumpster. Another man drive up in car. Trevor hand him something through window."
"Did you see what it was?" I asked excitedly.
"Envelope," she said simply. "Probably have drugs or money inside. You young kids all a bad lot."
What if the man driving the vehicle have been one of the gunmen? It was entirely possible. "Did you get a good look at the guy driving? What kind of car was it?"
She paused to think. "He wear dark sunglasses. Have dark hair. Nice car. One of those fancy ones. They call them beamers, no? Stupid name."
"A BMW," I said more to myself than Nicoletta. "What color?"
"It black. Good color," Nicoletta said approvingly as she pulled her shroud-like hood of the same color around her face and tapped the side of her head. "Your papa's favorite—the color of death. He missing something upstairs that one."
There were days when I didn't think Nicoletta was playing with a full deck either, but I refrained from saying so. At least this was something to go on. Should I tell Brian?
Nicoletta started in the direction of her house.
"Aren't you coming inside?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No way, Jose. You spend too much time with crazies, you become crazy. Tell your parents stay away from baby Alessandro when he come. They make him crazy too."
Jeez Louise. I thought I had my hands full, but Gianna might have me beat.
My father gave me a kiss on the cheek as I hung up my coat. "How's Mike doing, baby girl? We're going to stop and see him later."
"He's better today, thanks."
He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Good. That's what I want to hear. I'm bringing him an autographed copy of my book tonight. Some light reading for him. Now come on inside and meet Jerry." He led the way to the dining room while I followed, mystified. My mother was seated at the cherrywood dining room table next to a man who looked vaguely familiar. Another man was adjusting the lens on a television camera with the words Buffalo News Channel 11 on it.
My father pointed to the man at the table, who was busy texting something on his phone. "Look! It's Jerry Maroon, the star anchorman from Channel 11!"
I gave the man a polite nod while I tried to think up an excuse to get the heck out of here. I'd been on television twice before. Both had been baking show appearances with Josie, and they'd turned out to be embarrassing ordeals, with one even deadly. I had no interest in a repeat performance.
Panicked, I waved the plastic bag at my father. "Dad, I'm dropping off the fortune cookies you wanted. I can't stay—I need to get back to the hospital."
My mother rose from her seat at the table and trotted over to me in her tiny silver stiletto sandals. She was wearing a strapless, maroon-colored dress with sparkles that I'd never seen before. I had to wonder if she'd worn it because of Jerry's last name. Anything for attention with her.
She put her arms around my shoulders and gave me a kiss. "Hello, darling. How's Mike? We're going to stop and see him tonight."
"He's doing much better," I said, "but still in a lot of pain."
Jerry finished his text and came around the table to greet me. He'd always seemed taller on television, but in person, he wasn't much bigger than me. Jerry was in his midthirties with a definitive swagger about him and a thick head of prematurely gray hair. His curious green eyes examined my face carefully, as if he wanted to know every detail about me.
He held out a hand. "Jerry Maroon from News Channel 11. The best station in all of New York State, in case you were wondering." He shot me a supercilious grin, his white teeth gleaming from the lights above. "Are you the daughter who's the attorney or the one who makes the coffin cookies?"
For the first time ever, I was tempted to lie about my profession. "Sally Donovan. I own Sally's Samples."
"Right. The coffin cookie lady." Jerry pursed his lips. "Sally's Samples… Didn't the Colwestern Journal rename your bakery Sally's Shambles because there's always something interesting going on there? Hey, been locked in any freezers lately?"
Cripes. Did this guy know my entire life history? Nervously I stared over at the camera. "That thing isn't on, is it?"
"Hey," my father bellowed as he cut a slice of cheesecake from the china serving plate in the center of the table. "Want one, baby girl? How about you, Jerry?"
We both shook our heads. It was hard to believe that I wasn't hungry for cheesecake, especially Grandma Rosa's. Her ricotta-filled one was my favorite. "Thanks, but I had a late lunch," I lied.
Jerry continued to watch me intently. "Mrs. Donovan, err—can I call you Sally?"
"Please."
He edged closer to me. "How's your husband doing? Terrible thing about that shooting. Trevor Parks worked for Mike, right?"
Was there anything this guy didn't know about me, except maybe my shoe size? Perhaps Mom and Dad had already filled him in on Mike, but I was doubtful. This guy reminded me of a bloodhound, constantly sniffing around for information. "He's doing better, thank you."
"I was at the mini-mart last night," he continued. "I saw you leaving with a blond-haired cop. Pretty sure it was Officer Brian Jenkins. He's the one who found you the time you got locked in the sauna with your friend, right?"
Damn, this guy was good. Too good. "Yes, that's right."
He grinned. "I'd love to do a live interview with your husband when he's feeling up to it. We could run it during the noon and six o'clock news hours."
"But mine will get televised first, right?" Dad looked worried as he stuffed a large bite of cheesecake into his mouth and then dribbled crumbs onto his new jacket. He'd received it in the mail the other day from a vendor who was looking to advertise on his blog. It was made of a black mesh-like material and had Father Death embroidered on the upper left-hand pocket in a bloodred color. That was the name of my father's embarrassing, yet prosperous, blog.
"Of course," Jerry said in a condescending tone, as if he was speaking to a five-year-old. "Dom, the interview about your book signing and blog will air during tonight's news. You're going to have a sellout crowd for the signing next week, mark my words!"
My father beamed at me. "Better have Josie double that cookie order, baby girl," he said.
I winced inwardly. I hadn't even filled Josie in on the infamous coffin cookies yet. When she found out, she might ask for my head on a cookie platter.
Jerry folded his arms across his chest. "So how about it, Sally? Would your husband be willing to talk to me and tell the world everything that happened last night?"
I started to shake my head. "No, he'd never—" Then a light switch clicked on in my brain. Maybe this was the opportunity we needed. If the gunmen were watching, we might be able to set a trap for them and somehow convince them that we knew their identity or another key factor about them.
"Would you happen to have a business card?" I asked Jerry. "I'll be in touch as soon as I talk to my husband."
CHAPTER TEN
Mike slept most of the night while I dozed in the chair next to his bed. He'd told me to go home and get some rest, but I refused to leave him. Yes, I was tired, but I didn't want to be alone in our house either. As I watched him slumber, I kept thinking a
bout Trevor. Tomorrow I had to tell my husband the truth—that the man he'd trusted was in fact stealing money from him.
Josie had texted earlier, and the message had not been a happy one. Bakery fridge died. Had repairman out this afternoon. He can't fix it. We need a new one. I'll bring in a small portable one from home, but it won't be enough. Need to get something else right away.
Another thousand dollars I couldn't afford to spend right now. I gritted my teeth in exasperation and texted her back. Great. Any more good news?
Well, since you asked, Mrs. Mitchell canceled the order for her daughter's wedding.
There went another three hundred dollars out the window. Did she say why?
The groom was having an affair with the maid of honor, bride's BFF. Guess everyone knew about it except for the bride. And Mrs. Mitchell. You coming in tomorrow?
I sighed in despair. From the way things were going, I'd have to stop in at some point. Yes. For a little while. I'm also planning to stop and talk to Trevor's girlfriend, Tina.
Josie must have guessed how I was feeling, because her next message was, Don't worry, girlfriend. Things always seem worse than they appear.
Hey, that sounds like a good fortune cookie message, I texted back. At least she'd managed to bring a smile to my face. Still, I had a strong urge to smack my head against the wall. As Grandma Rosa often said, "It never rains, but it snows." Her unique phrasing worked well with the type of weather we often experienced in Colwestern.
Panic set in, and I wondered how Mike and I were going to pay our bills. I'd respect his wishes and not borrow money from my parents or grandmother. If necessary, we could take out a home equity loan. We owned our house free and clear since Mike had inherited it after his mother's death. But with our car loans, credit card payments, and other everyday bills, things would still be a bit tight. I'd taken a minute to call my health care provider earlier, and as I suspected, they only covered eighty percent of Mike's hospital bill, plus we also had to pay a five-hundred-dollar deductible. His physical therapy would need to be paid for out of pocket as well. We needed nothing short of a miracle now.
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