“Oh, good grief, what a bad mistake,” Rosaria gasped.
“The green pants or the pink golf shirt?” Solly asked. And they both broke out in laughter again. “No, no, my marriage, my marriage.” Rosaria wiped the laughter tears from her eyes and took a big breath before saying. “Anyway, it didn’t last. I think he’s with someone else now. So, Solly, fair’s fair. Tell me about Justine.”
Then Solly told Rosaria about his own first marriage to the talented, beautiful and charming Justine. A talented, beautiful, charming woman who was apparently also “a little off”—whatever that meant.
Rosaria had taken this description with a grain of salt. She had always prided herself on a broad-band acceptance of those who were somewhat off-kilter. “I suppose we’re all a little off in some way,” she said.
Solly’s mouth twisted slightly. “Maybe, but there’s a range. Sometimes it’s too much.”
Rosaria didn’t respond except to nod.
For whatever reason, perhaps because Solly had described her as “a little off”, Rosaria hadn’t expected to learn later in the conversation that Solly’s first wife had a thriving practice as a therapist. She was also a little envious to know that Justine was an accomplished amateur photographer and further impressed in a different way to learn that Justine also volunteered one day a week counseling clients at Saint Martin’s.
“Sounds like quite a mix,” she said to Solly. “Complicated.”
“You don’t know the half of it, honey.”
Rosaria squeezed his hand. “Let’s take a walk on the harbor and get some fresh air. Blow all these old complicated memories away.”
◆◆◆
Now, in recent days, after some unexpected experiences with Justine, Rosaria’s perspective on her capacity to absorb individuals who were a “little off” was shifting. There was off, and then there was off. Crazy-making off.
Justine had reached out to Rosaria shortly after Rosaria and Solly had started seeing each other. Distracted on a busy day early that spring, Rosaria had responded to an unknown number on her cell—something she rarely did—and instantly regretted her lapse.
“Hi, Rosie. This is Justine Perry calling.”
Rosaria was startled and not pleasantly so. What unknown person is calling her Rosie?
“I’m sorry, I don’t recognize the name, Ms. Perry.”
She could hear the disappointment in the caller’s voice. “Justine Perry, Solly Belkin’s first wife.”
Not ex-wife, but first wife. Strange. “Yes, what can I do for you, Ms. Perry?”
“Oh, please, call me Justine, Rosie.”
The use of Rosaria’s most private nickname by someone she’d never met aggravated Rosaria. Rosie as her nickname had only ever been used by her late father, an old boyfriend in the dim past, and now Solly.
“I just wanted to say hello,” Justine continued, “and to see if you’d like to meet for coffee or dinner sometime. We have something in common.”
“What would that be?”
“Well, Solly, of course.”
“I see.” Long silence. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? There’s so much I could share with you that might help you understand him.”
Rosaria held her cellphone away and looked at it for a moment, frowning—Jesus. This woman is a little off all right—before putting it back against her ear and responding. “I’ll figure that out on my own, thanks. I need to go now.”
“Please, just think about it. We could be friends. No reason why not. Open your mind a little. You might be missing out on a good experience, Rosie.”
“I’ll take that chance, Justine. The answer is no. And please don’t call me Rosie. The name is Rosaria. I’m hanging up now.”
Rosaria could hear Justine’s flurry of objections before she pressed the End Call button. Then, she blocked the number.
Well, I hope that’s the end of that Good grief.
Except it wasn’t the end of that.
◆◆◆
Rosaria knew that Justine lived in a trust fund townhouse somewhere on Chestnut Street on Beacon Hill. Now, however, she was surprised to see Justine in the North End and in Rosaria’s own waterfront neighborhood.
Rosaria had seen Justine in several pictures with Solly, taken when they were a couple. She remembered feeling a wave of jealousy looking at the longhaired blonde in the picture. Model slim and elfin Justine. Jesus, she was so, so... what? Perky. She was perky. What in the world did Solly see in Rosaria—tall, big boned, non-perky, independent and occasionally troublesome Rosaria O’Reilly—with her crooked nose and scars—after he had been married to someone who looked like Justine Perry? It was depressing to think about.
When she’d first seen Justine’s picture on a side bookcase in Solly’s apartment, Rosaria had started to fall into an irrational black mood. Then, coming up behind her, Solly had said casually, “Guess it’s time to toss this. If I send it back to her, she’ll think it’s an overture and I sure as hell don’t want her thinking that.”
Rosaria had felt relieved at the time. Mostly.
Justine usually carried a camera when Rosaria started seeing her in the neighborhood. Rosaria remembered Justine’s photographic pursuits. So, perhaps it was not so surprising that Solly’s ex-wife was in Rosaria’s neighborhood now, taking shots of picturesque Italian caffès, bocce games or boats along the wharves—images capturing the general ambiance of an interesting area of the city. If Justine caught Rosaria’s eye, she’d wave cheerily between shots. “Photoshoot!” she’d call.
But why here? Why now? thought Rosaria with annoyance. She generally didn’t respond to Justine on these occasions except for a cool nod.
Then, Rosaria had to stop going to her regular coffee hangout—Boston Bean on Salem Street—because of Justine. She’d looked up once or twice to see Justine entering the shop or already sitting at a table with her camera and her lens and accessory bag. Rosaria didn’t acknowledge Justine when she saw her. This was starting to feel strange. The North End had a dozen coffee shops for Justine to hang out in. Why frequent Rosaria’s regular stop?
Rosaria considered talking to Solly about Justine’s increased presence in her life, but she felt she should be able to handle this little weirdness herself. Solly was so swamped and stretched to the limit with his demanding job. He didn’t need any more complications to deal with. And, besides, while Justine clearly had issues, she didn’t seem like a bad person. A little unbuttoned and—really—getting just so damned annoying.
Once, when she was jogging with Archie, Rosaria was sure that she saw Justine, positioned behind some parked cars, taking a photograph of her. Rosaria had swirled and, exasperated, hollered, “Stop it!” But Justine was nowhere to be seen. Passersby had looked at Rosaria curiously. She’d reddened and recommenced her jog.
Things came to a head with the picture in The Boston Globe. On the back of the Metro section, the Names page—as if people not included on the page had no names—tracked celebrities and high profile Bostonians at various galas and moneyed events. A large color photograph of Solly and Rosaria at a fundraiser for the Boys and Girls Club sat above the fold. Photo credit to Justine Perry. Rosaria hadn’t even seen Justine and her damned telephoto lens at the event.
The worst part was the tagline. “Rosaria O’Reilly, heroine of Malford nun murder scandal and her Boston cop, Detective Solly Belkin.” Heroine? Her Boston Cop? Could it get any worse?
Solly had gone ballistic. Rosaria didn’t hear all the conversation when Solly had called Justine from Rosaria’s kitchen. She heard just Solly’s end which ran, in increasingly higher volume, along the lines of, “Thought I’d be pleased? No, Justine. I am not godamned pleased. I am pissed. I am frigging pissed. That’s what I am.”
While Solly spoke—or hollered—on the phone to Justine, Rosaria went out to her little balcony over the harbor, Archie trotting behind her. Settling in with a Jameson-laced cup of tea, she sat out much of the rest of the conver
sation in the fresh air with Archie nestled at her feet. Given how loud Solly’s words were occasionally, she heard them anyway...and she imagined many of her neighbors did, too.
“Stay away, Justine. Stop. And don’t give me that bullshit about a photoshoot down around here.” Rosaria could not hear Justine’s side of the conversation but she could imagine it. “Just stop or I’ll take legal action. I swear to God I’ll get a restraining order. Do you hear me?”
Then, the kitchen was very quiet, though Rosaria could hear Solly’s pacing. She stood and reentered the kitchen. Solly had stopped to sit on one of the kitchen stools by the counter, holding his head as he listened on the phone.
Finally, his tone changed and he said softly into the cell. “Look, Justine honey.”
Did he just call this lady honey? thought Rosaria
“You have to stop this,” he continued. “Get some help. This is not how a well person behaves.” He listened to the response for a moment. “Don’t cry, Justine. Don’t cry,” he soothed. “Listen to me. Just listen to me.”
Rosaria heard subdued sobbing from the other end of the line.
“Promise me that you’ll call Dr. Shaeffer right after I hang up?” he begged over the phone.
A question at the other end.
“No, I will not drive you. What about that guy you’re seeing now?” Solly frowned. “Well, what kind of a guy is he that he wouldn’t ‘understand.’ Of course, he’ll understand if he cares about you. Give the guy a chance to step up. He sounds like he’s really into you.” Solly looked at Rosaria, shaking his head.
Finally, “Okay, I have to go now, Justine. I’m hanging up. Call Dr. Shaeffer. Take a cab to Brookline if you have to.” Rosaria could hear Justine’s voice continuing as Solly pressed the End Call button.
He looked at Rosaria again for a while before he said. “Why didn’t you tell me this was going on before?” She started to respond before he raised his hand. “Never mind. I know you.”
“Honey?” asked Rosaria.
Solly shrugged. “We were married, Rosie. I cared for her at some point. I still do—but differently. I don’t want to see her go off the rails.”
Rosaria nodded. She really did understand. What can you do? What can you do?
Solly looked out at the fading afternoon light on the harbor before standing up and putting his arm around her shoulders. He pulled her close and kissed her hair. “Your Boston cop is hungry. Let’s go out and get something to eat.”
CHAPTER 11
Rosaria saw it coming. She could feel Bridie Callahan leaning on her more and more in the days after the murder. So, she was not surprised when it came that evening.
The condo was smelling of an odd combination of air popped popcorn and leftover chicken piccata from Artu’s. She and Solly sat with their long legs stretched onto the coffee table as they binge-watched House of Cards on Netflix. Archie crowded between them, Solly’s arm over Rosaria’s shoulders, her head on his. Three contented souls, thought Rosaria. This was how it was meant to be.
She almost didn’t answer her cellphone when she heard it trilling in the kitchen. But, she decided a bathroom break was probably in order anyway.
“Want me to pause it?” Solly asked as she got up.
“Nope. That’s okay. I’m not that into it, under present circumstances. You want another Ipswich?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Rosaria knew what the call would be about when she saw that it was Bridie. She’d already thought about her answer, though it was a hard decision.
“Ro, I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything, Bridie.”
“Would you ever be able to come with me when I bring Patrick’s body back home, Ro?”
Rosaria glanced over at Solly’s back as he sat on her couch watching Netflix. There might be her biggest problem with this decision. She tucked the phone under her chin and went to the refrigerator to get Solly’s bottle of Ipswich Ale, clicking the top off with the bottle opener next to the fridge.
Bridie continued, “I just don’t think I could handle it by myself. Bringing the boy home to Nora and Francis. I’m so ashamed.”
With that, Rosaria was taken aback. “Why on earth would you be ashamed, Bridie? You are not to blame here.”
“He came to visit me and I should have taken care of him.”
“How can you say that? Patrick was not ten years old. He was not a child. He was old enough to be responsible for himself.”
Nevertheless, Rosaria’s heart broke for her friend when she realized she would have felt the same way—somehow responsible for the young man’s death.
“Bridie, this could have happened in Galway City. It could have happened in Eyre Square or on the Long Walk by the harbor.”
“Please come with me, Ro,” Bridie said sadly.
Rosaria had already pretty much decided over the last few days to go to Ireland with Bridie if she asked. She was already involved in the aftermath of Patrick Keenan’s murder. She could go deeper. She wanted to help her friend. And, in truth, she had to admit that she was getting intrigued—something felt a little off about Patrick’s quest.
Rosaria looked over at Solly on the couch again. He would not be pleased. He’d had enough experience with her to know that she’d start nosing around about Patrick Keenan in Ireland. And sometimes her nosing around—or “butting in” as he sometimes called it—just made things...well, complicated. And then there was the basic fact, she thought tenderly, that he would miss her when she was gone. Besides her parents, she’d never had anyone miss her quite as much as he did when she was away. Rosaria wasn’t sure how she felt about this since his missing her tethered her in unfamiliar ways, but she did love the man. She held the cold bottle of ale against her forehead and looked again at Solly’s back in the living room. He’ll get over it. We’re solid, and I won’t be gone that long. Besides, this is my decision.
Then, she heard Bridie’s tentative voice break through her thoughts. “Rosaria, are you there?” That lost, sad voice settled the decision in Rosaria’s mind.
“Yeah, I’m here, honey. What flight should we go on?”
◆◆◆
Rosaria didn’t tell Solly about the Ireland trip that night. She needed more time to think about how to discuss the trip with him, and she had to admit to herself that she didn’t want to ruin a sweet evening. When she did call the next day to tell Solly, she’d been spot on about his reaction. He was indeed not pleased she’d agreed to go to Ireland with Bridie. For all the reasons she’d anticipated.
Rosaria wasn’t used to checking in with anyone when she made her decisions. She had to admit, she was not at all comfortable with it. A niggle of wistfulness for her previous independent life and decision-making worked its way through her mind as she listened to Solly go on. The longer he talked, the firmer her decision to go to Ireland with Bridie, and perhaps stay some extra time for good measure.
“Why you?” he fumed.
“Because I’m the only one who can do this for her. She’s my friend and she needs me,” Rosaria replied. “I won’t be gone that long, Solly—a few days, maybe a little longer. Probably not more than a week.” Maybe a lot longer if you keep going on like this. “Just for the services and some support for Bridie afterwards.”
“Oh, no you won’t, Rosaria.” He used her full name. Never a good sign. “I know you. You’ll be snooping around over there about Patrick Keenan and you’ll get goddamned involved”
“Well, I could check on a few things while I’m over there,” she ventured, the skin on her neck starting to prickle in annoyance.
“What few things, what few things? Just tell me that. I shouldn’t have to tell you that if you plan on asking questions about Patrick Keenan over there—this is not your case. This is a police matter.”
“I’m not going to intrude on your case, Solly. Besides, how strongly do you feel about the Irish angle in this case?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I me
an, really, do you think there’s something over there that could explain why Patrick was killed, or do you think it’s all on this side of the Atlantic?”
“I think it’s a reach to think it’s back in Ireland. I think we’ll find the answer is a lot less complicated and that it’s over here.”
“Right. So, why is it a problem if I go and if I should check on a few things while I’m there?” Rosaria inhaled deeply and rolled her eyes.
“Look, I’m just telling you now that I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.” He went silent.
What am I doing with this guy? What business is it of his where I goddamned go and what I goddamned do?
“Well, I thought it was my business,” Solly said. “But I guess I was wrong.”
Oh, damn! She’d actually uttered that last thought aloud and Solly was responding. This was getting dangerous. “Look, Solly—”
But he’d already hung up on her.
◆◆◆
Solly called back the next day. “What are you doing with the dog? I have a bad schedule, but I could get Justine’s dog walker.”
Rosaria saw that this was the closest she was going to get to acquiescence or, God forbid, an apology. Still, she was relieved and grateful, except for the Justine’s dog walker part. Rosaria’s usual dog sitting option, her ex-husband Bronson, was at yet another economics conference to discuss grand things and sleep with as many charming young scholars as he could.
She had been stymied about what to do with Archie until Marguerite said, “Bring the little beggar up to the Motherhouse. God knows we could use a therapy dog for a while. And who knows, he might have a vocation.”
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