THIS TIME I phoned Michael D'Avanzo's home, because now I needed to find him. He was at La Firenze, no doubt surprising his chef with a rare weeknight visit.
Discreet lights well back on the sloping lawn set up the white-columned restaurant like some suburban Philadelphia Parthenon. Although it was just past five on a Thursday night, the parking lot was respectably filled. Inside, a glance into the bar revealed a mixture of business types, both male and female, networking to the full extent of their expense accounts or their abilities, whichever came first. My summer luncheon in the private room with Richard Wharton's hand on my leg seemed to have occurred at a different place—in a different lifetime.
Tonight a dark, clean-shaven maitre d’ in a tuxedo snapped to attention behind his podium. Beneath my feet the same mosaic warrior poised for battle.
"Madam?" the maitre d’ pronounced with an excellent smile.
I smiled back. "I'm not here for dinner. I just need to speak to Michael D'Avanzo for a minute." The man signaled a waiter to watch his post then disappeared around a corner and down a hall, polished shoes clicking all the way.
Soon a second man emerged from the same direction, his eyebrows raised in anticipation of my approach.
"I understand you wish to speak to Mr. D'Avanzo?"
"Yes."
"Regarding?" the man inquired.
"It's a personal matter. My name is Ginger Struve Barnes." Then, before his face could become the proverbial stone wall, I hastily added, "Why don't you just tell Mr. D'Avanzo Gin Barnes is here and let him decide whether he can spare me a minute?"
Barrier #2 stiffened his shoulders, looked down his nose, and sniffed. Then he turned on his heel and stepped back around the corner.
A moment later Michael D'Avanzo burst into view, his palms spread in welcome, his voice booming hello. He was wearing that delicious lime fragrance again.
"You must forgive Mario his concern for my time, Mrs. Barnes..."
"Gin," I corrected him.
"Gin," he agreed. "My employees sometimes like to forget they are not my real family," then he lowered his voice a bit to add, "not that I blame them for their loyalty—I pay them well enough for it, eh? Come, come. A glass of wine perhaps?"
"No. No thank you...Michael." I glanced around at the employees deliberately looking away while their ears strained to catch every word. "Is there somewhere...?"
"Of course. But you're sure a little Bordeaux would not be welcome at the end of a hard day?" Like a suitor mentioning an intimacy, D'Avanzo alluded to my sampling of his wine last night after driving Nicky home, a scant twenty-four hours ago.
"Do you have an office?" I asked.
"Yes, but to escort a beautiful young woman, alone, into my very personal space...I'm sure Mario would not approve, nor I suspect would your Rip? We shall go this way." He guided me in a firm but polite fashion through a large archway and to the far right of the largest dining area, a lengthy rectangle that spanned the back of the building. Off-white, oval-backed chairs padded with deep rose surrounded both large and small round tables. Brocade swags softened the edges of three walls of waist-to-ceiling windows.
Between the windows and my stage nerves, I decided not to remove my coat.
D'Avanzo leaned his elbows on the table and unconsciously rubbed the joints of his hands. No one dined within fifteen yards of us, but neither of us spoke above a murmur.
"A beverage, my dear Gin?" he implored. "For appearances?" Clearly, he suspected that our conversation might be unpleasant, the real reason, perhaps, for the public arena.
I nodded my assent.
A wave of his hand brought us a dusty bottle of merlot. We waited in silence while the wine steward went through his routine. D'Avanzo grunted his approval, the steward poured generously, and my host finally settled back in his seat.
He opened his lips to say something, but I spoke first.
"I think your son-in-law killed Richard Wharton."
D'Avanzo's face colored, and he hastily loosened his tie. Then he stood, lifted my elbow with a grip even firmer than before and marched me through a smaller arch, down a short hall, around a corner, and into a roomful of walnut and red leather, clearly the much-protected private office. He slammed the door with his foot.
After releasing my arm, he strode past his desk until he faced a painting of Venice, possibly depicting the Bridge of Sighs.
"What do you mean by this, this accusation?" he asked.
"Just what I said."
Eyes closed, head back, his right hand jumped off the credenza beneath it like a pianist playing chords in staccato. To address me he spoke over his right shoulder.
"You have proof of this?"
"Yes and no." I was still just inside the door, my coat drooping on my shoulders, my purse dangling from my fist to the floor.
D’Avanzo whirled to confront me like a warrior delivering a threat, but my face must have shown him I was as sorry to be delivering bad news as he was to hear it. He ran a thick, laborer's hand through his perfectly groomed hair and instantly became an older father.
"My poor, poor Tina," he said. "Sit, sit, and talk to me.”
This was the part I feared most, the powerful need to protect his daughter. My maternal instincts had yet to be driven to their limits, yet I knew those limits far exceeded anything I would do for anyone else except Rip, my mother, and previously my father.
I threw my purse on an overstuffed red leather chair and rested against its cushiony arm. Behind the desk D'Avanzo slumped noisily into a swivel chair on rollers. Light from one brass floor lamp and one red table lamp carved deep shadows into his forehead and cheeks, aging him by several years.
And still I was frightened to my very core. Michael D'Avanzo was one of those rare individuals who had what my mother called "presence." He filled a room of any size. Politicians ascended to the presidency with presence and a good speechwriter. Actors and athletes pulled in fortunes with presence and a good set of teeth. And no doubt Mafia dons intimidated their peers with presence and a reliable semiautomatic weapon.
My mother was too oblivious to be prejudiced, my father too liberal. Appreciating individuality was my Sunday school lesson, the ABC's of being a Struve. Yet I knew the difference between walking down a center city alleyway during rush hour with hundreds of commuters and walking alone down that alley any other time. The displaced person in the back doorway of the burger joint might be harmless to a crowd, not necessarily so to a lone woman in high heels.
Yet fear is not always so rational. I'm also afraid of the snakes in the zoo. Not as frightened as I would be of one slithering toward my feet; but the fear is nevertheless real, and I am not entirely able to control it.
So there in Michael D'Avanzo's office, having already upset him with intentions of possibly infuriating him, it did not especially help for reason to remind me that few Italians are criminals. Just as with other groups of any description, I also realized that some were.
Let's face it, in the Philadelphia of my youth news of Mob slayings occasionally eclipsed the sports coverage, so a man named D'Avanzo possessing both presence and a painting of Venice naturally might fuel my childish imagination. Although I personally knew the man only as a flirt who wore tasteful clothes, enjoyed vintage wine, and adored his grandson, my mind insisted on waving a file card in front of my eyes—a card that read "Very connected...pending clarification." Common sense told me to choose my words carefully.
"First I have to tell you something about Tina," I began. With luck, if he took this part well, the second part would go better.
"Go on."
I squirmed with reluctance. I wished myself home with my family. If it meant never coming across Richard Wharton's body, I wished us all back in Ludwig before Rip even applied for the Bryn Derwyn job.
"Your daughter doesn't really care for her husband anymore."
D'Avanzo said nothing. He did not move. I could scarcely see him breathe.
"Go on."
"I guess she felt neglected," a fabricated excuse, but so common that Tina herself probably even believed it. "She's been afraid to tell you."
"Afraid..." Her father’s face sagged.
"I don't think they think they can afford to divorce."
D'Avanzo wagged his head in disgust and said something sharp in Italian. "She told this to you and not to me? Why?"
I shrugged.
D'Avanzo shot forward. "I'll tell you why. Because they are greedy, both of them. They know they would have to stop spending money they don't have. They know I would no longer send business toward that pathetic company of his. Pah, on the both of them. Now tell me the rest." D'Avanzo was standing now, pacing.
"For several months your daughter had been interested in someone else." I watched D'Avanzo's eyes. With his thumbs in his pants pockets and his chin lowered he glared at me with those eyes, the patriarch deceived and therefore scorned. I watched those eyes very carefully.
"She'd been interested in Richard Wharton."
"How do you know this?"
I couldn’t admit that I tricked Tina into implicating herself, so I lied and said I saw her in the copy room with Richard instead of Randy.
D'Avanzo grunted. I could see emotions roiling inside him, but whatever they were remained unreadable. "So you think Edwin found out and killed this man? Is that what you're saying? Eh?"
"Yes. His car was parked in the school lot at the time of the murder, but he didn't have an appointment with anyone, and nobody actually saw him. He must have followed Wharton to the school or phoned his office to find out where he was. Probably used a back door to get in and out..."
"And you say you do or do not have proof of this?"
From my standpoint it was vital that D'Avanzo shift any lingering loyalty toward Eddie wholly onto his daughter, but he was adjusting so easily I had to wonder whether he ever liked his son-in-law. Instinct again, and my cue to capitalize on it. Follow his stoic example. Conceal my quivering knees.
"I know where to get proof. That's why I'm here. I need your help."
"My help!"
"Yes."
The man actually laughed. "Okay, Shirley Jones, tell me about this so-called proof."
Did he mean Sherlock Holmes? Was he patronizing me, trivializing the situation? Annoyance began to buoy my waning bravado.
I folded my arms across my chest and explained how the murderer had used a hand-held vacuum to clear the area of trace evidence. "The Dustbuster I left outside the Community Room door had scratches on the top; but when I helped the police collect all of the ones belonging to the school, none had been scratched the way I remembered. “I think your son-in-law used the school's, took it home, then replaced it—either with one he and Tina already owned or a new one. I'm hoping the one with the incriminating debris is still at their house."
"This vacuum, the one from the school—you think he went back later to replace it? You believe him that brave, or that foolish?"
I waved my head. "Not necessarily either. He's frequently at the school. That's why nobody remembered his car right away. And if none of our Dustbusters was missing, nobody would necessarily figure out what he did."
"Why haven't you taken this theory of yours to the police?"
"Because I need my name kept out of it," I told him adamantly.
Then I went a little coy, started playing with the edge of my coat. "Because even if the police believed me, the Dustbuster might not be there; and even if it's there, it may not provide proof enough to convict Eddie Longmeier..."
I stuffed my fists into my overcoat pockets, "...and because I need Eddie to confess by tomorrow."
D'Avanzo strolled back and forth, occasionally glancing in my direction.
"I assume you would like to see justice done," I stated.
"Ah, yes. Yes. It doesn't do to have murderers running around free. No, no. I'm thinking you could be right about Eddie. Oh yes. You could be right. But you could also be wrong."
"Another reason why I'm here instead of at the police."
"Explain."
"I'd like you to tell Eddie that you know he knew about Tina and Richard, that you know his car was at the school, and you know where to obtain proof of his guilt. Tell him it would be best for Tina and Nicky if he confessed immediately."
Judging by my listener's lifted eyebrows and slow nod, he appreciated how a confession would divert attention from Tina's infidelity to Eddie's far more despicable act. Probably the part about Nicky needed more explanation.
"Why immediately?" he asked.
"You say you're grateful for what Bryn Derwyn has done for Nicky. So grateful that you plan to donate half a gym so both Nicky and Bryn Derwyn will benefit.
"If Randy Webb is indicted at the Grand Jury hearing tomorrow, there may not be any more Bryn Derwyn for Nicky to attend. He would probably end up going somewhere not quite so perfect for him." In other words, much less tolerant of his learning style, his behavior, his ego. That at least needed no elaboration.
"A bit extreme, wouldn't you say?" Michael D'Avanzo breathed in and out, and I sensed a shift in the atmosphere, an ominous movement beneath the surface. My hand reached back to the chair arm for support before I answered.
"I imagine you go to great lengths to keep the public's trust in your restaurant, right?"
"Yes, but I don't see..."
"If one person died of food poisoning because of something one of your employees did, what would happen to La Firenze? Could you wait for it to recover? Would it ever recover? Even if you fired the employee and scoured the entire building with Clorox, would the public ever forget?"
D'Avanzo’s eyes had hardened and his lips pressed tight, but I couldn’t stop now.
"Randy Webb isn't squeaky clean,” I said. “Rip is checking him out; but if whatever he's been up to gets exposed to the public, even if he didn't murder Richard, Bryn Derwyn loses face. Randy Webb just plain has to step out of the spotlight before it's too late."
Any semblance of the man who greeted me so warmly had disappeared. D'Avanzo's face became a rigid mask, his eyes unforgiving, his whole body a tangible physical force. The impression lasted only a moment, so short a time that now and then in the upcoming days I would convince myself that it had not occurred at all. But, of course, it did.
During that one unguarded moment the restaurateur revealed himself to be the most menacing human being I had yet encountered. The revelation terrified me so that I finally saw the truth. What I’d started was huge.
And now it was beyond my control.
All I’d wanted to do was save Randy Webb and, at the same time, Bryn Derwyn Academy. Unfortunately, my plan depended on Michael D'Avanzo responding like everybody else I knew. Like Rip or Joanne Henry...or me.
I saw now that my trust had been recklessly naive, a realization that almost made me physically ill. Armed with my information, Michael D'Avanzo was as dangerous and unpredictable as a loaded gun. And I was powerless to stop him.