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 the 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.”

“Aren’t you going to run them through the postage machine?”

Lucille glanced at her watch. “I’ve got an appointment I got to get to.”

“Really?” Jeannette raised her eyebrows. Lucille noticed there was a fleck of dandruff in one of them. “What kind of appointment?”

“Uh.” Lucille tried to think but Jeannette was making her nervous the way she was staring at her. “I’m going to the proctologist. I’ve got this here bunion he needs to take a look at.”

Jeannette didn’t look convinced, but before she could say anything Lucille had slipped on her jacket, grabbed her purse and was headed toward the door.

The Olds started on the first try. Lucille patted the dashboard affectionately.

“Good girl. You’re a good girl and don’t listen to no one who says different.”

Lucille roared out of the parking lot and headed toward Route 10 and the Napoleon Club.

It was almost four o’clock, and there were a lot more cars in the parking lot of the club than there had been the last time Lucille was there. After what had happened, she never wanted to see the place again, but she would do it for cousin Louis.

Stale air hit Lucille in the face when she pushed open the door to the club. A handful of patrons sat at the bar and a girl was practicing a routine on the pole. She stopped when she saw Lucille.

“Can I help you?” She walked over to Lucille.

“Yeah. I’d like to see the owner of the club.”

“Benny? You got an appointment?” She grabbed a bottle of beer off one of the tables and took a swig.

“No, I don’t got no appointment.”

“I don’t know.” The girl drew lines in the condensation on the beer bottle with her index finger. “I suppose it’s okay. You look harmless enough.”

Lucille wasn’t quite sure how to take that. Was it a compliment? She followed the girl down a dark hallway with peeling wallpaper and a dirty tile floor. Lucille couldn’t believe she’d thought this here place was some kind of fancy country club.

The girl knocked on a partially open door before pushing it open the rest of the way.

“Yo, Benny, you’ve got a visitor.”

A girl was standing very close to Benny—so close they were almost touching. She jumped back at the sound of the girl’s voice.

It was Bernadette.

Lucille didn’t have no time to react. Benny was coming toward her with his hand outstretched.

“Benny Alberti. What can I do for you?”

He was quite handsome in an Elvis Presley sort of way. His shirt was unbuttoned just a little too far, and Lucille couldn’t see how he could fit nothing in the pockets of those jeans of his, they were that tight.

“I want to ask you a question.”

Benny snapped his fingers and both the girl and Bernadette scurried from the room. Lucille didn’t have no time to think about what she’d seen or to wonder why Bernadette and Benny had been standing so close together.

“Seat?”

Lucille eyed the chair with suspicion. It didn’t look like no one ever gave this place a good cleaning. She perched on the edge of the soiled cushion, avoiding touching the armrests.

Benny sat on the edge of the battered desk that took up most of the space in the office.

“Okay, shoot.”

“It’s like this.” Now that Lucille was here, she wasn’t sure where to begin. “My cousin Louis died recently.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Anyway, we was cleaning out his things—my sister Angela and I—and we found a deposit slip with the account number of this here club.”

Benny fingered the medal around his neck. Lucille thought it looked like St. Cajetan, patron saint of gamblers.

“Your cousin Louis was, shall we say, an investor in the Napoleon Club.”

Lucille didn’t believe that for a minute, but she sensed this wasn’t the time to go mentioning it.

“We also found a lot of cash stuffed in a sock. My sister wants to use the money to pay for Louis’s funeral, but I’m thinking that maybe that money was meant for you and the Napoleon Club.”

Lucille watched Benny carefully. A muscle in his face twitched, pulling his mouth to the left.

He spread his hands out in front of him. “Why would you think that?”

Lucille decided it was time to cut the crap. “I know you gave Louis money to gamble with at them poker games he was going to. And he handed the money back to you plus a share of any winnings. I was afraid he might have cheated you and kept the money for himself.”

Benny laughed, but there was nothing humorous about his expression. “I’m happy to say that your cousin Louis was an honest man. He paid regular as rain.”

His tone was dismissive, and Lucille knew when it was time to go.

“Listen, thanks for seeing me.” Lucille stood up. “I’m just going to go say hello to my daughter.” She gestured toward the door.

“Bernadette is your daughter?” Benny stroked his chin. “I didn’t know that.”

I bet you didn’t, Lucille thought as she gathered up her jacket and purse.

She wanted to give Bernadette a piece of her mind, but she figured this wasn’t the time or the place. Later, when she got Bernadette alone, she’d ask her what she’d been doing standing so close to Benny. Lucille had seen the guilty look on Bernadette’s face. And she didn’t like it one bit.

Lucille walked back down the darkened hall. A door was open on the right and Bernadette was sitting at an old table that had been put to use as a desk. The space was small, cramped and poorly lit. Lucille sighed. And to think she’d been picturing Bernadette working in this swanky office with a window overlooking the golf course.

Bernadette looked up from some papers she’d been shuffling through. “Yo.”

Lucille brushed some dust off a plastic chair and sat down. It wobbled precariously. She tilted her head in the direction of Benny’s office.

“I want to ask you something.”

Bernadette looked wary.

“Was Benny here at the club on Friday morning, the day cousin Louis was murdered?”

Bernadette snorted. “Benny? Nah. I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure? Does he have some kind of appointment book maybe?”

“I’m sure. Benny never gets here before three or four o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Is he married?”

Bernadette stiffened. “Listen, don’t start with that—”

Lucille held up a hand in surrender. “I’m not. I’m wondering if his wife could give him an alibi.”

“For what?”

Lucille sighed. “For cousin Louis’s murder.”

“But why on earth would Benny want to murder cousin Louis?”

“Never mind. Is he married?”

Bernadette looked sulky in a way that reminded Lucille of when she’d been a toddler. She had a sudden warm rush of feeling.

“This woman calls here a lot. I think she might be his wife, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Yeah. Chrissi.”

“Does she have a last name?”

Bernadette shuffled some papers around on her desk. “Benny had me send her flowers the other day.”

“How nice. I wonder if it was their anniversary?”

Bernadette snickered. “The card said I’m sorry.”

“Maybe not then.”

Bernadette finally pulled a piece of paper from the pile and handed it to Lucille. A discarded wad of gum was folded into the corner, but at least it had this Chrissi’s name and address on it.