Vincent Vanzetti, Catrin and Sherri were sitting in the gold living room. I was pacing the floor, in the space formally occupied by the low glass table, wondering how best to make my pitch, to offer my accusation. However, and quite rightly, Vanzetti gave priority to his daughter.
“How is Vittoria?” he asked.
“She is making progress with Alan. Hopefully, she’ll return home soon.”
“I don’t blame her for what happened,” Vanzetti said, his eyes downcast, his gaze lost in the depths of his whisky glass.
“You need to convince her of that fact,” I said, “make sure she understands that she hasn’t dishonoured your family.”
Vanzetti nodded. He sipped his drink. He caressed the corners of his grey moustache. He looked old, thoughtful, troubled by recent events, burdened by the cares of his lifestyle.
“How is V.J.?” he asked.
“Upset. Confused. He insists that he didn’t shoot Osborne.”
“So who did?”
I paused and sipped my drink, a fruit juice, my only source of sustenance since breakfast. No wonder I was a size ten: the Samantha Smith diet – don’t eat, do worry, stay active; buy the DVD now.
“Initially,” I said, “I figured Maya for the hit, though the weapon did offer an obstacle to that supposition. However, now my guess is someone in this room; someone who had access to your gun, Mr Vanzetti.”
“You think I did it?” Vanzetti frowned, arching a grey eyebrow.
“You have a very strong motive. And, some would argue, form. But the attempt was too sloppy to carry your hallmark, and there’s no way in the world you’d have left your gun at the crime scene, or used your own gun, for that matter.”
“So you think Catrin did it?” Vanzetti asked.
I glanced at Catrin Vanzetti. She was sitting next to her ex-husband, her expression preoccupied, her left hand absentmindedly caressing his thigh. There was a comfortable familiarity between them; dare I say it, the familiarity of a long-time married couple.
In reply to Vincent Vanzetti, I said, “Who’d blame Catrin if she did take a pop at Osborne?”
“I thought about it,” Catrin confessed, snapping out of her reverie, placing her hands in her lap. “But, like I said earlier, shooting Osborne would not offer a solution. If he died at my hands, it would be a long, slow, painful death; I’d want to see the bastard suffer.”
I nodded. I could well believe that. To Catrin, I said, “It would help if you could offer an alibi.”
Catrin glanced at her ex-husband. She took hold of his right hand and their fingers entwined. “Vince is my alibi,” she said while gazing into Vanzetti’s eyes.
I blinked, cleared my throat and said, “Mr Vanzetti?”
With reluctance, Vanzetti glanced at Sherri. He didn’t blush exactly, but he did look embarrassed when he said, “I was with Catrin in the guest suite. We were together, all night.” He ran a finger under his shirt collar, flexed his neck muscles and loosened his tie. “Unfinished business,” he shrugged. “You know how it is.”
“Oh, Vincent!” Sherri sobbed. She curled her hands into two tiny fists then rubbed her eyes. The woman, despite her long legs, suspenders and over-generous cleavage, looked like a little child.
“Which just leaves Sherri,” I said.
Sherri unfurled her fingers. She made a pathetic attempt to place a dot above her index finger to form the letter ‘i’. “With an ‘i’,” she cried.
“With an ‘i’,” I echoed. “You were alone all night?”
Sherri nodded. Then, in a dramatic gesture, she swooped on to the floor, dropped to her knees before Vanzetti. “I did it for you, Vincent. I thought you’d be proud of me. I was going to tell you. I don’t want to lose you to that cow-faced bitch.” She glanced at Catrin and snarled, transformed herself from Miss Jekyll into Mistress Hyde. “I love you, Vincent. I can’t live without you. I need you in my life.”
“How did you do it?” I asked.
“Simple.” Sherri jumped up. She turned towards me and offered her girlish smile. As she spoke, she performed every action, displayed attempted murder in a mime. “I took the gun from under Vincent’s pillow. I knew he was with that cow-faced bitch, so I took the gun from under his pillow and drove to Osborne’s house. I was going to win my true love back, just like they do in the movies, just like I did in Gangster Gangbang.”
The thought of Sherri behind the wheel of a car made my mind boggle, but I let it pass.
“I knocked on the glass door,” Sherri continued, “flashed him a thigh, and he let me in. Then I shot him.” She placed her right thumb to her lips, swayed playfully from side to side then gave her thumbnail a thoughtful nibble. “I guess I panicked a bit...the gunshot was so loud...and I dropped the gun and ran. I aimed to kill him, but I guess I missed. They won’t find my prints on the gun,” she said while rolling her eyes, “I’m not that stupid. I wore gloves. I saw that on Columbo.” Sherri paused. She abandoned the mime. She dropped all pretence. Gone was the actress; in her stead, I saw the true Sherri, a vulnerable young woman, a woman in need of protection from herself.
“I did it for you, Vincent, and for Vittoria. I love you both.” Large teardrops rolled down her cheeks, splashed on to the floor in a rain of raw emotion. She sniffed, licked a tear from her lips and said, “My father doesn’t care about me. My mother only wanted me to be famous; she never loved me, she never even liked me for who I am. She didn’t care if I became a porn actress, as long as I was famous. No one loves you unless you’re famous. But I love you, Vincent. I love Vittoria. You’re my family.”
Vanzetti and Catrin stared at Sherri. They shuffled in their seats then glanced at each other; they looked confused, embarrassed.
I drained my fruit juice then placed the tall, elegant glass on the cocktail cabinet. Sherri was sobbing, crying the rain, so I offered her my shoulder. While her tears moistened my blouse, I said to the mobster, “There you are, Mr Vanzetti; either V.J. Parks or your wife for a long spell in the cooler. What do you reckon?”
Vanzetti placed his head in his hands. He drew his fingers across his face. He looked as weary as Old Father Time. He glanced at me, stared into his empty glass and sighed, “I need a drink.”