All Murders Final! (11 page)

Chapter 17

I clapped my hand over my mouth and stumbled back. I grabbed my cell phone and called 911 as I ran to Juanita. She didn't look good. I tried not to touch anything, assuming this was a crime scene. I put my fingers to her neck and felt a weak pulse. “She's alive,” I told the dispatcher. “Hurry.”

I threw my coat over her to try to keep her warm. I didn't want to move her and make things worse, because I couldn't tell where the blood was coming from. “Come on, Juanita. It's going to be all right. Help is on the way.”
What the heck is taking them so long?
“I can hear sirens. They'll be here any minute. Hang on.” I didn't know if talking helped her, but it seemed to help me keep calm, so I kept it up until the ambulance arrived.

The EMTs went right to work, asking me a few questions, then talking over Juanita as they worked. They gently turned her to put her on a gurney. What looked like a silver serving fork stuck out of her stomach. Black dots appeared in my eyes, and I scrambled back outside. I leaned my head down to my knees until my vision cleared. Two squad cars arrived. A woman officer stayed with me, while Pellner ran into the house. They loaded Juanita into the ambulance and took off, lights flashing and sirens blaring. I hoped they weren't too late.

“We need to take your statement,” Pellner said when he came back out.

I shook from the cold. I could see that my coat had been tossed aside in the hallway. Blood rimmed one side. Pellner slipped out of his jacket and handed it to me. I put it on, enjoying the warmth infused in the fabric from Pellner's body. Maybe I should invent a coat warmer. “You'll get cold,” I said to Pellner.

“I'm fine. I have my vest on.”

“Do you work every shift?” I asked. It seemed like I'd been giving him an awful lot of statements lately.

“Apparently, only the ones where you're in trouble. Which seems to be all of them lately. With five kids, I need all the overtime I can rack up. What happened?”

“I came to deliver the Pez dispensers.” I pointed to the box, which was sitting to the side of the door. “I knocked on her door. It opened, and there she was.” I gestured toward her house.

“You sure you didn't open the door?” the woman officer asked.

“Check it for prints. You wouldn't find mine.”

“You might have been wearing gloves,” the woman said.

We all looked at my bare hands. My gloves hung out of my coat pockets, visible to all in the hallway.

“Did you see anyone or hear anything?” Pellner asked.

I thought through the whole scene in my mind. “Nothing. No one.”

“No cars took off?” the woman asked. “Or anyone walking away in a hurry?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't see anything.”

* * *

I picked up my mail with jittery hands, owing partly to the cold, since I'd given Pellner his jacket back before we parted ways. I found a package and smiled a little bit as I carried it and the Pez back up to my apartment. It looked like it was the fourth in a series of packages from my “anonymous” admirer that had shown up over the past several months. I knew they were from CJ, but then I hesitated. At least I thought they were up until this moment. No way my stalker knew me well enough to send this stuff. No one else knew me that well.

The first gift had been a DVD of
The African Queen
, my favorite classic movie, with Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn. The second had been a box of chocolates from See's Candies, famous on the West Coast but not so much on the East. After that a red Coach purse. And now this little box. One of these days I'd bring it up to CJ, but for now I just wanted to enjoy the moment. It meant that for all his gruff behavior, some part of him still had feelings for me. And with the joy each gift brought me, it meant I had more feelings for him than I'd been able to admit to.

I was still so conflicted about both CJ and Seth. If it weren't for Margaret's death, I wouldn't have seen either of them until I'd been more ready. But now I was all over the place with both of them, literally when it came to Seth. I wished there was a search function for life like there was on my garage sale site. In search of a happy relationship, in search of a man who understood me, in search of the person who murdered Margaret More. It would make my life so much easier.

I sat on the couch and opened the box. It was a small cameo on a delicate gold chain. The background was a coral color, and the head was white. I flipped the cameo over, and engraved on the back was
My love
. My heart beat a little faster. But part of it was from conflict. I liked that CJ was trying to win me over, but like Seth, he was violating the no contact rule. Conflicted or not, I put the necklace on and went to the bathroom to admire it in the mirror. Stunning. And a lovely thing to receive after such a rotten day.

* * *

Around eight I heard voices in the hall, followed by a knock on my door. I was growing more and more fond of having Mike's crew out in the hall. I opened the door, and CJ stood there.

“So you have your own personal security now?” CJ sounded grumpy. “They asked who I was and what I wanted with you.”

I leaned out and waved to one of Mike's brothers. “They're not out there for me. But it has been nice, especially after getting attacked in here.”

“I don't like having those thugs around.”

It made me think about Seth and whether he had been playing poker over there.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Sure.” CJ looked serious. “What's up?”

“It's Juanita. She didn't make it.”

I walked over to the couch and collapsed on it. “What happened?”

“The fork caused internal bleeding. It was just too late.”

“Oh, no.” I toyed with the cameo, trying not to think about all that blood. “I guess I'm not shocked. There was a lot of blood. Do you think it has anything to do with what happened here?”

“I don't know. It's why I came over.”

“Is there any chance her death was a horrible accident? Like running with scissors, only in this case it was a fork?”

“We won't know for sure until there's an autopsy. Maybe not then.”

“Did Juanita and Margaret know each other? Two murders so close together in a small town seems unusual.”

CJ rubbed a hand across the stubble on his chin. “How long are those guys going to be next door?”

Ah, the nonanswer.
I'd have to try to find out on my own. “I'm not sure. They told Stella for a few days.” It had already been a few days, and that made me wonder if this arrangement was going to be something more permanent.

“Let me know if they leave.” CJ stood. I walked him to the door and held it open for him. He looked down at me. “Nice cameo.” He lifted it with a finger. “I know how much you like them.”

“Thanks. It's very special to me.”

He ran his finger across my cheek and down my jawline. We gazed at each other, and it seemed like we were trying to say a thousand things without saying a word.

“Hey, everything okay?” It was Mike's brother.

“I think so,” CJ said as he left.

* * *

After a night of crazed dreams where a stalker chased Juanita as she tried to clean Margaret's house, I decided some research was in order. I started with Jaunita's cleaning business, because of the complaints. She'd run a special almost every week on the garage sale site. I checked, but she didn't have a Web site. So I went through my notifications in my business e-mail and found the last time she'd placed an ad. It was a week and a half ago. Several people had posted that they were interested in hiring her. I copied their names down and decided nine wasn't too early to make calls. If I nosed around, maybe I could find a connection between Juanita and Margaret or see if Juanita had been up to some kind of funny business. No one answered at the first three numbers I called. Apparently, some people actually had lives and went out to do things on Saturday mornings.

The fourth person answered.

“Hi. I wanted to ask you about Juanita's cleaning.”

“How'd you get my number?” the woman asked.

Damn.
“Juanita listed you as a reference. I hope that's okay.”

“I guess. She did a great job. House looks better than it has in years, and she's a real sweet lady, too.”

“Well, thanks. I'll give her a call.” That was interesting. It seemed like some people loved her and some people complained about her. It was almost as if she had had two different sides to her.

“I've been trying to reach her all day. Some idiot broke in and made a mess.”

If I were a dog, the ruff on the back of my neck would be standing straight up. “I'm sorry to hear that. Was anything taken?”

“Computers, TVs, a set of china, my dad's old camera. That's what hurt the most. I've got another call I need to take. If you talk to Juanita, tell her to give me a call.”

I leaned back on the couch and wondered what to do next. I called the first three people again and left messages for them, hoping they'd call back before the news of Juanita's death hit the streets. One of them called back right away. They, too, were happy with Juanita, but I couldn't very well ask them if they'd been robbed or not. After we hung up, I searched the police incident reports online to see if there was anything listed that pertained to their house. I didn't find anything, but I hadn't asked when Juanita had cleaned, and I didn't feel comfortable calling back and asking now.

Maybe there wasn't a connection between the robbery and cleaning, anyway. Juanita hadn't cleaned my house; she'd just stopped by. She could be one of those people whom trouble followed. But sadly, even I didn't buy that theory. Something else was going on, and I had to figure it out. I glanced at the time. Margaret's funeral was in an hour, but I couldn't attend. I had an appointment with a woman in Bedford who wanted me to look at what she had to sell and help her price things. We'd decide while I was there if she wanted to sell her things on the garage sale site or do a garage sale in the spring. And as much as I wanted to go to the funeral, I wasn't in a position to turn away business. My suggestion that we reschedule had been met with silence. I'd have to have the DiNapolis fill me in.

Chapter 18

By the time I went over to DiNapoli's, it was nearly 8:30 p.m. and almost time for them to close. I'd been with my client for hours. Thank heavens I'd told her she had to pay me by the hour for pricing. The woman thought everything had value and was worth more than what I thought was possible to get. She wanted to sell old aluminum foil tins that had obviously been used, paper bags, and pencils that were down to the stub. I'd explained putting those things out would detract from all the good items she had, and she had some great things. But she'd heard a story about someone putting an old dirty sock up for sale on a site and someone else buying it. We'd agreed to disagree, and I'd priced everything she wanted me to.

Many people thought Angelo should stay open later than he did, but Angelo had opinions about restaurants and hours. He thought people should eat by nine, and if they didn't, they'd just have to lose out and eat somewhere else. His family was important to him, so when his kids were young, he made sure he was home in time to tell them good night. Even though his kids were grown and gone now, he continued to close the restaurant at the same time. I'd heard him say more than once that if you ate too late, the food didn't sit in your stomach right, and why people would eat a pizza at ten at night was beyond him. Personally, I thought pizza was good anytime.

Only a couple of tables still had people at them when I walked in. I knew that soon some not so subtle methods of getting people to leave would be employed. First, the lights would be dimmed, and then the cleaning staff would come out, and if that didn't get people out, Angelo would ask Rosalie in a loud yet innocent voice if everyone had gone, so they could leave. People put up with it because the food was good and the prices were reasonable.

Angelo turned from the grill with an exasperated look when he heard the door open. But his expression softened when he saw it was me.

“I'll just get something to go. I know you're about to close.” I said it loudly enough that not only Angelo but also the other diners would hear me. Angelo winked at me.

Rosalie leaned over the counter. “Stay and eat with us. Go sit over at a table. If anyone asks, you're waiting for your to-go order.”

I went over and sat, smiling at the people at the table closest to me as they gathered up their things and left. I'd secretly been hoping that I'd be invited to eat with Angelo and Rosalie. I wanted to hear all about Margaret's funeral. The other group left, too, and Rosalie switched the sign to
CLOSED
. The staff got busy cleaning. I talked to Ryan for a few minutes while he mopped and to Lois while she wiped down tables. I felt guilty for just sitting there, even though I'd had a long, hard day of work too.

A few minutes later Rosalie brought wine over in plastic kiddie cups, plates, and a basket of cheese bread. “Go ahead and start. We'll be over in a minute.”

They sent the rest of the staff home—most with packets of food. Angelo didn't want anything to go to waste. The mozzarella dripped off the bread as I picked a piece up. Angelo carried over a steaming bowl of clams, and Rosalie followed with seafood over pasta in a fra diavolo sauce—a spicy tomato-garlic sauce.

“Expanding the menu?” I asked as they sat down. I'd never seen fra diavolo or clams on the menu before.

“Rosalie thinks we should.”

“Ryan suggested we start catering events,” Rosalie said.

Angelo shook his head. “I like things the way they are. Dig in. It's better hot.”

I dug my fork into a large chunk of lobster and popped it in my mouth. I made a noise, almost a moan, which made Angelo look up, eyebrows raised. “It's delicious,” I said. “The fra diavolo has just the right amount of spice. I hate it when it burns my tongue.”

“That's why you should only eat here. You try this over at Tony's in Billerica, all you're gonna get is a heavy hand with the hot stuff. This is a delicate blend to bring out all the flavors,” Angelo said. But for all of Angelo's bravado, his cheeks pinked up, like he was pleased.

“How was Margaret's funeral?” I asked.

“We almost didn't get seats,” Rosalie said.

“I would've found you a seat if I had had to ask the priest to give up his,” Angelo said, patting Rosalie's hand.

Rosalie smiled at Angelo. “Some people didn't even make it into the church. They set up loudspeakers outside.”

“I bet Margaret would have loved that,” I said.

“An archbishop from Boston came, a couple of the lesser Kennedys, and of course, half the church was filled with her family.” Angelo plopped a couple more clams on each of our plates. “The eulogies would have made you think she'd be up for sainthood.”

“Stella sang ‘Ave Maria.' It filled the church. She has the voice of an angel,” Rosalie said.

“And the past of the devil,” Angelo said. “But her voice gave
me
goose bumps.”

That reminded me I wanted to talk to Stella. With all that had been going on, I'd forgotten. I hadn't seen her since Hennessy told me Stella owed Margaret for something. I wanted to know what it was. “What else went on?”

“Lot of crying from the front of the church,” Rosalie said.

“Or fake crying,” Angelo said. “A lot of people stand to inherit money.”

“What about the back of the church? Why weren't they crying?”

Rosalie and Angelo exchanged one of their looks. They might love me, but by Ellington standards, I was still an outsider.

“The front of the church was family. The back, friends or associates. She belonged to a lot of organizations,” Rosalie said.

“And they don't have a reason to cry?” I asked.

“Let me put it this way. A lot of them are relieved they no longer owe Margaret a favor.”

“That's the third time someone has mentioned Margaret and people owing her. What's going on? It sounds like she was in the Mob.”

“She wasn't in the Mob. Not that I know anyone who is,” Angelo said.

I wondered about that. Angelo spent a lot of time denying that his extended family's businesses had anything to do with the Mob. But Vincenzo certainly had dealings with the Mob as a lawyer. And their uncle, Stefano, had certainly seemed to want me to think he was a mobster when we met last fall.

“She liked power,” Angelo said. “And she built a whole system of power by looking like she was helping people, until she got her hooks into them.”

“It seems like a lot of people might resent that,” I said.

“Yes and no,” Rosalie said. “It wasn't fun to owe her, but she got things done. Things that helped not only Ellington but the surrounding communities.”

“Rosalie's just being nice. It's one of her best qualities,” Angelo said. “People resented Margaret. Plenty of people.”

* * *

I walked home with a huge box of cookies, still a little shocked to hear about this other side of Margaret. Even though both Kathy and Hennessy had mentioned it, the DiNapolis' opinions gave it weight. Here I'd thought so highly of Margaret. Next thing I'd find out was that she was broke, not that I really believed that would happen.

The DiNapolis never let me leave empty handed—thus the cookies. I'd insisted on washing the dishes, since there weren't enough to put in the dishwasher, and on cleaning the kitchen while Rosalie and Angelo enjoyed the rest of their wine. For once they'd let me do it. Washing dishes was about all I could do in the kitchen. My lack of cooking skills was well known. Maybe one of these days I should ask Angelo to teach me to cook a simple dish.

I noticed Stella's car was home and her light was on. I figured she liked cookies, so I knocked on her door.

“No date tonight?” I asked when she opened it.

“Two dates with the last guy was enough. And don't ask.”

“I have cookies from DiNapoli's.” I held up the white box tied with string.

“Are there any of Rosalie's pistachio ones in there? Her cookies are the best.” Stella held the door open. I followed her in. We plopped down on her couch, with the box of cookies between us. Stella found a pistachio cookie, and I snagged a chocolate one. As full as I was, there was always room for a cookie.

“I heard you sang at Margaret's service today.”

Stella licked a crumb off her finger. “Yes. And now I'm free. Let's have a glass of cava to celebrate.”

Stella grabbed a bottle from her fridge, uncorked it with a resounding pop, and poured the sparkling Spanish wine into two flutes.

“What do you mean, you're free?” I had a good idea, given what Hennessy had told me, but I wanted to hear what Stella had to say. “Until recently, I thought Margaret was just a nice old lady who liked to help people.”

Stella laughed, but it wasn't the happy kind. “Without Margaret, I wouldn't have had a career in opera. My aunt Nancy took me to her house when I was in high school so Margaret could hear me sing. After that she paid for my private lessons and schooling.” Stella snagged another cookie but just stared at it. “She's the one who made it possible for me to go to Europe. Provided the clothes, the luggage and, most importantly, the contacts. In return, I was expected to be an overnight sensation. I wasn't.”

“But your voice is amazing.”

“I did okay. Given time, I think I could have developed a great career.”

“Margaret didn't realize that?”

“She wanted bragging rights and didn't want to wait for them. So when someone mentioned that a little amphetamine would keep me going longer so I could take more lessons, I tried it.”

I sipped my cava. I knew Stella had eventually left Europe and had ended up in Los Angeles. Where she'd gotten in trouble for using.

“Margaret even paid for my lawyer and rehab.” Stella sighed. “I tell people I came back because I missed being here. But in reality I came back because Margaret told me to, and I felt like I owed it to her.”

“You didn't have to. What would it have mattered?”

“She knew about my aunt Nancy's political ambitions and said she'd squash them like a bug if I didn't do what she wanted. Or she could help her. I could take Margaret being mad at me, but not my family. So I came back.”

“You don't have to stay here now. I don't want you to leave, but you could.”

Stella looked around her apartment. “I'm happy here. I like my job. And now that I'm not at Margaret's beck and call, I can really enjoy it.”

“What do you mean?”

“When she wanted someone to sing at something, she'd call me. Whether it was for a hundred people or two. When she called, I dropped everything and went. Sometimes she'd let me know in advance, but she also delighted in waiting until the last minute.”

“I'm starting to feel very lucky that I didn't know her very well.”

“You are. She expected miracles at the drop of a hat. If she'd told me I owed her one more time, I might have killed her myself.”

“Don't go around saying that. Someone might believe you.”

Stella flicked her hand in an “I don't care” motion. “She hated owing people, but she loved them owing her.”

“I helped her set up her account for my garage sale site. She told me she owed me one, but I thought it was just an offhand comment at the time.” I shuddered. “She doesn't sound like a very nice person. Any thoughts on who might have killed her?” I asked.

Stella munched on her cookie and sat without speaking for a minute. “No. People might say they wanted to, but I can't think of a soul who would actually do it. Now I'm really, truly free.” Stella finished her cookie and held her glass up toward the sky. “Here's to you, Margaret. I sang one last time for you. May you rest in peace or burn in hell.”

* * *

I trudged up the steps to my apartment. Stella wouldn't let me leave the cookies and didn't buy my “Opera singers are supposed to be fat” line. I thought about Margaret having her finger in the political world, which made me think of Seth. His family obviously knew Margaret. And I remembered hearing that eyebrows had been raised when Seth, at such a young age, was appointed to take over for the ailing former district attorney. And now hoped to be elected as the DA.

I didn't recognize the guy at the top of the steps, but I went over, anyway. “I have some cookies for Mike. Is he home?”

The guy stood and looked me over. “No one's supposed to be up here.”

I glared up at him and pointed at my apartment. “I live right there.” The guy raised an eyebrow, so I dug around in my purse and found my ID. “Here. Now, please get Mike.” I said it loudly. “Or do you want to go through the cookie box, too?”

He reached for the box as the door whipped open, and one of Mike's brothers stood there.

“I have cookies for Mike, and I don't appreciate being questioned about being here.”

“Sorry, He's new. Come on in.”

Mike sat on a leather couch, watching the Celtics play on a ginormous-screen TV, which hadn't been here before Mike moved in. “Hey, Sarah. What's up?”

I stepped around the poker table. “I brought you some cookies.” I handed him the box. “And I have two questions. Do you know Seth Anderson, and was he over here playing poker the other night?”

Mike flipped open the box and picked a cookie. “Of course I know who Seth Anderson is. A guy like me always knows the players in the area.” He looked me in the eye. “But no, he wasn't over here. Why would he be?”

I left, knowing that Mike was a consummate liar. Not because of anything he'd said or done, but because I'd glanced at his brother, who had had a panicked expression on his face. If this whole mess were at a garage sale, I wouldn't buy it, because something stunk.