Confession Is Murder (3 page)

Finally it was over, and people began to get up. For once no one made a dash to the parking lot like they usually did after Mass. The church was full of the sound of whispering voices, kneelers clunking back into place, and prayer books being slapped closed. But they could still hear Connie screaming after the coffin, “Now I’ll never have a baby, you bastard!”

• • •

“He was such a good man.” Elena De Stefano helped herself to another Swedish meatball. The mole on her right cheek went up and down when she talked, and Lucille stared at it, fascinated. “But they say the good die young.”

Lucille nodded and looked around for a place to unload the toothpick she was holding. Nothing suggested itself so she stuffed it in her pocket.

Everyone was crammed into Connie’s house for the funeral luncheon. Lucille glanced around the room but didn’t see Frank. She turned back to Mrs. De Stefano.

Mrs. De Stefano put her hand on Lucille’s arm. “People are talking about the funeral being so delayed.” She glanced over her shoulder, and her grip on Lucille’s arm tightened. “They say the police were holding the body for a—what do you call it—an autopsy? Do you believe that? And Joseph was such a good man. He deserved better.”

She plucked another meatball from the chafing dish on the card table that had been wedged into a corner between the sofa and a matching recliner. “They’re saying”—she wagged the meatball at Lucille—“that it was,” she lowered her voice again, “cancer that took him.”

“Well, I didn’t hear nothing about cancer.” Lucille dug around in the pot of Swedish meatballs with her empty toothpick. Looked like Mrs. De Stefano had eaten them all—she couldn’t find nothing but a bedraggled sprig of parsley. She dropped it back into the pot. “I think it must have been his heart. Working with those chemicals, you know. Although he was careful and always wore a mask. But he had one of them heart murmurs, and I guess that made him susceptible-like.”

Lucille thought about what Sambuco had said. About how maybe it was murder. Murder wasn’t a word she’d ever heard outside of TV or the movies. She shook her head. There was no way someone could have murdered Joseph.

Lucille’s mother elbowed her way into the conversation. “Waxy. I thought he looked waxy, didn’t you, Lucille? I don’t know why Connie went with that place. Should have used Ippolito’s like everyone else. They buried old Olivia Francone last week, and she looked better than she ever did in her life.”

She stared at Lucille’s dress. “You should get yourself something new. The dress I’m wearing, for instance, is perfect for funerals and other somber occasions with its scoop neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, side slit, and coordinating geometric print scarf.”

“You been watching that QVC shopping channel again, Ma?”

“You should watch that show. They sell some nice things.”

Sure. After paying the bills and putting a few dollars away for emergencies, there wasn’t much left. Lucille sidled up to a tray of lasagna and spooned a little onto her plate. Okay, so pasta wasn’t exactly on the Atkins diet. But a little taste wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it would be rude not to have at least a bite of everything when someone went to so much trouble.

“What’s with you and Frankie?” Lucille’s mother asked when Elena De Stefano wandered off in search of more food. “How come you weren’t in church with us.”

“I was running late. Told him to go on ahead.” Lucille looked around the room, trying to avoid her mother’s eye. Connie was talking to Father Brennan and seemed to have pulled herself back together.

“Yeah, then how come he didn’t know where you was, huh?”

“Listen, Ma, I don’t want to talk about it. Not now, okay?”

Her mother started to open her mouth, but just then Stella Plotkin, her mother’s next-door neighbor, came up and complimented her on her new dress.

Lucille looked around the room again and spotted Frank talking to Father Brennan. She tried not to look in his direction but couldn’t help it. Father Brennan said something, and Frank threw his head back and laughed the way he did. Lucille felt herself starting to get hot and turned her head. He still did it to her even after all these years.

She was helping herself to some more lasagna when Frank came up in back of her.

“Hey, babe.”

Lucille jumped. “Frank, you scared me.” A single lock of hair fell over his forehead, and Lucille wanted to reach out and smooth it away, but she took another bite of her lasagna instead.

“We have to talk.” Frank took the plate from her and started to steer her toward Connie’s back bedroom.

“There’s nothing to talk about, least not yet. You gotta give me some time.”

“Please? What harm can a little conversation do?”

Lucille knew what harm it could do. All her high-falutin’ principles would go out the window with one whiff of Frank’s aftershave. If she left the room with him, she’d be a goner.

“Come on, Lu, five minutes is all I ask.” He put his hand to the small of her back and tried to maneuver her out of the room.

“I said no, Frankie, not right now.” She hadn’t meant to speak so loudly—people were turning around to look. “Leave me alone, please. Okay?” Lucille threw her arms up.

The pin on her zipper sprang open, and her dress parted like the Red Sea.

Flo hustled her up the stairs before everyone had even stopped gasping.

“What were you thinking?” She pushed Lucille into the bedroom and slammed the door.

“I couldn’t get the zipper all the way up.”

“I can see that. Everyone could see that. What’s the deal with Frank, by the way?”

Lucille sighed. “I threw him out.”

“So I noticed. What happened?” Flo tugged Lucille’s dress back into place.

“You know that money I was saving? To go to Italy and have an audience with the Pope?”

Flo nodded.

“Well, he took it. I got the statement from the bank, and it was just . . . gone. I called them, and they said Frank had withdrawn all of it.”

“I still don’t understand what the big deal is with this Pope thing. Me, I’d be saving for one of those Caribbean cruises or something. Or maybe Club Med with all those hunky guys.”

Lucille wanted to point out that all those “hunky guys” were the age of Flo’s son. “I’d like to go to the Caribbean too. Frankie and me have talked about it. Kind of a second honeymoon. But this thing with the Pope is special to me. That’s why I was saving my own money for the trip. I can’t explain it; I just imagine that being with the Pope is about as close to being with God as you’re going to get on this earth.”

“There, I think that should do it.” Flo had worked the zipper all the way up and, for good measure, pinned it into place.

Must have been the lasagna, Lucille thought. The dress felt even tighter than it had that morning. She was half afraid to breath. What she wanted to do was go home and change into her sweats and her fuzzy pink slippers.

“I don’t see why you threw him out, though. Guy like Frank—I wouldn’t want him running around loose, if you know what I mean.”

Lucille stiffened. “No, what do you mean?”

“Come on, Lucille, Frank’s still a damned good-looking guy.”

“He’s going gray, has more of a keg than a six-pack, and he snores,” Lucille said, although she agreed with Flo.

Flo laughed. “So what? Frankie’s still got it.” She looked around the room. “Do you believe this place? It’s like something out of
Ozzie and Harriet
.”

Lucille glanced at the twin beds covered in pink spreads and separated demurely by a night table. “Gee, I wouldn’t want Frankie sleeping that far away from me.” She realized, with a pang, that he was now sleeping halfway across town. “Sheesh!” She ran her finger across the top of the vanity. “There isn’t no dust at all. I don’t know how Connie does it.”

A tall, straight dresser was stationed against the opposite wall. Lucille motioned toward the top, where a dish held a handful of spare change and a Swiss Army knife. “It’s going to be hard for Connie to get rid of Joseph’s stuff. I remember when my father died, we had a hell of a time convincing Ma to clean out his closets.”

“Connie’s the ultimate ice queen.” Flo was poking around in the closet. “It probably won’t bother her one bit.”

“Flo,” Lucille hissed. “What are you doing? What if Connie comes up?”

Flo shrugged. “She’s busy downstairs.”

“Yeah, but what if she comes up? I don’t think you should be doing that.”

“I’ve always wondered about Connie. I never could figure her out. Or what Joseph ever saw in her, for that matter.” She motioned toward the open closet door. “Get a load of all these clothes.”

Lucille peeked inside. The closet was so neat, unlike her own with all her shoes in a tangle and half her things falling off the hangers. Connie had scented sachets and everything lined up on beige padded hangers.

“Kind of boring, don’t you think?” Flo glanced through a row of beige sweaters, beige blouses, and beige dresses.

Lucille shrugged. “It suits her, I guess.”

“Even Connie’s hair is beige,” Flo said. “Rita keeps trying to get her to change it—go blonder or darker or something. But Connie says she likes it that way.” Flo closed the door. “And Rita says she’s a cheap tipper.”

“Well, she’s been good to Joseph.”

Flo snorted. “Joseph’s been good to her, you mean. No kids, never worked. Spends a ton on herself.” She gestured toward the closet.

“She wanted kids. You heard what she said at the church.”

“Yeah, what was that all about? That wasn’t like Connie.” Flo was peeking into the drawers, and Lucille was getting nervous. “She probably only wanted kids so she could shop in the baby department. They’d be like another accessory.”

Flo had never liked Connie, Lucille realized. She hated any woman she thought had it easier than she did. She was always going on and on about the ladies at the Clip and Curl where she worked.

Lucille supposed it was because she’d had to struggle so hard herself, being a single parent almost from the time Anthony Jr. was born.

“Is it hot in here?” Flo closed the door to Connie’s closet.

Lucille shook her head. “You’re having one of them hot flashes, Flo. I get them all the time. I keep throwing the covers off while poor Frankie’s practically sleeping in his parka.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Flo fanned herself with her hand. “I’ve got years to go before I hit the change.”

“We’re the same age, and I started already. Fifty isn’t too young.”

“Honestly, Lucille, there’s no need to go around telling everyone how old you are.” Flo went over to the dresser and opened one of the drawers. “Look at this.” She held up a skimpy beige negligee, making it whirl in front of her like a ghostly go-go dancer.

“That sure don’t look like Connie,” Lucille said.

“Yeah, except it’s beige like everything else.” Flo shook her head. “Maybe we don’t know Connie that well after all.”

Lucille took the nightgown and held it up in front of herself. She looked in the mirror. “I wonder what Frankie would think if I showed up in bed wearing something like this?”

Maybe Frank would like it. Maybe he was tired of her old flannel gowns, the socks because her feet were always cold, the tattered robe she threw on every morning to make the breakfast. Maybe he would go out and find himself a woman who owned stuff like this. Lucille felt her chest tighten. She had to get out of here.

“Come on, Flo, let’s go back downstairs.”

“Wait a minute—there’s something else.” Flo was fishing around in the back of the drawer.

“What are you doing?” Lucille hissed under her breath. “We gotta get out of here.”

“Hang on.” Flo pulled her catch from the drawer and held it up.

“What’s that?” Lucille stared in disbelief.

“Plastic wrap.” Flo crowed. “Who would have thought, our little Connie.”

“I don’t get it.”

“There was this book, I think it was called something like
Total Woman.
Don’t you remember? It was all about keeping your man satisfied at home.” Flo’s voice dropped seductively. “One of her tricks included showing up at the door wearing nothing but clear plastic wrap.”

Lucille took a step backward. “You’ve got to be kidding. C’mon, Flo, that’s not true, is it?” She gestured toward the box. “Why didn’t she just push the beds together? Practically all I ever have to do to get Frank’s attention is roll over.”

She’d never had to do anything special to keep Frankie interested. Did men really like that kind of thing? Maybe now Frank would find himself someone who did that sort of stuff. Maybe he already had. She felt her chest tighten again.

“What are you doing?”

Lucille jumped and whirled around. “Connie! We was just—”

“Give me that.” Connie lunged at Flo and grabbed the box of plastic wrap from her. She tossed it in the trash. “I never want to see that again. It was the most humiliating day of my life.” And she threw herself, crying, onto the bed. But carefully, Lucille noticed, so as not to wrinkle the cover or disturb the pillows.

• • •

“Yo, what’s for dinner?” Bernadette lifted the lid off the pan that was steaming on the stove.

“The usual, what did you expect? It’s Sunday. Put that down, you’ll burn yourself.” Lucille took the lid from her daughter and replaced it.

Bernadette rolled her eyes and ticked off on her fingers. “Escarole soup, penne with sauce Bolognese, roast chicken, salad, fruit and nuts and pastries.”

“Shells. I’m doing stuffed shells today, Miss Smarty Pants.”

“Is Grandma coming?”

“Of course.”

Bernadette rolled her eyes again and slunk out of the room.

Lucille sighed. If that girl ever offered to help, she swore she’d drop dead from shock right on the spot. “Bernadette?” Lucille called out. No answer.

She went halfway down the steps to the basement-level rec room and stuck her head in the door. Bernadette and Tony Jr. were sitting on the sofa staring mutely at something on the television.

“Bernadette.”

“Yo.”

“You and Tony go get Grandma Theresa for me, okay?”

Her mother could still drive, but Lucille didn’t like to let her. Pedestrians jumped back up on the sidewalk, and other drivers pulled way over to the side when they saw her coming. At four foot nine, her mother could barely see over the wheel, making it look like the car was driverless—which, in a manner of speaking, it was. She swerved left in order to turn right, took right turns on two wheels, was known to drive on the wrong side of the road, and had no respect for one-way streets.