Dial M for Meat Loaf (17 page)

30

It was nearing midnight when Bernice and Angelo walked silently down a dusty dirt road toward Ice Lake. On such a sultry summer night, with the smell of freshly cut grass lingering in the air, Bernice couldn’t help but feel that the lake’s name had the kind of irony only a Minnesotan could truly love, living as they did half the year in tundra, the other half in a sauna.

In the dark, Bernice couldn’t see Angelo’s face very well, but she could feel his hand wrapped gently around hers. When she left New York in June, she never expected to see him again. She’d made a decision. She had her reasons. And yet, here she was, her unruly hair sprayed into submission, her mouth painted a deep mulberry, wearing her feminine clothes, as she thought of them—a long flowing Indian print skirt, a brightly colored cotton shawl, and a neckline that revealed just a hint of roundness. She was still the nearsighted daughter of the ex-mayor, the big-boned, awkward intellectual, the middle-aged woman in clunky shoes with a full-blown case of frowziness, but for some unknown reason, she felt softened around Angelo, and strangely content.

In the last few months, Bernice’s life had come untethered, like a balloon escaping from a small child’s hand. She could see it floating over the trees, tossed by whatever air current happened to come along. She hated not being in control of her emotions. She preferred thinking to feeling, action to passivity. Her psychological slide had started in New York, and then because of her father’s problems, she’d slid still further, if possible even more wildly, with no end in sight.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Angelo, leading her to a bench by the water.

“Nothing,” she said, sitting down next to him, keeping a few protective inches between their bodies.

“It’s not
nothin
’,” he said, kissing her hand.

“Why do you say that? I was just enjoying the quiet.”

“You’re grinding your teeth, Bernice. You only do that when you’re upset.”

How could he love her? She was such a klutz.

“Come on, you can tell me. I’m here to help.”

You’re here to complicate my life, thought Bernice. You’re here to get your way. But she didn’t say it out loud. That fact that she didn’t made her feel even more like a bowl of emotional mush.

“Is it about what happened this morning?”

She turned to him. “What happened this morning?”

“Cora Runbeck. She came to your parents’ house with a shotgun.”

“She what? Who told you that?”

“Your Uncle Milton. He and Plato talked to her. Your mom stayed inside. Seems someone broke into Cora’s house last night, tried to kill her.”

“That’s awful!”

“Yeah. Bad news all around.”

Absently, Bernice lifted her hand to her teeth so she could bite her nails. “Who’d want to hurt her?”

“Isn’t it obvious? The same person who murdered Kirby is after her now. Cora said she had the goods on your dad, whatever that means. And if anything happens to her, the information will go straight to the police.”

In the moonlight, Bernice searched his face. “Does that mean she thinks someone in my family tried to kill her?”

“Sure. She’s not stupid. Except this time, it couldn’t have been your father. My guess is, he didn’t kill Kirby either.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

Her indignation hung in the air for a moment, then he continued, “If she was thinking clearly, she’d go to the police
now
with what she knows. But from what Milton said, I got the impression she has the blackmail money and she isn’t about to part with it. It makes her a sitting duck.”

“But she said if anything happens to her—”

“Come on, Bernice. Use your imagination. There are a hundred ways around that.”

“There are?”

He patted her knee.

“But . . . what does she have on my father?”

Angelo shrugged. “Don’t worry. She won’t use it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ll take care of it.”

“As if you could.” Bernice looked down, pressing her fists to her eyes. “This is all a dream. If I can just wake up, it will all be over.”

“You are awake,” said Angelo, slipping his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close.

They were such a ridiculous couple, thought Bernice. MTV should make them into a cartoon sitcom. She was a good five inches taller than Angelo, with all the sex appeal of a hubcap, while Angelo was thick and wide, with all the sex appeal of an Idaho baker. And yet that didn’t prevent them from being madly attracted to each other. It must be some sort of twisted kismet.

“I adore you, Bernice.” He nibbled her ear. “You’re the most refreshing woman I’ve ever met. You’re a real person. You’re not just a facade.”

If she could pick a facade, this wouldn’t be the one she’d choose.

“I’d do anything for you and your family. We’re in it together now.”

“We are?”

“Sure. We have been for months. Since you agreed to be my wife. Only thing is, you left me standing at the altar, Bernice. You kicked me in the nuts . . . so to speak.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“I forgive you. I will admit, I was pretty PO’d back in June, but I cooled off. And to show you what kind of man I am, I’m giving you a second chance. You just got scared. Marriage is a big step.”

She felt a little desperate. She’d fallen in love with him so quickly, so totally, but he was right. She
was
scared. “I can’t marry you, Angelo.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because—”

He drew back. “What? Tell me.”

“I just can’t.” But he deserved an answer. She had to put it on the table once and for all. It was the only way out. “It’s . . . your
business
.”

He cocked his head. “Laundromats?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Lie to you? I own a bunch of laundromats, Bernice. Sixteen of them.”

“You know what I mean. You’re a rich man. You have an incredible apartment on the Upper West Side, a huge house in Connecticut. You drive a 1965 Lamborghini 400 GT with a Beretta in the glove compartment.”

“How did you know it was a Beretta?”

“I looked it up on the Internet.”

He grunted. “People have a right to protect themselves. And hell, I like vintage cars. Makes me think I’m James Bond.”

She did a double take. “How does someone who owns laundromats get that kind of money?”

“Spit it out, Bernie. What are you saying?”

“That you’re . . . you know . . . connected. I’ve seen enough movies to recognize the signs.”

“You think I’m Mafioso? A member of the mob?”

“How else can you explain your wealth?”

“You’re actually telling me that because I’m well off, I’m Italian, I own a gun, and I’m from New York, that I have to be a made man?”

“Aren’t you?” she asked weakly.

“Are you nuts?”

“You aren’t . . . laundering money in your . . . laundromats?”

“Is that what you’ve been thinking all along?
That’s
why you wouldn’t marry me?”

“You never talk about yourself, Angelo. Whenever I ask you about your family or your past, you clam up. What am I supposed to think? You must have secrets, things you’re trying to hide.”

He gazed up at the moon, looking solemn, hurt. And then he burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, giving her shawl an indignant tug.

“You,” he said, his laughter turning to giggles.

Now she was embarrassed. “I don’t think being a mobster is all that amusing.”

He wiped a heavy hand across his eyes. “Oh, Bernie. You’re such an innocent. Sometimes I forget that.”

“I
am not
.”

“You may have traveled the world, doll, but you’re still a small-town girl at heart. It’s what I love about you.”

“Why won’t you tell me about your past?”

He cracked his knuckles. “There’s not much to say.”

“Give it a shot.”

“Well,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest, “you know the basics. I was born in New Jersey, grew up in Brooklyn. Never went to college. Never been married. And I own some laundromats.”

“More.”

He gave a frustrated sigh. “My family was dirt poor. I was one of six kids. I started working at a cleaners when I was thirteen, did mostly grunt work. But I liked it. I felt like I was doing something important, helping people take care of their fancy clothes. The guy who owned the business had a laundromat just down the block. By the time I was sixteen I was running it. Working a fifty-hour week, and making good money, too. I didn’t give a damn about high school. I never got good grades. Hell, I couldn’t be bothered. And I hated being home. My mother drank. Who wouldn’t with six kids and a husband who thought he was Marcello Mastroianni.”

“He was unfaithful?”

“He was a pig. Thank God he gave everybody a break and kicked the bucket fourteen years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He had testicular cancer.” Angelo snorted. “Served him right. After he died, I bought myself a six-pack of Budweiser, sat under a tree in the graveyard and drank it, then pissed on his grave. It’s what he deserved.”

Bernice had never heard such anger in his voice before.

“Anyway, I was a natural at business. A real achiever. By the time I was twenty-four, I owned my own laundromat. By the age of thirty, I owned seven. I worked all the time. Night and day. Lived in a one-room dump and put everything I earned back into the business. And no, I never laundered money. Sure, I knew guys who were connected, but I didn’t want any part of that. The farther I got from my parent’s life, the better I felt about my own. When my parents divorced in ’81, I bought Mom a house in Queens. Real nice place. Picket fence. Little blue-and-white checked curtains. I take care of her now, like my dad never did. By ’81, I’d also started investing in the stock market. I had a few lucky breaks. And then when the nineties hit, well, I mean, you’d have to be brain-dead not to make money in that market. I made a shitload. Why shouldn’t I have a house in Connecticut and a nice place in Manhattan? Why shouldn’t I drive a great car? I got nobody to spend my money on but me and my mom. I’ve got four assistant managers on my payroll now so I get to relax a little, live the good life. I do what I want when I want. Except, I got nobody to share it with.”

Bernice thought of all the willowy blonds she’d seen on his arm, young women who swung their pelvises across the dance floor, more interested in how they looked in the mirror than in who they were with. Not that they weren’t impressed with Angelo’s money. But that wasn’t the same as caring about him. Angelo was right. He didn’t have anybody to share his life with. And that was sad.

“It’s a fascinating story,” said Bernice, snuggling closer to him. “I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“It’s not interesting.”

“Of course it is. It’s rags to riches. The American Dream.”

“It’s more like the American nightmare. Pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps is only interesting if you’ve never had to do it. Being poor isn’t fascinating. Working like a dog isn’t fun. I never had a childhood. Until I turned fifty, all I did was chase the Almighty Buck. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let anything prevent me from enjoying myself from here on out. Nothing and nobody’s going to stand in the way of
that
.”

“I’m so glad you’re not a gangster, Angelo.” She sighed.

“Yeah,” said Angelo, smiling into her cleavage. “Me, too. Does that mean you’ll marry me?”

“Yes. But I can’t even think about it until my father’s legal problems get resolved. I mean, if Cora Runbeck is running around with a shotgun threatening my family, I can’t exactly announce my engagement.”

“No, I see your point.” He attempted to brush the bangs away from her forehead but found that her hair was glued together en masse. “Don’t worry about a thing, babe.” He settled for a friendly nose tweak. “I came to town to talk to your dad. Don’t get mad at me now, but I wanted to ask his permission to marry you. I know it’s archaic. I know it’s dumb, but I thought if I had him on my side, it would help me win you over.”

“You’re neolithic, you know that?”

“But lovably neolithic, right?”

From her comfortable position wrapped in his embrace, she nodded contentedly.

“Good. Because, see, I came to Rose Hill for selfish reasons, but I stayed to help your family. You believe that, don’t you?”

“I do,” she said, gazing down into his eyes.

“I’ll take care of Cora Runbeck. You can take that to the bank.”

Bernice felt a tiny quiver of apprehension, but dismissed it. A quiver of something far more exciting commanded her full attention.

31

On Wednesday morning, Angelo stood on Cora Runbeck’s front steps and rang the doorbell. After her near-death experience on Monday night, he figured it would take a miracle to get her to talk to him today, but he’d spent some time on the phone after breakfast talking to a business associate back in New York, getting ideas. He felt he had it all worked out. Only thing was, Cora didn’t seem to be home. He pressed the bell again, then banged on the door with his fist. He cupped a hand over his sunglasses and tried to peer in through the small window, but all he saw was darkness.

Crossing the front yard to the side of the house, Angelo passed an old Chevy Malibu on his way to the backyard. If her car was here, she had to be around someplace. He moved carefully past the charred hole where Kirby Runbeck’s truck had blown sky-high. Yellow crime scene tape had been balled up and stuffed into a badly dented garbage can. He also noticed that parts of the screen on the back porch were ripped away and the yard was pockmarked and still full of debris. Nitrogen tri-iodide sure made a mess.

“Stop right there, sonny!”

Cora was standing on the screened porch with a shotgun pointed at his chest.

Angelo dropped the briefcase he was holding and raised his hands.

“Get off my property. Now!”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you
can’t
?”

“We gotta talk first.”

“I told you the other night, I don’t talk to mobsters.”

“I’m not a mobster.”

“Tell me another.”

“Look, this is important. I wouldn’t stand here facing down a gun if it weren’t.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If it’s about John Washburn and his demented brood, you can save your breath.”

Very carefully, Angelo lifted his foot and pushed the briefcase toward her. “I brought you something.”

She eyed the case suspiciously. “What is it? Another bomb? What do you take me for? I’m not as stupid as my husband.”

No, thought Angelo, but you’re every bit as greedy. “Just come down here. I promise. I’m not armed.” Very slowly, he dropped one hand and flicked open the button of his sport coat, spreading it wide so she could see he wasn’t carrying. Then he patted down his pocket and pants. “I can’t hurt you when you’re the one with the firepower.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Open it up.” He looked over both shoulders. “Not out here. It’s too public.”

“My closest neighbor is half a mile away.”

“Just let me bring it up to you.”

“Open it!”

Bending down, he pressed the button on the expensive Zero Halliburton aluminum case, then drew back the cover. He could hear an audible gasp from inside the porch.

“In case you’re wondering, Mrs. Runbeck, it’s fifty thousand dollars in small bills. I’m makin’ you a deal you can’t refuse.” He figured she’d appreciate the idiom. Standing up, he shoved the case closer to the concrete steps.

She was silent for almost a minute. Finally she said, “What kind of game are you playing?”

“It’s no game. All you’ve got to do is give me five minutes of your time. Come on, let’s put our cards on the table. The money’s my bargaining chip. You’ve got something I want. I’ve got something you want. I’m no threat to you. You’re packing the heat and you can go on packing it. Just let me onto the porch so I can talk to you more privately.”

Her eyes shifted between the money and Angelo’s face. “What
exactly
do you want?”

“Information. That’s it. Just information.”

“On John Washburn?”

He nodded.

“And if I give it to you, I get the money?”

“That’s right.”

“Is it hot?”

“Hot?”

“Stolen. Pilfered. Swiped,” she said, disgusted by his ignorance.

“No, ma’am. It’s clean. Unmarked. I swear.” He might as well use the jargon she seemed to expect from him.

“Okay, so continue.”

“I’ve heard you’ve got the goods on John Washburn. You can keep whatever it is you found. I just want to look at it.”

“How come you’re so interested?”

“I been thinking about asking his daughter to marry me. But if her father is as corrupt as everyone says, I’m not so sure I want into the family. You don’t just marry the person, you know; you marry the whole megillah.”

“Tell me about it,” said Cora.

“So help me out. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You must really have it bad for Bernice.”

“Not so bad that I’m not gonna be careful.”

She nodded her approval.

“What do you say? Will you talk to me?”

“It’s no skin off my nose if you find out what a bastard that John Washburn is. Bring me the money.” She lowered the gun, but didn’t put it down.

Once Angelo was up on the porch and Cora had fingered the bills, making sure they were the genuine article, she excused herself saying she’d be back in a second. She entered the house, shooing her little gray cat back with her foot, and locked the door behind her.

Angelo sat down on a metal glider, a satisfied smile on his face. You could always count on a human’s baser instincts to help you get your foot in the door. He hummed “Satin Doll” as he waited, thinking that his years as a businessman had served him well. He knew how to play people like a concert violinist played the violin.

Cora returned a few minutes later carrying a brown manila envelope. She tossed it to him, then sat down on a wooden rocker. She was still holding the shotgun, not about to take any chances. “There they are,” she said with a note of triumph in her voice. “The letters.”

“Letters?” Angelo repeated.

“Eight of ’em. Proof positive that John Washburn was both a bigamist and a murderer. To be fair,” she added, “I’m positive about the bigamy, but not totally positive about the murder part. You can draw your own conclusions.”

“He actually had more than one wife?” Of all the evils Angelo had imagined, bigamy wasn’t even on his list.

“Yup. And I think he killed one of ’em. He was a traveling salesman, you know. They’re notorious. Let me tell you, those letters are hot stuff. Somebody in that family of his tried to murder me over them just the other night. I nearly had a heart attack right there in the closet.”

“You hid in the closet?”

“You bet your boots I did. Whoever broke in ransacked the place. But they didn’t find what they were looking for,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Angelo drew out the packet of letters and looked at them. All handwritten. All clearly originals. “If I were you, I’d put these in a safe deposit box.”

“Think so?”

“You’re not safe as long as they’re here. Even if you made copies, you’d want these if you ever had to go to court.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“While we’re on the subject, who do you think broke into your house?”

She hesitated this time, sitting back in her chair and rocking for a few seconds before answering. “You’re not going to like it, so brace yourself. I think anybody in that family is capable of murder. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“You’re not suggesting Bernice—”

“Sure I am. Bernice. Mary. Milton. Plato. Any of them could’ve done it.” She lowered her voice. “The gun had a silencer on it. Made my legs turn to jelly just to hear that sound in my house. I can’t get it out of my head. It’s a terrible thing when a woman doesn’t feel safe in her own home.”

“A silencer, huh,” Angelo repeated. “But . . . you didn’t actually see anyone?”

“Sonny, I was so far back in the closet by the time that ghoul came into the bedroom, you couldn’t have pried me out with a blowtorch.”

Angelo grinned. He didn’t know if it was the right reaction, but her feistiness amused him. “Look, while I’m thinking about it, let me give you my card.” He pulled one out of his vest pocket. “I’ve written the number of my cell phone on the back. You can reach me day or night.”

He stood up halfway and handed it across to her.

She took it and studied it briefly, then used it to fan her face. “Can’t imagine why I’d ever need to call you, but thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Go ahead,” she said, nodding to the letters. “Read ’em. I suppose I should offer you something to drink, but it seems kind of funny—you sitting here drinking my coffee while I’ve got a shotgun pointed at you.”

“I had plenty of coffee at breakfast.”

“Good. Then . . . go on. Let me know what you think. I’ll just sit here and count the twenties. Not that I don’t trust you, you understand. Just . . . just don’t do anything funny. I’m not taking my finger off the trigger.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Mrs. Runbeck, I’m not a stupid man.” He smiled at her, then opened the first letter and began reading.