Don of the Dead (27 page)

It was time to track down Carmella.

I pulled my car into the driveway and double-checked the address. Yep, I was in the right place.

If I needed proof, I guess that came when I got out of the car and saw the dark sedan parked across the street. I waved before I turned to examine the house.

This was no ostentatious mansion. There was no picture-perfect landscaping. No goons at the front door.

Carmella's home was an unpretentious brick and aluminum-sided bungalow on a street full of similar houses in one of those middle-class suburbs where young couples like to start their families. The schools were decent and there were amenities galore nearby, including a small playground, a skateboarding park, and plenty of Big Box shopping.

There was a row of pink-and-white plastic flowers stuck into the dirt under the picture window to the left of the front door and just behind the flowers, a statue of the Virgin Mary.

It wasn't what I expected.

Not that I was passing judgment on Carmella or anything. I hadn't met the woman yet. I hadn't even talked to her. I wouldn't even be there if it weren't for Father Anthony, who called his mother on my behalf. But knowing that CarmellaScarpetti's name was—and had been since very soon after Gus died—CarmellaScarpettiLaGanza put a whole new spin on things.

"Come on! Don't stand out there. It looks like it's going to start raining any minute. Come on in!" The aluminum storm door swung open and a woman who looked like a cross between Mrs. Santa Claus and Sophia Loren waved me inside.

Carmella couldn't have been more than five feet tall. She had a head of thick white hair that was pulled into a ponytail and a figure that must once have been lush. Her skin was olive-colored and flawless, her nose was a little too big for her to ever be considered a real beauty. Her eyes were dark and reminded me of Anthony's in those pictures I'd seen of him from back in the days when he was healthy. They were animated and sparkling. She was wearing jeans, a pink sweatshirt that hadBoca Raton on it in turquoise lettering, and yellow flip-flops.

"You must be Pepper. I've been waiting for you." No sooner had I climbed the two steps to the cement-pad front porch than Carmella grabbed my hand and tugged me inside.

I found myself in a living room that was dominated by the gold velvet couch that took up most of one wall. It was covered with plastic. So were the shades on the porcelain Capodi Monte lamps on either side of the couch. Shepherd on one side. Shepherdess on the other. Both were embellished with lots of curlicues and gold paint. It matched the color of the flocked wallpaper. Across from the couch was a TV

on a plastic stand. The rabbit ears on top of it were cockeyed.

Carmella led me through the living room and the attached dining room, where a table was covered with a lace cloth and a curio cabinet in the corner was filled with more frilly porcelain.

"You'll have to excuse the mess," she said, though where, exactly, "the mess" was supposed to be was beyond me. The place was as tidy as if a cleaning crew had just left. "We came back fromFlorida a few weeks early because of BennyMarzano's funeral. We've been down there since right after Christmas. We go every winter. I know you young folks don't understand but believe me, honey, when you're my age, you will. Can't take the cold and snow anymore."

When we got to the kitchen, she stepped back to let me walk through the doorway first. It was a room where one of those perfect sitcom moms from the fifties would have been right at home, immaculate and shining, from the pink counter-tops to the black-and-white ceramic tile on the floor.

"I made coffee." Carmella pointed to the pot on the countertop. "And cookies." She grabbed a plate heaped with chocolate chip cookies and held them in front of me. "You do eat cookies, don't you?"

It took a minute for me to catch my breath and while I did, I grabbed a cookie and sat down at the Formica-topped kitchen table. Carmella poured coffee into pink mugs with flamingos for handles and pushed a crystal sugar bowl in front of me. I didn't dare ask for sweetener.

She ladled three spoonfuls of sugar into her cup. "So… My Anthony called. He said you were a friend of his. He said you wanted to see me."

I was hoping to ease my way into what could be an uncomfortable conversation with a little more small talk. "How is Father Anthony?" I asked.

Carmella stirred her coffee. "Oh, you know." She tapped the spoon on the rim of the cup and set it down and when she looked my way, her eyes didn't sparkle anymore. "You always think of them as your kids. No matter how old they are. And kids, well, they shouldn't die before their parents. There's something wrong with that."

"He was enjoying his garden when I saw him."

Carmella smiled. "He loves his flowers! And that nice Father David, he makes sure everything is taken care of now that… " She took a drink of her coffee, and I knew it was a signal.

Time to change the subject.

"I don't know how much Father Anthony told you," I began, "but I'm writing a book."

"Yes." Carmella nodded and cleared her throat. "Yes, he did mention that. I'm sorry to tell you, honey, but I really don't think there's anything I can do to help."

"There probably isn't." I didn't know if it was true, but I figured it was the polite thing to say. "I just want to make sure all my bases are covered."

"Well, I feel like a celebrity!" Carmella twinkled. "What is it you want to know?"

When last I spoke to Anthony, I asked him not to tell his mother too much. After all, if she knew I was looking into Gus's death and if she or her current husband had had anything to do with it, I was pretty sure I wouldn't get as close as the front door. The flip side was that now I needed to explain myself.

"The book is about Gus," I said.

For a couple seconds, I don't think she was sure who I was talking about. Understanding dawned and her cheeks got pink. "Augustino. Oh my. No one's mentioned his name to me for a very long time."

"I don't mean to cause you any distress. It's just that—"

"Oh, honey… " She reached across the table and around the plate of cookies to squeeze my hand.

"Don't you worry about making me feel bad. The past is the past. It was all a very long time ago."

"That's the problem. You see… " I took a sip of coffee, dragging my feet, hoping that somehow, that would help soften the blow. "I'm trying to find out who killed him."

If this was an episode of
Murder, She Wrote
, Carmella's face would have gone ashen and she would have leapt from her chair and declared that she'd done it and couldn't stand the guilt any longer.

But it wasn't.

And she didn't.

Instead, she gave me a tender smile. "Does it matter?"

"Not to anybody but me." I left out the part about how it mattered plenty to Gus. And apparently, to someone else, too. Otherwise Albert wouldn't have paid me a visit. "I just don't think my book will be complete if I haven't solved the mystery."

"And you think I can help you?"

"I heard that you were at Lucia's that night."

Carmella's snowy brows dropped low over her dark eyes. "Yes," she looked past me, through me. "I was there. I stopped by on my way home from Cathedral Latin, Anthony's school. That's where Augustino was supposed to meet me for a conference with his teacher. He never showed up. And I didn't have to wonder where he was. At Lucia's. Right where I thought he'd be. With his friends. Where he was every Thursday night."

"You were angry. You had it out with Gus in the restaurant, right in front of everybody."

Carmella's gaze snapped back to mine. "Back then, I was angry most days."

"You were drunk, too."

She picked up her spoon and gave her coffee another stir, even though it didn't need it. "I was drunk most days, too. At least back then. Been sober for nearly thirty years now."

"That's quite an accomplishment."

"It's worth it when you have children."

"But then… "

"Then?" There was no amusement in Carmella's laugh. She got up to pour herself more coffee. She didn't come back to the table but stood near the sink, her back to the counter. "When I was a young girl," she said, "I was very naive. My parents were from the Old Country and they treated me the way girls were treated there. I was a modern young lady or at least as modern as we thought we were back in the Stone Ages. I had my own ideas about what I wanted from life. I metAugustino and fell madly in love. He was so very good-looking!"

"Good-looking" isn't how I would describe Gus. But then, what is it they say about beauty and the eye of the beholder?

Carmella went on. "I'd heard rumors about him. You know, people talking, saying that I was going to end up regretting it if I married him."

"And did you?"

"Not at first." Carmella came back to the table. She sat down, grabbed a cookie, and took a bite. "But it didn't take long. Don't put that in your book. If Rudy should read it, he would be upset. Big, tough Rudy and he still thinks his parents lived an ideal life. But think about it, Pepper. Think about what it's like living with a man whose whole life… " She twitched away whatever she was going to say.

"It doesn't take long before you realize… that thing of theirs… " She gave the words a sour twist. "Well, it's always going to be more important than anything to them. More important than wives. More important than children. I couldn't live that way. With men with guns at my door." She shivered.

"But you married VictorLaGanza !" Okay, so it wasn't any of my business. But it was kind of hard to keep my mouth shut. Especially when it was so obvious that Carmella was not practicing what she was preaching.

"Ah yes, Victor. Another handsome man!" She winked. "What is it you young girls say? A nice tight ass and good in bed? Don't look so shocked." She laughed. "I was young once, too. And Victor, he promised that he would keep his work separate from his home life. He did then and he does until this very day. You don't see his two boys from his first marriage in the business. Michael, he's a dentist, and Dominic is an architect. Very legit, those two. Not like my Rudy."

"Or like your Victor."

It was the perfect, logical argument but Carmella waved it away with one French-manicured hand.

"When he's home, he's just Victor. And if the FBI chooses to park outside our home… " She looked toward the front of the house. "They must get bored. That's all I can say. There's never anything that happens here."

"But that's not how it was." I did my best to get the conversation back on track. "With Gus."

"It wasn't what I wanted," Carmella said. "It wasn't what I wanted for my boys."

"That's a pretty strong motive for murder."

"It is, isn't it?" She could have been angry. She laughed instead. "But I'm not the one who killed Augustino . I happen to have an alibi and I told the police all about it when they questioned me. You see, I was with Victor."

"With? As in—"

Carmella winked. "I told you I was young once, honey. With as in
with
. Yes. I remember it like it was yesterday. You see, it was our first time. Victor, he was a widower and he'd been after me for months. I would have nothing to do with him and I told him so. I believed in living my marriage vows. Until that night at Lucia's. That's when I knew for certain that nothing would ever be different for me andAugustino

. That's when I knew it was over between us."

I had to admit, if it was true, it was a pretty solid alibi.

"The cops—"

"Yes, yes, they checked. They did their jobs. They went to the hotel where Victor and I stayed. They talked to everyone there. They found out that we were right where we said we were. Neither of us plannedAugustino's death and neither of us participated in the shooting. While he was dying in the street, Victor and I were in bed together."

"Wow." I digested the information and wondered how—or if—I'd break the news to Gus. When Anthony first told me that his mother had agreed to see me, I thought Gus might like to come along. He refused and now I was glad. It wasn't the kind of thing a man wanted to hear from his wife.

Even a dead man.

In my mind's eye, I pictured another door slamming in my face. And still that clock in my head, teasing me with its tick, tick, tick.

I racked my brain. There must be some clue Carmella could offer me, some hint into her husband's death.

I glanced around the kitchen. There was a bookcase nearby filled with cookbooks. In front of them on the shelves were framed photographs. Anthony on his first communion day, looking like a cherub.

Another picture of a woman with dark hair and a forbidding expression. And a third, a photograph of a young Carmella, all dolled up like it was Easter. She was standing with her two sons in front of a 60s vintage car. It was pink and black. Like the kitchen.

A jolt kick-started in my brain and I remembered what Benny had said back at The Family Place.

"What about the car?" I asked Carmella. "The one the shooter was in? I've been told it was green, one of thosesouped -up racers. You know, something old that somebody fixed up."

"We never had a green car." Carmella sounded pretty sure of herself. "As for fixing up old cars, well, Anthony was always good at that, of course. But his car was black, I think. Green." She closed her eyes, thinking. "There was one. Anthony was very young at the time but I think he helped with the restoration.

Have you talked to him about it?"

I hadn't. I hadn't thought of it.

Carmella tapped her fingertips against the table. "It belonged to that young man. What was his name?

Lots of hair and bad teeth." She tapped some more, and just when it looked like she was about to give up, her expression cleared and she smiled.

"Tommy. That's who it was. TommyCavolo ."

"Tommy Two Toes?"

"Yes. That's what they called him." Carmella finished her coffee. "He had a car just like that."

"And he died a full ten years before Gus did."

"Did he? I guess he couldn't have been driving the car whenAugustino was killed, huh?"

I didn't bother to answer. "Do you know who got the car when Tommy was—" I didn't want to say what I almost blurted out. "After Tommy died?"