Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (22 page)

Carlos had behaved. He’d even refrained from giving Andrey the death-stare throughout dinner, despite his Russian heritage. Carlos had simply sized him up, gave a curt nod and dug into dinner, apparently more interested in the linguine than any of us, which worked quite well for me.

But it was my fault. It was like an itch I just
needed
to scratch even though I knew it’d puncture the wound. It was irresistible. The question bubbled and simmered inside like the pasta sauce on the stove until I couldn’t control it anymore.

“So, do you live with your Uncle?” I asked Andrey.

Andrey looked up, surprised that a question had been directed his way. Was it fear that caused his hands to shake? Nerves? His spoon clattered to the plate drawing a curious gaze from Carlos.

I quickly hurried to clarify. “I saw you come home with them the night I met you, and I thought I heard you call him Uncle, but I could be wrong.”

“Yes. I live with my Uncle.” He turned his head back to his plate.

“What does your Uncle do?” I asked.

Carlos gave me a curious stare. Andrey lifted his head looking positively frightened.

“Lacey, don’t pressure him,” Carlos said. “You don’t have to answer, Andrey. She’s prying.”

What? I shot my grandfather the most confused, disgruntled look I could form on my face. Since when was he all for making our guests
comfortable
? Was he
trying
to make my job more difficult? It dawned on me – he
was
trying to make things difficult. That was just like Carlos – throwing wrenches and obstacles in my task just for kicks and giggles. Or could it be possible, however miniscule the chances were, that Carlos
respected
this guy?

I opened my mouth to say something. I didn’t yet know
what
, when my phone vibrated against my leg. I peeked under the table as Auntie Nora swooped in to save the day asking Andrey if he’d heard of a game on The Google called Words With Friends.

I managed a glimpse of the message without drawing attention to myself. It was from Clay.

MAYDAY. TXT WHEN UR ALONE.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I blurted.

Auntie Nora nodded with a confused look. “Good job.”

She turned back to Andrey to finish explaining this mysterious, virtual scrabble board.

Once in the bathroom I texted Clay:

KK. GO.

His response was immediate: 

GET OUT OF THERE. DROP ANDY OFF. UNK IS BAD GUY.

I texted back:

OF COURSE HE IS. WE KNOW. SO?

Clay:
UNK MEETING WITH MIKE. NOW. BAD NEWS. GET DREY AWAY.

What? Was I interpreting that right? Uncle was meeting with Michael? That was impossible. Michael had no Russian blood in him. In fact he had nothing to do with Russians except that he liked to bet on sports with them once in awhile, which wasn’t a crime. Well, it was, but not a bad one on a scale of minor to unforgivable.

What could it mean if Uncle and Michael knew each other? I was tempted to loop Andrey into the whole thing to see if he had any insights, but that was too dangerous if he was living with Uncle Vadim. I didn’t know their relationship. I reminded myself once more that both Michael and Andrey were essentially strangers, and I needed to stop treating them like we were dating. ‘Cause we weren’t.

I poked my head out into the hallway while I typed a response to Clay. I stopped typing when I heard Andrey’s voice.

He announced, shaky but firmly, “I tell you something. I need to say something. Yes? Is very, very important. How you say it? Critical.”

I listened up, assuming he was addressing Carlos. I forgot all about my response to Clay and crept closer to the kitchen. I stuck my head around the corner just in time to see Carlos nod, giving the green light to whatever Andrey had to say.

The next thing I knew my phone vibrated and pinged. Andrey looked at me with wild, terrified eyes and Carlos glanced up with that thoughtful, calculating expression once more. Then a BOOM filled the air so forcefully I felt as if my ear drums had been banged right out of my ears. Almost instantaneously a plume of fire erupted from the driveway. The kitchen turned into pandemonium: Andrey lunged for me and dragged me to the floor – Nora ducked as her wine glass shattered and her spatula flew across the kitchen. Butch cowered behind his lady friend. It was only Carlos who approached the windows and looked outside.

“Get down!” I shouted. “They might shoot!”

Carlos shot me a curious expression. “Bulletproof.”

He turned back to the window and watched the driveway.

Harold entered the kitchen and bowed deeply. “Sir, there’s been an explosion.”

“Thank you, Harold. The guards will take care of it.” Carlos nodded at the Butler.

Harold gave me a wink – I swear
nothing
phased that man – and backed out of the kitchen.

“Whose car is it?” I asked as we slowly climbed to our feet. Nora brushed her dress and went to get a mop. Butch and his lady friend resumed eating. Andrey looked shocked that we could maintain any semblance of normal life after an explosion. Hey – it wasn’t everyday things got blown up and people shot at – but it was definitely a hazard of the job. Plus, Carlos’ house was an absolute rock of safety.

“Oh, nooo,” I whimpered. “My Kia.”

“Yours?” Andrey’s eyes flew open wider than I’d thought possible. “No.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault,” I said. “I shouldn’t have invited you over. It’s complicated.”

“It is not me.” Andrey put his hands on my shoulder. He looked imploringly at Carlos. “I am not the mole. You and I, we understand loyalty. Do you understand me? I need to leave now. To keep your granddaughter safe.”

To my surprise, Carlos reached out and shook the Russian’s hand. Andrey watched his own hand move up and down, looking as if he was watching a movie that he was unaware he was in. 

Then, he turned towards the door and strode outside. My car smoldered in the driveway, but Andrey ran right past it and jumped into his car.

Carlos’ cell phone rang. He answered it.

“Let him go,” he spoke into the phone.

Seconds later, Andrey pulled out of the estate.

I looked mournfully at Carlos. “I’ll never get married at this rate.”

Carlos strode around the outskirts of his stronghold looking as if he was thinking hard. “Go after him, then.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

And then he handed me the keys to his Bentley, and I knew he was serious.

I rushed outside and into the car and wheeled out the driveway. As I passed my car I saw a yellow bit of fabric float up into the breeze.

“NO!” I wailed again. “My favorite sweatshirt.”

“It’s alright, der, Lacey. Least you’re not blown up to smithereens, right Layla?” Butch pecked Layla on the cheek.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

We’re coming with,” Butch said. “I promised Layla here I’d show her a bit of action.”

“No,” I said. “You can’t come.”

“Nora said we can, and it’s her car,” Butch said.

I blew out a long, long breath.

Moments later I whipped onto the streets and tried to guess which way Andrey might have gone, mourning equally my blown-up car and my fried yellow sweatshirt.

Chapter 17

As I drove across town, I felt like a cabby giving a ride to two hormone-crazed teenagers who’d just discovered the joys of a sloppy make out session. I turned the car in the direction of his Uncle’s house. It was the only place I could think of that he might turn to at a time like this. Once again, I knew nothing about the man. A few blocks away I reluctantly skidded to a stop at a light. I flipped off the mind-numbingly slow van turning right in front of me, not realizing until a minute later that it was Clay. I began honking like a crazy woman until he pulled over.

“Where are you going?” I asked breathlessly.

“I didn’t get any response from you,” Clay said, rolling the window down. “And that jerk Andrey just came wheeling into the driveway like a maniac. I left to go see what went down at Carlos’.”

“Well, I need to talk to him,” I said grimly. “Carlos’ orders.”

“Is Carlos crazy? He’s trying to get you killed!” Clay waved at an irate soccer mom in a minivan as she honked relentlessly.

“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “I think he’s trying to help. Andrey was about to tell Carlos something really important, and then my car blew up and he ran away.”

“What?” Clay was shaking his head.

“Wait here, all of you.” I pointed my finger at Butch, lady friend and Clay. “I need to go check if he’s inside yet.”

I crossed the street quickly and hid behind the same bush where I’d peed a few nights before, being careful to keep far away from my marked ground.

The house appeared quiet, the front yard still except for one twitchy squirrel that seemed overly paranoid about his nuts.

I crept forward. There was movement in the upstairs window. That was good, I thought. He can’t be inside yet, or they’d be confronting him on the ground floor, most likely.

I ducked behind Andrey’s car which sat, still warm, in the driveway. A few dishes clattered in what I assumed was the kitchen.

Okay, if there were two of them in the house – then one was upstairs and one in the kitchen.

I stood at an awkward half-height and made my way around the car to the driver’s side, keeping both eyes on the front door. I ducked as I heard a noise, but it was just that damn squirrel shuffling acorns to and from his hiding spot.

I raised my head and peeked through the driver’s window towards the house.

Something caught my eye from inside the car. I clamped my mouth shut so hard my lip bled as bile welled in my throat. I backed away from the car slowly, suppressing the urge to scream, unable to break eye contact with a blank-staring, non-moving, completely dead Andrey.

Chapter 18

I drove straight to Meg’s bar.

“Give me a pint of whiskey,” I slid myself onto a stool.

Meg chewed on her lower lip, intent on staring at the other end of the bar.

“Hello?” I waved a hand in front of her face. “Just saw a dead guy, need a drink.”

“Do you see the cheeks on that guy?” she murmured. Probably, she thought she murmured the phrase, but in actuality Meg’s whisper voice is more like a normal persons speaking voice.

“Which ones?” I surveyed a man of mixed race. He was a light brownish black in color, three hundred plus pounds and about nine feet tall. The cornrows in his hair were so tight I was a bit worried his brains might start leaking out the seams.

She made a strangled noise in her throat, as she turned to me. “Good point. I wouldn’t mind getting me some of either set.”

I scrunched my nose.

“So, tell me what’s happening.” Meg poured me a tall glass of whiskey with a splash of coke on top.

“Can I get a cherry with that?”

Meg plopped a cherry on top.

I glared at her. “Don’t be stingy.”

“Start tipping, then, butthead.” She plopped a few more in the drink.

“Okay,” I sighed. Then I started spilling my guts to her, not stopping until I’d recounted everything: getting shot at, my suspicions that Anthony had something to do with it, my two failed meals with the Family – including car explosions and Carlos’ inquisitions and concluding with my encounter with a dead date.

“Wow.” Meg shook her head back and forth. “That man has it
hot
for you.”

“What?” I took a sip, wondering how that was her conclusion with everything that’d happened.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Meg popped an olive into her mouth and smacked her lips a few times. She glanced down the bar to make sure Hot Cheeks was still there before continuing. “Somehow sexy-nerd from the bar-”

“Michael-” I supplied.

“-he found out you were playing him. He heard about your little dinner rendezvous with this other Russian twerp-”

“Andrey-”

“And when he found out, he went right over there and killed him. Wanted you all to hisself.”

“Uh,” I said. “But how does that explain what why Clay heard Vadim and Michael talking together while Andrey was still at dinner?”

“Well, what did Uncle what’s-his-balls and skinny hipster pants say?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to Clay – I came straight here.”

“Well, that was stupid.” Meg slumped her shoulders. “You’re missing part of the gossip. I need the full story, yo.”

“My bad,” I said. “I should go talk to him anyways. I kinda just zoomed out of there.”

I paused. “Oh, shit. I was driving Butch and Layla. I have no idea where they are.”

Meg wondered aloud, “What if Uncle what’s-his-balls is dead, too. Maybe Michael popped them both. You check that?”

I suddenly felt extremely stupid. That would make sense. “I did not.”

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” she said. She screamed behind the bar, “Julio, I’m goin on a case. Be back soon.”

“Uh, now?” I wasn’t too keen on seeing another dead body so soon.

“Uh, yeah.” She pointed at Hot Cheeks. “And you, sir. Don’t move. Mama’s got a little somethin’ for you when I return.”

We gracefully made our exit to the sound of catcalls and whistles.

** **

We pulled back in front of Andrey’s house, where Clay was still sitting in the van. I popped my head in the window, but he wasn’t waiting in the driver’s seat like I’d expected. He was in the back tinkering with some equipment, probably not even aware I’d been gone.

“How’d it go?” he asked as I wedged my head through the partway open window. “Did you get what you needed?”

“No, he’s dead.”

Clay looked up from his wires and cables. “What? He just got home.”

“Apparently someone was waiting for him.”

“Damn. Blitz attack.”

“Tell us what Uncle what’s-his-balls and Skinny hipster pants said when he was spyin’,” Meg called over my shoulder.

“Meg?” Clay’s face reddened. “When did she get here?”

“Wandered in,” I said. I tried to turn my neck, but I couldn’t move it in the cramped space between the window and the top of the van. I pushed forward – nothing. Pulled backwards – extreme pain and no movement. “Uh, Clay? Mind rolling this window down?”