Murder Under the Italian Moon (8 page)

Six months before my recent trip to Florence, Ruby popped in, and I had to listen to her banking snafu.

"Lella
, I'm losing it
." She shouted the last words, and her eyes had a feverish glow.

"What happened?" I rolled my eyes, unruffled by her sense of melodrama.

"I bounced a check, damn it." She clutched her glass of Chardonnay like a life preserver, her knuckles turning white.

"So? Is that all?" I laughed. "What's the big deal? Maybe Tom wrote a check and forgot to tell you."

"This is my personal account." She lowered her eyelids. "God's punishing me."

"Let's leave God out of the banking business."

"I wrote the check to my hairdresser. I got a notice this morning saying my account was overdrawn and I'd have to pay a penalty. I thought it was a mistake. I mean, such a small amount. I called the bank." The glass was still in her hands. "No mistake—at least, not from their end. The manager told me two more checks I'd recently written weren't going to be covered. I jumped in the car and drove down there." She drank the rest of the wine and handed me the empty glass.

Without a word, I went to refill it. Why would Ruby have her own account? I doubted she had any personal income. We'd been friends for years and she never mentioned a thing about this oh-so-personal account. Where did she get the money? Could it be severance pay from the
Register
? When I came back, Ruby was staring at a photo of Nick and me I kept on the Italian credenza. I gave her the glass, and she turned away from the picture, flushing. Perspiration had formed on her upper lip, and her skin glistened. Her hands trembled and the wine in the glass swashed around in slow motion, a lazy wave fading before reaching the shore.

"The teller showed me a large withdrawal. 'How did that happen?' I asked. She was nice about it. 'Ruby,' she said, 'you withdrew the money two days ago. Don't you remember? I had to okay it because you came in without your checkbook again. You were wearing a red dress.' I went home, saw my red dress in the dry cleaning pile and here I am."

"What did you do with the money?"

She didn't answer.

"You're getting all worked up over nothing. Tom will put money into your account to cover your bills. As for the rest, you're still going to experience memory gaps, but you said before you're having fewer. It takes time and patience. The doctor explained it to you from the beginning."

"If it weren't for Tom"—she paused—"and you, I would have put an end to this a long time ago."

 "Ruby, you're alive." I stopped short of adding that Nick wasn't so lucky. I knew she sensed it.

She nodded and left.

It wasn't like Ruby to have money and an account she never spoke of. A personal account; pocket change or big bucks? Maybe she needed it for a sense of security. Why? She had Tom for that.

They'd met about the time I started making potpourri sachets for the gift shop at the mission. Ruby was still wearing her neck collar back then. It made it hard for her to drive, especially in reverse. She'd just left her doctor's office and was backing out of her parking spot when she hit Tom's car, a white Ferrari Testarossa. Stuff dreams are made of.

I sighed, enough dreaming for today. I didn't know how long I had been sitting and reminiscing. The room flaunted an early shade of dusk, and my body and spirit felt fully drained, refusing to move, almost in a daze. I still had no idea how the Porsche ended up in the parking garage the night before, only to be gone by morning.

The front door swung open, and Kyle pranced in. "Mom, why didn't you tell me about your neighbor? She's great."

I sensed that wasn't the original description he had in mind, but even in the dimness of the living room he must have noticed the fire shooting from my eyes.

"Kyle, dear God, is that all you can think about?" I knew as soon as I said it that it wasn't fair to lash out at Kyle because I was frustrated.

But instead of answering my question he launched into Audrey's bio without pausing to ask if I cared to listen.

"Do you know that Audrey used to live in Arizona? She was telling me about high school kids going down there from California during spring break. She may drive over to Palm Springs and watch us filming. David, her little brother, would come along, and then we'll all take a ride to Arizona. I've never been there." At some point he must have realized this was a one-way conversation, because he stopped talking for a minute and then shifted gears. "What's the matter, Mom? Are you still concerned about the Ferrari? Don't worry. I'll get everything straightened out, I promise. In the meantime, are you hungry? Want to go grab something to eat down at the marina? Maybe Audrey will join us. Hey, stop with the eyes already. Don't look so upset."

The phone rang.

"I'll get it." He rushed over to the house phone. "York residence. Carolyn, it's me. What do you mean where in the hell am I? At my mother's house. You called here. Oh, I forgot to charge it. That's why it goes to voice mail. Sorry. Okay, don't get so ticked off. No, I didn't forget. I was on my way out the door. Yes, I'll be there soon." He hung up. "Shit, I'd forgotten all about meeting Carolyn. I've got to get out of here." He ran upstairs.

Carolyn, his agent. He'd probably forgotten some social event. In their world, social commitments were as important as business meetings. In fact, there wasn't one without the other. Kyle came back, his overnighter under his arm, clothes spilling out.

"Sorry about the mess I left, Mom. I'll make it up to you." He walked by the kitchen and grabbed a banana. "Can you tell Audrey—never mind. I'll call her. Got to run.
Ciao
." He slammed the door shut.

I ran after him and caught him by the car. "Kyle, we need to resolve the car situation. It's important. Where are you heading?"

"LA. I'll be back tomorrow. I'll stop by on my way back. Smile, Mom. It's going to be okay." He smiled, and I shook my head, smiling back. I watched the white Ferrari Testarossa drive up the road to the gate and decided to check my mail before going back into the house for the evening. The beauty of the sun setting over the Pacific soothed me a little. I realized I hadn't thought about Nick until just then. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. The complex looked deserted. Not surprising, since it was dinner time. Dinner for one would be what came next in my empty house
. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Lella.
The lights came on, intensifying the hues of the setting sun against the white walls of the villas.

I rounded the corner and stopped. There stood the man I had been thinking about more than I should have, Larry Devin.

His hand rested on my knee, the same spot as the night of the kiss. "Rested" didn't describe the feelings that simple contact stirred up. We'd been driving in silence for maybe half an hour, and my head swirled with dozens of questions, questions I couldn't find the nerve to put into words. I kept the conversation in neutral, ignoring the furious thumping of my heart.

"Where are we going?"

"Orange."

"Orange? We're in Orange County right now, aren't we?"

"The town of Orange. Are you hungry?"

"Famished. I skipped lunch. I was too busy with Kyle, my son—"

"How about we forget about family and friends for tonight? The day is almost over. Let's celebrate the evening, and I can promise you all the issues, the problems we left behind tonight, will be there in the morning. Deal?"

"Deal." Did he say in the morning? He assumed I would spend the night with him? I couldn't possibly do that. I wasn't prepared for an overnight stay. It all happened so quickly that in the excitement of the moment I forgot to take my cell phone. Did I feed Flash before rushing out the door? If Larry sensed my hesitation, he didn't acknowledge it. His hand went from my knee to my cheek. He had this way of stroking my face with the back of his fingers, such intense tenderness. I wished I could stop the passing seconds, encapsulate the moment, so I could revisit that bewitching feeling in times of loneliness. Ah, those magic fingers must have the power to stop intelligent thoughts from becoming spoken words and also made the lack of cell phone or overnight necessities seem okay, because I didn't object about a thing.

We left the freeway and traveled a street I didn't recognize. Few cars passed us in either direction. I couldn't see any shape of buildings, only lights fleeing by. With the speed of the Mercedes, lamp posts looked like fireflies on a caffeine rush. The road narrowed to a single lane, and we climbed a hill. Gravel skittered under the tires. Both sides of the road had tall trees, so tall and so perfectly spaced they formed a natural canopy.

What was a good Italian Catholic woman doing here with this man of mystery, anyway? The real question pounding my mind was: What was this fascinating man of mystery doing with this silly, love-struck widow?

The sight of a gate interrupted my mental tug of words. Not a fancy or elaborate gate like the one at my complex, but a simple, sturdy-looking metal barrier. Larry reached overhead, hitting a button, and the gate opened slowly, no grinding or squeaking. It whirred quietly, and we drove through the yawning gap. He must have heard my involuntary gulping.

"I live here."

I realized we were high on a hill, and I could see thousands of lights twinkling below. I searched frantically for something to say, something to ask, but all I came up with was, "Uh, huh."

"And no, I didn't buy the house with the cash from the lottery." I sensed a smile in his voice. He'd answered what was going to be my next question. He reached for something above his head again, and the hill in front of us became alive with lights, the gurgling of a fountain and a garage door opening to let the Mercedes in.

I followed him up two steps and then through a door that led to a laundry room the size of my kitchen, but with a lot more cabinetry. From there we went into a large room with tall windows and taller walls.

It must be what real estate agents call "a great room," but it was more than great. It was grand. My prediction of a seduction chamber died at the sight of the contemporary chairs and couch that weren't made of black leather, the common denominator of bachelor pads. I saw white linen with huge, overstuffed pillows. I moved slowly, feeling awkward and out of place.

Not knowing what to do with myself, I followed Larry like a puppy exploring new surroundings. We turned a corner and I noticed a baby grand piano in the farthest side of the great room. Larry played the piano? We reached the kitchen, also white and wonderful, like the ones in the home and garden magazines Ruby subscribed to. Wait until Ruby heard about my escapade.

Larry removed his suede bomber jacket and dropped it casually on one of the tall kitchen stools lined up against the huge kitchen island. He opened the door of the side-by-side freezer. The light reflected on his shirt, forming a whimsical aura around his silhouette.

"Lella, you can choose what you like to eat."

"You're going to cook?" My voice grated into my ears in the expanse of the room.

"No, it's already cooked and labeled. Pick what you want, it goes in the oven and we can eat in about thirty minutes."

I didn't move.

"Lella, I have a couple who comes once a week. Peter cleans the house, Jim does the cooking and the laundry. They're good people. I've known them for over ten years. The food isn't poisoned." The smile lingered on his lips, but his eyes studied me. I stepped forward and he moved from the freezer. "You pick the meal you want and I'll get the wine. You okay?"

I nodded and read the labels. Quite an impressive menu. All neatly pre-packaged so that whomever Larry brought home could admire the set-up. Why was I so angry? I was angry because I stepped into his car anticipating some kind of sexual overture. Instead he offered a TV dinner and a glass of wine. I pulled out a baking dish labeled PORK CHOPS AND POTATOES. It seemed like a safe choice.

"Got it." I turned, but the kitchen was empty. That was when I noticed the photograph on the refrigerator door. It was a picture of Larry sitting next to a gorgeous girl, half my age and, at first glance, a natural blonde.

I stood, holding the frozen dish in my hands, asking myself once again what the hell I was doing there.

"That's Olivia, my daughter." I hadn't heard him approach.

"I didn't know you had a daughter."

"Yes, there's a lot you don't know about me. We have all the time you want. Ask away."

"Olivia," I repeated. "She lives with you?"

"Sometimes. Right now she's backpacking through Europe with a friend." He pointed to the baby grand. "That's hers."

"You're divorced?"

"No."

"Married?" I wanted to die the minute I asked—before hearing the assumed answer.

"No. It happened in college. We both knew we made a mistake, but we decided to keep the baby. We have a friendly relationship and joint custody. Olivia's mother lives in Florida with her husband of fifteen years. How about I take that dish before your fingers freeze?"

I handed him the food and walked away. I didn't want to be here, in his house. I wanted to go home. I wanted the home-turf advantage. Home-turf advantage for what? I walked to the massive window, where I could see the lawn and the fountain we passed driving up to the house. Outside that circle of light I saw only darkness.

"I have quite a view by daylight." He stood behind me and again. I hadn't heard him coming. Was he barefooted? I turned to glance at his feet, and my head hit the stem glass in his hand. He reacted quickly, so the wine spilled on the wooden floor instead of his shirt.

"I'm so sorry."

"You should be. It's your glass. Mine is over there." He smiled at me.

"Where can I get a rag to clean up?" I found it difficult to talk, embarrassment flooding my brain.

"Lella, a few drops of wine isn't going to ruin the floor. Forget about it. Let's sit down, relax and enjoy our drinks until the food is ready." He took my hand and walked me over to the linen couch. I envisioned myself spilling wine on the white cover.