The Spia Family Presses On (12 page)

But he pulled back just as I heard my mom’s laughter closing in on us. “That’s okay. I’ve got it,” he protested.

I tried to rip the case out of Leo’s hands, but he held tight. My mother was getting closer, which was bad enough until I heard Nick Zeleski say, “I’d like that, Mrs. Spia, thanks.”

And just like that, my mom and Nick walked right in the barn, past Leo and me and headed straight for Cousin Dickey. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react. Once my mother had someone interested in our oil, there was no stopping her. She was like a one woman campaign for the benefits of olive oil, and heaven help anyone who got in her way . . . me included.

“It’s also great for dry skin and dandruff, and
—
” But I wasn’t hearing her anymore. Lisa had entered the barn, shaking her head and mouthing that she was sorry.

I wanted to yell for my mom to come back. Surely she had to know about Dickey, but she was acting as if it didn’t matter. Yet another reason to believe the shooter was trying to set her up for the fall. After all, no killer would purposely lead an officer to the crime scene knowing the evidence could potentially give her a death sentence. At least that’s what I was thinking as my mom cavalierly walked toward the crime scene.

Then as if it wasn’t bad enough that Nick was headed right for bumped-off Dickey, Leo had also slipped away and gone off toward the crime scene. Was there no justice in this world? Was I completely powerless over these people?

I reached out for Lisa’s hand and waited for my mom’s scream. Fake or not, I figured Mom would do a good job of reacting to the grizzly sight.

“You realize that as of this moment, my life is over,” I told Lisa.

“No worries, sweetie. I’ll bring you reading material in prison,” she quipped.

“How can you joke when my whole life has come down to this moment? When everything my mom and I have worked so hard to achieve is about to come crashing down on our heads?”

“Who said I was joking? I read somewhere that boredom was the toughest thing for Paris Hilton to endure while she was behind bars. That, and her inability to get a pedicure. I figure reading is so out of your realm that it might be the one thing that keeps you sane.”

“Is that all you think about, books and reading?”

“Pretty much.”

She squeezed my hand tighter and threw me a smile. I knew she was just as scared as I was, but Lisa never liked to display fear. She thought it was a sign of true feminine weakness.

We stood waiting for my mom’s scream for what seemed like hours or at the very least five minutes.

Nothing.

We waited some more, and then we heard a familiar sound rippling through the barn like a sonic boom . . . laughter. My mom’s high-pitched, crazy laugh bounced off the walls and pierced my ears.

“I’ve known your mom for a long time, and this is so not what I expected from her,” Lisa said.

“Maybe this is how she reacts to a gruesome scene. I mean, I’ve never been around my mother in this kind of situation.”

The laughter grew louder and suddenly Leo’s deep belly laugh joined in along with Nick’s chortle.

“What the hell?” I said.

But Lisa had already released my hand and was headed toward the happy group. I had no choice but to follow.

When we reached the threesome, they were standing exactly where only a few hours ago a very dead Cousin Dickey had been lying on the floor bleeding from his head, gazing up at the wrong end of a millstone. Now, the antique millstone was upright and reassembled, the floor was spotless, and all the futsi were lined up in a row. Was my mom’s weapon still at the bottom of a futso or had that been removed as well? It was as if nothing had ever happened.

The site was so startling that I half expected to see Dickey standing next to my mom wearing a wide toothy grin.

I was dumbstruck.

Cool-headed Lisa spoke for me. “Can we get in on the joke or is this a private matter?”

“Oh honey, you had to be here,” my mom said, and they all started laughing again, my mom really getting into it with tears in her eyes to prove it.

I, in the meantime, was busy checking out the floor, the table, under the table for any trace of a murder, but the place looked cleaner than it normally did. Everything was spotless, too spotless, as if an entire crew of janitors swept through for some kind of cleanliness inspection.

My mind drifted to the old olive tree just outside the barn. Had Dickey been moved out there? Was he now one with nature? The visual made me a bit claustrophobic, not to mention angry that my family had taken matters into their own hands despite my adamant opposition to the entire affair.

“Wow,” Nick said after the laughter finally subsided. He was staring directly in front of the antique millstone, the now totally reassembled antique millstone.

The same mill that had crushed Dickey under its incredible weight, and the same mill that Dickey himself had imported from Italy. “Is this what you use to crush the olives?” Nick walked in to get a closer look.

“We’d never have gone commercial if we used that old thing,” Mom said. “No, that’s just for show.” She turned to me. “Mia, sweetheart, I thought we agreed to move it out front? Wasn’t somebody out here just yesterday tearing it down? Did you change your mind?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. “No, yes, I mean, hmmm. I don’t know exactly what happened with that. Maybe the guys couldn’t figure it out. It’s kind of complicated.”

Nick studied the mechanism. “It seems like it’s just a couple long screws. The trick is handling the weight once the stone is free. You’ll need four strong men to lift this wheel. No one guy could move this alone.”

“A forklift with a large bed could handle it. I’ve got one. You want me to send somebody over tomorrow to move it?”

“That would be so nice of you, Leonardo. Mia’s been wanting this thing moved for months now.” She turned to me. “Isn’t he a dear?”

I smiled. “A dear, but thanks. We have a forklift of our own.”

In the meantime, Nick busied himself studying the granite millstone, running his hand over the edge of the wheel, getting up close and personal. As if he sensed something wasn’t quite right about it. The whole thing was making me nuts. The guy was like a bloodhound, sniffing for a scent to run with. He walked around the backside of wheel, which was almost as tall as he was. In the meantime, Mom kept talking to Leo about her latest olive oil, and the fact that our Sevillano had won the Los Angeles International Extra Virgin Olive Oil competition three years running. “Take a couple bottles. It’s fabulous on toast instead of that artery clogging butter. Plus, you can drizzle it on a fresh baby spinach salad, add some candied pecans, a few slices of ripe pear, sprinkle on a good pungent gorgonzola, maybe a few dried cranberries or pomegranate seeds for color, then pour on our white balsamic vinegar and you’ll have a salad to die for.”

“Sounds incredible, especially with a glass of our Shiraz.” He bunched his fingers together and kissed them looking oh-so-Italian. “Perfecto!”

I tracked Nick who was still busy studying the stone. “Huh,” he said.

I could feel the sudden tightness crawling up the left side of my neck.

“Find something interesting?” Lisa asked.

I threw her a “what the hell are you doing” look. She ignored me and moved toward him.

“When did you say that guy was trying to dismantle this thing?” Nick peeked around the wheel, apparently asking me.

My mouth suddenly felt thick. “I believe it was yesterday. Why?”

He fingered the stone, but didn’t answer my question.

“Two men stopped by today, honey,” my mother said. “Late this afternoon. I completely forgot about that. Two darling men, before you came home, wanting to take another look. I don’t know what they did in here. I was too busy with last minute party details, but they were in here for at least fifteen or twenty minutes. Right before they left, the shorter one, with the thick Italian accent, told me he needed more equipment and one more man to move it, even with our forklift. He said he would return tomorrow, or was it the day after tomorrow? Whatever. All I remember is him saying he couldn’t do it today.”

“That might explain it then,” Nick said, stepping out from behind the stone.

“Explains what?” I needed to know.

“There’s some blood on the mill, not a lot, but it looks fresh. One of the men must have cut himself on one of those screws trying to take this thing apart. Those screws look nasty.”

“I’ll have to call the company tomorrow and see if they’re all right,” I said, relieved that Nick had come to his own innocuous conclusion. “I wouldn’t want anyone suing us.”

“So that’s what happened,” my mother mused.

Nick jumped on that little statement. “What’s that, Mrs. Spia?”

“Oh, call me Gloria, dear. I saw them right before they left, and one of them had a piece of cloth wrapped around his index finger. I didn’t even think to ask what had happened. I suppose that doesn’t say much about me. At any rate, I bet that poor man cut himself on those nasty screws and didn’t want to tell me.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I alleged, then changed the subject. “Nick, you can’t leave without a few bottles of our oil.”

He gave me a tepid smile as he walked out from behind the millstone. “Actually, I’ve been eyeing those steel containers. Can I buy one of those? I do a lot of cooking.”

He might as well have stuck a knife into my neck for all the pain that little statement caused. “The smallest we have is three liters.” I grabbed one of the empty futso that sat on a shelf next to me, but he kept eyeing the larger ones, the one that contained my mom’s handgun in particular. I knew which one it was by the oil smear along the side. Whoever put everything back missed the smear.

I walked over to him, carrying the empty futso, ready to put the thing in his hand and lead the entire group out of the barn. I’d had enough fun for one night. It was way past my bedtime.

“We can fill this up on the way out,” I told him while angling toward the door.

But he wanted no part of me or my tiny futso. Instead he glommed onto the very futso that could potentially hold my mom’s handgun. Like I said, the man was all cop.

“This should work,” he said, grinning.

My mother’s eyes lit up. The combination of that thirty-liter futso, plus the oil it contained, was worth several hundred dollars. “Because you’re a friend of Leo’s I can give you a good deal on that,” she cooed.

“No!” I said, tripping over Leo to get to Nick, arms flailing, feet stumbling over feet. “You can’t.”

But Lisa was next to him holding onto it before I could get there.

“What Mia is trying to say is that I already bought this particular one for my family. We own a restaurant in Chinatown, and we’re always running out of oil. This will be great. Really great.” She tapped the spigot on the futso.

“But honey, maybe you should stick to our Mission Blend, the Italian Blend might be too peppery for Chinese food,” my mother said. She pointed to the Mission-filled futso with both hands, as if posing for an ad. That’s when I noticed the missing bracelet. She always wore a charm bracelet. Always. No matter what she wore or what event she was dressing for, one of her many charm bracelets dangled from her right wrist.

Except tonight.

I was so hoping the Elvis bracelet in my pocket had been stolen and purposely placed under Dickey. Now I didn’t know what to believe.

I instantly pushed that un-daughterly thought out of my mind and focused on heaving the thirty-liter futso out of the barn, the futso that held my mom’s future inside.

“Too late, Nick,” I chimed in. “This one is already sold.”

Lisa and I hoisted the futso by the two handles and walked it straight out of the barn, hoping everyone would follow right behind us.

We didn’t stop until we got to her car where she beeped open the trunk. We hoisted it inside, tucking the stainless steel container into the mesh sling that ran across the width of the trunk, but no way would the trunk close, so we lifted it back out and stuck it on the front passenger seat. There was something on the seat that caused the futso to tip in my direction.

This was not good.

“Hold onto it,” Lisa said. “I’ll go around to the other side.”

I held it on the seat, pushing at it slightly, but that just caused it to tip more in my direction. I moved my upper body inside the car, and held onto the teetering futso until Lisa could get to the other side.

As soon as she opened the driver’s door I pulled off the top of the futso, not waiting for her to get the thing upright, and peered inside for the tiny gun.

The overhead light wasn’t bright enough so I couldn’t see anything but the golden liquid. The initial smell saturated my senses, tickling my throat and caused me to cough.

The futso slipped a bit when Lisa tried to dislodge whatever was under it and I angled it more toward me, managing to steady it and gain control over my annoying cough. There was no time for me to move the now heavy container, so I plunged my hand deep inside groping for the gun. Oil splashed out and felt all warm and silky against my skin. The peppery scent filled the air with its earthy fragrance. Unfortunately, I couldn’t feel anything but the oil and the cool metal walls of the heavy container.