To Catch a Leaf (8 page)

Marco let me slide into the booth first, then took a seat beside me so we were facing his mom. “I ordered a bottle of red wine,” he said to me.

“Just one?” I joked, slipping off my jacket. “After the day I've had, I could handle one all by myself.”

Francesca's smile stiffened. Marco lifted his eyebrows to signal that I'd made a gaff.

“Just kidding,” I said. “One glass will be enough. Actually, not even one. Maybe half. A small half—more like a third.”

“Tell me about your terrible day,” Francesca said, reaching across the table to put her hand over mine, probably to make me stop babbling.

I ran through the list in my head and came up with only one item I felt comfortable telling her. So I recounted my tale of the tabby cat and left it at that. She seemed disappointed.

“A minor problem,” she said, sitting back.

“You wouldn't want to take the cat back to Ohio with you, would you?” I asked hopefully.

She gave me a classic Italian shrug. “I can't make any decisions until I know for certain whether I'm staying in Indiana.”

A horrible feeling rocked the pit of my stomach. “Staying? Here?”

“I keep asking myself why I should remain in Ohio,” she said, gesturing with her hands. “My other children are scattered all over the country. But here”—she reached across to pinch Marco's cheek, but he dodged her—“I have Marco, Raphael, Gina, and my grandbabies. And you, bella. Then there are your wedding events to plan. That will take a lot of work. And soon after your wedding, maybe more grandbabies for me, eh?”

I locked my jaw so my mouth wouldn't fall open.

“Ma,” Marco said firmly, “we're not here to discuss babies.”

I knew he was irritated with her because he hadn't called her
Mama
, as he usually did.

Gert, the waitress who'd been at Down the Hatch since it had opened, put a bottle of Cabernet in front of us and got out her corkscrew. I took the opportunity to whisper to Marco, “I really think we're going to need more than one bottle.”

“A toast to your future.” Francesca raised her wineglass, and we clinked rims. Then she got up, went over to the bar area, and came back with two plates of manicotti with sides of garlic bread, both of which Francesca had made especially for us.

“Now you can nourish your bodies while we discuss business.” This time she managed to pinch Marco's cheek. “Only the freshest ingredients for my bambinos. Bella, do you have the magazines I sent you?”

The ten bridal magazines she'd mailed me last winter that had piled up in my closet until I threw them out? I scratched my forehead. “Um.”

“Don't worry. I have backups.”

While I tasted her manicotti, which had to be the most delicious I'd ever eaten, Francesca pulled a large file folder from her oversized purse and opened it up. Inside was a stack of pages she'd clipped from bridal magazines. She slid them toward me.

“These are the wedding gowns that would work best with your figure. I phoned the bridal salon and all of the gowns can be ordered in plenty of time to make any necessary alterations. We can make an appointment to have a look at the ones they have in stock, eh?”

As she pulled out a spiral-bound notebook, I gave Marco a pleading look. This was exactly what I didn't want to happen. We'd agreed to keep our wedding simple and sweet, and that included my dress, flowers, bridal shower, honeymoon, and all the other elements associated with getting married.

Marco gave me a look that said,
Humor her.

I gave him a look back that said,
Okay, as long as we're on the same page about this.

He gave me a nod.

Francesca opened the notebook to a page marked
Shower #1
, and uncapped her pen. “First we work on the Italian shower.”

I glanced at Marco in bewilderment. “What?”

“I think she means a shower for my relatives,” he said.

“Don't worry,” she said, “we'll have an Irish-English shower, too.”

That sounded like trouble. “I really think one shower would be better,” I said.

“The guests wouldn't all fit in one room,” she said, chuckling as she wrote in her notebook. I couldn't read her handwriting upside down, but it probably said something about me being a dunderhead, or whatever that translated to in Italian.

“Exactly how many guests are you talking about?” I asked, glancing from her to Marco, who merely shrugged just like his mom had.

“I haven't finished making my list,” she said, still writing.

“Mrs. Salvare,” I said in a pleasant voice, “I know you're excited about our wedding, but, with all due respect, we want to keep it simple, and that means one shower, one small shower, with just close relatives and friends in attendance. Anyway, we're not getting married until September. Why do we need to plan the shower now?”

Francesca laughed merrily. “Bella, when you've thrown as many showers as I have, then you will understand. It takes time to do all the necessary work. There are the invitations to select, the menu to decide, food to prepare, cakes to bake—”

“That sounds like a wedding,” I said with a light laugh that had a desperate note in it.

“We'll get to the wedding later,” she said. “Tomorrow during your lunch hour, we can go to the stationery store and pick out your invitations.”

I was losing control fast. “Actually,” I said, “Marco and I can do that. You don't need to bother with it.”

“It's no bother,” she said, clearly amused.

“But Marco and I
want
to do it,” I stated.

Francesca turned her liquid brown eyes on her son, as though to say,
Is this true?

“This is more of a woman thing,” Marco said. “I don't really need to be invol—”

I squeezed his knee hard. “The wedding shower is for
us
, Marco.
We
need to decide. Together.”

Francesca smiled at me. “Good. We'll all go look for invitations tomorrow. Now for the food. Lasagna is always good for a crowd. Let me think.” She tapped the pen against her nose. “We have my side and the Salvare side . . . Twelve baking pans should do it.”

Gert stopped by our table to ask, “Anything I can get you folks?”

An escape hatch?

CHAPTER SIX

I
gave Marco a look that said,
Speak now, buster, or forever hold your peace—and know that I will be out of here if you don't.
He gave me a nod.

“Mama,” Marco said, “put down your pen and listen to me. Abby and I don't want a big wedding or big showers. We want to keep it simple.” He gazed at me. “One combined shower, right, Sunshine?”

“Right.” I smiled at him. We were a team. “With no more than fifty guests, twenty-five per family.”

“Impossible,” Francesca said, throwing down her pen. “Do you know how many cousins you have, Marco?”

He turned to give me a helpless look. “Cousins, Abby.”

“Okay, then, one hundred guests,” I said, wavering. How could we cut out his cousins? I picked up my burger and took a bite.

“It cannot be done,” his mom said, sitting back and crossing her arms. “Four hundred, and then it's possible.”

The food stuck in my throat. I grabbed my napkin to cover my mouth as I coughed.

“The alternative, Mama, is no shower,” Marco said. “Now let's eat before our meals get cold.”

My hero! I smiled at him and he winked back. Team Knight-Salvare was a force to be reckoned with.

We finished our meals in record time, mostly because Francesca didn't talk after that. She was miffed. But we both got hugs before she left, so I held out hope that once she thought about it, she'd see our side.

After she left, we took our wine and went to Marco's office to talk about Grace's situation.

In sharp contrast to the 1970s bar decor, Marco's office was sleek and modern, with dove gray walls, silver miniblinds, black leather furniture, a black-and-chrome desk, and a TV mounted in a corner opposite the desk. While I made myself comfortable in one of the black leather chairs, he sat down at his desk, turned the television on, and tuned in to WNCN, the local cable news station, hoping to catch a report on Constance Newport's death.

“Okay, fill me in,” he said, lowering the volume.

I repeated Grace's account of finding the body without disclosing her startling revelation. Then I filled him in on the other people living on the property. Marco listened without interruption, rubbing his jaw as he absorbed the information, which is what he did when he was piecing things together.

I ended with Grace's request that we find Connie's killer.

“The woman's death hasn't been ruled a homicide,” Marco reminded me.

I didn't want to broach the subject of Grace's communication with her friend because I knew Marco wouldn't believe it. I didn't believe it myself. So I tried logic instead. “Think about how Grace described the body lying on the basement floor. What's your gut telling you? Because mine is saying to trust Grace's assessment.”

“I understand that you have a lot of faith in Grace, Sunshine, but she doesn't have any experience in homicide investigations. Seeing a body sprawled at the bottom of the steps is shocking, to be sure, but it would take a skilled investigator to decide whether it was murder.”

I couldn't argue with that. “The problem is that Grace asked that we find her friend's killer, and I volunteered to help in any way I could.”

Marco rubbed his jaw. “Then why don't you tell her that
if
Constance Newport's death is ruled a homicide, we'll investigate.”

“You get a kiss for that.”

Marco's attention suddenly shifted to the TV, so I swiveled for a look. He picked up the remote to turn up the volume as a photo of a distinguished older woman was displayed on the flat screen.

“Tragedy has felled a local hero,” the anchor woman reported. “Constance Newport, philanthropist, patron of the arts, and humanitarian, died today at the age of eighty-seven from unknown causes.”

“Nothing about police suspecting foul play,” Marco said.

The news anchor continued. “Newport was instrumental in the creation of an art museum and gallery within New Chapel University, in the funding of the hospice center and the new wing on the public library. She was married to Burnett K. Newport, a prominent businessman, entrepreneur, and collector of Victorian art, for over forty years. Newport is survived by a son, daughter, and grandson. No decision has been made about funeral services, but Newport's attorney said an announcement would be forthcoming.”

As the reporter launched into a retrospective of Constance's life, Marco lowered the volume. “Did I tell you how hot you look in that outfit?”

I glanced down at my white blouse and dark jeans. “No, but go ahead.”

He crooked his finger at me. “Come over here.”

I loved it when he got that primordial glimmer in his eye.

He turned his desk chair so I could crawl onto his lap; then he gathered me in his arms for a smoldering kiss. With his lips against my ear, he murmured, “What do you say we go back to your place, open that bottle of champagne we saved from our engagement dinner, and then . . .”

He whispered the
then
part in my ear. “Does that sound like a plan?”

I gazed into his deep brown eyes. “I like the way you think, Salvare.”

I tilted my head to meet his lips again just as the TV anchor said, “In breaking news, New Chapel Police are now calling Constance Newport's death a homicide. A police spokesman declined to comment on reasons for the ruling but said only that an official investigation has been opened.”

Those pesky goose bumps came back with a vengeance. Grace had been right after all.

The anchor continued. “A reporter caught up with Newport's son, Burnett Newport Jr., minutes ago. He had this to say.”

The next image showed a frowning, doughy, bald man in Ray-Ban sunglasses and a dark suit. He was sitting inside his silver BMW convertible with the top down, waiting for the wrought-iron gates outside New-port mansion to open. With a microphone thrust in his face, he snarled, “I haven't heard anything about an investigation. As far as I know, my mother slipped and fell.”

“How do you feel about her death being called a homicide?” the reporter asked.

His scowl deepened. “How do I
feel
? What kind of idiotic question is that? How would you feel if someone stuck a mic in your face and told you your mother might have been murdered?”

The reporter's mouth opened and shut again.