Triple Shot (19 page)

Luc Romano didn’t want to be around what I’m sure he believed was a glorification of an event that had negatively marked his family and changed their lives forever. I understood and I knew Tien did, too.

‘Elaine and I are going to start taking things over to the Ristorante now,’ Tien continued.

‘Want to use the Escape?’ I asked, pulling the keys out of my pocket and dangling them.

‘That would be wonderful,’ she said, gratefully taking them. ‘My VW bug won’t hold much of anything. C’mon Elaine.’

But the other woman stayed back as Tien left our storeroom. ‘I’ll be right there.’

When Tien was out of earshot, Elaine said, ‘MaryAnne called last night and told me what happened at her house.’

‘Was she shook up?’ I asked.

Riordan thought about it. ‘Not so much upset as maybe . . . intrigued? Like all of us, she’d heard about the attacks on agents, though this one struck far too close to home.’

Literally and figuratively.

‘MaryAnne made me promise not to show any houses by myself.’ Riordan gave a little shiver and I half-expected her to pull out her afghan. ‘I guess it’s a good thing I’m a terrible sales associate.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ A fib.

‘Oh, but it is.’ Riordan was going through her handbag, but no afghan – or even a Chihuahua – was in evidence. ‘I thought I’d be helping people find their dream homes, but . . . well, it’s a lot more cut-throat than that.’

She didn’t have to tell me. ‘Did you stay with MaryAnne last night?’

‘No.’ Riordan managed to tug tissues from her bag. And not a single one, mind you, nor even just a purse-size packet. A whole, frickin’ box. ‘MaryAnne was worried about me, not the other way around. Besides, I think I bother her when I stay. I tend to be a bit of a hypochondriac.’

Riordan plucked a tissue and blew her nose. Ten seconds, three octaves.

‘Well, anyway,’ I said, now trying to distance myself from contagion, ‘it seems like you’ve been very helpful to Ward Chitown and his producer.’

‘I’m a go-fer,’ Riordan said, wedging the box back into her bag, splitting one of the cardboard’s corner seams, ‘but it seems I’m good at it. I’m thinking if I show a little initiative, I could train to become a producer like Deirdre.’

‘Sounds like it’s an interesting job.’ I was leading the way from the storeroom back into the kitchen. ‘I’m sure you—’

I was interrupted by the ‘brrring’ of an old-fashioned telephone. Riordan dove back into her bag, temporarily stymied by the tissue box and God-knew-what-else until she found her cell, sneezed again, and said, ‘Hello?’

Wanting to give her privacy – not to mention getting away from a germ-spewing looney – I signaled Elaine I was going out front.

She nodded to me. ‘Yes, I did,’ she said into the phone. ‘But where did you say . . . ?’

Her words trailed away as I thought of the call Gabriella Atherton had gotten in my presence, late yesterday morning. What was it she said?

I thought she’d addressed the person on the other end of the line by ‘dear’ and said something about ‘running right over’?

Had Atherton gone to meet Robert for a quickie, as I'd assumed, or was there something far different on her agenda?

With someone else she held ‘dear’?

Chapter Sixteen

This Saturday had seemed even slower than usual and I had the place cleaned, cash register emptied and lights out by 11:30 a.m.

Then I hurried out to the parking lot digging for my keys, intent on getting home to clean up. Across the tracks, I could already see signs of activity. Cars and trucks illegally parked close to the buildings to unload, including . . . a Ford Escape that looked just like mine.

Probably because it was.

I looked at the empty space where I normally parked my car and closed my purse.

Since Tien and Elaine Riordan had used my SUV to ferry the food, I had to find at least one of them in order to retrieve my keys and drive home. In my head I could hear my son Eric, Benjy the bartender, and even sweet Tien, join in a chorus of ‘Well, duh.’

I picked my way across the double row of tracks and mounted the sidewalk that ran along the slaughterhouse. Up close, the building – carved from giant, gray boulders – nearly hunched over on me, and I didn’t dare imagine what grisly deeds had been committed inside.

The Ristorante, on the other hand, was cream-colored brick, the sign over the door faded, but still legible. ‘Romano’s Ristorante - A Place to Meat.’

I looked twice, but yes, it was an ‘a’– meat, not meet. Presumably because of the slaughterhouse.
Not
the theme I’d have struck for the place. Shrugging, I dragged open the heavy door and crossed the threshold.

The foyer of the restaurant was large, with a Dutch-door leading to a coat room on the right side of the hostess stand and restrooms to the left. A menu, mounted on the wall between yellowing reviews from the Milwaukee Journal and Milwaukee Sentinel, displayed laughably low prices for everything.

Veal, prepared a dozen different ways, was the featured item, both on the menu and in the reviews. You had to give the newspapers five stars for good taste: while extolling the virtues of Romano’s fresh veal, the articles never mentioned the poor things were being murdered practically in the next room.

I gave a shiver.

‘Can I help you?’ a man in jeans and a WTVR T-shirt asked.

‘I’m looking for Tien Roman . . . I mean, Tien? She’s in charge of the food service.’

‘Oh sure, back there.’ He pointed into the dining room and I caught a glimpse of Tien smoothing a tablecloth over a round of six.

‘Oh, Maggy, I’m so sorry,’ she said when she saw me. ‘Here are your car keys.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said, about to reach for them. ‘It’s not like you were far away.’

‘Still, I planned to return the Escape to our parking lot. I just got caught up.’ She swept her free hand around the walls of the room. ‘Beautiful venue, isn’t it?’

‘It is that. But I assume this isn’t where—’

‘Tien!’ a voice called. ‘You simply must come see this before the crew hauls everything in.’

Elaine Riordan appeared at a door. ‘Oh, Maggy. You, too. It’s just that you can’t tell anybody.’

I started to say I needed to leave, but Tien was already following her and Tien still had my keys.

Riordan, prancing like a mare on the first day of spring, led us down a corridor lined with doors. The first, and closest to the dining room, was the kitchen. The next two were closed, perhaps leading to offices or storerooms. She finally stopped at a door across the corridor from the last.

‘Look at this.’ She stepped into the room. ‘This is where it all –’ her voice dropped – ‘happened.’

The room, at maybe twenty-feet square, was about the size of the one under the station platform. In fact, it even reminded me of the waiting room. Except, of course, for the bullet holes. Lots and lots of them riddled every wall’s paneling.

This time it was Tien’s turn to shiver.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’ She was standing next to the oblong conference table dominating the room. Two chairs were overturned and there were dark brown stains on the carpet. ‘Maggy, do you think they ever tried to clean in here?’

I shook my head. ‘Clueless, but I’d guess no.’ Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I saw faint chalk outlines on the floor, the layered ‘dust’ more like powder to recover latent fingerprints.

Furnished like a corporate boardroom, the resemblance to the waiting area across the tracks was further enhanced by the same carpeting, track-lighting and, in one corner, door –presumably to a small bathroom.

‘Maybe we should go.’ Tien suggested, her arms clasped across her chest in a self-hug.

‘We will,’ Riordan said, ‘but first, you have to see this.’

She crossed to the bathroom door and as she flung it open I wanted to scream, ‘Don’t!’

I didn’t, of course. Instead, I followed her over and peered in. Except it wasn’t a bathroom. ‘Just a . . . closet?’

‘Or is it?’ Riordan stepped in and slid aside hangers holding what looked like tablecloths. On the wall behind them, was a wood panel. She pushed on it, and it bounced back.

‘A secret passage?’ Tien had come up behind me.

‘To the tunnel?’ I was getting caught up in the excitement, despite myself. ‘The one that runs under the tracks.’

‘Nothing quite so glamorous, I’m afraid,’ Elaine Riordan said. ‘Though we probably should have known the tunnel could only be legend. The vibration of the trains surely would have wreaked all sorts of havoc on an excavation of that sort.’

Logic. Who needed it? ‘So where does this lead?’

‘It’s a simple escape route through the slaughterhouse. Ward thinks the money’s probably hidden next door.’

I eyed Go-fer Barbie skeptically. ‘Maybe, maybe not. But there must be another connection in the kitchen. I mean, how did they get the veal from the slaughterhouse into the restaurant?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, Maggy, you’re
not
believing those stories about them butchering the carcasses right here, now are you?’

‘Well . . .’

‘That was just an old-wives tale.’

And this not-so-old ex-wife had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

‘C’mon,’ Tien said, surprising me as she slipped past my right shoulder to enter the closet. ‘Let’s go look.’

‘At the slaughterhouse?’ I realized I was hanging back, like Kate McNamara had when we’d discovered Brigid’s body.

And I, ma’am, am no Kate McNamara. If Tien was forging on, given her family’s ties to the place, then so was I.

Riordan ducked her head through the door and felt around for a light switch. A click and that buzzing of a fluorescent tube, trying to come to life.

I closed my eyes. What did I think I was going to see? The Ghost of Veal Chops Past?

‘What are you doing in there?’

We all jumped.

The same man who had directed me to Tien was standing just outside the closet.

‘Just looking around,’ I said, backing out. ‘There’s a secret door in here.’

‘No kidding.’ He was uncoiling thick wire. ‘Except if you tell everyone, it’s not going to be so secret anymore.’

‘Oh, now, don’t you worry,’ Riordan said, following Tien out. ‘I’m Mr Chitown’s assistant?’

‘Yeah, well, I’m Mr Chitown’s camera operator? Now all of you, get out so I can set up through here.’

And, because he asked so nicely, we did.

###

By the time I got back to the Ristorante, it was nearly three thirty. But I was clean, with hair fixed and make-up applied. Wearing a skirt, tank top and a cardigan over them, I looked a little school-marmish, and therefore the better to contrast with my slut dress, currently hidden in a plastic Pick ‘n Save bag.

I’d be like the librarian in a movie who pulls off her glasses and lets down her hair to reveal the sex kitten simmering beneath.

Smiling at the thought, I went to help Tien and Jacque. They were assembling buffets, dining tables already filling the center of the room. With the exception of the door leading to the kitchen and hallway, the rear portion had been cordoned off for ‘staging’ – with apologies to Deirdre Doty, given her dislike of the term – tonight’s production.

‘Yum,’ I said, as I plugged in a giant crock-pot. ‘Your clam chowder smells wonderful, Jacque.’

‘Only because it eez wonderful.’

I had no reply to that. Over time, I’ve tried to bond with the man, but the gulf between the level of my kitchen skills and his culinary ego stayed just too deep and too wide.

Members of Deirdre’s production crew came stampeding in, ate efficiently and left as a unit. By the time we’d cleaned up after them, my smartphone read 5:30 and the honored guests would soon be arriving.

But first, a surprise appearance.

‘Luc,’ I said, going to the door of the dining room. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

‘I wasn’t, but Sarah insisted.’

Sure enough, my partner air-pushed him from behind. ‘Stop grousing. I needed a date, and you’re the least annoying unattached male left in the state.’

Tien had followed me out and now gave her father a hug. ‘Hey, I thought I was your favorite girl?’

‘You are, sweetie,’ Luc said, releasing her to look around.

‘I think you’ve been replaced,’ I teased Sarah.

‘No biggie – I picked him up outside on the sidewalk. Easy come, easy go.’

‘So what do you think, Daddy?’ Tien was asking. ‘Does it look the same as you remembered?’

‘Pretty much,’ Luc said, moving to the wall leading to the restrooms. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to one of five sepia portraits hanging there. ‘That’s your grandfather.’

As two generations discussed the third via old photos, I tugged Sarah aside by her sleeve. ‘You never answered me, you know.’

‘About what?’

‘Who owns the Ristorante and slaughterhouse?’

‘That’s public record, but I’m willing to share if you’re too lazy to go look it up.’

‘Consider me lazy. Now talk.’

‘Well, you own the slaughterhouse, you lucky girl.’

‘What?’

‘OK, along with me and all the other citizens of this fine county.’

Lovely. ‘Taken by the assessor for back taxes?’

‘Uh-huh.’

I could see it. ‘But the Ristorante?’

Sarah nodded toward Luc and Tien at the photo wall. ‘The Romano family.’

I glanced around, before I asked in a low voice, ‘Do Deirdre and Chitown know?’

‘You’re worried about the media vultures circling?’ Sarah asked. ‘A condition of allowing our current ‘production crew’ in was that they leave Luc and Tien ‘utterly, completely, and totally’ alone.’

‘Nicely done,’ I said. ‘And at your insistence?’

‘You’re welcome.’ Sarah scanned the long dark-wood counter that lined one wall and frowned. ‘What, no open bar?’

‘No bar open, period,’ I said. ‘Apparently Chitown would like the observers sober until we get to the celebration at Sapphire.’

‘That seems a little short-sighted,’ Sarah said. ‘What if Chitown doesn’t find his treasure? The anticlimax could seriously deep-six the –’ finger quotes – ‘“celebration”.’

I hoped Sarah hadn’t started celebrating a little early herself. ‘Are you OK?’