Triple Shot (20 page)

‘Fine. Over the last five days, my only remaining employee
and
my biggest competition have been murdered, and I think your boyfriend still has me as his primo suspect.’

‘But are you—’

‘OK? Yeah. I doubled all my meds. That OK with you?’

Yikes. ‘Sure, of course.’ I hesitated before I said, ‘If it makes you feel any better, Pavlik said that Gabriella was shot with a smaller gun than yours.’

‘Goody. That must be why they were looking for a 22-caliber anything when they came by with their search warrant this morning.’

‘They didn’t!’

‘They did.’

‘When?’

‘Oddly enough, right before I upped my meds. Now, though, you’d better get that food out.’ She hitch-hiked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘The guests are arriving.’

Sure enough, Art Jenada and Kate McNamara had just entered the restaurant, Art making a left to the men’s room, Kate continuing on into the dining area.

I turned tail and hurried back to the kitchen to help Jacque move things along, leaving Tien and her father still studying their family photos.

‘What eez that?’ Jacque demanded, as I went to pick up a plate with magical aromas coming off something breaded.

‘Umm, crab cakes?’ I figured this to be a pop quiz, like when I stopped by to pick up snapper at Jacque’s fish counter and he interrogated me on how I was going to prepare it.

‘No, no, no. Not
that
,’ he said imperiously. ‘
That
!’

Jacque was pointing toward the palm of my right hand. ‘Oh – just a rash. I must have touched a plant I’m allergic—’

‘Then you will
not
touch my food.’ He whisked the plate from my hand.

‘It’s not poison ivy or something I could spread,’ I protested, ‘just . . . contact dermatitis or something.’ Something being the operative word.

But Jacque was making a show of transferring the miniature crabcakes to another, presumably untainted, platter. ‘You will put on gloves or you will go.’

As I deliberated, Tien entered, with Luc trailing. ‘Did you cut yourself, Maggy?’

‘No, I just have this.’ I showed her.

‘Eeuuw, nasty. Does it itch?’

‘A little,’ I admitted.

‘You go on, Maggy,’ Luc said. ‘I’ll help out here.’ He, too, seemed creeped out by my rash.

I left the kitchen, feeling a mite hurt and muttering under my breath. ‘It’s not like I have an open sore.’

‘Excuse me?’ Deirdre Doty was to the right of the door, watching as a technician dragged heavy cables through the dining area like a harnessed farm horse clearing felled trees. At the back of the room, carpenters were, not surprisingly, hammering and nailing.

‘Nothing,’ I said, pulling the cuffs of my cardigan down over my hands. ‘How are things going?’

‘Organized chaos, but that’s to be expected at this point of the process and we’ll weather it eventually.’ Doty scanned the room. ‘Have you seen Ward?’

‘No, I—’

‘Oh, there they are.’

The producer left me to gather up Chitown and Elaine Riordan, who’d just come in the front door. Elaine was laden with her huge shoulder bag and a big antique typewriter. Chitown was carrying nothing but himself, though with smug aplomb.

The next people to arrive were a couple of suits and then our Brookhills County district attorney and . . .

‘Jane?’

Jane Smith pivoted. ‘Maggy, how good to see you.’

Wearing a jersey wrap dress, she looked considerably more together than she had been the last time I’d seen her. Namely, being questioned by a sheriff’s deputy about Gabriella Atherton’s death and, subsequently, ducking out of MaryAnne’s backyard before the neighbor/homeowner could see her.

I’d thought it odd at the time, and now was my chance to ask. I beckoned Smith aside and she reluctantly released her escort’s arm and followed me.

‘You and the DA are an item?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps,’ Smith said, her tone telling me that, though we had shared a magical moment over a body, I was still the shopkeeper and she the Barbie.

‘Well, good for you,’ I said, slapping her on the back. ‘Now tell me, why did you make a beeline out of MaryAnne’s yard? Didn’t want her to know you’d been nosing around?’

‘Of course not.’ Smith’s chin trembled. ‘I was being a good neighbor. I saw activity in her yard when I knew she wasn’t home and went to investigate.’

Now Smith’s tone projected, ‘That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.’

‘So why’d you run, then, instead of offering to help said neighbor?’

‘I didn’t want to add to MaryAnne’s burden. She had enough on her hands with the open house and . . . Gabriella’s body and all.’

I just looked at Smith.

‘All right, fine.’ A panicky glance toward the DA, who didn’t even appear to notice Smith was no longer at his side. ‘It was something she’d said. I . . . needed to think.’

‘Something Gabriella Atherton said?’

Smith pitched her voice so low I could barely hear the words. ‘No, what
MaryAnne
said as I was approaching all of you.’

‘OK, Jane. Give.’ I’d been there, and I sure didn’t remember anything unusual. Except for the body in the pool, of course.

Smith scooted even closer to whisper in my ear. ‘MaryAnne asked what Gabriella had been doing there.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘But don’t you see? MaryAnne already
knew
. When Gabriella left your shop, she said it was . . .’

‘To meet with a client, or so you told Sarah and me.’

A heavy sigh. ‘I was trying to be circumspect. I didn’t know MaryAnne was going to deny it.’

Wait a minute. ‘Are you saying
MaryAnne
was that client?’

Finally a smile. ‘Good for you, Maggy.’ Jane Smith slapped me on my back, rather vengefully, I thought, and rejoined her quasi-date.

Chapter Seventeen

Now I needed to digest what Jane Smith had just told me, but it didn’t look like I would have the opportunity any time soon. People needed to be fed and, if I shouldn’t touch the food, at least I could bus dirty dishes from the tables.

Which I’m sure didn’t help my ‘shopkeeper’ status, I thought as I took Smith’s plate, still nearly full. Honest to God, did these Barbies eat anything?

Two uniformed sheriff’s deputies were seated at one table finishing up their meals, but it was getting close to show-time and still no sign of our sheriff himself.

Just as I had that thought, my cell rang. Caller ID told me what I needed to know. ‘Pavlik?’

‘Listen, Maggy, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight.’

My heart dropped. ‘You mean for the show, right? You’ll be at Sapphire afterwards?’

‘Neither. With another murder, I need to be on-scene.’

‘But . . . a couple of your deputies have already arrived.’

‘Because I sent them to represent the department. I just don’t think I should be out partying when people are dying on my watch.’

Much as I didn’t want to understand, I did. Pavlik was absolutely right. He shouldn’t be here. Even more so, for public relations reasons he shouldn’t be
seen
here.

That didn’t stop me from being disappointed, though.

‘I’ll miss you,’ I said softly. I heard my voice crack, like that fourteen-year-old of yore.

‘Maggy?’ There was astonishment in his voice. ‘Are you crying?’

‘No.’ I turned toward the wall of the dining room and tented my forehead against it.

‘Then why does your voice sound funny?’

‘Bad connection.’ I swallowed. ‘Umm, see you tomorrow?’

‘Assuming I don’t see you at a crime scene before then.’

By six forty-five, we, the live audience, were seated in folding chairs facing the stage I’d seen being built. The structure would likely look good on camera, but I knew it to be plywood and the plants plastic. A battered desk like something out of
The Untouchables
was positioned in the center, a rolling office chair behind it.

A bare bones ‘guest’ chair squatted beside the desk, and the manual typewriter Elaine Riordan had been carrying slumped on the writing service.

‘Hot damn, is that an Underwood?’ Sarah, sitting to my right, intoned the word like a car nut might the marque Stutz Bearcat. She sighed nostalgically. ‘My mother had one of those.’

My partner had saved front row seats for Tien, Luc, Jacque and me, since we’d needed to put the food away and clean up after everyone was finally done eating.

Unfortunately, there were two more chairs in the row, and Kate McNamara took the one next to me as I welcomed our catering crew.

Kate’s greeting? ‘Maggy, shush!’

Art was sitting beside Kate, Elaine Riordan leaning down to speak with him. He looked surprised, then got up and moved to the row behind us.

‘I’m sorry,’ Riordan said, settling into Art’s former seat. ‘But I need to be right here so I can assist onstage if needed. There really should have been a sign on this particular chair.’

‘Reserved for the lead go-fer?’ Kate hissed to me from the corner of her mouth.

My, my. I sensed a sore spot.

I smiled. ‘Haven’t seen much of you lately, Kate. I thought Ward and you were like this.’ I crossed two fingers tightly.

‘I’m not sure where you got that idea,’ she said stiffly. ‘I was simply showing him around. Though Ward and I do have such similar backgrounds it’s almost uncanny.’

‘Yeah. TV careers that crashed and burned,’ Sarah said into the other ear.

‘I’m sure you do,’ I said smoothly to Kate. ‘He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?’

She threw me a startled look as Deirdre Doty stepped onto the stage, holding a sheaf of two-foot-square placards. She was dressed in a pair of dark-wash trouser jeans and a contrasting lace cami under a short, fitted jacket.

‘Thank you all for coming. I’m Deirdre Doty, Ward Chitown’s producer. Ward has asked me to brief you before we start.

‘As you know, this is a live show. We break for commercials, but other than that, we just keep going. We will be using at least two other locations, so please be ready to move as quickly and as orderly as possible. Ward also asks that you remain absolutely quiet, except when I signal you for an appropriate reaction.’

From her sheaf, she raised a sign that read: ‘APPLAUSE!’

Elaine Riordan clapped wildly and, getting the idea, we did the same, though barely politely.

The next sign said: ‘SURPRISE!’

Elaine gasped. Ditto for us, me to swallow . . .

‘LAUGHTER!’

Where the shepherdess led, the flock again followed.

‘Good, good. You get the idea,’ Doty said with a little grin. ‘But don’t go overboard. Just let your natural reactions shine through.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Sarah said. ‘I feel like I’m in the studio audience for an
I Love Lucy
episode. Any minute now, Ricky’s going to sashay out from the wings with his conga drum.’

As if cued, Ward Chitown strode onto the stage in a well-cut suit. Even without Doty’s flash card, we onlookers applauded.

‘Thank you so much, Deirdre. And my personal welcome to all our Brookhills friends. We wanted to repay your kindness
to
us and your patience
with
us, by including you here tonight to witness . . . history.’

Another swell of applause, though maybe twelve people were more a gaggle than a swell.

‘We’re live in thirty seconds,’ Doty said loudly. She’d added a headset to her ensemble. ‘Positions, everybody.’

Ward Chitown hitched his butt onto the edge of the desk, facing us and the camera in casual candor.

‘Ward, two inches left,’ Doty directed. ‘We want to get the typewriter.’

‘That’s my antique Underwood,’ Elaine Riordan chirped. ‘Isn’t this exciting?’

‘Electrifying,’ Sarah muttered. Then: ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s a manual.’

Lame typewriter jokes, the inevitable consequence of doubling one’s medication.

‘Quiet on the set!’ Deirdre Doty held up one hand, fingers extended toward snapping to her palm in a countdown. ‘We’re live in five, four, three, two . . .’ She pointed the last finger at the star himself.

‘Good evening, America! I’m Ward Chitown and I’m here to reveal, with you –’ he pointed at the camera lens – ‘the historic, secret treasure of . . . Romano’s Raid.’

The APPLAUSE! placard went up. We clapped and, as Doty signaled to keep it rolling, even cheered a bit.

Chitown held up his hands as modest, dual stop signs. ‘Thank you, thank you. Now, let me tell you how tonight will unfold. Currently, we are broadcasting live from the town of Brookhills, Wisconsin.

‘Today, Brookhills is still a small town, but for decades it has been an affluent one as well. Its citizens shop and play tennis, do lunch and . . .’

Drink coffee, I willed him to say.

‘. . . attend theater. Many of the people who live here work in the city of Milwaukee, commuting there by car or the new commuter-rail line which was christened just last month.

‘But Brookhills has a long-concealed, seamier side, as well. This room we’re in . . .’ Chitown waved majestically to a camera operator, who panned one wall toward the entrance, careful to keep ‘we’ the audience out of the frame.

I looked down at the Uncommon Grounds Styrofoam cup in my hand. Fat lot of good it was going to do our business, unless I threw it at Chitown on stage.

‘. . . is the quaint main dining room of Romano’s Ristorante, shuttered for more than thirty-five years. A beautiful setting as I believe we all can agree.’ A drop in Chitown’s voice from tenor to baritone. ‘But also one shadowed by a past both dark and deep. A heritage that involved the Mafia and its nefarious schemes. A situation that inexorably put eight men – four agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, or FBI, and four gangsters – on a deadly collision course.’

Now Chitown’s voice descended from baritone to bass. ‘A shoot-out between the forces of good and evil. Only two men survived. One?’ Hand reverently pressed to heart. ‘My father, Samuel Chitown, the FBI agent in charge of the raid.’

A pause. I had to admit, Chitown had a gift for drama. Or, at least, melodrama.

‘Who, though, you might ask, was the other man? His name was Antonio Solari and he was the consigliere, the lawyer-cum-confidential-advisor, of the Chicago Outfit that controlled this part of the Mafia realm.