Unholy Matrimony (10 page)

She turned up the gas and pretty soon the water began to boil.

“Do you have the envelope?” she asked Flo, who was sitting at the kitchen table flipping through the
Star-Ledge
r. “This steam is just about perfect.” Lucille put her hand over the pot boiling on the stove.

“Here.” Flo handed her the manila envelope.

Lucille held it over the steam rising from the pot. “I think that should do it.”

She put the envelope down on the table, carefully eased a finger under the flap and opened it. She slid the contents out and began patting her pockets.

“What are you looking for?” Flo leaned forward for a better look.

“My glasses. I can’t see nothing no more without them.”

“They’re on top of your head.”

“Sheesh,” Lucille said and smacked herself on the forehead.

She put her glasses on and leaned her head next to Flo’s.

“It’s an insurance policy, all right.” Lucille whistled. “Look at that number right there.” She pointed a finger at the document. “One million dollars.”

“Who is the policy on?”

Lucille scanned the paper in her hand. “Bingo. Just as we suspected. Donna DeLucca Grabowski.” She looked at Flo. “If that don’t give Alex Grabowski a motive for murder, I don’t know what does.”

• • •

Now Lucille had two problems, she realized the next morning. She had to figure out what to do with Donna’s cell phone and she had to sneak that insurance policy back to the stack of mail in front of Alex’s office. Getting the policy back ought to be easy enough, and she could throw the cell phone away in a Dumpster somewheres, but Lucille knew she couldn’t bring herself to do that. It wouldn’t be right, and she wouldn’t be able to look Richie Sambucco in the face again. But she could worry about that later.

Flo had to be at work by 9:00 a.m. so it was up to Lucille to go to the Bassett Building and deal with the envelope they’d borrowed from Alex’s mail. Lucille was a little nervous as she waited for the elevator to the second floor, but she told herself there was nothing to be worried about. If anyone saw her, she could say the piece of mail had been delivered to her by mistake. That happened all the time. Just the other day she got a postcard that Mrs. Esposito’s niece had sent from Atlantic City that had been delivered to Lucille’s house by mistake.

Lucille got off the elevator and rounded the corner to where Alex’s office was located. There was still no light showing through the glass door. She glanced at her watch. It was almost nine a.m. Surely the receptionist ought to be there by now? Lucille knew she always liked to get to work a little early to visit the little girl’s room and make sure her hair hadn’t blown around too much in the walk across the parking lot.

Well, it was all for the best really. She could replace the piece of mail and no one would know she and Flo had borrowed it.

She looked at the floor in the corner by the door where they’d last seen the pile of mail. It wasn’t there. Lucille glanced all around in case it had moved somehow—she had a vision of the stack of mail developing teeny, tiny feet during the night and creeping down the hallway.

“I think they’re closed.”

The voice startled Lucille. She spun around to see a woman had appeared. She had unnaturally black hair and was wearing a very short skirt and a pair of stiletto-heeled white sandals.

“I haven’t seen anyone here for a couple of days. Me and Rosemary sometimes go to lunch together, and she didn’t say nothing about going on vacation, but there you have it,” she added philosophically.

“I was just bringing them this here piece of mail.” Lucille brandished the manila envelope. “It got delivered to me by mistake. Maybe I’ll just slip it under the door.”

The girl cocked her head to one side. “I haven’t seen you around before. You been working here long?”

Lucille shook her head vigorously. “No, I just started. Yesterday,” she added for good measure.

“Oh. Where do you work? I’m Sherry, by the way.”

“Like in the song, huh?”

The girl looked confused.

“You’re probably too young to remember. I work upstairs for . . . for . . .” Lucille racked her brain. What kind of office did they have in almost every building? “. . . For the dentist,” she finished triumphantly. “I work for the dentist upstairs.” And she pointed in the direction of the ceiling.

The girl gave a shiver. “Oooh, I hate dentists.”

That was good, Lucille thought. She didn’t want the girl doing no investigating and finding out there was no dentist’s office upstairs.

“I’ll just slip this under the door then.” Lucille began to bend down. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” the girl said, giving a little wave. “Toodle loo.”

Lucille breathed a sigh of relief, slid the envelope under the door and quickly backed away.

She all but ran down the hall, bolted from the building, jumped into the Olds and, with Little Richard playing, made her getaway as fast as she could.

Chapter 11

Lucille kicked off her shoes as soon as she walked in the door. She was beat. She’d put in her half day at St. Rocco’s, gone to the grocery store, and now she was glad to be home. She didn’t know how Flo did it—working forty hours a week. Of course Flo didn’t have the whole family for dinner every Sunday, wasn’t dealing with the situation with Bernadette and didn’t have Louis and Millie living with her. To be fair, though, she’d had her share of worry over Tony Jr. being overseas in a war zone. The thought of that kid with a gun made Lucille shiver.

And it hadn’t been a good day at work. Was it her fault she’d forgotten her glasses and instead of photocopying two copies of a letter like Father Brennan asked, she’d accidentally made two thousand? She’d done everything she could think of to stop the machine, but it kept spitting out paper one after the other after the other. It wasn’t until Jeannette, her coworker, came back from lunch and pulled out the drawer with the copy paper in it that the thing had stopped. But by then Lucille had made enough copies to plaster the walls of the rectory. Father Brennan had given her that sad look he always gave her when she did something wrong.

She sat at the kitchen table and rubbed the ball of her left foot. Her glance fell on the calendar hanging on the wall next to the table. Lucille squinted at it. Something was written on it for that day. A reminder of some sort? She dug in the kitchen drawers until she found a pair of reading glasses. They were Frankie’s, but they would do.

She stared at the calendar. The entry read
Party at Ma’s house. 7:00 p.m.

Lucille groaned. She’d forgotten all about that. Her mother was having one of them parties where you’re expected to buy stuff—she couldn’t remember what was being sold. She wasn’t sure her mother had told her. Probably crap for the kitchen that no one needed or costume jewelry that fell apart as soon as you got it home.

She didn’t want to go. She wanted to put on her pajamas, fix herself and Frankie something simple for dinner like maybe a couple of fried eggs, toast and bacon and spend the night in front of the television. That cop show they liked was on tonight, and Lucille had been looking forward to it. They could even eat on a couple of trays in front of the TV.

But her mother would be hurt if she didn’t show up. She’d already said she would be there. Lucille dragged herself out of the chair and upstairs to the bathroom. She smoothed down her hair, added a layer of spray and powdered her nose.

She had a couple of pieces of lasagna wrapped in foil in the freezer. It was left over from Sunday dinner a couple of weeks ago. She’d put it out with instructions for Frankie on how to heat it in the microwave. He ought to be able to handle that. There was enough for him and Louis and Millie. Bernadette was having dinner out with some girlfriends

She thought about changing her clothes but decided against it. This party wasn’t likely to be all that fancy—just a couple of gals getting together—no need to get all dolled up.

Several cars were already in her mother’s driveway when Lucille got there. She had to park in front of the Vignoviches’ place, but she was careful to be far enough away from their driveway so they wouldn’t get all bent out of shape. One time she’d left her car a little too close and Mr. Vignovich had come running out in his underwear, screaming for her to move the Olds.

She could hear the chatter of female voices as soon as she opened the door. The party seemed to be in full swing. Lucille climbed the four steps to the living room and stood on the threshold.

Her mother had arranged all the furniture, including her dining room chairs, in a semicircle. They were all facing her mother’s card table, which had been draped in a white cloth like the altar at church. Lucille recognized a couple of her mother’s neighbors and a few ladies from church.

A woman stood behind the card table and was holding up some sort of gizmo. Other unidentifiable objects were spread out on the cloth. There was a bottle of what looked like lotion, so Lucille supposed these were some kind of bath and beauty products. She wouldn’t mind a nice, relaxing bubble bath right now.

She crossed the room to the one empty chair and turned her attention to the front of the room. The contraption the woman was waving at them was making an annoying buzzing sound. Lucille stared at it quizzically. Maybe it was one of them things to get the calluses off the bottoms of your feet. Lucille moved her feet so they were out of view. She hadn’t had a pedicure in . . . well, she’d never really had one unless you counted the whirlpool footbath she’d had when she went to the podiatrist that time for the corn on her little toe.

The woman continued to brandish the buzzing contraption, declaring it was made especially for a woman’s pleasure. Lucille couldn’t imagine how sanding the calluses off your feet could be particularly pleasurable.

“Excuse me,” she said as she leaned across the lady sitting next to her. “Ma. What kind of a party did you say this was?”

“It’s a Total Romance Party,” her mother whispered back.

“Total Romance?” Lucille whispered. “What kind of stuff do they sell?” She glanced back at the saleswoman, who was continuing to demonstrate the buzzing gizmo in her hand. “You mean that’s actually a . . .”

“Yeah. What did you think it was?”

“Ma, how could you?” Lucille hissed.

“You should get one, Lucille. You know Frankie isn’t always going to be able to do the job, if you know what I mean.”

Lucille opened her mouth and then shut it. Was
that
what was wrong with Frankie? Was that why he was acting so strangely? She was going to talk to him as soon as she got home. Because if that was the case, there were things that could be done. She’d seen those pills advertised on TV, and Gina, one of the cashiers at the A&P, said they had worked like a charm for her husband.

The woman continued with her demonstration. Lucille wasn’t really paying attention—she had a vague impression of feathers and bubbles and other things she didn’t want to think about. Fortunately, Frankie had never been into that stuff.

She couldn’t imagine what had come over her mother that she had agreed to host a party like this. Couldn’t she just sell Tupperware like all the other old ladies?

After the demonstration, everyone was invited to go up to the table and get up close and personal with the products. Lucille hung back, hovering around the dining table, where her mother had set out a selection of desserts, a carafe of coffee and a couple of bottles of wine. Lucille opted for a glass of wine. It had been that kind of a day.

She hadn’t eaten any dinner, so she thought she’d treat herself to a couple of the pastries her mother had put out. She was reaching for a sfogliatelle when she bumped arms with a young woman who was selecting a couple of cookies from one of the platters.

“Sorry,” she said, giving Lucille a shy smile.

“This here’s some show, isn’t it?” Lucille said, adding an anise cookie to her paper plate.

“Yeah. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.” The girl leaned closer to Lucille, her hoop earrings swinging against her face. “I don’t even have a boyfriend. Although there is this guy I kind of like, and I think he likes me.”

“That’s good,” Lucille said as she took a bite of the cookie.

“I’m not even sure I want to be married, know what I mean?”

“Yeah, sure.” Lucille couldn’t imagine not being married. Frankie was her best friend. Sure, there’d been bad times along with the good times, but she couldn’t imagine him not being there.

“I’m Rosemary Spitz, by the way.”

“Lucille Mazzarella. That’s like mozzarella but with an
a
.”

“Nice to meet you.”

The girl had really long, wavy brown hair and bangs that mingled with her eyelashes. She was wearing white capri pants and a blue-and-white-striped cotton top.

“So how did you end up at this shebang?” Lucille asked as she put the last bit of her cookie in her mouth.

“I came with my aunt.” Rosemary gestured toward an older woman in white shorts with gray hair and terrible varicose veins. “She thought this would be fun, seeing as how I’m at loose ends at the moment.”

“So you in school or something?” Lucille had always wanted to go to secretarial school like Frank’s sister, Connie, but her parents didn’t have the money.

The girl shook her head. “I’m working over in Summit.” She jerked her head in the general direction. “But my boss just gave me a couple of weeks off. Came in on Friday and told everyone they could go home.”

“Really?” Lucille grabbed the bottle of wine and refilled her glass. “Sounds like a nice boss.”

“Oh, he is,” Rosemary gushed. “He said he was still going to pay us, but the money hasn’t been deposited in my account yet.” She nibbled on her bottom lip with teeth that reminded Lucille of a rabbit’s.

“I’m sure everything will be fine. Who do you work for?”

“Alex,” Rosemary answered. “Alex Grabowski.”

Lucille began to choke on her cookie.

“You okay?” Rosemary patted her on the back.

“Fine,” Lucille said, taking a deep breath. “Just fine.” She took a big swig of her wine. “So you work for Alex Grabowski, huh?”