Artful Dodger (Maggie Kean Mis-Adventures) (14 page)

I hunched down as far as I could without cutting off my vision. The idea that this was a mere coincidence flitted briefly around the edges of my brain and flew right out. From the relative safety of my car, I watched the Saturn pull into Lindsay’s driveway. Moments later that big bumbling cop, minus the uniform, hitched up his pants, strode up the sidewalk, and pushed open the front door.

Thoughts swirled around in my head like leaves in a storm. I wasn’t sure how Vacuum Nose, or whatever the hell his name was, fit into this whole scenario, but I knew something was drastically wrong. My reflexes took over, and I started the car and rolled forward. Very slowly. There was something eerie and unsettling about a cop working a murder scene and then showing up at an address written in the victim’s appointment book. I didn’t know what the connection was, but I knew I had to find out.  Things became even creepier when it suddenly dawned on me that this guy hadn’t knocked or rung the doorbell. Vacuum Nose wasn’t visiting Lindsay Burns. He lived with her.

In no time at all, I was back out on the highway, heading north to Monument, racking my brain about what to do next. This whole thing was getting stranger by the minute. Elizabeth had written Lindsay’s name in her book for a reason. With her connections and personal involvement with the Center for Domestic Violence, it wasn’t a giant leap to assume that VN (a.k.a. Vacuum Nose) was the cause of Lindsay’s facial bruises. He was just the type, too. I could imagine him standing a little taller, walking a little straighter, and sucking in his gut while knocking Lindsay around. Nothing like punching a woman half your size to make someone feel more like a man.

By the time I reached my street I was feeling a little nauseous. It didn’t help matters to find Villari’s car parked in my driveway and the man leaning against the porch rail.

“Let me guess,” I said as I stepped out of my Jeep, “you got an urgent call from Mr. Patrolman saying that the little lady had disappeared again.”

He took one last drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt off into space.

I eyed the butt lying in my yard. “Do you mind? Just because you’re addicted to a filthy habit doesn’t mean I need to be the recipient of your trash.” I stomped over and picked up the remains of the cigarette. Stepping past Villari, I unlocked the front door. “Come on in. You can yell at me while I throw away your litter.”

Villari followed me into the kitchen, walking so close behind I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. “Looks like we’re back at square one. I don’t suppose you want to tell me where you were?”

I whirled around so quickly he nearly bumped into me. I stared into those dark eyes, fully aware that if I stood on my toes I would be within easy kissing range. “Sure, if you want to hear.”

Villari cast a wary glance at me.

“I started my period and went down to the drugstore for some feminine hygiene products.”

“Cut the crap,” he growled. “My patience is wearing very thin where you’re concerned. Spit it out or—”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve been threatening me all morning with a new residence in a bad part of town with unsavory neighbors.” I slid sideways and went around him. The man had a way of nosing into my space. “Not that it’s any of your business,” I said, trotting out my haughtiest voice, “but I went downtown for some art supplies.”

One eyebrow rose up as he glanced pointedly at my hands, finding them both suspiciously empty of shopping bags.

“Show me what you bought.”

Great. One misstep and the guy was all over me.

“They didn’t have what I needed.”

“You know, it would be an easy thing for me to check out your story.” He sighed. “You wouldn’t want to save me the time and try the truth out for a change, would you?”

“Look, Detective, you asked where I went and I told you. If you want to double-check everything I say, feel free to do so, but.. .”

“But what?”

I shrugged. “Why don’t you have someone follow me around, or better yet, why don’t you handcuff me to the refrigerator if you’re so worried about where I am every single moment? With me off your back, you might have time to act like a real detective... you know, gathering clues, interviewing possible suspects, making phone calls, things like that.” I opened my eyes as though a bolt of lightning had suddenly hit me. “Hey! You might even find the murderer!”

His mouth thinned into a straight line as he glared at me.

“Obviously, humor is not your strong suit,” I said, nervously trying to fill in what was rapidly becoming a deafening silence.

“I could say the same thing about you, Maggie. Your attempts at humor leave something to be desired,” he countered quietly, his face so serious I had to turn away.

“Look, Villari, I’m already nervous as a cat, and humor, weak as it may be, is my way of protecting myself. You’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since this whole thing started and I’ve run out of ways to deal with your incessant snooping.”  I swung around, mentally pulled back my shoulders, and stood my ground. “I had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death and I resent the fact that I’m too busy looking for the murderer myself to have time to mourn.”

He stared at me for several seconds, completely still except for the small muscle jumping at the base of his jaw. “Exactly what do you mean you’ve been looking for the murderer yourself?”

Me and my big mouth. The man stood there just waiting to pounce. I backed away. “I just meant that I—” The words stumbled forth. “I’ve been so busy defending myself against your accusations that I’ve had to start thinking about who could have killed Elizabeth.”

“Maggie,” he warned, “I told you to stay out of this.” I held up my hands to stop him.

“I’m not doing anything. I’ve just made a couple of lists, weighed a few pros and cons. Nothing dangerous.”

He ran his hand through his hair. With that habit, it was no wonder it was perennially rumpled. Without saying a word, he stepped back, turned, and walked to the kitchen table. He pulled out a chair, swiveled it around, and straddled it so he was facing me. This was beginning to feel familiar.

“Let’s see the lists.”

God, the man was relentless.

“No.” I shook my head firmly. I had to. I was lying like crazy. “They’re mine.”

“Like hell. If you’ve got information, hand it over.”

“Like hell. When you put a warrant in my hand, then I’ll hand it over.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest and stared at him, determined not to flinch. “Go ahead and put me in that jail cell you keep dangling in front of me,” I said boldly, hoping like hell that he couldn’t see my knees trembling.

A slow grin crept across his face.  “Nah, I’m going to do something a lot worse."

Like cowardly rats on a sinking ship, I felt every drop of confidence drain from my body as I managed one single word. “What?”

"I'm taking you to my mother’s house for dinner.”

Chapter Nine

“There’s no way I’m eating dinner with Mamacita tonight,” I said firmly, my hands propped on my hips. “I’ve got enough trouble in my life without subjecting myself to a bunch of Italians.”

Villari cocked his head to the side. “You’ve got a problem with Italians?”

I nodded. “As I said earlier, I’ve got a
big
problem with the whole hand-waving, pasta-loving, testosterone-struttin’ group of you.”

He had the audacity to smile. “Oh, yeah. I forgot. You were married to an Italian once, weren’t you?”

“Once too many.”

“I guess it wouldn’t help if I mentioned that we’re not all alike.” He stretched his long legs in front of the chair. It was impossible to miss the muscles bunching against his jeans.

“Tell you what. Just to be fair, I’ll give you a quiz, like the ones you find in magazines.  If you answer no to any of the five questions, I’ll shut up and eat spaghetti with you tonight.” I took a deep breath. “Otherwise, if you answer yes to any—and, as I suspect, every—question, you’ll leave me in peace tonight. And you won’t interrogate me when I leave for the fifteen minutes it will take me to buy my very American cheeseburger and fries.”

He studied me closely. “I think I’m being bamboozled here.”

“No, you’re not. I’m just taking you to task for your statement that all Italians are not complete clones.”

“Okay, shoot.” He leaned back and rested against the table, his legs still extended like two perfectly sculpted examples of hard athleticism.

I paced in a circle around the kitchen as I ticked off my questions on the fingers of one hand. “Is your family Catholic? Do you have lots of siblings and scads and scads of relatives? Does your family eat pasta, in some form, whether it’s cannelloni, mastaciolli, ravioli, or some other ‘oli’ word, at least three times a week? Is there an unspoken rule that every family member must attend every get-together, occurring on a weekly basis, functions that include
all
birthdays, holidays, graduations, first Communions, baptisms, and of course, the celebration of all celebrations—Mother’s Day? Do your brothers fawn over your mother while her daughters-in-law run in the other direction?” I paused long enough to take a breath. “Should I go on?”

The man sat there with a blank look on his face. I didn’t know what to think until I saw the gleam in his eye and heard the soft rumble of a chuckle. He clasped his hands behind his head and the chuckle escalated into a deep, hearty laugh.

“Let me guess,” I said dryly. “It was a unanimous ‘yes’ all the way down the list.” I leaned my elbows on the counter and waited calmly for his reply.

“Yeah, it’s all true. I’ve got three brothers, two sisters, tons of Catholic relatives, and we get together and eat as often as possible.” He sat forward, bent his legs, and stood up. “I do love my mother and I think my sisters-in-law are scared to death of her,” he said quietly as he walked toward me. “But I’m still taking you to dinner tonight.”

I started to straighten up, but before I could move away, he rounded the corner of the counter and put his hands on my arms, pulling me toward him.

“Hey!  I won the quiz.  You reneging on the bet?”

“I have to,” he assured me.

“Why? What happened to police integrity? The ‘you can depend on the guys in blue’ spirit?”

“Because I already told my mother I invited a guest.”

“So un-invite me.”

He shook his head and pulled me closer. “You obviously don’t know everything about Italians. They hate being stood up, especially after spending the whole day in the kitchen cooking lasagna. If I don’t bring you, I’ll never hear the end of it. Besides,” he concluded, with a mischievous smile, “you’re too damned skinny. Italian men like a little meat on their women.”

And with that, his lips settled over mine.

He left soon afterward. But not until he had taken his finger and dragged it softly down the side of my face, gently pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. He grinned that ultra-charming smile of his and walked away, disarming me completely, leaving me standing there like a speechless idiot. Opening the front door, he hesitated for a moment and turned to face me.

“I’ll pick you up at six.” He scratched his chin. “One suggestion.  My mother’s name is Toni Villari.  You might want to can the Mamacita comments. She’s a stubborn, bullheaded lady who’s not afraid to fight.” His eyes flicked over me and he shrugged. “But then, God help us, so are you,” at which point he stepped out onto the porch and shut the door behind him.

I peered through the window and watched his car pull out of the driveway. I was so restless I resumed my earlier pacing, except this time I didn’t confine myself to the kitchen. The man had a way of getting under my skin and I didn’t know what the hell to do about it. I was beginning to feel schizophrenic. One moment I was being threatened with a life sentence in the penitentiary and the next moment I was being kissed so thoroughly I was left breathless and shaky.  On the other hand, maybe he was the one with the problem. His temper was so volatile and unpredictable, I never knew when he was going to pick me up and toss me into a pit of rattlesnakes and when he would seduce me with that crooked smile of his. But split personality aside, the man could kiss. I could feel it right down to my toes. And, believe me, my toes hadn’t curled like that in a long time.

I shuddered. My neighbor had just been killed and here I was cuddling with a cop who still considered me a suspect, even if my name was way down the list. Why was he taking me to dinner? Was he really going to check on my church story? Obviously, his mother wasn’t going to recognize me.  Villari was right. I hadn’t set foot in a church since I was in high school. But she couldn’t prove anything, even if she did have a reserved seat in heaven and one in the neighborhood chapel. As the detective said himself, it was all circumstantial evidence.

Before I knew it, I found myself in the back of the house, turning circles in my bedroom, mimicking the actions of a dog getting ready for bed, twisting around and around before plopping down and falling asleep for the night. Finally, from sheer exhaustion, I did the same thing. I flopped down on the floor, lay on my back, and threw my arms over my head. I stretched in both directions at the same time, my upper half pulling one way, the bottom half, toes pointing, pushing the opposite way. It was the beginning of an exercise routine I performed regularly to alleviate the cramps in the small of my back after long hours of sculpting or sketching while sitting on a hard stool.