Deadly Blessings (18 page)

Dan was quiet. So quiet I could almost hear
the gears working in his brain. He wanted something. Otherwise he
would have taken any excuse to pick the keys up without having to
‘visit.’

“
Where’s the
wake?”

I glanced at the notes in my calendar.
“Why?”

“
I thought maybe we could
have dinner afterward,” he said. Then, as if the thought just
occurred to him, asked, “Who died?”

“
A friend’s
brother.”

“
Sorry to hear it,” he said
without conviction. “Maybe we can meet for drinks
afterward?”

Oh, now that appealed to me. Just what I
wanted to do after an evening of mourning the dead. Go out for
drinks with Dan.

“
We can make it quick,” he
said, perhaps sensing my reticence. “I have something I want to
talk to you about and I’d rather do it in person.”

I felt energy drain out of me. “Fine,” I
said. I didn’t want to go traipsing back downtown after a long day,
so I told him he’d have to meet me at a neighborhood restaurant
near the funeral home. “No drinks, though,” I cautioned. “The
strongest thing they offer there is coffee. Let’s make it around
nine, okay?”

“
Great.” The absent-minded
tone of his voice told me he was writing the address down. “Whose
funeral did you say this was?”

“
Gotta go,” I said. “See
you then.”

William brought his attention back from
looking out my window as I dropped the receiver into the cradle
with a bang. “Hi,” I said, massaging my temple.

He shot a glance toward the phone, giving me
the impression he was curious about the call, but he got down to
business right away. “How did your interview go yesterday?”

“
I start next
week.”

He gave an appreciative nod. “You’re
good.”

I laughed. “Let’s just hope
I don’t get myself into a situation where I have to prove
that
.”

Ooh. Slightly bawdy remark on my part.
Slipped out. His grin and raised eyebrows told me he’d caught the
humor, and my instant flush of warmth was less from embarrassment
than from his smiling reaction to it. What the hell was up? I was
finding myself attracted to a man I barely knew. Very unlike me.
Time to start squashing these instant physical responses to his
presence.

Yeah, like I had any clue how to do
that.

The blue eyes staring at me turned serious
again. “I’ve got most of what I need on the hair care story. You’re
getting some impressions today from that salon where Angela Cucio
got her ear sliced, right?”

“
I’m scheduled for noon.
Only time I could get in, and only because of a cancellation. The
place books weeks in advance.”

“
Nervous?”

Movement outside my window pulled my eyes
that direction. The Michigan Avenue bridge was rising to allow
passage of a tall-masted boat. Late in the season, but maybe they
pushed their luck while the weather was good. “A little, I guess.
I’ll make sure they only use scissors on me.” I grinned. “See that
bridge? I never get tired of watching them raise and lower it. And
I must have seen it happen a hundred times. Amazes me every
time.”

William walked over to the window to watch.
I got up and stood next to him, marveling at the elegant sweep of
the pavement as it moved to point skyward. Both upper and lower
Michigan Avenue moved together, the only real time they were in
sync. Back in place, in their ordinary roles of providing passage
over the river, business-suited commuters and tourists strode along
its length in the sun. Directly underneath was reserved for
vagrants, the homeless, and the smart drivers who knew the secret
of avoiding traffic snarls above.

Yellow flashing warning gates and clanging
alarms had cautioned pedestrians and cars to halt at the bridge
entrances both directions. Until the boat cleared and the streets
were lowered, the noise and lights continued. I pointed.

“
You see right there? I
guess some woman got her car stuck in the mechanism once. She went
too far forward and when the bridge came down it squashed her hood.
Closed down the Magnificent Mile for hours.”

William turned to me, “Did you get to see
it?”

My eyes were just a trace higher than his
shoulder. Nice height. I tilted my head up, suddenly realizing that
in my enjoyment of the show, I stood closer to him than the concept
of “personal space” generally dictated. Not that I minded. But he
might.

“
No, unfortunately.” I
moved back to my comfy chair, warning bells still clanging from the
street below. “Missed it when I was out on a story. But I would
have loved to have seen it,” I said, then amended. “Nobody got
hurt, you understand.”

“
I figured, from your level
of enthusiasm.”

Running my fingers through my hair, I
thought about the story again. “I’m hoping for some background on
the shop. I plan to ask a few pointed questions. See if anyone
there knows what happened. Not that the girl who did a number on
Angela’s ear would still be there.”

“
About the other story. The
prostitution ring. Any idea how big? How far-reaching?”

“
No. This Lisa’s pretty
close-lipped.”

“
If she thinks you’re
unemployed, how come the delay? Why not start sooner?”

“
You’re gonna love this,” I
said.

Pleased with the mirth in
his eyes as I said that, I continued. “I have to go for a
physical.” I waited a beat for the import to sink in. “To be
a
shampoo
girl.
She insists that I get a clean bill of health and told me not to be
concerned with the emphasis of the exam on sexually transmitted
disease. How did she phrase it? ‘You may not realize it now, but
this can be an intimate business. I want to be sure my clients feel
safe in our hands.’”

“
She said that?”

“
Her exact
words.”

“
Nothing like a double
meaning, huh?” William expelled a breath of disbelief. “We’re going
to nail this story quick, aren’t we? Before things heat up for
you?”

“
Oh, yeah,” I said with
gusto. “I don’t plan to find myself in any compromising situations.
No story’s that important.”

“
Good.” He gave a short
nod. “Well, I was just checking in. You let me know if you need an
assist on anything, all right?”

“
Sure,” I said. It was an
automatic response, but the offer had surprised me. Tony had never
volunteered help on my end of the story. I investigated. He wrote.
And never the twain shall meet, or however that saying
went.

“
Good,” he said again as he
stood. “This one’s just begging to be followed. I’m looking forward
to working with you on it. And, hey, thanks for the show.” He
lifted his chin to indicate the window. Back in place, the bridges
again allowed passage of walkers, bicyclists and traffic. “My view
is … a wall. But it’s an attractive wall.” He smiled again and I
deliberately fought the whump that resounded in my stomach. He gave
my office a once-over, and despite the mountains of files on every
horizontal surface he said, “This is nice.”

My brain screamed to say something clever,
to invite him to visit anytime his little heart desired. Something
like that. Instead I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”

* * * * *

I dragged open the restaurant door and took
a deep breath of its aroma. I smelled food. Burnt coffee,
unidentified fried meat, late-night scrambled eggs. Yum. The day
had run away from me and I hadn’t had a chance to eat since I
grabbed a bagel and coffee in the morning.

I was starving.

It didn’t matter that the scent of
kill-all-germs-in-the-radius-of-a-mile disinfectant wafted from the
adjacent bathrooms into the dining area. My stomach responded to
the availability of nourishment with an anticipatory growl.

Pausing for a moment at the cashier’s stand,
I recognized the back of Dan’s head. With business slow at nine
o’clock at night, the woman in charge of seating patrons had taken
a perch near the kitchen, leaning one ample hip against the tall
counter as she spoke in a foreign language to a sweaty man behind
it. They kind of matched one another, in a middle-aged, swarthy
sort of way.

At my appearance, she boosted herself to a
standing position until I waved her back. I’d find my way over to
Dan without interrupting her yak session. She pointed to the stack
of plastic menus, then settled back against the counter and winked
at me as I grabbed one, not stopping her conversation the entire
time.

Dan looked up with alarm when I slid into
the booth opposite him. The place was fairly quiet. Three or four
occupied booths out of about thirty. And only one person at the
long Formica countertop nearby, an elderly fellow reading the paper
and smoking a cigarette. I noticed the ashtray at our table.

“
Why didn’t you ask for
non-smoking?” I asked.

Dan seemed confused. He looked at me for a
half-second longer than the simple question warranted and shrugged.
“Didn’t think of it.”

I grabbed my menu again. “Let’s switch over
to the other section then,” I said.

“
Nah, I kind of like it
here. Less crowded.”

I shot him my “what are you, nuts?” look and
turned my coffee cup over for the swarthy hostess-turned-waitress
to fill, which she did almost immediately.

“
Nice hair,” he
said.

The remark might have even been sincere.
Today’s trip to the salon where Angie had gotten her ear whacked,
had been a win-win situation all around. The girl who styled my
newest “do” hadn’t been around the place very long, but the woman
at the next station, had. I asked a few innocent questions about
things going awry in salons, and admitted, in a conspiratorial
whisper, that I’d heard about a woman who lost an ear there.

The older stylist, Luanne, was only too
happy to repeat the tale for the three of us rapt listeners: me,
the younger stylist, and Luanne’s client. I got plenty of
background that would add flavor to the story William and I were
building.

A protracted squeak alerted me to the door
to the women’s bathroom opening, sending another gust of
hyper-disinfected air my way. A blond woman emerged, carrying a
laptop and a purse. Dressed like she just stepped out of a power
business meeting, I watched her make her way toward a far booth in
our section, digging a cigarette out of her cunning designer purse.
Looking out of place in a neighborhood dive like this, she had an
air about her that roused a pang of envy. I wished I could look
that polished this late at night. Right now I felt run ragged from
the events of the day, and it was a sure bet I looked it, too.

I’d snuck out of the funeral home before the
end of the wake. Sophie had plenty of friends there for support and
while I could tell she was touched by my presence, she still had so
many mourners to greet, that I knew she wouldn’t notice if I
left.

Having gotten there around seven, I’d been
eager to get out of there when, at eight on the nose, Father Bruno
made his bulky appearance. I altered plans, making an instant
decision to stay. The guy intrigued me. Priest, confidant,
protector of poor eager immigrants, he had all the right
qualifications to be a saint. But I wasn’t quite sure I liked the
guy.

Maybe it was just me, I reasoned, and I
decided to stay and see if I couldn’t muster up grudging respect
for him.

Sophie latched onto his arm the minute he
showed, breaking out again into the soft sobbing rhythms that had
punctuated each guest’s arrival. He patted Sophie on the back and
spent a long moment kneeling next to the casket, head bowed, eyes
clenched.

Rising with the grace that a lifetime of
carrying excess weight bestows on a man, he became the shepherd of
the flock, surveying the gathered mourners in slow motion. Lifting
his chin, he called out in a louder voice than necessary, “Please
be seated.”

Within moments, amid creaks and mumbles, the
room fell silent and everyone had a seat. I perched at the edge of
a brocade couch. One of four matching ones that lined the walls, it
was close to the rose and carnation arrangement with the fake clock
in its center, to indicate Matthew’s time of death. I wondered how
the sender had decided on eleven-thirty.

Bruno gave the crowd a smile. In
appreciation for the immediate response to his request, I guessed.
His eyes seemed to take in every person in the room. Opening the
little black book that looked somehow insignificant in his hands,
he cleared his throat and led us all in prayer for the next
half-hour.

After the service, drained from the boredom
of repeating identical words en masse, I stood up and made a show
of checking out the flowers. Why not take a quick look at who was
thoughtful enough to send them? My close proximity to Matthew’s
coffin also gave me a great vantage point for watching Father Bruno
interact with those who came up to talk with him, to touch his
hand, and look up at him with trusting eyes.

Sophie was still holding the priest’s arm,
her gaze directed at Matthew’s tranquil form. “He look like he is
sleeping, no?”

Bruno had glanced up and we
made eye contact. At Sophie’s question, he turned his attention
back to her. “He looks like an angel, Sophia, because now your
brother
is
an
angel.”

I couldn’t help but think that it sounded so
… scripted. To the man’s defense, he no doubt attended many more
wakes and funerals than the average lay person, and I was sure he
had to rely on a cache of comforting murmurs to help the bereaved
get through their heartbreaking ordeal.