J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 06 - Death Gone Awry (3 page)

Finished with the pastry and coffee, Bill said he had to be going and left with the same hustle as he had arrived. I smiled when the door closed and glanced at Marcus.

“Tell me, Vinnie, why you didn’t share the second person theory with Bill?” His smile said he knew the answer.

I grinned. “Some things are better left untold. That’s the motto of the FBI and State Police, isn’t it?”

“Mmm, sort of.” Marcus smirked. “It’s more of a need to know basis. You never said he’d been struck on the head.”

I shrugged. “I thought he may have hit his head on the way into the water. Why are you here anyway? I need to know.” I rubbed my hands across his well-muscled chest and stepped closer to him. I only asked since he was in uniform. It usually meant police business, so my curiosity hiked a notch.

Curiosity is a wonderful thing, unless of course you happen to have an overabundance of it. Cursed with it all my life, I have to admit I enjoy snooping around where I shouldn’t, which often leads to interference in situations that are none of my affair, and usually dangerous.

“I’m headed back to the barracks and thought I’d stop by to see if you could go to the Performing Arts Center this weekend. You’re interested in seeing the musical
La Familia
, right?”

“You actually got tickets for that? My mother said they were sold out and was disappointed she wouldn’t get a chance to see how the actors and singers handle the story of humorous vineyard life.”

“They were complimentary. The star performer and I attended the same college. He looked me up when he arrived in town.”

“What time should I be ready?”

He got up, slipped his hands around my waist, held me tight, and kissed me deeply. “Be ready around six, we’ll have dinner first.”

“You betcha.”

He smiled, kissed me again, and left with a warning to stay out of the water.

I smirked as the door closed and knew what he really meant by the remark. Staying out of the water was one thing, minding my own business was another. An hour later, I’d folded and put away the laundry before lining up the homework assignment for the next day of classes at the university. The students had finished their reports on the University of Rhode Island’s Crime Lab after we’d toured the facility and gotten a firsthand opportunity to see techs at work. This week’s classes would put some of those practices into action.

A box of broken tail lights and crumpled car parts sat in the classroom closet. They’d been used to set the scene for an accident and robbery in the past, which brought excitement to each new class I presented the scene to. I wrote the assignment, offered just enough information to capture the students’ interest, and packed the paperwork into my valise.

Grabbing my jacket, I headed to the Salt & Pepper Deli to chat with Lola. Her exit, after her whirlwind entrance earlier, left me wondering if there was something plaguing her mind.

When Aunt Livvy had bought the house I now lived in, I’d been a mere teenager. My twin brother, Giovanni, and I would visit, but I stayed with Livvy as often as I could. Livvy and I painted together, laughed over nothing, and ate great food, usually prepared by my dad. She often told me to follow my dreams, whatever they were. She and my mother agreed on that, and Mom pushed the idea home more often than not. The fact that I’d decided to travel my chosen path, most certainly not the one Mom would have chosen, didn’t make a difference. She supported me no matter what. We all need to be thankful for the small things in life.

As a criminal justice instructor, I deal with the police quite a lot and on equitable terms. At least when I’m not being robbed at gunpoint, forced off the road, and stalked by some nutcase I’d known from a past that rears its head like a snake every now and then. I have a penchant for being in the wrong place at the worst of times, but it’s like the weather. There’s nothing that can be done about it, so I live with it.

During the years I visited Aunt Livvy, I’d become familiar with the people in town. Lola Trapezi and I were true and steadfast childhood friends. My father, a chef in his younger years, taught us how to cook. Italian life revolves around food, family, and more food. It’s just the way things are. Lola, who had a flair for it, took the lessons to the next level by opening up the deli and offering home cooked meals. I only cook when the spirit moves me, when the deli is closed, or I think I might be starving to death and need to eat.

Glowing interior lights beckoned as I walked up the steps of the historic building that Lola owned. She rented space to a couple of shop owners, a combined florist and gift shop took up one end of the long, wide building that filled the entire corner of the street. A large chalkboard hung on the fenced in area inviting the public to buy flowers for every occasion. Lola’s sandwich board offered soups and sandwiches that had been voted Rhode Island’s best by some group or other. The second floor of the building had storage on one side and a vintage clothing shop on the other.

Inside the deli, warm, spicy aromas accosted my sense of smell. I could tell a latte had been made and that minestrone was the soup of the day. Nibbles of fresh Italian bread nested in a basket on the counter. I smiled at Millie, the woman who tended the clientele, and ordered a mug of Earl Grey tea before sauntering into the kitchen. Millie nodded and said she’d bring it in to me.

The oven door swung downward. Lola slid a hot sandwich from within and set it on a plate. The paddle was nearly the same height as she was and the image brought a smile to my face. Marcus always called her Little Miss Dynamite. Lola’s Italian heritage was evident, but somewhere an Irishman had entered the mix. Thick locks of rich auburn hair were tied back and netted at Lola’s nape while she cooked.

As for me, I’m a standard dark haired, brown eyed, full-blooded Italian American. Long legged, well endowed in the breast department, and wide shouldered, I manage to remain slim. No extra layers of fat or bulge for me. I run daily or walk a couple of miles.

My twin brother, built guy-style, stands my height. We resemble one another more than most fraternal twins. He resides in Nebraska, he’s a doctor, and he’s married to a nurse. She runs him, and his medical office. My father considers my brother as the man of men. I was relieved Giovanni decided not to live here in Little Rhody.

It isn’t that I don’t adore my twin, but my father is an old world Italian who thinks men should be whatever they want and women should be mommies, cook pasta, and ferry the little kiddies to their sports games. Perish the thought. Needless to say, my father, Gino Esposito, cares not for my career choice and tends to buck me at every turn. My mother and Aunt Livvy had gone to bat for me on more than one occasion. Now, only my mother does so.

My father and I get along well for the most part. It’s simply those moments when he barks at me about getting married and having a brood of monsters that starts my engine roaring. We agree to disagree, but the kicker for him was the last time we had dinner together. He said I should get married and have kids. I told him he needed to talk to Gio about having kids instead of nagging me incessantly. His glare had hardened when he told me to be careful how I spoke to him. I realized there was a step off point I should avoid at all costs, and I’ve done so since.

Families like mine don’t converse in the usual way of average American families. Most of the time there’s yelling and hollering. It’s normal conversation for Italians. There’s lots of hand waving and gestures, some nice and some not.

Then there are moments when my parents speak Italian because they don’t want me to know what they’re saying. Unfortunately, I understand quite a bit of the Italian language and can figure out exactly what they’re trying to hide. Not letting my parents in on this, sometimes, without thinking, I speak to my father in the language, so it’s certain both my parents are aware of the fact that I know they have secrets.

The mug of hot tea sat in front of me as Millie hustled back into the dining area of the deli to serve the steaming sandwich to the lone customer. I heard snatches of their conversation before it turned quiet. Lola rinsed her hands and cleared the breadboard of crumbs.

“The stranger is going to be all right?” she asked.

“It seems so. MacNert said he’s stitched up and has a concussion.” Leaning my elbows on the worktable, I cupped the mug in my hands and sipped the tea. “He’s fortunate. If I hadn’t been there, he would surely have stayed dead.” I shivered a bit and sipped some more.

Finished with the clean-up, Lola sat on the stool across from me. She leaned forward and whispered that she had a favor to ask. Her glance strayed toward the dining area, and then back to me.

“I’ll come by on my way home, if you’ll be alone.”

Intrigued, my curiosity kicked into high gear as I conjured up images of what Lola had on her mind. The need to know was strong. I wasn’t sure I could wait another hour or so to hear what she wanted.

As a business woman, Lola was successful. In the romance department, her life often traveled uphill and down again. As a matter of fact, she’d once referred to it as a downhill sled race, picking up speed fast. I didn’t view her romantic life that way, and insisted more than once she needed to get out of the deli and meet people. Maybe her need to talk concerned romance, but why was she being so secretive about it?

“Why don’t you tell me now?”

“I’d rather discuss it at your place.” She grinned as she stared at me. “Your curiosity is running rampant, I see it by the expression on your face. Gosh, that must be awful for you.” Her laughter bubbled over.

“You have no idea.” I chuckled along with her.

I rose from the stool and left her snickering. From the doorway, I glanced back and asked, “What have you heard about Tim Slaggard? That’s his name, the floater.”

Lola’s smile faded and her face took on an odd look. The reaction surprised me, and instantly I came back into the room.

“What is it, Lola? What do you know?”

She came close and murmured, “He’s been here in the deli a couple of times. You didn’t say he was the man you rescued.”

“I wasn’t aware of his name,” I whispered and shrugged. “Bill MacNert told me. He mentioned Slaggard’s a new-age minister of sorts. That’s all he said.”

Leaning against the worktable, I stared at Lola. Her mind was elsewhere. My annoying inner voice started to nag.
Maybe she’s involved with him. Don’t say anything else, just mind your business for a change.
Yeah, right. As if I could ever manage that. Climbing Mount Everest would be a more successful task than minding my own business.

Suddenly, Lola came out of her funk and glanced at me. Her expression cleared, and she said she’d see me later. Knowing when to back-off, I agreed by way of a nod and left the deli.

Chapter 3

At the house, I noticed lights were on in Aaron’s apartment. I took the back stairs two at a time and knocked on his door.

Dark eyes and a beaming smile met mine as he beckoned me inside. Aaron motioned toward a seat at the kitchen counter.

“What brings you to my door?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you’ve noticed any difference in Lola lately.”

“You look worried, is something wrong?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“Oh, uh, well, no.” A quizzical look slid across his handsome features.

“She’ll be by tonight to talk, so maybe I can squeeze it out of her then.”

He laughed outright. “If anyone can get information, it’s you, Vin. I do have news for you, though.”

Curiosity, sometimes my worst enemy, strikes me at any given moment. Now was one of them.

“Is it bad? I really don’t want bad news, only good news, got it?”

He didn’t laugh, though a tiny smile curled the corners of his lips upward.

“I received orders this afternoon that I’ll be out of town for a month. I can’t say more than the fact that I leave tomorrow. It’s business related.”

“This wouldn’t be like the time you were supposedly out of town, but instead you were here in Little Rhody investigating Rafael, would it?” Aaron was secretive when it came to work, but FBI agents are, so this came as no surprise.

“No, it isn’t like that, honest. It’s mandatory training, nothing more.”

Yeah, right. The training probably included a probe into some deep dark secret, here in this state, of a little known, or maybe well-known, criminal and a certain activity that went along with it. But, hey, who was I to doubt Aaron’s word. I lie on a regular basis, even though they are little white lies. I’m surely on the high road to hell.

“I’ll miss you while you’re away. Will you be able to stay in touch?”

“I’ll call you whenever I can, how’s that?”

The downstairs door opened and closed. I heard a rap on my apartment door. I opened Aaron’s kitchen door and called down.

“Who is it?”

“Lola. Can I join you up there?” Lola called up the stairwell.

“Sure, we’re just chatting. Come on up.” I glanced at Aaron and saw the twinkle in his eyes. He liked Lola and may have thought it would be interesting to watch me drag information from her about what she had on her mind.

“What?” I asked him.

Aaron chuckled. “Nothing, nothing at all.”

Lola stepped into the room, tossed her handbag and coat across the back of a chair, and scooted onto the seat next to mine.

“I thought this day would never end,” Lola said with a sigh of relief.

“What do you mean?” Aaron asked with one brow raised.

“First, my part time cook pitched a fit over an increase in his hours, which was what he’d asked for in the first place, and Millie decided she wants a raise. On top of that, my helper Eric Strom is in North Carolina with his father, now that the man is out of jail, and has been offered a good job if he’ll relocate. So now I need to find someone to replace him. When Eric first came to work for me, I knew he’d be an asset to the deli. The customers liked him and he enjoyed learning the business. Good thing you rescued him from being a homeless waif, Vin. He’s such a great kid, I’m sad to lose him.” Lola sighed again and slumped back in the chair.