Lady Killer (25 page)

T
he next morning, Mary picked out her best suit and hung it on the closet doorknob, feeling somber and wretched after a terrible night’s sleep. She didn’t know how she’d get through what lay ahead. She’d showered, put in her contacts, and blew out her hair for the occasion, though she tried not to think about where she was going. She took the black crepe jacket from the hanger and put it on, and the lovely fabric slipped chilly over her skin. Anne had made her buy the fitted Prada suit, and Mary usually felt like a million bucks in it, maybe because that’s what it cost.

She buttoned up the three buttons to the jacket, then took the skirt from the hanger and stepped into it barefoot, zipping it up on the side. She wondered who would be dressing Bobby this morning. She pictured the funeral directors buttoning his white shirt, arranging his hands so they were loosely linked, then threading a rosary through his fingers. It would have black beads, the boy rosary.

She slipped into her black pumps, then went to the bathroom sink, dug in her makeup kit for her foundation, opened the bottle, and patted some under her eyes and smeared it on her face. Were they putting makeup on his face, now? On his hands, too? They had done that for Mike, she knew, because when she went to touch his hands one last time, she’d come away with a stickiness like putty on her fingertips, and when she’d looked down at her fingers, her husband’s skin had made its own imprint on her. She’d cried then, for him.

And last night, right before sleep, she’d even cried for Bobby.

Outside it was still drizzling, the aftermath of the storm, but that didn’t account for the traffic standstill on Broad Street. The cab drew closer to the funeral home, and Mary realized that the jam was caused by the funeral itself. Parked cars filled the passing lane that ran down the center of the street, and uniformed cops in long slickers directed gawkers and other traffic around the bottleneck. A Mob funeral was Saturday’s big game.

“I’ll get out here, please.” Mary handed the driver a ten and stepped out of the cab. She put up her umbrella and hurried to the sidewalk, walking with her head down against the rain, her pumps splashing water. Noise and chatter emanated from the block ahead, where a crowd had formed, their umbrellas fighting for space.

She wedged her way into the crowd, holding her umbrella high and excusing herself all the way to the entrance, where a thin, synthetic red carpet covered the steps of the funeral home, as if this were a movie premiere. Stocky men in dark suits stood smoking around the entrance, their gaze shifting toward her. One thick-necked man looked her up and down, unashamedly. Mary hurried up the steps, braced herself against a rising nervousness, and went inside as if she belonged there, a lawyer among felons.

The scent greeted her first, as she knew it would, the sickening fragrance of refrigerated flowers, and vases of gladiola, lilies, and roses lined the walls on the console tables. She’d never been in this funeral home, the showiest on Broad Street, a dubious distinction. Gold-flecked walls surrounded her, and she sank deep into the blood-red carpet. She kept her eyes down, scanning the crowd when she could, but she didn’t see Trish or the girls as she made her way into the viewing room, which was packed. At the front stood a closed casket of glistening walnut, and the bier was mounded with massive sprays of flowers. To the left of the casket stood Mr. Po and Ritchie, both in dark suits, their expressions solemn.

Mary bypassed the reception line and took a seat on the right side, in the middle of the throng, hidden from the front. She didn’t want Mr. Po or Ritchie to see her because she didn’t know how they’d react, and she felt a tiny tingle of fear. She eyed the crowd, which seemed oddly quiet, without the incongruous, if typical, outbreaks of laughter or happy hugs when friends and relatives were reunited. Women talked among themselves in low tones, and the men gave each other quick and furtive glances. Mary wondered if they were wondering who among them was the killer, but to her the answer was simple. All of them.

She bent her head and said a prayer. The reception line shifted forward, and when Mary looked up, she spotted Trish and Mrs. Gambone, with Giulia and her husband behind them. She felt a pang for Giulia, betrayed by her husband and her best friend, a heartbreak double play. Trish walked with her head bent and her arm linked in her mother’s, apparently grief stricken in dark coats, but Mary couldn’t stop her doubts.

She hid her thoughts as Trish stepped forward to the casket and knelt down on the knee pad, with her mother hovering behind her. Every head in the room turned to the front, and all eyes focused on the scene. Trish rested a hand on the coffin, then bent down and kissed it. It was so convincing a portrayal that Mary almost wondered if it was real, and when Trish rose and turned away from the coffin, she wiped a tear from her eye, Exhibit A in the Grief Department.

Ritchie came forward and gave Trish a meaty hug and Mrs. Gambone hugged Mr. Po, and at the sight, the mourners nodded and murmured with approval. Mary had been to enough Italian funerals to recognize the big peace-making scene, though it usually took place between people who hadn’t spoken because of an ancient grudge, not people who kidnapped and tried to kill each other, like, last week. But then again, every opera was different.

Giulia and her husband Joe did the same thing, then Yolanda and Missy appeared and followed suit, and Mary wondered if there was such a thing as collective amnesia. In the aisle behind her, someone said “hey” and “what’s your problem, lady,” and she turned around to see an attractive couple bypassing the receiving line and hurrying up the aisle. The man was behind, but the woman stormed ahead, her russet hair flying and her face contorted with anger. It was Rosaria, Bobby’s sister, from Brick.

Mary should have expected her, but with all that had been going on had forgotten about her. The man with Rosaria, wearing an expensive silk tie, must have been her boyfriend, because he was trying to catch her arm as she charged forward. Her gaze fixed on the casket, then shifted to Mr. Po and Ritchie, who had just released Trish and Mrs. Gambone.

“You! You did this!” Rosaria called out, storming down the aisle toward the casket. Mourners gasped, heads wheeled around, and a dangerous wave rippled through the crowd, but Rosaria was oblivious, grief stricken, her eyes teary. “You’re responsible for this. You got my brother killed.
You.
”

“Whoa, Ro,” Ritchie said, putting up his palms, and a shocked Trish, the girls, and Joe edged back behind Mr. Po, who whirled around with an agility surprising in a man his age.

“Rosie, show some respect,” he said loudly.

“Respect for
you
?” Rosaria shouted back. Her boyfriend pulled her away, but she wouldn’t stop. “Why? You’re criminals, common criminals, both of you. You’re not good enough to know my brother, much less bury him.”

“Shut your mouth!” Ritchie yelled, and men collected behind him.

Mary found herself on her feet with the rest of the mourners, craning their necks.

“You were nothing compared to Bobby, and you know it,” Rosaria hollered. “You were always jealous of him. He was the star, not you. He was the one everybody loved, not you. That’s why you ruined him!”

“That’s enough outta you.” Ritchie gritted his teeth, and a short, elderly priest appeared up front, raising his arms and stepping between the Pos and Rosaria and her boyfriend.

“Please, no, stop,” the priest said, his voice quavering with age and alarm. “This isn’t the time or the place, not the time or the place.”

“Don’t tell me, Father.” Rosaria turned on him. “You don’t know these people. They’re sick, the both of ’em. You wanna know what he did to me, Father?
My
supposed father? Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Rosaria, no!” her boyfriend shouted, finally grabbing her from behind and wrapping his arms around her, holding her fast while she writhed and struggled in his arms. Ritchie, Mr. Po, the priest and the men stood still, watching while she finally stopped fighting and dissolved into tears, collapsing in her boyfriend’s arms. He managed to get her back down the aisle, and she sobbed against him for support, tears running down her cheeks, letting herself be taken from the room.

Up front, Mr. Po spoke with the priest, and Ritchie huddled with his partners in crime. Mrs. Gambone, Trish, and the girls formed a fluttery circle, and the room returned slowly to normal, with the mourners talking among themselves and taking their seats. Mary sat down, her emotions in tumult, her thoughts confused. She was thinking about Ritchie and what Judy had said.

Maybe the easy answer was the right one.

Maybe a mobster had killed Bobby, and maybe the mobster was Ritchie. Mary remembered that day at the Po house, when she’d met him.

Boo.

S
unlight beamed into her bedroom, and Mary felt almost herself by Sunday morning, lounging in bed in her oversized Eagles T-shirt, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of loafing. Newspapers made messy tents all over her comforter, and
Meet the Press
was on TV, all the politicians in gray suits, red ties, and flag lapel pins. She watched idly, thinking that Tim Russert was cute in an altar-boy kind of way, but that reminded her of Anthony, who still hadn’t called. She was too old-fashioned to call him. She looked over and checked the answering machine beside the bed, but nothing had started blinking since five minutes ago. She wasn’t ready for a relationship anyway.

But if he calls, I’m ready.

She sighed and told herself it was a relief. After all, she’d almost gotten back to her life, having spent last night catching up on her e-mail, answering her clients as if she were still an associate at Rosato. She’d called Amrita to check on Dhiren, and he was improving, and she’d even drafted a brief due next week. She hadn’t decided what to do about Bennie yet, but it had felt good to be back in business, dealing with roof leaks and slip-and-falls, and there had even been a ton of e-mail from her clients, congratulating her on finding Trish alive. She wondered if the other clients would come back, now that she had found Trish. Not that it gave her comfort, not completely. The whole time she’d worked, Trish had been in the back of her mind, and Bobby.

Mary picked up the front page and skimmed the article again. OTHER SHOE DROPS WITH BARBI MURDER read a sidebar, and the article went on about the history of the Mob in South Philly, with a list of so many Italian names it sounded like a menu. Mary hated the Mob stereotype because she knew that most Italian-Americans were smart, honest, and hardworking citizens, who kept her in business by slipping on wet sidewalks, crashing their bumpers, and winning the occasional contracts case. She scanned the other news articles, all on the Mob war, and pictured the crowd at Biannetti’s, excitedly comparing notes and trading gossip, murder as spectator sport.

She turned back to the front page, and the lead article reported that there were still no suspects in the Mancuso and Barbi murders. Another sidebar showed the blurry cell-phone photo of Trish and reported that the mobster’s “former live-in love” had returned to her family’s home and wasn’t returning reporters’ calls. There was no suggestion that Trish was suspected of his murder in any way. Brinkley wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles, and neither he nor the FBI must have contacted Trish or she would have called.

Mary watched Tim Russert and tried to think good thoughts. She was a defense lawyer, and the representation was over. Judy, the world’s best girlfriend, had been right. Bobby had been buried, and that chapter of her life closed. She had to pick up the pieces, and right now they were messier than all the newspaper sections. She wanted to feel better. She was so sick of being down on herself for being down on herself, for having no job and no boyfriend, and she felt lost and empty, betwixt and between.

Which told her exactly what to do.

“Ma, I’m hungry,” Mary called from the door, but the noise and commotion from the kitchen took her aback.

“Honey!” her father called back, emerging with a small crowd following him. They flowed into the dining room and expanded to fill it, like last time. But as angry as that crowd had been, this one was joyful.

“Pop?” Mary asked, bewildered. “What’s going on?”

“At church, the neighbors were so happy that you found Trish and they came over to visit.”

“Mare, you done good.” Mrs. DaTuno smiled at her and so did Mrs. D’Onofrio, dressed in their nice church housedresses. Everyone called out “Way to go” and “Congratulations, Mare,” unanimously restoring her status as Neighborhood Girl Who Made Good.

“I’m so proud a you, I could bust,” her father said softly. He gave Mary a bear hug, pressing her to the freshly pressed white shirt he saved for Mass, and she breathed in his mothballs scent, mixed now with meatballs.

“Thanks, Pop. Thanks, everybody.” Mary waved like a Windsor, and they all started clapping. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her emotions mixed. Would they feel the same if they knew Trish could be guilty of murder? Or would they forgive it, given Bobby’s abuse? So she hammed it up and took a low bow, feeling vaguely like a fraud.

“Maria,” her mother called, raising her arms, and Mary gave her a big hug, scooping her off her tiny feet. Her mother gestured to a flock of women behind her, also in their flowered dresses. “Maria, my ladyfriends, you know, from church.”

“Hello, ladies.” Mary turned to them and extended a hand.

“Good to meet you,” the one said, with a Puerto Rican accent. “Your mother, she make my baby’s dress.”

“Mine, too,” said another, grinning, and the woman next to her nodded, too.

“She did a wonderful job. So beautiful, we tell our friends.”

“You have the best seamstress in the business,” Mary told them, realizing suddenly that she’d inherited her business-getting ability. Vita DiNunzio was the rainmaker of South Philly, and Mary’s heart gladdened when she saw her mother beaming.

“Come, see, Maria.” Her mother took her by the hand. “We have friend for you, for dinner.”

“Who?” Mary asked, and the crowd seemed to clear a way to the kitchen, where Anthony was standing with a tentative smile. His dark eyes were bright, and he wore a tan sport coat with khaki slacks and a lightweight black turtleneck. He gestured at her mother.

“Your parents saw me at church, and they insisted I come to dinner. I hope that’s okay.”

Yay!
“I think it’s a great idea,” Mary answered, wishing she’d worn her contacts.

Later, the house cleared out except for the four of them, and they had a great meal, during which Mary tried to get used to Mike’s chair being occupied by a another man who, by all accounts, was pretty wonderful. Anthony joked with her mother in Italian and listened to her father’s old construction stories, and when dinner was finished, he even offered to do the dishes, which was when the afternoon skidded to a halt.

Mary froze at the table. Her mother construed an offer to help in the kitchen as an insult, akin to a puppy offering to take the scalpel from a neurosurgeon.

“
Grazie mille,
Antonio,” her mother answered, with a grateful smile that Mary had never seen in this situation. She watched, mystified, as her mother rose slowly and touched her father on the arm, saying, “Come, Mariano.”

“Wha’?” her father asked, looking up in confusion until he received the Let’s-Leave-These-Kids-Alone message her mother was telecommunicating via her magical eyes. Mary tried not to laugh. Her mother had a varied repertoire of eye messages, and the bestsellers were: Don’t-Eat-With-Your-Fingers, Leave-That-Piece-For-Your-Father, and I’ll-Never-Trust-That-German-Pope.

“That was awkward,” Mary said, after her parents left the kitchen.

“No, that was cute.” Anthony rose, picked up the plates, and took them to the sink. “Let me do dishes.”

“No.” Mary got up with her plate. “You’re the guest and you have nice clothes on.”

“Let me, I like to.” Anthony slipped one of her mother’s flowered aprons from the handle on the oven, and tied it around his waist. He grinned. “Too gay?”

“Nah.” Mary laughed again. Actually, she loved the look. What was it about men in aprons? It was so homey, and in some odd way, kind of sexy. Maybe because it meant that somebody else was doing all the work?

“So.” Anthony turned on the water. “You didn’t mind me barging in?”

“No. I wanted to apologize, too, for not calling you right back.”

“You weren’t blowing me off? ‘You broke my heart, Fredo.’”

“Ha!” Mary turned back to the table, ostensibly for the other dishes, but she didn’t want him to see her smiling. She felt a little dorky and worried that she had gravy spots on her glasses, spaghetti blowback.

“I knew you were busy, saving the neighborhood.”

“Well, just one, who I’m not sure deserved it, anyway.”

“We both knew that.”

“I guess,” Mary said, but didn’t elaborate. Her doubts were confidential, and she didn’t want to spoil her nice mood. Maybe that’s what moving on meant, but she didn’t know. She hadn’t done it before. She took more plates to the sink and set them on the counter. “I decided I was right about the neighborhood, by the way.”

“Funny, so did I.” Anthony rinsed a dish, making a landslide of tomato sauce. “I think you were right. That’s what community is. People taking care of each other.”

“Really.”

“That’s what you said.”

“It is?”
Was I drunk?
“I mean, it is.”

“So you know what I did?”

“What?” Mary stood beside Anthony, their arms almost touching, side by side at the sink. She felt as if they were playing house, and it wasn’t uncomfortable, but natural. He seemed to warm to it, too. It was the sort of domestic vibe that would have sent most men running, but not this one.

Anthony said, “I know some people in the psychology department at school. They put me in touch with the chairman of the department, Dr. Rhonda Pollero. She specializes in educational testing of younger children and she agreed to test Amrita’s son as a favor to me.”

“Really?” Mary felt a rush of gratitude, and Anthony looked down at her with a smile.

“She’s one of the biggest experts in the country, and she’ll even come down from New York, as soon as Dhiren’s well enough.”

“That was so nice of you.” Mary felt touched, as if Anthony
got
her in some fundamental way. In the next minute, he leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips, as if he’d been doing that all his life. His kiss left her standing on tiptoe, and when she opened her eyes, he was smiling sweetly.

“
Cara mia,
” he said softly, in Italian.

“My dear,” it meant, in English.

Mary liked the sound of it, either way.