Plateful of Murder (13 page)

“Guess so.” I shoved some of the meatball into my mouth. Still hot, but so good. The next thing I knew, both of them were gone. I wiped the
sugo
from around my mouth and checked the time.
Where was that police car?
Out of my chair again. “Need help with the dishes?”

“What dishes? You heard about this new invention, the dishwasher?”

I smirked and put my index finger to my temple. “I’ve heard of such a thing. Let me use it. It’ll be a new thrill. Go sit.”

Dishes done, I joined him in the living room and stood in front of the picture window, scanning the area. Down the street was an unfamiliar car. I checked my phone. A text from Corrigan told me the unmarked vehicle should have arrived and would stay until the morning. Sighing my relief, I sat down next to my favorite guy.

Twenty more minutes passed before brushing my lips against his cheek. “Have to go see a sick friend. Call you tomorrow. I love you.”

He returned the hug. “Love you too. Hey! Wanna take some meatballs home with you? Maybe give some to your sick friend?”

I left my dad’s place carrying a covered dish of meatballs drenched in marinara.

That roller coaster ride of emotion tired me. Guilt, my frequent companion, took its favorite spot in my head. Lying to my father was the least of it. Putting his wellbeing at risk was unforgiveable.

My next stop would also take its toll. To add to the bad feelings, I planned on disregarding another of Gino’s rules. “Never let the client see you sweat.” If Gino knew how often I broke his rules with Michael, he’d yank me down to Miami. The only investigating I’d be doing there would be on which suntan lotion let the most rays in.

Michael must have heard my car’s roar because he was waiting in his doorway. Seeing him, the recently ingested meatballs settled back down in my stomach. I didn’t want to alarm him so forced myself to set my pace at a casual stroll, stopping a bit away from him and speaking in a measured pace. “Hello, Michael.”

He tilted his head and squinted at me. “Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

A flash of annoyance passed over his face, but it disappeared so fast I chalked it up to my imagination. “Oh, sorry. Of course. You’re always welcome.” He placed his arm around me and guided me inside. “Would you like some coffee? Or tea?” He disappeared into the kitchen, returning with two cups of tea and some cookies.

My hands shook, thinking about what to tell him and worrying the tea would spill all over. “Just going to let it cool a bit.” I set it down on the coffee table.

He sat across from me and took a sip, but observed me over his cup. “Did you get another call?”

My playacting crumbled into a wobbly mess. “He knew what I did today.”

Michael set his cup down and strode over to close the space between us. Bending over he embraced me while I whimpered into his shoulder. He stroked my hair and then my cheek, comforting me with soft murmurs. We remained like that until the uncomfortable truth about us at this time came back to me. I was supposed to be the professional here. He was the client in need. Now with me falling apart, our roles had blurred. If Gino knew about this he would, no doubt, be ripping off his gold chain.

I pulled away and wiped my eyes. “Sorry, Michael. Shouldn’t have done that.” I picked up the tea cup and took a sip to buy time.

He straightened. “No. My fault.”

“You don’t need to apologize for things I do.” My nose ran and I stood up to find my purse for a tissue. “You’re kind and sweet, but you hired me to do a job, not cry on your shoulder.” Wiping my nose is never attractive, but it didn’t deter Michael, who planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Claire, I don’t want anything to happen to you. Ever.” He looked down at his feet. “I care very much for you.”

Under any other circumstances, his announcement would have made me tingle. But someone had threatened to kill me. I crossed my arms in front as if to protect myself from any more emotions. “Michael, I appreciate what you’re saying. But shouldn’t we wait to see what happens between us after we find Constance’s murderer?” I cringed, hating to hurt his feelings. It was like when, at the age of nine, Vinnie Raselli asked me to go to the grade school dance. When I refused, he cried. My guilt made me change my mind and suffer the humiliation of going with the only boy who was shorter than me.

Michael sat down on the sofa and pulled me next to him. “That’s just it. Drop the case. It’s too dangerous.”

Get off the case.
Music to my ears. Let the police do the job. I could be safe, snuggled in Michael’s arms. Just that sweet, cozy thought made me want to rearrange his furniture. But Sister Mary Magdalene, my fifth grade teacher, drilled into our still spongy heads that once you start something, finish it. Although she probably didn’t mean do something that would be the finish of me.

I gently pulled away from him. “That’s out of the question.”

He leaned forward. “Then I’m firing you. As of now.”

“You can but, Sister Mary Magdalene said—” 

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Invoice me for final payment.”

“We’ll talk about it after
Cannoli’s
.”

Ignoring his frown, I excused myself to go freshen up in the bathroom. On the way down the hall, I noticed the door to his study was open. Two desks sat across from each other and were both so neat it was hard to believe anyone ever sat behind either one. A business card, the only object out of place, lay right on the edge of the desk closest to the door. The ivory-colored piece looked ready to drop to the floor, so I stepped into the room to push it further in. One glance at the embossed card and my eyes shot wide open. George Workosky’s card. Same as the one Sean had. I shifted my body to pick it up, but all of a sudden, Michael was standing right behind me.

“What are you looking at?”

My hand flew away from the card. “Oh, just how neat this room is.”
Yeah, that was a clever cover story.

Michael didn’t skip a beat. “My sister and I shared it. It hasn’t been used much since she died.” He pointed to the desk with the business card. “This one was hers.” His face clouded over for a moment. Then he put his arm around my shoulder, escorted me out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

B
y the time we arrived at
Cannoli’s
, my aunt looked ready to pull her hair out. Short of breath, she said, “Thank God you came early. Place is going crazy.” She grabbed two aprons, thrusting them both at me, and rushed back to the front counter.

Michael took one from me. “Looks like it’s time to get to work.”

We took over the front, and Aunt Lena returned to the kitchen. After thirty minutes or so, she hooked Michael’s arm and pulled him away. “We’ve got some baking to do.”

That whole time at
Cannoli’s
Michael and I didn’t see much of each other, which worked fine for me. Without him around, it was easier to think about Constance’s murder and if maybe it would be good for me to back off. Mulling it over, I used my finger to draw a face in the powdered sugar on an empty platter.

Aunt Lena needed help here. It was sure a lot safer and the only thing to fear was weight gain. At least nobody would say, “Too bad Claire’s dead. But she did stay slender.”

My mind went round and round, like that powdered sugar face, only to reach the same, earlier conclusion. Staying on the case and helping the police was the only way to ensure my safety. Michael would be upset, but he’d get over that once we caught the murderer.

Closing time came after the last customers patted their bellies, exclaimed they shouldn’t have eaten all of whatever they’d ordered, and left. Michael still hadn’t come out of the kitchen. My aunt had probably had the time of her life with him, discussing cakes and pies and swapping recipes.

I’d begun to clean off the tables when my phone vibrated. Corrigan. Guilt cascaded down my body. I should’ve gone back to see him after the second phone threat.

Before I could take the call, my aunt roared in. She looked like the abominable snowman, except made of flour. “That boy is a marvel of baking genius. Wait ‘til you see what we created. Of course, the honors go to Michael.” 

Corrigan’s call went into voice mail.

Aunt Lena cupped her mouth with one hand and yelled, “Michael, come out and show Claire.”

Michael strode out and displayed the most magnificent cake imaginable. At least six layers high, fresh berries covered the top and the edges held chocolate dipped strawberries. Rich-looking dark chocolate dripped down the sides and collided with white swirls and nuts.

Aunt Lena circled him like a ring master at a circus. “Have you ever seen such a beaut?”

My eyebrows shot up to get out of the way of my super-wide open eyes. “It’s gorgeous.” I half-smiled and winked. “But does it taste as good as it looks?” My mouth watered so much my taste buds put on shower caps.

Michael set it down and my aunt whipped out a knife. Getting the plates and forks was my task. After the initial oohs and ahhs, we ate our own cake slices in silence, savoring each bite. It was so delicious if by myself, I would have used my finger to pick up every last crumb my fork left behind.

When we finished our treat, Aunt Lena clapped her hands like a first grade teacher organizing her young pupils. “Okay you kids, I’ll finish cleaning up. You both go. I appreciate your help.” She practically shooed us out the door.

We grabbed our stuff and left. My body longed for some sleep. But where?

As if he read my mind, Michael piped up. “My guestroom is still yours.”

“Great. But I need to stop home for some things.”

“No problem.” He bowed at the waist. “It would be an honor to go with you.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I assented.

To my great relief, my apartment although messy looked undisturbed and, except for Michael and me, empty. I grabbed my necessities for both the night and the next morning, locked up, and we headed out.

First on the agenda at his home was a glass of wine for each of us. No surprise to me, he started up again about the importance of dropping his case. Not on purpose, but I yawned so much it interfered with any meaningful conversation. Stretching as ladylike as possible, my voice thick and sleepy, I said, “We can resume this when I have at least one brain cell awake.” And excused myself to sleep alone.

Before collapsing into bed, I checked my phone for any calls besides that one from Corrigan. My breath caught. Three messages now hung over my head like a pendulum.

The first message came, of course, from Corrigan. “Just checking in to see if you’re okay.” He paused so long it was surprising he wasn’t cut off. “Call me or come to the station. Please.” He probably wanted to talk about the call at my dad’s and wanted to do it at the station. Maybe he’d found something. Returning his call would be my first priority after hearing the other two.

The second message began. Corrigan again. “Claire, where are you?” No mention of the killer’s calls to me. The final message was also from Corrigan. “Claire, pick up.” He paused. “Do I have to put out an APB on you? I will if I need to. Call me as soon as you get this.”

It was after midnight, but Corrigan did say to call him. My face scrunched up while I punched in the numbers. After a couple of rings, a very sleepy detective answered. “Corrigan here.”

My voice went soprano, like it always does when regretting what I just did. “It’s me, Claire.”

More alert now, he growled. “Where the hell have you been?”

He didn’t have to bite my head off. “Just wanted to let you know I’m okay.”

“Good. Stay that way.”

“I’m trying.”

Through a yawn, he added, “Also wanted to let you know the killer used a disposable phone for that second call. Can’t trace it.” He paused. “And, Claire, don’t leave me hanging again. I hate worrying.” Before I could respond, he hung up.

Anxiety kept me flipping, awake, from side to side but finally a deep sleep overtook me.

Unfortunately, Ed’s call started my morning a lot sooner than I’d have liked. “It’s so early.” I moaned and rubbed my eyes with my free hand.

He sounded like he’d just taken caffeine intravenously. “Time’s awastin’. Wanna talk to you about what I found in Luther’s office, or to be more accurate, in his trash can. Meet me at the Owl at six.”

I groaned. The thought of greasy spoon aromas made my stomach shrivel. “Can’t you tell me now?”

“No can do. Gotta see it.”

“Okay, see you at 6:00.” I stuck out my lower lip and blew my hair out of my eyes. Another day of sneaking out of Michael’s house. You’d think I was a hooker.

I showered, dressed quickly, and opened the bedroom door to the smell of coffee and something made with vanilla. A few steps out of the room stood Michael, holding a cup of tea and a muffin.

“For me?”

He grinned like a kid giving an apple to his favorite teacher. “I heard the shower. Afraid you’d leave without eating something. And we still haven’t settled on my final payment.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet. Only have a few minutes, but then I
do
have to, to…visit my father. We’ll discuss the final payment later.”

He didn’t notice my hesitation. Nor did he question why the visit to my father was so early. Unwilling to tempt fate, though, I stuffed the strawberry cream cheese muffin in my mouth so it would be impossible for me to give any coherent answers.

We said our goodbyes with a quick hug. Cozy and warm from the muffin and hug, I didn’t notice the dark blue car until it came up right behind me.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened while keeping the unfamiliar car in my sights. Until it turned off three blocks later. The adrenaline rush left me limp as a linen suit on a sultry day. My nerves were writing their own version of reality. Rotating my neck and dropping my shoulders helped relax me, until I realized what time it was. I hate being late. I’m always worried the other person will leave before I arrive.

Ed had already cleaned his plate when I rushed into the Owl. He leaned back, toothpick in mouth, tapping his foot. “Started to think maybe you weren’t gonna show.” After he accepted my apology for being tardy, I asked about what he’d found.