The Goodbye Body (22 page)

“She didn’t kill Petti,” I said, then bit my lip.

Peter scowled at me. “You have proof?”

‘According to the waitress at the Cardinal Cafe, he was—”

“The Cardinal Café?”

This was not going well. I took a breath and said, “The owner of the Fritz Motel told me that—”

“You went to the Fritz Motel?”

“If you insist on interrupting me like this, we won’t have dinner until the mosquitoes have gone to bed. When you feel able to control yourself, I’ll tell you what you should already know from reading your detectives’ reports. It’s possible they didn’t hear about the private investigator—”

“The what?”

“I give up. Why don’t you try to relax while I make a salad and put the potatoes in the oven? I strongly suggest you do not go in the den, where an uncivil war is revving up. Perhaps a few languid laps in the pool might help. Did you bring a suit?”

“Just tell me what you learned this afternoon while you were supposedly at the grocery store.”

“I was at the grocery store. Do you think the salad and potatoes came from a vegetable garden next to the garage?”

His teeth were so tightly clenched that I could see a nerve twitching along his jaw. “I’m waiting,” he managed to say.

“As long as you don’t interrupt,” I said, then repeated the conversations with the motel owner and the waitress. “Therefore,” I went on blithely, “Dolly couldn’t have shot Petti. There simply wasn’t time. Someone else must have lured him out of the motel room and killed him after breakfast, and then left the body behind the gazebo. I suppose it was meant to frighten Dolly.”

Peter walked across the patio and turned on the grill. It occurred to me that he might continue around the corner of the garage, get in his car, and leave, so I was pleased when he came back to the lounge chair. “If Petti didn’t tell his killer that she was leaving town.”

“If Petti knew. She may have lied and told him she’d call him the following day. We don’t know if they were friends. He could have come here to blackmail her. She gave him some money the first night, and promised to pay him the rest of it after the banks opened in the morning.”

“And why was he blackmailing her?”

I gazed at a bird silhouetted on a power line. “I do believe that’s a scissor-tailed flycatcher. Inez says they’re rare in residential areas.” When he failed to express appreciation for one of nature’s more whimsical designs, I crossed my arms and said, “Sara Louise’s father said Dolly had been married to several other men of dubious morals. Maybe Petti was one of them. He could have threatened to expose her.”

“Expose her to whom? Dolly wasn’t in a heated political race or nominated for a Nobel Prize. She wasn’t even a local celebrity. If she had been married to him, it was a very long time ago—and he wasn’t exactly a kingpin of organized crime. Very few of Farberville’s elites could withstand intense scrutiny of their indiscretions, past or present. They have walk-in closets to store the skeletons.”

“How about this? In her youth, Dolly had a psychotic episode and went on a cross-country killing spree, slaughtering CEOs from Bangor to Burbank. She was captured and locked away in a high-security mental facility. When she was released, she was given a new identity to protect her from media scrutiny. Petti tracked her down and told her he would go to the tabloids if she didn’t pay him off.”

Peter’s smile was almost evil. “Was it only this morning that you were categorizing her as a candidate for beatification and eventual sainthood? Kind, generous to a fault, dedicated, and so forth? Did you politely overlook her history as a demented serial killer? You can’t serve both devil’s food and angel food cake at teatime, Miss Marple.”

“I guess not,” I conceded crossly, “and that doesn’t explain the peculiar connections with Velocchio and Associates. Dolly was married to Bibi, who’s been described as an old family friend. I assumed ‘family’ meant aunts and uncles and jolly cousins, but I may have been wrong.”

“The Velocchios may not compare to the Partridges or the Brady Bunch, but there is a family reunion of sorts planned for next week. A federal judge is convening a secret grand jury to examine their finances. Of course, after subpoenas were issued two weeks ago, it wasn’t much of a secret. The patriarch has taken to shuffling around his neighborhood in a bathrobe and slippers.”

“A bathrobe and slippers?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be shopping for a new suit?”

“It’s in preparation for a plea of diminished mental capacity. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, how could this addled old man who reeks of urine and cat food possibly be aware of the hundreds of millions of dollars being laundered overseas? He can’t find his way home from the newsstand on the corner.’ It’s considered a tradition in this situation. If it doesn’t sway the jury, then he’ll stage a heart attack in the witness box to delay the process.”

“Did Dolly receive a subpoena?”

“I was told there were no women on the list. It’s not an equal-opportunity profession.”

I nodded. “It wouldn’t be, would it? Most women prefer to explore options and seek compromises instead of gunning each other down in the street. Besides, it’s difficult to imagine a wife asking hubby to take the kids to school because she has to pick up the dry cleaning, stop by the bank, have lunch with a friend, beat somebody senseless with a baseball bat, hijack a truck, and be home in time to start dinner.”

Peter did not seem to have a ready response. After a moment, he said, “You have to admit that the timing is curious. Petti, Madison, and Sara Louise all came to Farberville within a few days after the subpoenas were issued. It would be helpful to know why.” He picked up his glass and shook it gently to make the ice cubes bobble and clink. “It would also be helpful to know Dolly’s real name, as well as Bibi’s. Unsurprisingly, no one with the last name of Goforth died in New York State in the last five years. I may end up having to fly to New York to persuade the prosecutor’s office to cooperate with us. My mother will insist on meeting me at the Savoy so we can attend whatever opera’s being staged at the Met. She’ll invite my ex-wife to meet us for cocktails, who’ll drone for an hour about the challenge of squeaking by on half a million dollars a year. All because you overreacted to one dinky rat in your kitchen.” He pulled me to my feet and put his arms around me. After a few minutes of adult interaction of a somewhat intimate nature, he said, “Let’s forget about all this. Would you care to tango in the moonlight?”

“Your invitation would be irresistible were there not mushrooms waiting to be sliced and hearts of endive begging to be tossed in balsamic vinegar and extra-virgin olive oil. You’re welcome to find out if Caron and Inez would like a constructive critique of their progress.”

“You haven’t explained why they’ve taken up the tango. The last time I was here, they were obsessed with Bibi’s extensive collection of old mobster movies.”

“Considering his family ties, he probably thought of them as documentaries,” 1 said, leading him toward the sliding glass doors. “If you care to come in the kitchen, I will explain why Caron and Inez are flipping and fanning in the living room. The origins lie in whatever section of the U.S. Constitution deals with the electoral process and the evolution of the two-party system.”

We ate dinner on the patio. Peter entertained the girls by encouraging them to talk about Latin American dances and music, and suggested they might be able to find costumes at a consignment store. I smiled and nodded on cue, but I had a hard time preventing myself from speculating about all the relationships that kept leading back to the Velocchio spider-web. Was Dolly a black widow, a brown recluse, or merely a hapless fly that had been trapped? Had Petti been a benevolent old friend, or a ruthless blackmailer?

The phone rang as we were carrying dishes into the kitchen. I was about to pick up the receiver when Peter nudged me aside, pushed what I presumed were the appropriate buttons on the black box, then gestured for me to go ahead. By now I was prepared for it to be anyone except the pope, but I mustered what enthusiasm I could and said, “Hello?”

“This is Jorgeson, Ms. Malloy. Is the lieutenant there?”

I handed the receiver to Peter. “Don’t say anything you might not want to be recorded for posterity,” I said, then continued into the kitchen. Caron and Inez had the situation under control, although their display of altruism might be motivated not by selflessness but by the need to borrow money in order to purchase discarded promwear for their performance. I hoped Inez’s mother would return in time to sew on sequins and satin rosebuds. I have yet to master the art of threading a needle.

Peter came to the door. “I need to leave,” he said, his face grim. “Make sure you lock all the doors and windows, and set the alarm as soon as I’m gone.”

I backed him into the hall. “What’s happened?”

“We just had a report of a body at the country club.” He held up his hand. “The witness was too distraught to add any more to that, so we don’t even know the gender. Under normal circumstances, I’d wait until the patrol officers followed it up, but I think I’d better get up there as soon as possible.”

I sank down on the bottom step. “Who do you think it is?”

“I don’t have a clue. It could be a retiree who became disoriented after leaving the clubhouse, or a thief planning to break into the pro shop. It doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the Velocchio mess.”

“Will you call me later?”

He started for the front door. “I’ll call you when I can. That may not be until the morning, so don’t sit there all night. Lock up, set the alarm, and watch a movie with Caron and Inez.”

After he was gone, I numbly locked all the doors and made sure the windows were secured, then went into the kitchen to confirm that the door that led to the garage was still locked. Caron and Inez trailed after me as I returned to the hall and turned on the alarm.

“Why’d Peter leave?” asked Caron.

Aware that my voice was unsteady, I told them what he’d told me, which wasn’t much. “Please don’t ask me if it’s Madison, Sara Louise, or Petti Mordella.”

Inez blinked at me. “Who’s Petti Mordella?”

I realized no one had given them any information all day. I’d been too frazzled to talk to them after they were delivered home from the police department. By the time I’d calmed down, a parade of people had appeared on the porch. Now I wasn’t sure how they’d react to the inclusion of mobsters.

“May I remind you that we are no longer children?” said Caron, her lower lip quivering. “If you won’t tell us, I’ll find somebody who will—even if we have to climb out of an upstairs window.”

“I don’t think we should go upstairs,” said Inez. “What if there’s somebody hiding up there?”

“Just because the downstairs windows are locked doesn’t mean we’re safe,” Caron added. She swiped at her eyes, which were rapidly turning red. “Anyone could grab a brick and break the glass. Sure, the alarm would go off, but there aren’t any police officers parked in the driveway, in case you didn’t notice. We’ll have bullet holes in our foreheads by the time they arrive.”

“Okay,” I said, “let’s not get carried away. If you want the whole story, I’ll make tea and we’ll sit down in the den. I’ll do my best to tell you everything I can. You have to agree not to interrupt me, though.”

They managed to stay quiet during most of my recitation. When I finally sat back, Caron said, “Sheesh, no wonder that you’ve looked so frazzled all day. Maybe you should be drinking brandy. Do you want me to get you a glass?”

I smiled as best I could. “No, thank you, dear.”

“I’m confused,” said Inez, her face puckered like that of a lapdog. “This Velocchio family is in New York. Petti worked for them. Did Bibi, too?”

“It seems likely. He was described as an old family friend, and I don’t think they associate with outsiders. Well, I suppose they have to, to some extent, but they couldn’t relax with someone who might be shocked at an inadvertent remark and go running to the authorities.”

“Yeah,” Caron said. “Al Capone didn’t exactly grill hamburgers for the neighbors.”

Inez was gnawing on her lip. “If Bibi was their accountant and married Dolly, she must have figured out what was going on. But he died a year ago and she came down here. When Uncle Hoover died, Aunt Sophie sold the house, the furniture, both cars, and the dogs, then moved to Florida. Nobody’s heard from her since then.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” said Caron. “Should we try to persuade the police to put out an APB for a screwy old lady living in a coconut tree?”

“My mother thinks she moved to one of those retirement homes for sexually active singles,” Inez said coldly.

“That’s disgusting,” Caron countered. She glanced at me, then turned back to Inez. “Old people don’t have sex. They sit around the pool and compare varicose veins and liver spots.”

I put down my cup with enough vigor to get their attention. “I’m going upstairs. I will carefully look under my bed before I climb into it and read. The two of you may sleep down here if you’ll feel safer.” I left the cup on the table and stood up, considering the wisdom of Caron’s recommendation of brandy. “If the doorbell rings, don’t answer it.”

“What if it’s Sara Louise or Madison?” said Caron.

“Then she can wait on the porch until I come downstairs to let her in.”

Inez looked up at me. “But they’re part of this Velocchio family, aren’t they? I don’t think we should trust them, Ms. Malloy. What if one of them shot Petti?”

At least she’d posed a question I could answer. “The police checked out their story. They were in a tow truck when you found his body by the gazebo.”

“Well, somebody shot him,” said Caron. “Who was it, then?”

‘That seems to be the crux of the problem, doesn’t it? If you want to play music, keep the volume low so that you’ll hear the sound of glass breaking.”

“That is so Not Funny.”

“I have to agree with you,” I said. “I’m going to take the receiver upstairs with me in case Peter calls. Goodnight.”

Once upstairs, I resisted the urge to take a tiny peek under the bed or inside the closet. I changed into nightwear and followed the customary rituals in the bathroom. As I climbed into bed, I could hear tango music, but it wasn’t loud enough to disturb me. The vicar, however, failed to engage me. I finally put the book on the bedside table and went over to the window to look down at the patio. Not a creature was stirring within the light cast from inside the house. The shadows beyond the pale were black. The conic roof of the gazebo gave it the look of a private mausoleum in an old cemetery. Did the Velocchios have a family vault, a sanctuary in which to bury the bodies alongside their secrets? Whoever had killed Petti was in no hurry to give him a proper send-off, obviously.