J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 05 - Season for Murder Read online

  Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

  Rockland, Ontario, Canada

  Copyright © 2013 J.M. Griffin

  Exclusive cover © 2013 Laura Givens

  Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

  A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada

  ISBN 978-1-927555-37-8

  A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

  from the National Library of Canada

  Ebooks are available for purchase from

  www.lachesispublishing.com

  ISBN 978-1-927555-36-1

  Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

  Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For those officers in Rhode Island’s State Police Department and my Providence Police buddies, I thank you for your help in getting my facts straight. You’re the best!

  Also Available

  For Love of Livvy

  Dead Wrong

  Dirty Trouble

  Cold Moon Dead

  The Esposito Series Box Set (Books 1-3)

  A Crusty Murder

  Deadly Bakery Series (Book 1)

  Coming Soon

  A Crouton Murder

  Deadly Bakery Series (Book 2)

  Focaccia Fatality

  Deadly Bakery Series (Book 3)

  SEASON FOR MURDER

  Chapter 1

  Cupcakes, covered with globs of white frosting adorned with assorted snowman-shaped colored sprinkles, filled several plates. My mother, the bake sale queen and cookie maker extraordinaire, stood behind the table sampling the delights spread far and wide across the gleaming stainless steel surface of the countertop. I stepped forward and stayed her hand before she could lift a slice of fruitcake from a nearby dish.

  “Mom, you’re going to have to pay for every single thing on this table if you keep taste testing all these goodies.” I smiled, as guilt stole across her face.

  “You’re right, Lavinia,” she said with a chuckle. “I’d better stop now while I can. I still have to make dinner when I get home. Your father might not be cooking tonight.”

  The dayroom had filled with elderly residents, who lived in the senior housing complex attached to the end of the senior citizen center. Most of the residents gathered daily for fun and entertainment. Several old dears had tottered up to the table, peered at the offerings, and then ordered tea with a slice of pastry or an assortment of cookies.

  I stepped aside before I could be trampled by a rotund woman using her walker as though it were a battering ram. She muscled her way to the forefront of the crowd. Her bright red, oversized sweatshirt sparkled with glitter. Glistening snow stretched across a branch where two cardinals perched precariously at a wicked angle as the sweatshirt tightened over her bodacious breasts. They were most likely grasping the branch for their lives. Laughter threatened to burst forth as the idea ran through my head. I held it back by sheer willpower. The rotund woman wore red stretch pants, which bulged with grape clustered bunches of cellulite.

  Bold red lipstick smeared up over her lip lines in a Lucille Ball style application. It had smudged onto her teeth, leaving them red and white, in candy cane fashion. When she smiled at me, I simply smiled in return and edged farther away.

  With a deft motion, she swept a slice of fruitcake off the dish in front of her and stuffed it into her mouth, chewed once or twice, swallowed, and repeated the action again.

  Appalled by her lack of manners, I gaped at the woman. My mouth hung open in surprise. I snapped it shut when my mother murmured my name. The cake eating commenced as the huge woman glanced in my direction, winked, and then choked, spewing masticated fruitcake remains across my cashmere sweater and onto my face. Her fleshy left hand grasped her throat as her wide eyes bugged out.

  She staggered a bit before she keeled backward, crashing onto the floor. The woman’s body flowed in all directions just as lava rolls down a mountainside. Elderly residents swarmed around us. They gawked at me and then at the gasping woman. An old fellow stuffed napkins into my hand. I managed to wipe my face while I yelled, “Call for the rescue.”

  I knelt beside the obese woman. Her carotid artery pulsed faintly against my fingertip where I pressed her skin for a pulse. Labored, shallow breaths puffed through her cherry-red, lipstick-covered lips. Saliva, mixed with cake, dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

  Shaking her shoulder, I asked in a loud voice, in case she was deaf, “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  Her eyes glazed, and her lips flapped. Nothing came out except more of the saliva mixture, a disgusting sight at best.

  Within seconds, she lost consciousness. I heard sirens become louder and closer. The rescue truck halted outside the double glass paned doors as I glanced up. Emergency medical workers barreled into the room. It was then that I noticed her skin had turned an unbecoming shade of blue.

  While the team performed their magic, I stood aside as though disconnected from the entire event. The team leader, Billy Conlan, was from my old neighborhood. Billy attempted to question aged relics nearby who gaped at the goings on and pointed with their canes at the attempt made by the rescuers to save the downed woman. Each person had a different story. Frustration began to show in Billy’s face when he was unable to assemble a coherent picture of what had happened.

  “She had some fruitcake and then collapsed,” I offered when Billy turned to me.

  “At last, a story with merit.” Billy shook his head and beckoned me to step beyond the crowd. “What else happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “She fell into unconsciousness. I asked for a rescue to be called. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “She ate food from this table?” Billy motioned to the lengthy table laden with pastry.

  “That’s right. She only ate fruitcake from that dish.” I pointed to the offending cake and watched Billy step toward the table. He sniffed the cake before he whisked the dish out of anyone else’s reach.

  Holding the plate, he turned and asked, “How long was she unconscious before we arrived?”

  “Not long, maybe a minute.”

  My mother stepped close, hovering at my elbow, wringing her hands. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the incident, or the fact that she’d nearly eaten the fruitcake. Glancing at her, I slipped an arm around her shoulder.

  She whispered, “Lavinia, do you think Iva had a stroke, or that something worse has happened?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll find out, though,” I whispered in her ear and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Take the remaining food into the kitchen just in case there’s an issue.”

  Addressing an EMT who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, I asked, “What do you think the problem is with this lady?”

  He glanced at Billy, who gave him a nod, and said, “We won’t know for sure until she’s admitted to the hospital. Are you a relative?”

  “No, just a visitor.”

  “Does she have any family here?” Billy asked as he motioned the EMT to return to Iva.

  One of the old men stepped fort
h and nodded. Mumbling the name of Iva’s family and the person to be notified, he turned to watch as Iva was loaded onto a stretcher and rolled out the door toward the rescue.

  I watched the rescuers struggle to lift their heavy burden into the back of the vehicle. The stretcher sloped in the middle from the dead weight of Iva’s body. I had a moment of pity for the poor guys. There was no way I would do that job. I considered the thought, imagining mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Iva’s mouth full of cake. I gagged at the mental image.

  The front of my cashmere sweater was laden with chunks of fruitcake, some mashed and others ground. Disgusted, I turned toward the ladies room to clean what I could off the material. My mother, Theresa Esposito, strode into the room behind me to wash her hands. She took one look at my sweater and shook her head.

  “You’ll need to be careful when removing that mess. The sweater needs gentle care, Lavinia.”

  Ignoring the comment, I swiped the offending food off the yarn with a moist paper towel. Washing and drying my hands, I noted my mother’s pale-faced reflection in the mirror above the sink.

  “Who brought the fruitcake in?” I asked keeping my voice in casual mode.

  Her wide-eyed glance flicked up from the sink into the mirror and her face paled even more.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It was here when I arrived earlier. There was a message taped to the top of the wrapped cake stating it should be shared with the group. I just sliced it, and put it out with everything else.”

  A bewildered look registered on her face. She turned to me and leaned against the triple-sink counter.

  “I don’t think there was anything wrong with the cake, Lavinia. No one would do such a thing. I’m sure Iva just had a spell or something. She’s not well, and she is a rather large woman who doesn’t take care of herself.”

  No way was I about to try and convince my kind-hearted mother that not everyone in the world was good. It would be futile. She had faith in the human race as a whole, which meant when something unfortunate happened, she was usually surprised. Naïve in her outlook, I wondered for a moment if that was a bad thing.

  The world I inhabit was a far cry from that in which my mother lives. As a criminal justice instructor at a university in Rhode Island, I’m constantly surrounded by cops, or Five-O’s as they are referred to in the industry. My other students come from security companies and colleges within the state. These folks are called wannabe’s, flashlight cops, or two-point-five’s since they’re not considered real cops, by real cops. It makes life interesting, volatile, and never, ever mundane. This is a good thing most of the time, but I’ve witnessed the seamy side of life and know all too well that people tend to inflict horrible things on one another in the name of love, revenge, or any number of excuses they find handy to describe their unacceptable behavior.

  With a hand on my mother’s shoulder, I ushered her from the restroom to join the growing number of elderly people who milled around the oversized dayroom. Someone played a Christmas tune on the piano in the corner in hope of reviving the cheerful atmosphere that seemed to have fled. When Iva hit the deck, surprise and consternation took over. After the rescuers took her away along with the fruitcake, a buzz of gossip had whipped through the crowd like an ill wind.

  The old geezer, who’d given Iva’s family information out, strolled over to us and planted himself firmly in front of my mother.

  “Terri, I want you to know we don’t blame you for this mishap,” he stated. His gaze slid around the room and landed on my mother again.

  Relief came out in breathy words as she took his hand in hers. “Thank you, Mr. Perkins. I certainly hope not. I have no idea why Iva took ill so suddenly.”

  “It could be her heart, I suppose, but she was choking on that cake, so maybe it went down the wrong way, eh?” He patted my mother on the arm and gimped away, rocking back and forth on bunion laden feet.

  “Mr. Perkins still hasn’t had his bunions taken care of, huh?” I asked my mother as I stared at the elder man as he walked away.

  “No, I guess not,” Mom murmured softly.

  I smiled.

  “He calls you Terri?”

  “They all do. It means something special to them to become familiar with those of us who show up on a regular schedule and share part of their day. I don’t mind that they call me Terri.” Her smile trembled.

  Fearful she’d start to cry, I led her into the kitchen.

  “What pastry did you bring today? These people look like they could use a snack right now.”

  “The brownies over there.” She pointed and then whipped huge paper grocery bags of cookies from under the counter. “These cookies, too.”

  Unfurling the folded top of the bag, I peered inside and then chuckled. “There’s enough in here to feed the entire Marine Corps.”

  “I know, it’s just that the residents like to take some back to their apartments for a snack later on. So, I always make extra.”

  I considered extra to be a dozen, my mother considered it a truckload. Sliding the plastic-bagged cookies from the bag, I noticed she’d labeled them. Peanut butter, chocolate chip, snicker doodles, oatmeal, sugar cookies, and chocolate mint drops. The bulging gallon-sized plastic bags lay splayed out on the counter as my mother slid plates forward for loading. The other pastries were moved from the serving table out of reach and covered with plastic wrap.

  Stepping to the counter, I motioned to Mr. Perkins and watched him amble on over. He stood eyeing the cookie trays, a wide smile spreading across his sweet face. He glanced at me and my mother and winked.

  “Home-baked cookies, huh, Terri? I’ll have one of each and a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.”

  The other residents watched as we served Mr. Perkins. I laid his snacks and tea on the nearest round table for him. I knew he’d manage to spill everything as he rocked back and forth when he walked.

  He smacked his lips as he enjoyed one cookie after another. Dipped in tea, they softened so he could eat them faster. His dentures clacked, but his eyes twinkled when he hit the fourth cookie. Mr. Perkins raised his arm beckoning the others to join him.

  After everyone chose their refreshments and settled down to listen to the music, my mother leaned toward me and asked why I’d stopped by the senior center today. This wasn’t my usual way to spend an afternoon.

  Before I could utter a word, the kitchen door swung open. Mrs. Galumpky, a tall broad-beamed woman with stiff gray hair and the ramrod straight back of a drill sergeant, sailed across the kitchen floor toward us. She had the unmistakable look of a woman on a mission. What mission? I was uncertain.

  My annoying inner voice started to rant as the battleaxe approached. She’s going to kick someone’s ass, and don’t let it be yours. Just mind your own business, and you’ll be fine. Why did I have to mind my business? I hadn’t a clue as to what this woman wanted, though I was beyond curious.

  “May I see you a moment, Theresa?” Mrs. Galumpky asked with a no nonsense attitude.

  “Sure,” Mom said and asked if I’d refresh everyone’s tea if needed.

  I nodded, wanting to accompany the two women as they left the kitchen. My bet was that Mrs. Galumpky was about to impart bad news to my mother. A sense of protectiveness rose to the surface, vying for space with my inevitably increased curiosity.

  More tea was poured and additional cookies served while I considered Mrs. Galumpky. What if she accused my mother of something? Who would protect her? Even though she’s Italian by birth, my mother was inept when it came time to match someone with Mrs. Galumpky’s attitude.

  Nosiness is a huge part of my life. It manages to keep me embroiled in situations that others would avoid like the plague. I, on the other hand, can’t help myself when there is a secret or a mystery. I have to know what’s behind it and all the essential information that goes with it.

  My twin brother, Giovanni, hadn’t been given such a significant dose of curiosity. He’d managed to keep me in trouble with his hair-brain
ed schemes during our youth, though. Now he’s a doctor. He resides in Nebraska with his registered nurse wife. I fear they have a mundane life. I’m often sorry for them because it must be boring to exist in such a way. When visiting Rhode Island a while back, Giovanni had gotten a good taste of what my life entails. I do believe he was glad to return to his mundane lifestyle.

  My brother, who’d managed to keep me armpit deep in shit during our childhood, had become so saintly in his new life that I now jokingly called him Saint Doctor Giovanni. Sometimes he laughs, and sometimes he doesn’t. In an Italian family like ours, we don’t get offended by a whole lot of stuff, and we don’t stay angry for long, either. I adore my twin, and he feels the same way about me, most of the time, anyway.

  Previously, Giovanni’s wife had harbored stolen artwork for my now deceased, professional cat burglar uncle. Uncle Nate, the top of the line in his business, had the FBI hot on his trail when he’d died in bed with his mistress. The man, in his seventies, managed to leave this world with a smile on his face, much to my aunt’s dismay.

  The elderly folks cheered, sang, and danced to the piano music while I slipped from the kitchen and sidled down the hallway. Office doors held brass plates depicting the names and titles of those who worked in each room. Voices, from the office farthest away, caught my attention.

  When I neared the open door, I flattened my body against the corridor wall and listened. It didn’t bother me a bit to eavesdrop. In fact, half of my life was spent involved in things that were none of my business.

  Mom mumbled a few words as a deeper, masculine voice of authority pressed her for a better answer. The man’s voice sounded familiar. I realized he might be a cop I knew from the neighborhood. Mrs. Galumpky broke into the conversation with threatening words toward my mother. That alone was enough for me to step into the room.

  With a glance, I took in my mother’s flushed cheeks, the nasty glare of Mrs. Galumpky, and the police officer’s serious demeanor.

  “Good afternoon, Pirelli. How’s my mother holding up?” I smiled and extended my hand to shake his.