Baby Girl Doe (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 5) (10 page)

“Hey, babe,” my beloved’s voice crackled over the car speaker.
“On your way back?”

“Yeah,” I said solemnly. “I just left the morgue.”

“You sound chipper,” he said sarcastically. “What’s the matter, the ME didn’t buy your murder theory?”

“He did not.”

“Well then, he’s a damn fool. Doesn’t he know that you’re absolutely infallible?”

“I told him all about it.”

“And?”

“And nothing. The nerve of that man—doesn’t he know
who I am
?”

“So he knows about your extraordinary talents, and yet he stands by his forensic findings? The fool! I’d have him brought up on charges.”

“What charges?”

“Insubordination.”

“Insubordination?” Hodgkin was perhaps a tad insecure but definitely not insubordinate. “I don’t think so. Try again.”

“Felonious mopery.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Yes, there is.”

“You’re right. There is. It’s an oxymoron. Want to go for one last try?”

“How about aggravated infuriation. It’s in the penal code right after aggravated assault.”

“And right before aggravated spouse.” Gus was trying to lift my spirits, and I loved him for it. “Thanks for being supportive,” I said. “You’ll get special sex tonight.”

“Sex with you is always special.”

Aw, isn’t that sweet?
“Stop being such a brownnoser. I need direction, not a yes-man.”

“Just proceed in your usual headstrong, bull-in-a-china-shop way. It’s never failed you before.”

Gus laughed. I heard Ma join in. “Hey! What’s going on over there?”

“I was making a joke . . . but it’s
true
,” Gus said in mid-blurt.

“And my mother finds this funny too? I’m glad I could be the butt of your joke.” The famous rant from
Goodfellas
came to mind. “You think I’m funny?” I said as if I were Joe Pesci.

Gus and Ma were hysterical, gasping-for-air hysterical. I think maybe they had been hitting the
vino
. . . or maybe I just caught them in a silly mood.

“Yes,” Gus cackled.

I continued in Joe Pesci’s voice, “I'm funny how? I mean funny like I'm a clown? I amuse you? I make you laugh?”

“I can’t breathe,” I heard Ma say in the background. “I’m gonna wet myself.”

I heard Max giggle loudly.
My son too? Great, now my humiliation is complete.
I guess laughter is contagious. “Okay, boys and girls, take a deep breath. Settle down . . .”

Gus hacked out one last guffaw. “I’m sorry, hon. Christ, I’ve got tears in my eyes.”

“Stephanie,” Ma began and then stopped. It took a moment for her to control her laughter. “Can you pick up some fresh Italian bread on your way home? I thought I’d fry up an eggplant and serve it with marinara sauce and angel hair.”

“Oh my God, I’m drooling already.” Ma slices eggplant paper-thin and fries it in olive oil—a little salt and it’s out-of-this-world good. We had stopped at a pork store nearby that had some great-looking Italian delicacies. I was suddenly in the mood for fresh mozzarella. Fortunately the directions were still stored in my GPS, so I plotted a course.

We all know it’s a mistake to food shop when you’re hungry, but I’m hungry most of the time so it leaves me little choice. I walked into Vito’s Pork Store and was immediately hit with the aroma of imported cheeses and cured meats. I looked at all the scrumptious food with wide eyes. My stomach began to rumble, and I knew that I was not going to get out of there cheap.

The man I presumed to be Vito was standing behind the counter talking with a customer. He smiled and waved hello as I picked up a shopping basket and headed over to the bakery section.

The man he was speaking with had roving eyes. I knew this because he had his eyes on my buns while I reached for a heavily seeded semolina bread. He whispered something to the owner. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said but the words “hit that” made their way to my ears. I shot him a nasty stare, hoping to shut him up at least until I was out of the store. It was a pork store after all, and I guess there were pigs on both sides of the counter. I bet he’d be really good at sniffing out truffles.

“Hey, Vito, where’s that sexy counter girl you hired? She around?” the pig asked.

“Angela? She’s in the back?”

“Why’s she in the back where I can’t see her?”

“I don’t know, Tom,” Vito said as he rolled his eyes. “Maybe she likes it in the back.”

Oh no, he didn’t just say what I thought he said, did he?

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.” Tom laughed heartily. He was a definite truffle-sniffer, maybe morels too. Oink. Oink.

I saw an incredible-looking Stromboli that made my mouth water.

Anorexic Stephanie sitting on my right shoulder said, “Walk away.”

Chubby Stephanie sitting on my left shoulder said, “Buy it.”

Anorexic Stephanie: “Walk away.”

Chubby Stephanie: “Buy it.”

Anorexic Stephanie: “Walk away!”

Chubby Stephanie: “Buy it!”

It was a good thing I wasn’t carrying a calorie counter.

Anorexic Stephanie: “You’ll be sorry.”

Chubby Stephanie: “Live a little.”

Anorexic Stephanie: “Think about your figure.”

Chubby Stephanie: “Think about the pleasure.”

Such conflict: temptation and conscience were waging a war in my head.

Chubby Stephanie: “It’ll make you feel better.”

Anorexic Stephanie: “It’s a gateway food.”

A gateway food?

Anorexic Stephanie: “That’s right; first it’s Stromboli, and then it’s ice cream and cheesecake. Before you know it, you’re at the mall shopping for Spanx and stretch pants.”

Chubby Stephanie: “You’ll go up a cup size.”

Anorexic Stephanie:
“Cellulite!”

Hot damn! Cellulite? Really? That’s how you want to roll? You’re throwing down the C card? Why didn’t you just cry out ‘leprosy’?

I reluctantly walked away without the scrumptious meat and cheese concoction. Chubby Stephanie vanished in a puff of smoke. Anorexic Stephanie smiled. Then she put her finger down her throat and heaved.
She’s such a manipulative little bitch and yes, a wee bit bulimic.

The fresh mozzarella was still warm. I picked up the biggest one I could find and added it to my basket. I’d buy some thinly sliced prosciutto if it wasn’t a million dollars a pound.

I was on my way to the counter when I heard Tom the Voyeur ask Vito, “Has that cute blond thing been coming by?”

“Who, Tom? You talking about Kaley again?” Vito asked.

My ears perked up.
Kaley? My Kaley? Sweet little churchgoing, feed-the-homeless Kaley?

“I think so,” Tom replied. “I’m not sure about her name, but that ass of hers is like a Picasso. It’s to die for.”

Did he say Picasso? Is he familiar with Picasso’s art? Has he seen
Guernica
? Is he even remotely familiar with cubist technique? That painting doesn’t resemble any shapely butt I’ve ever seen. I’d give Kaley’s derrière far more credit than that.

“I haven’t seen her this week,” Vito said. “You heard about Bill Alden, didn’t you?”

Tom nodded. “Yeah. I heard his house went up in flames.”

“It’s worse than that,” Vito continued. “I heard he burned with the house.”

Tom squirmed. “Oh that’s nasty. He wasn’t a well man, was he?”

“Far from it,” Vito said. “He had so many issues, I couldn’t keep tract.”

“That’s too bad,” Tom said, “But how’d we go from a conversation about a piece of ass to a burnt-up, decrepit geezer?”

“She used to shop for him, stupid. That’s why she was in here so much. You think that tiny little girl was wolfing down all that capicola and provolone by herself?” He rolled his eyes. “
Imbecille
,” he said in the Italian dialect. He redirected his attention toward me as I approached the counter. “Ah,
Senora
, did you find everything you were looking for? I’m surprised you put down the Stromboli. I make them myself.”

“I was drooling over it, but I don’t want to get fat.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” Tom said with a huge, shit-eating grin. “Vito’s Stromboli is to die for.”

To die for? Oh, you mean like Kaley’s ass?
“It was a tough decision, but ultimately my conscience won out.” I turned back to Vito. “Everything in here looks so incredible.” A basket of the biggest, juiciest looking apples I had ever seen sat in front of the counter. “Are apples in season?”

“They are in Chile,” Vito said. “They’re Jonagold, sweet as sugar.”

I had to have some of those big mothers. “Jonagold? They look more like Jonah Hill before he began to watch what he ate.”

Vito laughed.

“I’ll take six. How much is the prosciutto?”

“Parma or domestic?” Vito asked.

“Parma.”

“You want the best. I have Prosciutto di Parma Ferrari, $29.95 a pound. Aged fifteen months.” He put the five fingertips together just as my mother often did.
“Delicioso.”

He’s not kidding about the Ferrari part—at that price he ought to throw in an Italian sports car. $29.95? Oh what the hell.
“All right, I’ll take a quarter pound.”

“You’ll love it,” Vito said. “I’ll slice it like tissue paper.” He unwrapped the cured meat and placed it on the slicer. He handed me a slice that was as thin as the lace on a wedding veil, so thin it was translucent. “How’s that?” he asked.

I popped it into my mouth. The flavor was so intense that my mouth began to water and my eyes rolled around in their sockets. “
Oh God
, that’s
so
good.”

“
Perfecto
,” Vito said as he turned back to the slicer. “Quarter pound, right?”

The prosciutto was really good; I mean a-girl’s-first-kiss kind of good. “Make it a half. So Kaley comes in here?” I asked, jumping subjects without an appropriate segue.

“You a friend of hers?” Vito asked in a guarded tone.

“You and Kaley are friends?” Tom asked excitedly, hoping, I guessed, that we were partners in a call-girl tag team.”

“More of an acquaintance,” I said. “Her house is right next to the one I’m renting. She stopped by to introduce herself.”

Vito nodded, indicating that he was satisfied with my explanation. “Nice girl that Kaley. She used to shop for . . . You heard me mention Bill Alden, no?”

I nodded.

“Tragic. Did you know him?” Vito asked.

“Yes I heard about the fire, but no, I didn’t know him personally,” I said as I checked out the pignoli cookies in the display case. “We were supposed to rent
his
place. We arrived while they were putting out the fire.”

“You’re lucky you found another place to stay,” Vito said as he pushed the slicer back and forth. “This is the busiest the town has ever been. Where’d you end up staying?”

“We bumped into a realtor who just finished remodeling—”

“The Fisher’s place?” Vito’s eyes grew wide. “More tragedy. Your luck isn’t very good. You do know about—”

“Sarah Fisher? Yeah. Kaley told us all about her. Doesn’t exactly give me a warm and fuzzy feeling. I hope the place isn’t haunted.”

Vito chuckled. “Haunted? No it’s not haunted, not unless you mean by that
fessacchione,”
he swore. There’s no good English translation for that word but
asshole
pretty much sums it up. Vito turned to Tom.
“
Come si chiama?”

Tom shrugged.

“What’s his name?” he implored. “Camryn’s idiot brother?”

“Oh, you mean Ray?” Tom said.

Yes, Ray. Of course he meant Ray.
I knew what Vito was driving at way before Tom spit it out of his slop-licking mouth. I said, “Yeah, I’ve met him. A real charmer he is. He’s doing the trim work on the house and shows up without warning, pounding his hammer and scaring the crap out of all of us.”

“Something’s wrong with him, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is,” Tom said. “I think someone hit him on the head . . . with a brick.”

Okay, I didn’t like Tom but I absolutely detested Ray so I laughed at his expense.

“How long had Kaley been shopping for Alden?” I asked.

“You know,” Vito said, “you’re starting to sound less like a friend and more like a cop.”

“Can’t help myself, I guess. I’m on the job in New York City. Right now, though, I’m strictly on vacation.”

“You’re a cop?” Tom asked as he extended his hands, pretending that he was willingly submitting to be handcuffed. “Arrest me. I’ll go quietly.”

“Sorry, I’ve got no jurisdiction out here.”
Translation: God you’re icky. Please go away.

Tom pretended to pout.

I ignored him and turned back to Vito. “So how long had Kaley been picking up groceries for Bill Alden?”

“Several months,” Vito replied, shrugging to inform me that he was only supplying a rough estimate. “She’d stop by every few days and pick up his groceries, his beer, and his cigarettes. The old guy smoked like a chimney, used to go through a carton of Camels every week.” He wrapped up the prosciutto and put it in a plastic bag. “Anything else?”

“I’ll take some of these,” I said tapping the glass display case above the pignoli cookies. “Don’t tell me you bake these too.”

“No. I don’t bake. I let the Keebler elves do it,” Vito replied with a chuckle. He bagged my order and rang up the sale.

Tom said, “Come back soon.” I could feel his eyes on me as I walked out of the store. It seemed that I was destined to make new friends every day. As I walked through the parking lot to my SUV, I heard the wail of sirens and saw an ambulance speed by. A volunteer fireman followed it. “Ha,” I said as I got into my car. “This looks like fun.”

I saw the fire chief’s car streak by, lights on and siren blaring.
I recognized Rich Tate’s profile for a split second as he shot past me, racing east on Montauk Highway, traffic pulling to the side to let him through. He was followed by a short convoy of volunteer firefighters with flashing blue fireballs on the dashboards of their cars. I dropped in behind the convoy and followed.

The thinnest sliver of orange was just visible beyond the horizon as the sun lowered behind it. It was that time of day when the sky is split horizontally, the top half bright and the bottom half dark. As we got closer, it was not difficult to distinguish the fire burning just off to the north. I followed the convoy around a turn. An old green wagon was burning just ahead of us.

I rolled to a stop about a hundred feet behind the fire responders’ vehicles. The passenger compartment was ablaze with bright, orange flames that reached skyward. Black smoke filled the sky. Just as I reached for the door handle, the ground shook. I looked up and saw that the wagon had exploded. Fragments of the car’s exterior were propelled into the sky. It took a moment for the airborne debris to plummet to the ground, and then the firemen moved in, blasting the burning vehicle with water from their fire hose.

I moved in closer after the fire had been extinguished. Clouds of smoke continued to billow from the engine and passenger compartments, but the car body itself was now visible as firefighters worked to open the driver’s door and free the person who apparently had been trapped behind the wheel. It dawned on me that I had seen a similar truck just recently, an old, moss-green Subaru with white last-generation New York State license plates.

Even as the firemen continuously doused it with water, the smoldering automobile continued to throw off an immense amount of heat. I heard a loud creak as the driver’s door was ripped off the frame. I shut my eyes when I saw the remains of a man in the front seat. In the next instant, a fireman blocked my view as he leaned into the car to check the driver’s vital signs. He turned back to Richard Tate and shook his head. They were too late.