Confession Is Murder (5 page)

“What do you know about Joseph Salmona?”

“Joseph? Not much.” Lucille took a T-shirt from the basket and sat for a moment with it in her lap. “I mean he never talked much, least not about himself.”

“You knew each other growing up? That’s what the wife says.”

Lucille nodded. “Yeah, he moved in down the street from Frankie, and that’s how we got to know him.” She started to fold the T-shirt—one of Frank’s. It was still warm from the dryer, and she held it in her hands for a moment imagining Frankie had just taken it off.

“Of course he didn’t go to our high school. His mother sent him off to this Catholic school in Jersey City. So he’d become a priest, only he didn’t. Anyways, she was dead by then so that was okay. Those two aunts of his took care of him after that. Anna and Sophie Tucci. Nice ladies, but it was hard for a young man, you know?”

Sambuco started to open his mouth, but Lucille continued.

“He wanted to go out and do stuff like the other kids, but they expected him to be content staying home and watching TV with them. He didn’t date much—everyone thought it was great when Frank introduced him to Connie, and they hit it off.” Lucille finished folding the T-shirt and added it to the stack.

“How did he and the wife get along?” Sambuco had drained the last of his coffee, and Lucille got up to refill his cup.

“Good, so far as I know. Joseph doted on Connie, gave her everything. Nothing was too good for her. And Connie made a nice home for Joseph, something he didn’t have growing up. I didn’t hear no complaints from either of them.”

“Connie, she’s your sister-in-law?”

Lucille nodded. “Consuelo, that’s her real name, but everybody calls her Connie. She always wanted to hang around with us when we were back in high school, but she was too young. Funny, but the difference don’t feel like much now that we’re older. She went to this fancy secretarial school in New York City for a year and had a good job at the insurance company over in Summit. You know—Kemper? She was an executive secretary. Made good money. Not like me, I wasn’t cut out for that sort of thing.”

She pulled one of Bernadette’s red thongs from the basket and held them up. How on earth were you supposed to fold these things—there wasn’t nothing to them.

She looked up to find Sambuco staring at them.

He leaned toward her. “I bet you look good in those.”

Lucille hurried to stuff them back in the laundry basket and caught her elbow on her cup. Milky coffee spread across the table, dripped off the edge and into Sambuco’s lap.

She jumped up. “Now look what I’ve done.” She grabbed a dish towel from the oven door handle and began to mop at his jeans. She felt Sambuco’s arms go around her waist and straightened up.

“Don’t stop. I was enjoying that.”

A wave of heat swept over Lucille. She made a quick prayer to St. Catherine of Siena, patron saint against temptation. “Maybe you’d better go.”

Sambuco sighed. “I’ve just got a couple more questions for you.”

Lucille sat down again, grateful for the width of the table between them.

“How often did you see your sister-in-law and her husband?”

Lucille shoved her black bra further down into the laundry basket and pulled out a towel. That ought to be safe enough. She didn’t want to give Sambuco no more ideas. “They usually came to Sunday dinner, but they kept themselves to themselves, know what I mean?”

Sambuco nodded.

“Joseph was a good man, I don’t mean to say nothing against him. He was a deacon in our church, he was a member of the Knights of Columbus, and he was a good partner to Frankie.”

“What about that kid who helps them out? Anthony Baldini?”

“Junior. Anthony Baldini, Jr. Only we all call him Tony Jr. He’s a good kid. Frank and Joseph have been teaching him the business. He’s been a big help to them.”

“What about his father?”

“Anthony Baldini, Senior? Never met him. Flo took off with him without telling no one, not even me. And here we’ve been best friends since second grade. Got married on their way down to Florida—some place in Kentucky with the wife of the Justice of the Peace as their witness. First I heard of it was a postcard they sent me from Daytona Beach.”

The stack of laundry was threatening to tumble over so Lucille started a second pile. “Tony Jr. was only four years old when Flo came back to Jersey. Without any Mr. Baldini.” She added a pair of Bernadette’s jeans to the tower of folded clothes. “My mother always said there was no Mr. Baldini, but I don’t think that’s true. Flo wouldn’t do something like that.”

“How did this Tony Jr. get along with Joseph and your husband?” Sambuco peered into his empty coffee cup and then put it back down again.

Lucille started to get up, but he shook his head.

“Fine, just fine. Joseph was going to teach him everything he knew.” No need to tell Sambuco that Tony Jr. hadn’t been fit for much of anything else, seeing as how he’d quit school his junior year. Flo was hysterical until he signed up for some night classes in order to get some sort of substitute diploma.

“He didn’t have any complaints? Low pay? Long hours? Maybe he thought he’d get ahead faster with one of them out of the way?”

Lucille was already shaking her head. “No. No way. Tony Jr. isn’t like that. He was grateful for the opportunity Frank and Joseph gave him.”

“Well, now that we’ve got all that official business out of the way . . .” Sambuco grinned.

Lucille jumped up. “You’ll be wanting to go, then.” She started down the hall without waiting to see if Sambuco was following.

He came up behind Lucille. “You know, we would have been good together. You ever think about that?”

Lucille shook her head. “I’m a married woman now, Richie. She held up her left hand. “Me and Frank have been together almost twenty-seven years.”

“You ever tell him about—”

Lucille shook her head vigorously and opened the door.

Sambuco smiled as Lucille closed the door in the back of him. She leaned against it unsteadily. Her heart was hammering, and she felt like she was getting another one of them hot flashes. She went into the powder room and splashed some cold water on her face.

What did Sambuco mean with all those questions about Tony Jr.? How could he have had anything to do with Joseph’s death? It was probably just routine. She’d have to ask Gabe. Meanwhile, she wasn’t going to waste another minute thinking about it. She’d told him the truth, and that was all that mattered. Except maybe about saying how she didn’t believe her mother when she said Flo had never been married to no Mr. Baldini. There were times when Lucille kind of wondered about that herself. But she wasn’t about to admit that to anyone.

Lucille started toward the kitchen then stopped. There was something else, something Sambuco had said . . . She shook her head, it was no good. She couldn’t remember. Must be “mental pause,” as Frankie always called it.

She checked the pan on the stove. She was making a nice sauce Bolognese for dinner. No way she’d give her family any of that bottled stuff. She gave it a stir and left the lid slightly ajar. It would be done by the time she had to leave for work.

• • •

Lucille popped Little Richard into the tape deck and backed the car down the driveway. Mrs. Espoza was in her yard cleaning out the dead leaves that had accumulated around her statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She smiled at Lucille, but Lucille just waved and kept on going down Hickson Drive. Everyone in the neighborhood wanted to know the same things—where was Frankie, and was it true what they were saying about Joseph’s death?

Lucille looked around her as she waited at the stop sign. Starter homes, these were meant to be. Funny name for houses where most people ended up spending their whole married lives. Lucille couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Three bedrooms, one and a half baths, living room, dining room, and rec room—who could ask for more? A couple of her neighbors had a place down the shore in Wildwood or Seaside Heights—tiny two-bedroom bungalows a half mile from the beach. She and Frankie had begun saving for one almost from the day they got married, but without much success.

Lucille loved New Providence. It was a bit more “Jersey” than the surrounding towns like Summit and Chatham, where a lot of high-class Wall Street types got million-dollar bonuses and added on to houses that were already enormous. Lucille knew she wouldn’t be comfortable there.

She turned onto Springfield Avenue. She felt numb—too much had happened. First all that stuff with Frank, and now Joseph. And then seeing Richie Sambuco again. She didn’t know what to think.

There were only three cars in the church parking lot when Lucille pulled in. She recognized Jeanette’s wagon with the black tape across the crack in her back window and Mrs. Batalata’s rusted Impala.

Today was her day in the religious shop. She liked working in the shop better than the office. It made a nice break when someone came in and you had the chance to chat.

Jeanette was already there, sitting behind the counter with a newspaper spread out on top. She looked at her watch rather pointedly when Lucille walked in.
Old crone
. She was wearing her usual housedress, and her thinning brown hair was unwashed and speckled with dandruff.

Lucille touched a hand to her own hair. She hadn’t changed it in years, other than adding a little color now that she was going gray. But that was fine—Frankie always said he didn’t like no surprises.

Lucille went to the other end of the counter, opened the back of the case, and began rearranging the religious medals. She put St. Christopher and St. Jude up front.

St. Christopher was still one of their biggest sellers even though the Church tried to say there was no such person—that it was only some kind of made-up legend. That didn’t seem to bother people none—they were still buying the medals to hang from their rearview mirrors. And St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, would always be popular. Who didn’t have at least one lost cause in their life? Lucille wondered. She felt guilty because Bernadette came to mind, and she hurried to close the case.

The door jangled, and Lucille looked up. “Hey, Mrs. Batalata. Nice to see you.”

The old lady scuttled over to the counter. She looked so frail Lucille wondered how come the wind didn’t just blow her away.

“What can I do for you today?”

Mrs. Batalata ran a hand through her wispy white hair. “I’m looking for some nice rosary beads for my great-granddaughter. She’s making her First Communion next month.”

“I didn’t know you had a great-granddaughter.” Lucille took the key from the hook and opened the glass case. She spread several sets of beads out on a black velvet display board—one with an elaborate sterling silver cross and some less expensive ones with the cross done in nickel.

“She’s my only son’s granddaughter.” Mrs. Batalata fingered one of rosaries. “Of course, they live in California so I haven’t met her. My son says it costs too much to travel.”

Lucille crossed herself and said a quick prayer to St. Rita, patron saint against loneliness. Poor Mrs. B.—never having her son come and visit.

“So how many days is it today?”

“Twenty-five.” Mrs. Batalata put the beads down on the counter and picked up another set.

Jeanette looked up from reading the
Advocate
. “Twenty-five days for what?”

“My novena.” Mrs. Batalata got a battered black change purse out of her handbag. “I’ll take these.” She pointed toward the set with the silver cross and withdrew several folded bills.

“I thought novenas were for nine days?” Jeanette handed Lucille a piece of tissue paper.

Lucille shook her head. “This one is special. It lasts for fifty-four days.”

“That’s right.” Mrs. Batalata handed over the money with a quivering hand. “It’s the Novena of the Rosaries—three novenas of the prayers of the Rosary and three novenas of thanksgiving and Our Lady will answer your request.”

“So you’ve been coming to church for twenty-five days straight now?” Lucille wrapped the beads in the tissue and put them in a bag. She was lucky if she could get there most Saturday nights for Mass.

Mrs. Batalata nodded and took the package from Lucille. “I just sit in the back where I won’t bother anyone. I don’t mind. It’s good to get out.”

“I hear the police are investigating
your body
,” Jeanette said when Mrs. Batalata had gone.

“My body?” Lucille looked down at herself.

“The one you found in the confessional last week.”

“It wasn’t
my
body,” Lucille said. “It was my brother-in-law’s. Although I don’t know nothing about the police investigation so don’t bother asking me.” She got the duster from the back room and flicked it over the statues—St. Francis of Assisi, the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Peter.

Jeanette opened the case Lucille had just finished organizing and started to do it over. “These are not in the right order, Lucille.”

Lucille’s first instinct was to swat Jeanette with the duster, but she reminded herself to be charitable like Father Brennan was always telling her and said a prayer to St. Halvard, patron saint of virtue.

“Father Brennan says your brother-in-law was a good man. Why would anyone want to kill him?” Jeanette looked at her out of the corner of her eye.

Lucille shrugged. “You know, I can’t imagine. Me, I think the police have made a mistake. They’re gonna find out it was natural causes after all.”

“I doubt it. They’ve got all that modern testing nowadays.” Jeanette was watching Lucille intently. “My neighbor’s granddaughter is a secretary over at the police department, and she told me about it.” She closed the glass case and turned the key in the lock. “Maybe he was . . . involved in . . . something?”

“Hardly.” Lucille dusted St. Francis a little too energetically, and he fell over.

“Be careful, Lucille.” Jeanette pursed her lips.

“Joseph was an honest, hardworking man.” Lucille stood the statue up again and moved it toward the corner.

“I heard they were questioning that wife of his.” Jeanette sniffed. “I see her in church. I don’t know who she thinks she is.”