Confession Is Murder (8 page)

“You look kinda pale. You okay?” Lucille put the butter in the microwave to soften it. “You want something to eat? A nice boiled egg maybe?” Lucille opened the refrigerator again and got out an egg.

“I’m not hungry.” Bernadette groaned. “I don’t feel so good.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.” She put a hand over her mouth. “My stomach doesn’t feel too good.”

Lucille felt Bernadette’s forehead. “You don’t seem warm or nothing. Maybe you ate something that didn’t agree with you?”

Bernadette started to cry. She sounded just like she used to when she was a baby, Lucille thought. It was more wailing than crying, with great shuddering gulps of air in between each sob.

“Aw, come on, Bernadette, don’t cry.” Lucille put an arm around Bernadette’s shoulders. She felt awkward, seeing as how Bernadette hardly ever wanted to have anything to do with her anymore. “Why don’t I give Dr. Melita a call and see if he can fit you in. Maybe he can give you something—”

“No! You don’t understand.” Bernadette wailed louder. “There’s nothing he can give me that’s going to make it better.”

“Aw, come on. I know you’re upset about Tony Jr. and all, but at least if you didn’t have a stomachache on top of it—”

“It’s not that.” Bernadette slid down until she was sitting on her tailbone. She put her hands over her face.

“What is it, then? Are you sick to your stomach or not?” Lucille was beginning to wish Bernadette would go back to her room again.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Holy shit.” Lucille dropped the egg, and it splattered all over the floor.

Salt. Her mother always said to put salt on the egg. It would absorb it, and then you could just sweep it right up, easy as pie. Lucille unscrewed the top from the shaker. If she kept concentrating on what she was doing, she wouldn’t have to think about what Bernadette had just said. “Go get the dustpan for me.” She emptied the salt shaker onto the floor.

“Didn’t you hear me? I think I’m pregnant,” Bernadette wailed indignantly.

“I heard you, but I still gotta deal with this mess, don’t I?” Lucille began sweeping up the egg. It was amazing—the whole glop of yolk and white had dried right up. Who would have believed it?

Lucille scurried to the garbage can and tipped in the contents of the dust pan. She was trying hard not to think, but it was impossible. What were they going to do? Bernadette pregnant and the father stuck in jail. Could they still get married? She could just see Bernadette holding this tiny baby up to the bars for Tony Jr. to see. She shook her head. She was beginning to get a stomachache herself.

“I’m going to talk to Father Brennan. Maybe the two of yous can still get married.” Lucille went to the sink and washed her hands. “But first we ought to be sure you’re pregnant. I’ll go get one of them kits from the drugstore.”

“What kit?” Bernadette had half her head buried in the refrigerator.

“You know, like they show on TV. The stick turns blue if it’s a boy and pink if it’s a girl.”

“We got anything to eat in here?” Bernadette was moving stuff around in the refrigerator.

“A minute ago you had a stomachache.”

“I don’t anymore, and now I’m hungry.”

And now I have a stomachache, Lucille thought as she poured cake batter into a pan and slid it into the oven.

Chapter 5

Lucille carried the cake out to the car and put it down on the hood while she fished her keys out of her purse.

She transferred the cake to the passenger seat, plugged in Little Richard, and put the car in gear. She was feeling jittery and hit the gas a little too hard. The car blasted backward, and the cake nearly slid off its perch. Lucille put out a hand to steady it.

Mrs. Espoza was out front again, dragging a rake across her scraggly lawn, and looked up as Lucille shot past. Lucille waved and then glanced at her own property. She’d have to do some raking herself. Usually Frank did it, but that was all changed now. She could hardly ask him to come over and help under the circumstances. She sighed. Flo thought she was being stupid and stubborn, but she couldn’t help it. She was still hurting too much. She couldn’t even bring herself to think about the possibility that the separation might be permanent.

And now there was all this stuff with Bernadette to worry about. Sometimes it seemed like it was just one thing after another.

Connie lived a couple of blocks away on Elmwood Avenue. She and Joseph had bought their small Cape Cod right after they married. Joseph kept up the outside real nice and had recently spent a month of Sundays on a ladder, slapping on a fresh coat of beige paint. It made Lucille sad when she thought about it. She wished Frankie had found the time to give their house a bit of a touch-up, too—the paint was starting to peel real bad in the back where the sun hit it.

Connie’s walk was swept perfectly clean, Lucille noticed. She just never found the time to do that sort of thing herself, what with cooking and shopping and keeping up the inside of the house. If Bernadette would learn to pick up after herself and at least put her dishes in the dishwasher, it would help, but Lucille wasn’t holding her breath.

She pressed the bell and waited. She could hear a musical chime echoing somewhere deep inside the house. No answer. She rang again and waited several minutes, then smacked herself on the forehead. Sheesh! Here she had forgotten that Wednesday was Connie’s day at the beauty parlor, so of course she wasn’t home. She was probably out running errands before her appointment at the Clip and Curl.

Wednesday already, Lucille thought as she got back into her car. A whole week gone by since Joseph’s death. It was hard to believe. She glanced at her watch. Maybe she ought to go see that neighbor of Angela’s, seeing as how she was only a couple of blocks away. She could always catch up with Connie afterward at the beauty parlor.

Lucille crawled down the street, her foot on the brake, looking for the neighbor Angela had told her about. The problem was, did Angela mean the neighbor to the right of her if you were facing her house, or to the right if you were looking out from inside? Because it made a big difference.

All the houses were old but well maintained—starched lace curtains in this window, a pot of bright yellow zinnias on that doorstep. There was Angela’s house in the middle of the block. She had a large pumpkin by her front door with the face drawn on in colored markers. Lucille didn’t bother with pumpkins anymore—not now that Bernadette was all grown up. Somehow she just never had the time.

Too bad she hadn’t thought to call Angela at work before she left. And she didn’t have one of them cell phones like everyone else carried around. She couldn’t see the point of the extra expense. Flo had suggested telling the neighbor she was doing a survey about how people liked JoFra’s services. That seemed to make the most sense. She had a pad of paper and a pen in the glove compartment she could take along with her to make it look legit-like.

Her stomach was doing flip-flops, and she really wanted to turn around, go home, put on her fuzzy pink slippers, and spend the morning watching a couple of her favorite soaps. But if she didn’t do this they weren’t never going to find out who killed Joseph, and Tony Jr. would never get out of jail. Which meant Bernadette was going to give birth to a baby with no father. At that thought, Lucille stepped on the gas and the Olds surged forward. A woman walking a vicious-looking Doberman jumped back onto the safety of someone’s front lawn.

Lucille hit the brake and pulled up in front of the house to the right of Angela—if you were standing inside her front entrance, at any rate. She got out of the car and closed the door. The lady with the dog passed by and gave her a dirty look. She must have gotten up on the wrong side of the bed, Lucille thought. She shrugged and went up the walk to the house.

The woman who answered the door had brown buggy eyes and poofy bangs that made Lucille think of the small dog Angela once had—she thought it was called a Pomeranian or something funny like that. The woman had a dust rag and a can of polish in her hand.

“Yes?”

Lucille brandished her pad of paper. “I’m doing this here survey for JoFra Exterminating. On account of we want to know what people think of our services—”

“It’s no good asking me.” The woman shook her head, and her bangs bobbed up and down. “We’ve never used—JoFra did you say it was?”

Lucille nodded. Looks like Angela must have meant the neighbor on the other side, she thought.

“We’ve never had any problems with bugs. Mother always said that if you keep the place clean you won’t have any unwelcome visitors, if you know what I mean.”

“Looks like I got the wrong house, then.” Lucille started to turn to go back down the stairs.

“I think you probably want the people down there, the Flanagans.” She leaned out the door and pointed. “The house with the aluminum awning over the front steps. I see the exterminating van out there all the time.”

“Yeah, they got a contract.”

The woman sniffed. “I don’t think Mr. Flanagan was very pleased, mind you. I heard him arguing with the man from the exterminating company. I was outside sweeping the front steps”—she leaned closer to Lucille, and Lucille could see the red veins crisscrossing the whites of her eyes—“when I heard him actually
threaten
the poor fellow.” She nodded, and her bangs bobbed vigorously.

“Really?” Lucille could feel her heart beating all excited-like. It sounded as if this guy could be the one who really murdered Joseph—seeing as how she knew Tony Jr. hadn’t done it.

Lucille thanked the woman and went back down the brick walkway to the sidewalk. She passed Angela’s house and counted two houses to the right. The other right, this time.

Lucille rang the bell and cleared her throat. She had her pad and pen at the ready, held out in front of her like a shield.

“Yeah?” The door was jerked open so hard it almost hit the wall.

She’d had it all rehearsed, and now she’d gone and forgotten what she was supposed to say. Like some kind of stage fright or something.

“Well?”

“I just gotta ask you a couple of questions if that’s okay.” Lucille tried to peer around him. Maybe the missus was home, and she could talk to her instead?

“What about?” He scratched his chest and then poked a finger into his ear and wiggled it around. He was wearing a thin, worn guinea T and had bristly bundles of gray hair coming out of his ears. Lucille stared at them, fascinated. It was a wonder he could even hear.

“I’ve come about the exterminating company—JoFra. I’m doing this here survey”—she waved her yellow pad at him—“and I need to know what you think of the services.”

He let out a roar that nearly knocked Lucille back down the steps.

“You want to know what I think, huh? Well, come on in. I’ll be glad to tell you. And then you go back and ask your boss just what is he going to do about it, huh?” He thrust his face at Lucille’s, and she backed up as far as she could considering she was already teetering on the top step.

He turned around and marched back into the house. Lucille was right behind him. This was looking very promising. She could imagine this fellow attacking Joseph in a fit of rage. She might have this whole thing wrapped up before lunch. Maybe she ought to think about becoming a private detective? Seeing as how she was so good at it and all. She’d be bound to make more money than St. Rocco’s was paying her—and she was going to need it with Frankie gone. Although she didn’t want to think about that right now.

No wonder they had ants, Lucille thought when she got a look at their living room. There were dirty dishes stacked on two TV tables in front of the sofa. It looked like the wife must have made them some macaroni and cheese for dinner last night and then got too tired to clean up. Or maybe she had to go out or something. There were crumbs all over the sofa too. There was no better invitation to a family of ants than crumbs, least that was what Frankie was always telling her.

Lucille followed the man through the living room and out to the kitchen. She wondered if maybe he had some coffee going because she could sure use a cup. Some coffee cake would be nice too. Although maybe it would be better not to touch nothing in this place considering how dirty it was. There was still no sign of the missus—maybe she was out doing the shopping or something.

An elaborate house of cards teetered on the kitchen table amid dirty coffee cups and crumpled paper napkins. Mr. Flanagan took a seat in front of it, lifted a card from the pile, and placed it atop the shaky structure.

“That there is really something.” Lucille pointed at the cards. She sat down at the head of the table even though the fellow hadn’t issued no invitation yet—her feet were still killing her from working so hard at St. Rocco’s spaghetti dinner. “We might as well get started.” She had her pad in her lap and her pen at the ready. “So tell me, what did you think of JoFra Exterminating?”

“Unreliable!” He slammed his hand down on the table, and the card structure quivered but held.

“You mean they didn’t show up?”

“Oh, they showed up all right. Like clockwork they were. Same fellow every Monday at 4:30—his last stop for the day.” He stabbed a stubby forefinger into the air in front of Lucille’s face, and she leaned back in her chair. “But he didn’t do nothing. The ants kept coming back and back.” He swept a hand around the kitchen. “All over the counters they were. Disgusting.”

Well, no wonder, Lucille thought, considering the kind of housekeeping they went in for. “How do you know they didn’t spray or nothing? Seeing as how they was already here and all.”

“I know because the fellow was too busy to do any spraying.”

“Too busy doing what?”

“Too busy screwing my wife!”

“No!”

“Yes.” He motioned toward Lucille’s pad. “Write that down. I want to see what his boss has to say about that.”

“But how do you—”

“I know all right. Don’t worry about that. They were here alone together, weren’t they? Being that I was at work”—he tapped the side of his nose and winked—“it was bound to happen.”