Dead Wrong (2 page)

Chapter 2

The rich smell of fresh brewed coffee invaded my senses as we entered the house. A cold, early November wind blew hard outside, whipping my long hair across my face. The suede coat tightened around my torso as I pulled it close to my body. We scrambled into the house.

The twins had arrived and now munched cake while my mother bustled around the kitchen. I sidled into a chair and waited to see Aaron work my parents – if he dared. The last time he'd wanted information about the family, I caught him questioning my mother. His excuses weren't good enough for me when I faced him with it, but he hadn't tried it again since I'd warned him off.

Cups rattled on saucers. Plates loaded with huge chunks of chocolate cake smothered in white frosting landed on the table with a thunk. I glanced up at my mother's tight expression.

“What?” I asked.

“That was an inexcusable display, Lavinia.”

“I didn't do anything wrong other than to protect Auntie from herself. Geesh.”

With a huge sigh, my mother flopped into the chair opposite me.

“I know dear, I'm sorry. It was upsetting to see elderly women act that way. What will people think?”

My mind flew back to the time my aunt Muffy sprayed a mafia boyfriend with pepper spray inside a restaurant. Good thing Mom hadn't witnessed that fiasco.

“I know, but it's over now. The police have things under control, and I'm sure Lena is in good hands.” Like maybe she is in handcuffs. I thought that but didn't say so.

Gina chuckled. She could pick thoughts off me without trying. I smiled in return and Cara grinned. Aaron sat stuffing cake into his mouth, mesmerized by the three of us.

“Good cake, eh?” I asked when my mother loaded his plate with another slice and refreshed his coffee.

“Mmm, hmm.” Aaron mumbled his appreciation.

“You know Mom, since Aaron and Marcus eat your leftovers at my house so often I think I'll claim them as a deduction on my income taxes.”

Aaron chuckled as my mother shook her head. She'd managed my father's pizza restaurant business until he took an early retirement. The woman knew IRS regulations by heart.

“I don't think you can do that, dear.” She rose from the table to fix a plate of cake for my father who had just entered the room.

Gino Esposito is a rugged man. My friends call him a “looker” with loads of charm. I guess he is a looker, but all I ever manage to elicit from him is a lecture on settling down and motherhood that includes soccer and cooking spaghetti – none of which thrills me in the least.

We butt heads often. Sometimes I win and sometimes not.

The head butting starts over the least little thing, but mostly over the fact that I can't mind my own business. Curiosity plays a huge part in how I live my life, and lying by omission was a gift given to me at birth along with a healthy dose of independence. When I least expect it, my curiosity kicks in and I find myself armpit deep in shit. My sorry-ass life is often in a state of disarray.

I thank God daily for the two men in my life, Marcus and Aaron. Without them, who knows where I'd end up? I smiled at Aaron and turned to my father.

“How are we going to get through the funeral if this woman shows up, Dad?”

“How the hell do I know? She's not my responsibility. You should have minded your own business, Lavinia. You know it isn't good to interfere in these things.”

“And how did this become my fault? It would have been a whole lot worse if I hadn't stopped Lena, Dad.”

“These things work themselves out, Lavinia. Keep that in mind in the future.” My father ate his cake while I reached for crumbs on his plate.

A sharp rap on the knuckles followed my poor manners. I drew the hand back, licked frosting off my fingers, and listened to Gina and Cara crack up with laughter. Cripes, I was taking a beating here, both verbal and non-verbal. I'd be better off to go home. I rose with the twins and cleared the table to escape any further issues.

Aaron leaned back, engaging my father in conversation about who was what in the viewing room. He asked how old my dead uncle was. My father answered his questions in an affable manner until he caught my glance. With an imperceptible nod of my head, I warned him to curb his comments. He stared at me a moment and then glanced back at Aaron.

Dad withdrew his watch from his wrist and rose from his seat at the table.

“It's late. I'm headed to bed.”

I kissed his cheek and said I would be at the funeral home early the next day. Before he left the room, he turned and asked, “Can you pick Nonni up?”

“Sure, around eight o'clock. Okay?”

“That'll be fine.” He gave me a brief hug, kissed the twins and my mother, and left the room with a nod in Aaron's direction.

Gina gazed after my father as he walked away and turned to me with a smirk. “Smartened your ass up, didn't he?”

“Yeah, same as he does to you on occasion.” I smirked back at her.

“Uncle never smacks my knuckles.” Cara boasted with a wide, self-satisfied grin.

Gina and I turned wicked glares on her before we all laughed. Cara said, “At least it's better than Nonni's wooden spoon.”

Unable to comprehend why we'd find it funny, Aaron watched this display with a sense of wonder on his face. Plainly, he wasn't Italian. Gina took pity on him and explained.

“If you disagree with Nonni when she feels she's absolutely right, she whacks you with the wooden spoon. Uncle only smacks your knuckles when you display bad manners. Vin gets it all the time, but Gio never got smacked by anyone.”

“Yeah, Saint Giovanni,” I muttered. “Thank God he wasn't here tonight.”

My mother stepped forward and glared at me for a second. Then she said, “Your brother is a good man and you know it. And not to change the subject, but where is Marcus tonight?”

“Yes, where is Marcus?” Aaron echoed.

Cara piped up, “Yeah, where is he, huh? He could be the frosting on my cupcake, ya know.”

With a look slanted in her direction, I explained Marcus was in Washington for a training program.

“He'll be back in another day or so.”

My glance skittered to Cara. “I'll be sure to let him know about the frosting bit.”

We readied to leave when Gina reminded me of a bicycle race, a fundraiser on Saturday. I agreed to meet the twins in Providence. Aaron bid everyone goodbye and left. I headed for home.

The funeral took place without incident, and I dropped Nonni off at home. I swept through the remaining workweek with no difficulties. This alone should have been a prediction of things to come. My life is never, ever mundane. Not for long at least.

Chapter 3

Cyclists swerved around the curb on the downtown Providence street. The race had drawn a crowd of onlookers and participants. Providence cops stood along the cordoned-off route making sure pedestrians didn't stray into the paths of cyclers.

The race, slated to take place weeks before, had been rescheduled due to inclement weather. Frigid wind stiffened the skin on my face. I ignored the cold, laboring to keep a steady speed. At least the sun shone brightly over the city.

Through the wild flow of movement, I caught a glimpse of Gina and Cara as they pedaled closer. They huffed and puffed, faces beet red from exertion, determination set on their features. We'd started out side by side, but my long legs gave me the advantage over them. They'd quickly fallen behind – until now.

Curious, I wondered how they'd managed to close the distance I'd put between us. I stand around five foot ten and have long legs – and I'm in great shape. The twins, on the other hand, are only five foot five, and they don't work out or run as often as I do. They probably cheated somehow to get this far—I was sure of it. My thoughts moved on to the bicycle sliding up past my rear tire.

The woman I couldn't seem to outdistance rode close and kept rubbing my tire with hers – sort of like cars in races, only we didn't have concrete walls surrounding us. The crowd cheered as we passed through Kennedy Plaza. I could see Officer Francisco DeMagistras wave as I approached the former train station.

I smiled and kept my head down to maintain speed. Then, a hard tug on my tire threw me off balance. The lightweight bike flew out from underneath me.

Wind rushed past. I catapulted sideways and crashed into several oncoming bikers. Bodies spilled onto the ground and bikes collided with flesh as I landed. My leg lay tangled within the spokes of an expensive racing cycle. With my helmet askew, clothes gritty, and knee throbbing in agony, I lay on the ground, knowing better than to move.

The crowd swarmed past the ropes toward us. Other approaching cyclists stopped dead. I'd managed to bring the race to a halt – at least for those who'd been a lap or two behind. The rest? Well, I was sure they would pass the finish line any second.

Scrapes covered my exposed skin, but scrapes were the least of my injuries. Francisco, Gina, and Cara scrambled over twisted cycles to the spot where I sprawled on the ground. I didn't dare move my leg since it already throbbed. I knew I couldn't get the bike off without help.

“Stay put, Vinnie,” Frankie D. ordered. Concern was embedded in every line of his rakish, coffee-colored features as he leaned over me. “I'll call for the rescue team.”

“Just get this freakin' bike off my leg. It's killing me.” I scoured the painful area. My pant leg held no bloodstain – that I could see. A sense of relief washed over me.

“I don't want the rescue, though someone else may need it.” I moaned out the words.

Gina stepped forward and between the three of them, they disengaged the bike from my leg. Cara leaned sideways and grasped one arm while Gina took hold of the other. Together they hauled me off the ground while I gritted my teeth in pain.

“I'll go get the car. There's an emergency room near my office,” Gina said. “It's one of those clinic-type places. Otherwise you'll be at Rhode Island Hospital for an eternity.”

She hurried away before I could speak. I waited with Cara until the car pulled along the crowd line. Injured or not, many of the cyclists had taken their bikes and moved on. The woman who'd created the mishap stood on the fringe of the crowd watching me, her bike held tight against her side. Her cat-that-ate-the-canary expression seemed odd for the circumstances, but the pain in my knee could have accounted for my view of things.

“Why aren't we going someplace closer?” I asked after the twins had stuffed me in the car.

“A woman over on the sidewalk recommended the place that happens to be near my office. I wasn't even aware of the joint until she mentioned it.” Gina glanced at me in the rear view mirror and then turned her attention to the road as we moved off into traffic.

We reached the LR Medical Clinic. I hobbled inside with a twin on each side for support. By this time, I'd become annoyed at the inconvenience of the immediate situation – not realizing that this was nothing compared to what my life would be like in the near future.

Hoping my injury was a minor infliction, I signed the necessary documents for the intake nurse and waited my turn. Two hours later, I'd been poked and prodded until I figured I'd never have a sense of humor again. Dr. Whatever-His-Name-Was – something unpronounceable anyway – recommended that I rest the leg for a day and then go for physical therapy. I nodded, took the paperwork he handed me along with the crutches the nurse brought out, and hobbled through the door. If only I'd listened to my mother. She'd said not to ride today. Why? I don't know.

Gina took one look at my face and knew I'd lost what little humor I'd had before I arrived at the medical center. She grinned and hugged me, while Cara waited to do the same.

They took me home to get settled in. “Can we make you a snack or something?” Gina asked, her concern obvious in her dark eyes.

“Yeah,” said Cara, her dark eyes twinkling. “Let us make you something before we leave. How about I call the handsome guy upstairs, or the trooper you go out with? They'll wanna know about your injury.”

It was more than likely that Cara wanted to see both guys and check Marcus out for herself. She'd only seen photos in the past. Duh, was I dumb? No. Cara had a roving eyeball, even though she currently dated someone on a regular basis. Gina, on the other hand, would likely chew the guys up and spit them out. She had a man of her own, and while he wasn't all that great in the looks department, Al was a great guy.

“As long as I can remember, Cara, you have had a roving eyeball, just like Nonni.” My glance skipped to Gina. “Gina, on the other hand rules the roost at her house with an iron fist, also like Nonni. I think I got left out somewhere along the line.” I chuckled.

Gina smirked. “My father came from the old country, and Nonni called him a greenhorn, remember? Since she came from Italy herself, I figured she had some nerve, but I would never be foolish enough to say so.”

The twins' mother and mine were sisters. We all shared the same coloring and wise-ass sense of humor. I glanced at them again and chuckled.

I laughed and said, “Marcus is in New London Connecticut, today on trooper business. Aaron, well, he works for the Gaming Commission and has strange hours. I don't know what time he'll pop in.”

Marcus Richmond had become a fixture in my love life. We never talked about the word commitment, and never ever talked about marriage. Thank God for small favors.

Marcus stood six feet tall, had gorgeous everything, and looked awesome in his winter uniform. His riding boots, being the best part of it, managed to raise my temperature with no problem. He was sexy as hell. Those hazel green eyes often slanted a look of disbelief in my direction. His chiseled lips too easily formed derisive words of a descriptive nature – which concerned me – especially when I couldn't mind my own business. Like my father, Marcus had a sincere issue with my ability to interfere where I shouldn't, which always seemed to end in trouble for me.

The words used often described my actions as being those of a “disaster magnet” and such. Marcus sports a crooked nose that forms a slight hook adding to his craggy, stone-like features. Rhode Island Troopers take great pride in their physical appearance and are quite fit, as is the case with Marcus.

My upstairs tenant, Aaron Grant, used the Rhode Island Gaming Commission as a cover for his FBI activities. He investigates racketeering and all it entails. The WWF-sized body and sparkling sense of humor add to his gorgeous looks. His warm, chocolate brown eyes are to die for. His thick dark hair reaches the edge of his shirt collar, and huge muscles embrace his arms and legs. The chick magnet had been renting my upstairs apartment for several months, since I'd taken over the two-unit colonial. If I hadn't already been enamored with Marcus, this man would be the frosting on my own cupcake.

The two men were a curiosity to my cousins who enjoyed the stories I shared about my life – that included both men. I grinned at the high-spirited twins, so much like me, but still different.

“Gina, if you want to make something, go ahead. I just bought groceries.” I chuckled at her look of astonishment. I rarely bought groceries. I ate at my mother's house more often than not.

“You never shop. Let's see what you have besides bread and milk.” She giggled and threw the fridge door wide open.

“We have eggs, milk, cheese, and butter. Yeah, you really shopped, Vin.”

We all laughed, because she was right. I considered shopping a major pain in the butt and only bought what I absolutely needed. Why bother when my mother sent goody bags of leftovers home with me?

The twins set about whipping up toast to go with the egg and cheese omelet, so I wouldn't starve. We shoveled in the scrumptious fare and drank wine to wash it down. It was white wine and not my usual, but it worked just fine anyway.

“So tell me…. What's Al up to these days?” I glanced toward Gina.

“He's been workin' a lot of overtime for the security company. They just assigned him to a clinic, like the one we took you to. There was a break-in last month and he said someone was badly injured.” Gina shook her head in dismay and poured more wine into the goblet.

“And you, Cara, what's going on with you?” I leaned back in the chair, lifting my injured leg to rest it on the chair facing me.

“Joey has proposed,” Cara said with a lopsided grin.

My leg flopped on the floor when I sat upright in surprise. With a yowl, I lifted it back in place while the twins laughed.

“It's not funny,” I said and rubbed the inflamed muscles.

“We know, cuz, but you were so shocked. Didn't you think he'd ever propose?” Cara grinned, her eyes twinkling.

“Well, yeah. But your answer is what interests me. What did you say?” I asked the question with a smile. Cara liked her freedom, but she also liked having a man around. A catch-22 situation, it seemed.

“I haven't said yet. I'm still considering it.” Cara sighed. She leaned back, sipping wine.

I reached toward the plate and snagged the last piece of toasted Italian bread. Studying the toast with intensity, I tried to think of a nice way to say what I thought. Instead, I came out with a candid remark.

“Then you're not in love with him.”

“I am, too,” Cara said, her eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. But think about it. If you truly, truly, truly loved him, Cara, when he asked the big question, you'd have jumped at the proposal. Instead, you left him hangin' and it isn't fair. You know it, and so do we.”

I slurped wine to wash the toast down and dabbed my clothes with a napkin as the liquid dribbled across my shirt.

Her gaze locked onto mine, Gina nodded. She turned to Cara. “She's got a point, you know.”

“You have no idea what you're talkin' about here. I'm gonna get married and have a bunch of kids and be a soccer mom.” Cara's sweet lips pouted.

I laughed outright.

My father, Gino Esposito, is an old-style Italian father. He thinks all women should be married with a gaggle of kids and be soccer moms. This thought came to me in a flash.

If my darling twin brother, Gio, didn't want to get married, have a gaggle of kids, or be anything at all other than the doctor he is, then that would be fine. Not so with me. My dad just doesn't accept that I'm a criminal justice instructor who teaches the art of being a cop. That's right, I, Lavinia Vinnie Esposito, am an instructor of law and order. My dad just can't understand.

“What's so funny, Vin?” the twins asked in unison.

“My father wants me to be exactly that, a married mom who cooks pasta for a gaggle of kids and trucks them to soccer games. He busts my ass about it all the time.”

The twins chuckled as they rose to leave. I thanked them for the ride, their support, and the meal then watched out the window as they drove away.

I live in Scituate, a small village west of Providence. My house sits on the main drag of town, across from the post office. I run into a lot of folks I know when I get my mail, though I'm sure my name is a regular household word anyway since I can't seem to lead a normal life.

I hobbled into the living room. The fireplace roared to life when I flicked on the gas. Resting in the overstuffed chair in front of it, I gazed out the window. The need to make an appointment for physical therapy popped into my head. I plucked the folded paper from my jeans pocket.

After dialing the number, I was abruptly put on hold and forced to listen to elevator music. A few seconds passed before I heard the hyper-nasal voice of a woman on the other end asking what I wanted.

She listened while I explained my need and then scheduled the appointment after she requested my insurance information.

The brief call left me cold, but I figured if the doc said I should get therapy, then so be it. After all, it was therapy to my leg, not my mind. We all need to be grateful for the little things in life.