Dying in Style (10 page)

“I know you have a bunch of questions, but I don’t want you late for school,” Josie said. “We’ll talk in the car, okay? Go get dressed.”

Josie waited until Amelia was in her room with her radio turned up to a level that should have had Josie banging on the door. For once, she was grateful it was so loud.

Jane’s hands were no longer balled into fists. Now she was wringing them again. “Josie, I’m sure Mrs. Mueller saw those police detectives. Her curtains are twitching. I’ll call her right now and tell her the police came to you because you have information about an important case.”

Jane could show a White House spin doctor how to put the best face on a disaster. By the time Jane finished her call, Mrs. Mueller would think Josie was the lead detective on the Danessa murder.

“Oh, Mom,” Josie said. “Do you have to make a career of lying to the neighbors?”

“That’s not a lie,” Jane said, her bulldog jaw thrust forward. “You did have important information.”

“Mom, why are you sucking up to that old gossip?” Josie said.

“I’m not sucking up,” her mother said. “I’m trying to save your reputation.”

“Right. That’s why you told her I was a widow. I bet she’s been down at the county license bureau, checking the marriage licenses.”

“Won’t do her any good,” Jane said smugly. “I said you got married on the beach in the Caribbean, but I never told her which island.”

“Mom, who cares anymore if I was married or not?”

“I do,” her mother said. “While you’re gallivanting around the malls dressed like a tramp, I have to live in this neighborhood. I have to hold my head up at the grocery store, the ladies’ sodality, and Wednesday-night bingo.”

Josie felt a sudden stab of pity for Jane, who was so achingly conventional. Her mother really cared what Mrs. Mueller thought. She would be hurt if the old gossip said ugly things about her daughter. Josie figured she owed her mom that much. She would let Jane lie her way into respectability.

“Okay, Mom, tell the neighbors whatever you want. I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“You need your breakfast today,” Jane said. “I won’t let you leave without eating it.”

On Josie’s kitchen table was a small yellow pot of tea and a plate of cinnamon toast. Josie was touched.

“Cinnamon toast! My absolute favorite,” she said.

Two thick slices of white bread were covered with luscious mounds of butter-soaked cinnamon and sugar. Tea and cinnamon toast were Josie’s I-don’t-feel-well foods. Her mother had made them on those mornings when Josie had stayed home from school with measles or chicken pox. Nice old Mrs. Malloy would watch the ailing Josie, but her mother came home from the bank on her lunch hour and sat by Josie while she ate Camp-bell’s chicken soup and peanut-butter crackers.

“Eat,” Jane commanded.

Josie ate, crunching happily on the fragrant butter-drenched breakfast. She rarely had time to eat breakfast at home on a workday. For a moment, Josie was six years old and the only homicide detectives were on TV.

Jane waited until Josie finished her toast before she said, “You aren’t wearing that slut costume today.” Another command.

“No, Mom. I’m mystery-shopping Pleasin’ Pizza restaurants. I get to dress like my normal self in jeans and a shirt. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have any cash, would you? I’m giving away cash prizes, and it would save me a trip to the ATM. I could use two hundred dollars.”

Jane looked stricken. “Two hundred dollars? I don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

Odd. Her mother used to keep at least two hundred bucks in the sugar bowl for emergencies. Well, it was none of Josie’s business. She noticed her mother had a grease spot on the front of her blue pantsuit and she wasn’t wearing lipstick. Jane was one of those women who considered herself naked without lipstick.

“Mom, is everything all right?” Josie said.

“Why wouldn’t it be? Because I don’t want to give you two hundred dollars for your stupid job? Because the police are questioning my daughter? Everything is just peachy.”

Well, Josie thought, lipstick or no lipstick, Mom was her old self.

“GBH,” Josie said. She gave her mother a well-deserved hug.

“I’m so worried about you,” Jane said. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” Josie said. “Don’t worry so much. I’ve got to get the kid to school.”

Ten minutes later Josie herded a washed, brushed and dressed Amelia into the car. If they hurried, they would make it. Stan the Man Next Door ambushed her in the driveway.

“Uh, your mom said we’re going out Thursday night,” he said.

“Right, Stan. What time?”

“How about if I pick you up for dinner at five?”

Five? That was early. But Josie figured the sooner it started, the sooner it would be over.

She winced when she saw what Stan was wearing to work: brown self-belted pants, a short-sleeved gray shirt, and a pocket protector. The only thing that could make him look nerdier would be black Buddy Holly glasses held together with tape.

Josie sighed. Stan was such a sweet, helpful guy. There wasn’t a mean bone in his head. But I can’t believe I’m going out with a guy who wears a pocket protector. If he worried about his shirt pockets, God knows what kind of a sheath he would put on his—.

“Mom, it’s twenty till eight. I’m going to be late,” Amelia said, saving her mother from completing that raunchy thought. Josie would enter a convent before Stan entered her.

“Sorry, Stan. Gotta run,” she said.

“I need to talk to you about your compressor,” he said.

“Later,” she said and put the car in gear. Stan jumped out of the way.

“Mom, that’s the second time this week you nearly ran over Stan,” Amelia said. “Are you trying to tell him something?”

“Yeah, but he won’t listen,” Josie said.

“That’s not funny, Mom,” Amelia said seriously. “If you hit Stan, the police will be really suspicious.”

Josie did not make any smart replies. Amelia suddenly seemed subdued and very small, dwarfed by her enormous green backpack. Some days, her daughter was a budding teenager, growing up too fast. On her ninth birthday, Amelia had announced that “Mommy” was for babies. Now that she was older, Amelia said, she would use “Mom.”

But this morning, when Amelia had been really scared, she’d called Josie “Mommy.”

I’ve done this to my daughter, Josie thought. I’ve undermined her confidence and frightened her into being a little girl again. I imagined every possible fear, every variation on potential disasters, but I never thought I’d be a murder suspect.

Josie saw herself talking to her daughter on a phone while she sat behind a Plexiglas screen on visiting day. She’d miss Amelia’s prom, her graduation, her wedding. Maybe they’d let Amelia stop by in her bridal gown to see her mother the jailbird on her wedding day. Josie quickly tried to erase those pictures.

“Amelia,” she said, “please don’t worry. I had nothing to do with Danessa.”

“Then why did the police come to our house?” Amelia said.

“They’re trying to find out what happened to her, so they can catch the bad person who did hurt her. I saw Danessa the day she died. The police wanted to talk to me about it. It’s their job.”

“Why did Grandma tell me not to say anything?” Amelia asked.

Interrogation by a nine-year-old was as tricky as talking to the police. Josie took a deep breath and plunged on. “Because not everyone is your friend, and they may take this harmless information and twist it around so it sounds bad.”

Amelia thought about what Josie had said. “Like when Hannah saw me reading that book about Egypt and it had statues of goddesses and they didn’t wear any clothes and Hannah said I was looking at pictures of naked people and I got called into Mrs. Apple’s office?”

“Exactly.” Josie was relieved. Amelia understood. Josie was more relieved when she saw the winding, tree-lined drive of the Barrington School. The interrogation was at an end.

“We’re here with five minutes to spare,” Josie said.

“Tomorrow is the big school book sale,” Amelia said. It was Barrington’s major fall fund-raiser.

“Don’t worry. I’ve signed up to bring brownies and I’m working the booths from five to seven.”

“You promise? You won’t get stuck at work or something?”

“I promise.” Josie read the desperation in her daughter’s eyes. Amelia wanted her mother to be like all the other moms.

“I won’t wear my tube top, either,” Josie said, but Amelia didn’t smile. She jumped out of the car. Josie thought her daughter moved slower than usual, weighed down by her backpack and her mother’s problems.

Josie waved to Emma’s mother as she pulled away from the curb and prayed that she looked like a soccer mom and not a murder suspect.

On the road, Josie suddenly realized she hadn’t had any coffee. She’d held a cup, but she hadn’t drunk any. She couldn’t start mystery-shopping Pleasin’ Pizzas until noon. Coffee, she thought, as she headed to Has Beans. A double espresso would get her going. The tea had been nice, but only coffee gave her the zip she needed. Oh, admit it, she told herself. It isn’t caffeine that has your heart beating faster.

The coffeehouse’s parking lot was empty. It was one of the weird moments that suddenly happened during the morning rush hour, when the customers would vanish, then return in droves a few minutes later.

“Josie!” Josh said. His goatee looked wicked. Josie wondered if the stories about what a guy could do with a soul patch were true.

“What do you want?” he asked.

She surprised herself by bursting into tears.

The next thing she knew, Josh was around the counter, holding her. She was crying on his shoulder. She felt like a fool, but it was a very nice shoulder. His shirt felt so soft.

“Hey, hey, what’s with the tears?” Josh handed her a pile of napkins to blow her nose.

“Bad morning.”

“How bad? Something wrong with the kid?”

“The police were at my house. They think I murdered Danessa Celedine.” She told him the whole story.

“That’s bad.” Josh looked serious now. He sat her down on a couch, moved a pile of newspapers and looked directly into her eyes.

“Josie, did the cops Mirandize you?”

“You mean, did they read me my rights, like on TV: ‘You have the right to remain silent—’?”

“Yes, exactly. Did they do that? It’s very important,” Josh said.

“No,” she said.

“That’s good. It means you may be a suspect, but you’re not
the
suspect.”

“How do you know?” Josie said.

“Let’s say I used to push more interesting things than caffeine.”

I really know how to pick ’em, Josie thought.

“I’m sorry, Josie,” he said. “Two soy lattes and a decaf skim cappuccino just pulled into the parking lot. I have to run. The rush is on again.”

Josh handed her a double espresso. “On the house. I wish I could stay with you. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Is there someone you can talk to?”

“Yeah, my best friend, Alyce.”

“Why don’t you give her a call? Do you need a lawyer?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not yet,” Josie said.

“Don’t talk to the cops again without one,” he said. “Promise me that.”

“I promise,” she said, and he kissed her lightly on the lips, just before the door opened and caffeine-deprived customers poured into the shop. Josie felt a little electric zing. How could such a light kiss be so heavy with promise?

Josie sat on the lumpy coffeehouse couch, which felt like it was stuffed with broken crockery. She was slightly dazed. It was a morning of firsts: her first police interrogation, her first kiss from Josh, and thanks to her mother, her first date with a man who wore a pocket protector. Right now, the kiss from Josh overshadowed the murder. I really am shallow, she thought, as she pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Alyce Bohannon.

No, I’m not. I’m young and healthy, and I got kissed by a hunk who cares about me. Why did I tell him so much? Because he listened. When was the last time she’d cried on anyone’s shoulder, male or female? She’d been carrying too many burdens for too long.

“You won’t believe what’s happening here,” Josie said when Alyce answered.

“You won’t believe what’s happening here,” Alyce said.

“You first,” Josie said. She was suddenly shy about telling her friend that she’d been braced by two homicide cops and kissed by a man who might have been a drug dealer.

“You know that Danessa Celedine and Serge Orloff live—lived—on my street. The cops are all over their house,” Alyce said breathlessly. “We expected that. But now the FBI is out here, interviewing everyone. Guys in moon suits are running around Danessa’s lawn with Geiger counters.”

“Geiger counters? Why?”

“I guess they’re Geiger counters,” Alyce said. “They’re all bristly and scary looking, that’s for sure. There are some people from an investigative arm of the Nuclear Regulatory Agency, about a million unmarked cars and some weird trucks.”

“Good Lord,” Josie said.

“ICE is here, too,” Alyce said. “That’s the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. This is really serious.”

“Alyce, what’s going on?”

“They’re looking for”—Alyce’s voice dropped to a whisper—“nuclear contaminants.”

Josie was confused. “What’s that got to do with Danessa? Did she sell purses that glowed in the dark?”

“It’s not Danessa. It’s Serge. The FBI thinks he was selling nuclear weapons materials.”

“No!” Josie said.

“Yes! Sneaked them right out of Russia. Something called osmium-187.”

“The FBI told you that?”

“The FBI isn’t telling anyone anything, especially me. I heard it from my housekeeper, Mrs. Donatelli, who heard it from Danessa’s housekeeper, Mrs. Perkins.”

“What the heck is osmium-187?” Josie said.

“Mrs. Perkins says it’s worth a fortune. She read an article in
Reader’s Digest
or something about how all the Russian resources are being looted: nickel, copper, gold, art and nuclear materials. About ten years ago, someone got caught smuggling eight grams of osmium-187 out of Russia. It was worth half a million dollars back then. According to Mrs. Perkins, Serge got nearly five million bucks for the ten grams he had.”