J.M. Griffin - Vinnie Esposito 05 - Season for Murder

Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

Rockland, Ontario, Canada

Copyright © 2013 J.M. Griffin

Exclusive cover © 2013 Laura Givens

Inside artwork © 2013 Giovanna Lagana

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

A catalogue record for the print format of this title is available from the National Library of Canada

ISBN
978-1-927555-37-8

A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

from the National Library of Canada

Ebooks are available for purchase from

www.lachesispublishing.com

ISBN 978-1-927555-36-1

Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

For those officers in Rhode Island’s State Police Department and my Providence Police buddies, I thank you for your help in getting my facts straight. You’re the best!

Also Available

For Love of Livvy

Dead Wrong

Dirty Trouble

Cold Moon Dead

The Esposito Series Box Set (Books 1-3)

A Crusty Murder

Deadly Bakery Series (Book 1
)

Coming Soon

A Crouton Murder

Deadly Bakery Series (Book 2)

Focaccia Fatality

Deadly Bakery Series (Book 3)

SEASON FOR MURDER

Chapter 1

Cupcakes, covered with globs of white frosting adorned with assorted snowman-shaped colored sprinkles, filled several plates. My mother, the bake sale queen and cookie maker extraordinaire, stood behind the table sampling the delights spread far and wide across the gleaming stainless steel surface of the countertop. I stepped forward and stayed her hand before she could lift a slice of fruitcake from a nearby dish.

“Mom, you’re going to have to pay for every single thing on this table if you keep taste testing all these goodies.” I smiled, as guilt stole across her face.

“You’re right, Lavinia,” she said with a chuckle. “I’d better stop now while I can. I still have to make dinner when I get home. Your father might not be cooking tonight.”

The dayroom had filled with elderly residents, who lived in the senior housing complex attached to the end of the senior citizen center. Most of the residents gathered daily for fun and entertainment. Several old dears had tottered up to the table, peered at the offerings, and then ordered tea with a slice of pastry or an assortment of cookies.

I stepped aside before I could be trampled by a rotund woman using her walker as though it were a battering ram. She muscled her way to the forefront of the crowd. Her bright red, oversized sweatshirt sparkled with glitter. Glistening snow stretched across a branch where two cardinals perched precariously at a wicked angle as the sweatshirt tightened over her bodacious breasts.
They were most likely
g
rasping the branch for their lives.
Laughter threatened to burst forth as the idea ran through my head. I held it back by sheer willpower. The rotund woman wore red stretch pants, which bulged with grape clustered bunches of cellulite.

Bold red lipstick smeared up over her lip lines in a Lucille Ball style application. It had smudged onto her teeth, leaving them red and white, in candy cane fashion. When she smiled at me, I simply smiled in return and edged farther away.

With a deft motion, she swept a slice of fruitcake off the dish in front of her and stuffed it into her mouth, chewed once or twice, swallowed, and repeated the action again.

Appalled by her lack of manners, I gaped at the woman. My mouth hung open in surprise. I snapped it shut when my mother murmured my name. The cake eating commenced as the huge woman glanced in my direction, winked, and then choked, spewing masticated fruitcake remains across my cashmere sweater and onto my face. Her fleshy left hand grasped her throat as her wide eyes bugged out.

She staggered a bit before she keeled backward, crashing onto the floor. The woman’s body flowed in all directions just as lava rolls down a mountainside. Elderly residents swarmed around us. They gawked at me and then at the gasping woman. An old fellow stuffed napkins into my hand. I managed to wipe my face while I yelled, “Call for the rescue.”

I knelt beside the obese woman. Her carotid artery pulsed faintly against my fingertip where I pressed her skin for a pulse. Labored, shallow breaths puffed through her cherry-red, lipstick-covered lips. Saliva, mixed with cake, dribbled from the corner of her mouth.

Shaking her shoulder, I asked in a loud voice, in case she was deaf, “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Her eyes glazed, and her lips flapped. Nothing came out except more of the saliva mixture, a disgusting sight at best.

Within seconds, she lost consciousness. I heard sirens become louder and closer. The rescue truck halted outside the double glass paned doors as I glanced up. Emergency medical workers barreled into the room. It was then that I noticed her skin had turned an unbecoming shade of blue.

While the team performed their magic, I stood aside as though disconnected from the entire event. The team leader, Billy Conlan, was from my old neighborhood. Billy attempted to question aged relics nearby who gaped at the goings on and pointed with their canes at the attempt made by the rescuers to save the downed woman. Each person had a different story. Frustration began to show in Billy’s face when he was unable to assemble a coherent picture of what had happened.

“She had some fruitcake and then collapsed,” I offered when Billy turned to me.

“At last, a story with merit.” Billy shook his head and beckoned me to step beyond the crowd. “What else happened?”

“Nothing,” I said. “She fell into unconsciousness. I asked for a rescue to be called. There’s nothing more to tell.”

“She ate food from this table?” Billy motioned to the lengthy table laden with pastry.

“That’s right. She only ate fruitcake from that dish.” I pointed to the offending cake and watched Billy step toward the table. He sniffed the cake before he whisked the dish out of anyone else’s reach.

Holding the plate, he turned and asked, “How long was she unconscious before we arrived?”

“Not long, maybe a minute.”

My mother stepped close, hovering at my elbow, wringing her hands. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the incident, or the fact that she’d nearly eaten the fruitcake. Glancing at her, I slipped an arm around her shoulder.

She whispered, “Lavinia, do you think Iva had a stroke, or that something worse has happened?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll find out, though,” I whispered in her ear and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Take the remaining food into the kitchen just in case there’s an issue.”

Addressing an EMT who couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, I asked, “What do you think the problem is with this lady?”

He glanced at Billy, who gave him a nod, and said, “We won’t know for sure until she’s admitted to the hospital. Are you a relative?”

“No, just a visitor.”

“Does she have any family here?” Billy asked as he motioned the EMT to return to Iva.

One of the old men stepped forth and nodded. Mumbling the name of Iva’s family and the person to be notified, he turned to watch as Iva was loaded onto a stretcher and rolled out the door toward the rescue.

I watched the rescuers struggle to lift their heavy burden into the back of the vehicle. The stretcher sloped in the middle from the dead weight of Iva’s body. I had a moment of pity for the poor guys. There was no way I would do that job. I considered the thought, imagining mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Iva’s mouth full of cake. I gagged at the mental image.

The front of my cashmere sweater was laden with chunks of fruitcake, some mashed and others ground. Disgusted, I turned toward the ladies room to clean what I could off the material. My mother, Theresa Esposito, strode into the room behind me to wash her hands. She took one look at my sweater and shook her head.

“You’ll need to be careful when removing that mess. The sweater needs gentle care, Lavinia.”

Ignoring the comment, I swiped the offending food off the yarn with a moist paper towel. Washing and drying my hands, I noted my mother’s pale-faced reflection in the mirror above the sink.

“Who brought the fruitcake in?” I asked keeping my voice in casual mode.

Her wide-eyed glance flicked up from the sink into the mirror and her face paled even more.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It was here when I arrived earlier. There was a message taped to the top of the wrapped cake stating it should be shared with the group. I just sliced it, and put it out with everything else.”

A bewildered look registered on her face. She turned to me and leaned against the triple-sink counter.

“I don’t think there was anything wrong with the cake, Lavinia. No one would do such a thing. I’m sure Iva just had a spell or something. She’s not well, and she is a rather large woman who doesn’t take care of herself.”

No way was I about to try and convince my kind-hearted mother that not everyone in the world was good. It would be futile. She had faith in the human race as a whole, which meant when something unfortunate happened, she was usually surprised. Naïve in her outlook, I wondered for a moment if that was a bad thing.

The world I inhabit was a far cry from that in which my mother lives. As a criminal justice instructor at a university in Rhode Island, I’m constantly surrounded by cops, or Five-O’s as they are referred to in the industry. My other students come from security companies and colleges within the state. These folks are called wannabe’s, flashlight cops, or two-point-five’s since they’re not considered real cops, by real cops. It makes life interesting, volatile, and never, ever mundane. This is a good thing most of the time, but I’ve witnessed the seamy side of life and know all too well that people tend to inflict horrible things on one another in the name of love, revenge, or any number of excuses they find handy to describe their unacceptable behavior.

With a hand on my mother’s shoulder, I ushered her from the restroom to join the growing number of elderly people who milled around the oversized dayroom. Someone played a Christmas tune on the piano in the corner in hope of reviving the cheerful atmosphere that seemed to have fled. When Iva hit the deck, surprise and consternation took over. After the rescuers took her away along with the fruitcake, a buzz of gossip had whipped through the crowd like an ill wind.

The old geezer, who’d given Iva’s family information out, strolled over to us and planted himself firmly in front of my mother.

“Terri, I want you to know we don’t blame you for this mishap,” he stated. His gaze slid around the room and landed on my mother again.

Relief came out in breathy words as she took his hand in hers. “Thank you, Mr. Perkins. I certainly hope not. I have no idea why Iva took ill so suddenly.”