One Foot in the Grove (19 page)

“Very funny. They're samples for work. I'm becoming an olive oil aficionado.” I sipped my peach whiskey. It made me feel warm inside. Still, I needed to eat. I heard Buck slicing. Then, he put something into my toaster oven. For the next few minutes, he fussed about quietly in the kitchenette. I heard him chopping and then knocking around with a bowl. Still trying to figure out what to do, I watched the peach whiskey swirl in my glass as I twirled it on the table.

Dolly started snoring from her bed. She was still wrapped up in my shirt, surrounded by her precious collection of tissue wads.

“Where did you find Dolly?” I finally asked.

“She was sitting right on the front step when I got here. Why, was she missing?”

“Yes. I haven't seen her since . . .” I stopped myself short. The last thing I wanted to do was talk about the last time I'd seen Dolly. It had been in the olive grove, right after I'd tripped over the poor dead pastry guy's foot. Should I start calling him “Lenny”? Of course, hearing what I had to say about the dead man was
exactly
the reason Buck had shown up to the cottage late at night. He wanted to get me to talk. Maybe even incriminate myself.

“Never mind,” I said. “I have a headache.”

Buck came to the table and set down a Blue Willow platter of warm sliced fingers of toast and a bottle of Knox Liquid Gold Extra Virgin Olive Oil. He went back to the kitchenette and returned with a bowl of Daphne's fresh tomatoes. He'd crushed the tomatoes into a puree of sorts. Also, he carried some sea salt and a pepper grinder. The next time, he returned with two small salad plates and a spoon that he plunked into the bowl of tomato puree. Then, he went to the switch over by the door and dimmed the overhead cranberry glass lantern until it shed a warm rosy glow across the room. He went back to the kitchenette one more time before returning to the table with the bottle of peach whiskey and his empty glass. He plunked down in the chair across from me and poured himself another whiskey.

“You dimmed the light for a reason?” I asked. “You wouldn't want me to get the wrong impression.”

“You said you had a headache,” Buck answered. He poured peach whiskey into my glass and pushed it back toward me across the table. He set the whiskey bottle down and leaned back in his chair.

“Okay, now,” he explained, clapping his hands together, “I've made us some tomato toast.” He opened the bottle of Daddy's olive oil and drizzled it over the toast on the platter. “Just take a piece with the drizzled oil and cover it with a glop of the herbed tomato. Add all the salt and pepper you want on top.” Buck swirled his finger into some of the oil on his plate that'd spilled over from the toast when he'd drizzled it. He licked the olive oil off his finger. “Good stuff. I'm impressed.”

“When did you start cooking?” I asked. The snack was simple. Still, the Buck Tanner I knew couldn't make toast or put together a meal, even a snack, if his life had depended on it. He'd been more lost in a kitchen than I'd been. Growing up, Buck's food either came out of a box or bag from Carter's Country Corner Store, or his mother, Tammy Fae, had made it from scratch. And he'd expected his future wife to do the same for him.

“When I was overseas, I used to make it for myself every
morning for breakfast,” said Buck as he slathered a pile of tomato puree over his slender slice of toast. He salted and peppered his treat and popped the entire thing in his mouth. “Try it,” he said, still chewing. “You'll like it. These tomatoes are delicious, by the way. Where'd they come from?”

“Daphne.”

“That explains it.”

“And the bread?”

“Precious Darling.”

Buck raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything as he chewed. He picked up another sliver of toast and dumped a spoonful of tomatoes on it.

I took a sip of whiskey and watched Buck salt and pepper his snack. I was imagining where “overseas” he'd begun to make himself tomato toast for breakfast every morning. I remembered someone saying that he'd been somewhere, left Abundance and gone off for several years.
Who said that?
Had it been Pep? Had she told me where he'd been? How long he'd been gone? I knew he'd become sheriff about a year ago. And hooked up with Debi Dicer six months ago—hence their “anniversary.” Hey, I thought, wasn't that tonight? Had he celebrated with Debi then come over here, to me, for sloppy seconds? No, I reminded myself, it was worse than that. He was pretending to be my friend so that he could pry information out of me or get me to incriminate myself in a homicide. I was the town suspect for murder. He was going to arrest me.

I was onto him.

“What do you want, Buck? Why are you here? It must be nearly midnight, and I'm tired.”

I took another, bigger, sip of my whiskey. It was going down easier. How could he be with Debi Dicer? Clearly, I didn't know this man at all.

“No, it's not quite midnight.” Buck glanced at his wristwatch. It looked expensive. “Actually, it's eleven thirty-two. Here.” Buck reached across the table and handed me a toast he'd already slathered with the mashed-up tomatoes. “Eat this.”

Before I thought the better of it, I took the toast and bit into it.

“Atta girl. See, it's good, isn't it?” Buck smiled as he watched me. His eyes softened as his dimples deepened.

It was simple and delicious. I nodded as I chewed. The homemade bread that Precious had baked was even better than Loretta's.

“Eva, you ever heard of Anthony ‘the Baker' Lemoni?” It was well after midnight, and Buck tossed down his third or fourth shot of peach whiskey.

“No. Why?” I swallowed my last bite of tomato toast.

“You ever hear of Anthony's Awesome Pastries?”

“In Boston? The one in the North End?”

Buck nodded.

“Sure. Why?”

“Tell me about it.”

“I don't know. It's a bakery that I used to go to. They won a ‘Best of Boston' award a bunch of times . . . Why?”

“What did you use it for?”

“What do you mean, what did I ‘use it for'? It's a
bakery
. I bought baked goods there.”

“Be specific.”

“What . . . ?” I blushed. Surely, if he was asking me about it, he knew that was the place where I'd seen the dead man. And he knew that it was the place where I'd ordered my wedding cake. The cake for
another
wedding that never
happened. Did I have to say it out loud? I sipped nearly half a glass of the peach whiskey before I stared hard at Buck.

“Just answer my question. Please,” Buck said calmly. He had a serious look in his eyes that I hadn't seen earlier.

“Why?”

Admitting to Buck that I'd run from another wedding was just as bad as owning up to the fact that I'd run from him, and our wedding, all those years earlier. It was the face-to-face moment I'd dreaded for eighteen years. It was worse than admitting that I'd been acquainted with the dead man.

“Because your life could be in danger,” he said flatly.

I stared, almost expecting Buck to start laughing, the way he did when he teased and played jokes on people when we were kids. But he just sat still. Waiting for me.

“I . . . I . . . ordered a cake there once.”

“A cake?”

I glared at him. “A wedding cake.”

Humiliation complete, I expected Buck to make some sort of smirky, satisfied smile. Or say something snarky or sarcastic about my “runaway bride” moniker. But he didn't. His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked even more determined.

“Is that the only time you went in there? To order a wedding cake?”

“No. I don't think so. I've been there several times. Maybe a bunch of times. I don't know!”

“When was the last time you went to Anthony's Awesome Pastries?”

“I don't know.”

“Think, Eva. It's important.”

I started to squirm in my chair. “Can I have more to drink?”

“Sure.” Buck poured me another glass of whiskey. And he poured himself one as well. So much for him being “on duty.” The bottle was very low.

“I think the last time I went there was about four weeks ago.”

“Why?”

“To check on my cake.” I tossed back half the whiskey. “Okay?” I raised my voice. “To check on the stupid, damned wedding cake that—as everyone knows—I didn't need in the first place because
the wedding never happened
. Once again. The wedding never happened. There. Are you happy now?”

Buck ignored my outburst. Poker face.

“Eva, just listen. Did you ever speak with Anthony Lemoni?”

“I already told you. I don't know any ‘Anthony Lemoni.' I only spoke with the manager, Tony. And . . . the pastry guy behind the counter.” I sighed. “The dead guy.”

So, here we were. Finally, getting down to business, I thought. Without thinking, the words had just tumbled out. I'd admitted knowing the pastry guy in Boston was the dead man I'd tripped over in the woods. I never could keep anything from Buck. But why, then, had Buck's expression not changed when I'd said the words? Hadn't he come to arrest me? Clearly, I'd revealed the “connection” Detective Gibbit had been fishing for earlier. However, Buck acted like he hadn't even heard my admission.

“You say the manager was named Tony?” Buck reached into his back pocket and fished out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and handed it to me. It was a photograph. “Is this your ‘Tony' behind the counter?”

“Yes! That's Tony. The manager.”

“That's Anthony Lemoni. Also known as Tony ‘the Baker' Lemoni. He's the New England crime family boss responsible for all sorts of organized crime. And scores of hits.”

“Hits? You mean, like, murder?”

“Yes.”

“Aw, come on!” I said, slapping my hand on the table. “Are you telling me that I ordered my wedding cake from a mobster hit man? No wonder the wedding never came off!” I started laughing uncontrollably. “That's ridiculous. Really. Totally, ridiculous. Is this one of your jokes?”

“Eva, I am deadly serious.”

“No way.”

Buck just looked at me.

“Really?” I wiped a tear from my cheek. “Only me.”

“Really.”

I shook my head. “So, why are you telling me this? So, I went to a mob bakery. Everyone in Boston goes there. Their cakes are to die for . . .” I burst out laughing. “Get it? To die for?”

“I get it, Eva.”

“Besides, I never even got to
taste
my cake.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what? What are you driving at?”

“According to Daphne, you said that you recognized the dead man in the woods as someone who worked behind the counter at Anthony's Awesome Pastries up in Boston. Is that correct?”

He'd caught me off guard. “How . . . ? Did . . . How did you hear this? Daphne said this? When? Where?”

“She told one of my deputies today on the phone.”

“She did? Really?”

“Yes . . . she did. The deputy said she was quite dissatisfied with the department's overall handling of the case. Apparently, she used the information you related to her, information Detective Gibbit failed to ferret out, as just one example of our ‘slipshod' investigation. She had many examples.”

“You mean, she complained?”

“In a word: yes.”

“I see.”

“So, Eva, did you know this man?”

“Know him? No. I only saw him. Behind the counter. At the pastry shop.”

“Okay. So, it turns out, you were right. Our vic in the woods, the man your sister knew as Leonard Leonardo, the man she hired as a field guide, and the man whom you knew in Boston . . .”

“I didn't ‘know' him; I just saw him there. At the shop. I said that.”

“Right, I got that, Babydoll. Anyway, he was Leonard “Lenny the Doughboy” Lemoni. Anthony Lemoni's nephew, money handler, and ‘enforcer' for the New England Lemoni family.”

“Enforcer? Wait. What does that mean? Hit man?
Another
hit man?”

Buck nodded.

“What are you saying? I got some hit man to come down here and get himself killed?”

“You tell me.”

“Tell you
what
?” I held up my empty glass. “Hit me again. Oh my God, I'm so funny. Get it? I said, ‘hit' me!”

“You've had enough.”

“No. I haven't. Pour. And why aren't you drinking yours?” I kept rambling. “Wait till I tell Daphne she hired a mobster hit man. Missus DQ Perfect Knox Bouvier will pee in her pants. Does she know?”

Buck poured me half a glass. Then downed what was in his, and refilled it. I daresay, it was probably to keep me from having any more whiskey. My throat was warm and fuzzy. In fact, I was feeling very warm and fuzzy all over.

“Cheers,” I said. I took a big sip.

“Cheers,” said Buck. And he took an even smaller sip. “Now, why don't you answer my question?”

“What was the question?”

“Why did Leonard Lemoni come down here?”

“I don't have the foggiest idea. I never even saw him here, before I tripped over his foot.”

I hadn't meant to bring that moment up. Let alone think about it. I took a big gulp of whiskey and shuddered.

“Hit me again.”

Buck poured more whiskey into my glass. As I picked up the glass and downed more of the liquor, he pulled out another photograph and held it up in front of me. It was a photo of a thick-necked, dark-haired,
Mediterranean-looking man with a sign around his neck that read
RHODE ISLAND STATE POLICE
with a bunch of numbers under it. A mug shot.

“Is this the man you knew in Boston?”

I put my glass down and squinted at the photograph. I tried to imagine a body in between the head in the photo and the foot I'd tripped over. I shuddered and turned away from the photo, nodding my head. Buck folded it up and put it back in his pocket.

“Are you sure that you never saw him before last night, except for in the pastry shop?”

“Yes, I'm sure.”

“And what did you talk about in the pastry shop?”

“Pastry.”

Buck looked at me, exasperated.

“That's it! I swear. All we ever talked about was whatever I was buying or ordering.”

“No other ‘business'?”

“What? Like, was I ordering a hit or something? Of course not. That's ridiculous.”

“And when you came home and saw that your sister had hired him here as a guide, didn't you think that was . . . strange?”

“No. Because, like I said before, I never saw him here. Alive, that is. When I first came home, Daphne told me that she'd hired someone as a guide, except he was out on some fishing or hunting trip for the week. So, I never got to meet him.”

“You never saw, or spoke to, Leonard Lemoni here, or anywhere else outside the pastry shop? You didn't see him, living right over there by the pond, in your granddaddy's hunting cabin?”

I shook my head. “No. I'd never seen Leonard, er, Lenny . . . whatever his name is. Or was. I've spoken with Chef Loretta a bunch of times. She's new here, too. I even helped her in the kitchen. Still, I'd never even seen her apartment until earlier tonight. And I haven't seen Leonard, or
whatever his name was. And I haven't been to the cabin since . . . well, years ago.”

Buck nodded. I wondered if he realized that one of the last times I'd been inside the cabin had been with him. My mind flashed to that late-night tryst when we'd hidden from Daddy and his friends under the secret trapdoor in the floor. First used to hide slaves, and later, moonshine, there were several hiding places like that around the plantation. As scared as I'd been to get caught that night with Buck—I was sure that Daddy never would've let me see the light of day, or Buck, again—I remembered the rush of excitement about it all. It was one of the most romantic nights I'd ever had with Buck. Okay. It was one of the most romantic nights I'd had . . . ever. I remembered Buck's warm shoulder and his arm pressed around me. And how he'd calmly held me steady for hours, stroking my hair. Pressing his lips into my temple. I didn't care about the spiders around us.

Scary had been intoxicating.

Sitting opposite Buck in the cottage, thinking about it, my ears burned and my face got hot. Something in my stomach flipped. Then, all of a sudden, I had an idea. I looked up at Buck. He'd been watching me.

As if he read my mind, Buck said, “It's empty. I already checked under the trapdoor to be sure Loretta wasn't there, one way or another.”

“You mean, dead or alive?”

“Something like that.”

“So, who is she?”

“We're still waiting for a hit on prints. However, Lenny Lemoni does have a sister named Loretta.”

“He does?”

“A twin.”

“Like in the photo I found! Then, you know I had nothing to do with this!”

Lenny and Loretta being brother and sister didn't clarify anything, I thought. In fact, it made the note announcing their elopement completely inexplicable.

“Unfortunately, Babydoll, my detective, Eli Gibbit, is sure you're the reason behind all of this. He just can't quite figure out how it all fits together. And I can't convince him to let it go.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because you're the only link connecting the Lemoni family to Abundance. And, frankly, although I don't agree with Eli that you're somehow complicit in all this, I do believe that you're the key to the events that happened here. You may have set something in motion unwittingly.”

“That's me. Unwitting Eva.” I tossed down the rest of my drink.

“Eva, this is serious. These people are cold-blooded killers.”

“So, you believe me?”

“Yes, Babydoll. I believe you. Still, I need you to help me. Stop hiding what you know. Your life could be in danger.”

For twenty or more minutes, Buck grilled me about Anthony's Awesome Pastries in Boston, Tony Lemoni, Lenny Lemoni, and my quick decision to come home from Boston—the only topic I refused to discuss in any detail with him. And then, of course, I had to recount the events in the woods when I'd tripped over Leonard.

“So, tell me what you know about the note in the kitchen,” said Buck.

“I don't know anything about the note. First I heard of it was when Pep told me at about it. And we've all been thinking that it was odd Loretta ran off to marry a guy whom she'd only met a few weeks earlier. Like, for example, I'd prepared dinner with Loretta, and she never said a word about running off to get hitched. But if she's the dead guy's twin sister, then none of it makes any sense at all, does it?”