One Foot in the Grove (21 page)

Sal Malagutti ran his finger up my chest to under my chin. He put his thumb on top of my chin and pinched it tight as he lifted my face, put his lips together, and smack-kissed the air an inch from my face. Then, he let go.

“Till next time, Cupcake.”

Gloating, the two mobsters turned and swaggered out of my cottage, across the sunny lawn, over to their rental car parked in the drive next to the big house. I was relieved to see that they got in the vehicle and drove away. I was so frightened and shocked, after bracing myself against the bathroom doorframe for a minute or so, all I could do was cradle Dolly in my arms as I dropped into the armchair under the window. Shaking, I took off my sunglasses and sat, dazed, trying to assimilate what had happened.

They'd threatened my life.

I needed to call someone. But who? Of course, the county sheriff was the logical choice. But that was Buck, the man whom I jilted and humiliated in front of the entire community. The man who was in love with my archnemesis. The man who, in a drunken fit, I yelled at and kicked out of my
cottage after making an ass of myself just hours earlier. Or should I call Detective Gibbit? The man who clearly had me pegged as a murderess. The man who wanted nothing better than to sew up the homicide case quickly, so he could garner community support and take over as sheriff.

And if I did call, what would I say? Two guests came over and threatened my life? Threatened me because they think, as everyone else does, that I'm Lenny's murderer? I'd be strengthening the very case that the sheriff's department was already building against me. And I'd have no proof of what the gangsters had said anyway. Without a witness, repeating what had happened would just make me look worse. Of course, Sal knew that. There'd been two of them and only one of me. It was two against one, their word against my word.

“If only you could talk, Dolly.” I stroked the top of her head.

No. There was no one to call. No one who'd believe me, anyway. I'd have to figure this out on my own. And quickly.

There was a knock on the door.

“Miss Eva, y'all in there?” One of the twins peeked in the door.

“Yes!” I answered. “C'mon in.”

“No need to bother you, Miss Eva,” the twin said from the door. She was wearing one of Daphne's official Knox Plantation “uniforms,” which consisted of a short black skirt covered in front by a frilly, floral half apron. She wore a white off-the-shoulder blouse with ruffles around the neck and shoulder line. Cute to look at, but hardly practical. “Miss Pep asked me to come get you. She needs your help upstairs in the pink bathroom. The sink is broken.”

“Okay. I'll be right over.” I didn't know which twin it was. I never did. Charlene and Darlene were identical, both relatively short, with heart-shaped, freckled faces; dark, wavy hair; and wide-set blue eyes. Still, I'd learned quickly that when there was one twin, the other was never far behind. It was a “twin” thing, Daphne'd said once. Always looking out for each other.

Right then, I wished I'd had a twin of my own.

“Also, Miss Daphne wanted me to ask you if you'd seen or borrowed a shovel,” said the twin. “We need one out at the tent and can't find one.”

“Shovel? No. Sorry. I haven't seen one.”

“Okay, thanks!” The twin smiled and stepped off in the direction of the tent.

I went back into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. My hands shook as I drew a glass of water and gulped it down. I checked myself one last time in the mirror.

“What a mess.”

I took a deep breath, put my sunglasses on, and headed over to the big house.

There was water everywhere.

“Pep, what happened?”

“That Barbie doll Bambi woman happened, that's what,” sighed Pep.

On her hands and knees in the pink bathroom, Pep spread another white towel down on the marble floor and started soaking up the water. Pep yanked up her strapless black corset top. There was a lacy black choker around her neck, and she wore a simple black leather miniskirt over purposely ripped-open black tights and buckled black leather combat boots.

“All this water came from the sink?”

“That bimbo washed so much crap down the drain that the trap busted. Look over there!” She pointed to the little gilded trash can in the corner. I looked inside the can. There was a hamster-sized wad of blonde hair and three or four gigantic false eyelashes, and some other gunk.

“Gross.”

“Yeah, right. It was all down in the drain, and I'd just
cleaned the drain yesterday. I just can't fathom how anyone can do this every day,” said Pep.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“I've got to get to the Roadhouse in a bit. And Daphne, Precious, the twins, and Earlene Azalea are all so busy prepping for the Chamber of Commerce thingy that they haven't got time to help here. I was hoping that while I clean up this mess, y'all could run into town and pick up the P-trap that I need. Once I have the part, it won't take long to make the fix here. Then, I can be off to work on time.”

“Sure. I'll go now.”

“Hey, listen, Eva sweetie, before you go, I wanted to tell y'all that our idea is working!”

“What idea is that?”

“The one where we overload folks in town with tidbits of phony gossip about you. Last night at the Roadhouse, I heard folks talking about how the reason you left Zack in Boston was on account of you bein' gay. I cracked up when I heard it.”

“Well, that didn't take long.”

“Nope. Guess we have Boone Beasley to thank for that.”

“Or Debi Dicer.”

“Debi?”

“Forget it. Debi's not that stupid anyway. I'm sure it was Mister Beasley.”

“Speaking of which, Daphne wants you to take Boone his check today for the meat he delivered yesterday. She left it on the kitchen table, downstairs.”

“Sure. I can do that.”

“Daphne said Boone called asking for his check. Between you and me, I think he's got some major financial troubles. I see him at the Roadhouse a lot. I think he drinks all his money away.”

“Humm.”

“Just don't take too long when you're out. I need to get that P-trap installed under the sink before I go to work, and I haven't got much time.”

“Okay. Listen, Pep, before I go, there's something important I need to tell you.”

“Sure, sweetie, whatcha got on your mind? And why are y'all wearin' those silly sunglasses inside the house? You're kinda reminding me of Daphne.” Pep made a silly face.

“Never mind the glasses. The Italian guys came over to my place this morning.”

“I thought the ladies were off on a day trip to Tallahassee. Shopping. I saw them leave a couple of hours ago.”

“It wasn't the wives. It was the men.”

“Why were they over at your place? Daphne told me she'd made arrangements with the guide at Wildman's Lodge to take them fishing on Big Lake today. Did that not work out?”

“They came over to threaten me.”

“Threaten you? Why? Oh, hon, are you okay?” Pep stopped mopping and sat up to look at me. “What happened? They didn't hurt you, did they?”

“No. But they scared the crap out of me. Pep, these people are killers.”

“Killers?”

“Yes. Buck told me.”

“Buck? Whoa, hon, when did you see Buck?
Are
you seein' Buck? Oh! I
knew
it!”

“I'm not seeing Buck. Forget about Buck. It's not important. What's important is that these guys are mobsters and they think that I killed the pastry guy in the woods.”

“Why?” Pep looked astonished.

“Because pastry guy Leonard, it turns out, was in the mob,” I said. “He was known as ‘Lenny the Doughboy.' And the head of the New England mafia family, a guy they call ‘Tony the Baker,' is the guy who owned the pastry shop where I ordered my wedding cake in Boston. So, now, everyone in the mob thinks I'm some sort of hit woman. Or, a mob moll who killed another mob hit man.”

Pep burst out into laughter. “Oh, Eva, that's a good one! You had me going there for a minute!” She rolled her eyes again. “‘The Doughboy.' You're hilarious.”

“Pep, I'm not kidding!”

“Oh, come on.” Pep looked at me. “‘Doughboy'?” She made little pig snort giggles.

“Yes! And it's way better than what they call his sister—we think Loretta was his sister, by the way. They call her ‘the Cleaver'!”

“His
sister
? Then what's with the note about their running off to get married?”

“Who knows. None of it makes any sense.”

I felt a wave of weakness and looked for a place to sit. I stepped behind Pep over to the toilet where the lid was down—the only seat in town, so to speak. I grabbed a newspaper off the top of the lid before I plunked down.

“Hey, you okay, sweetie? Y'all look like a ghost.”

“Not really.” I glanced at the paper in my hand. “Oh. My. God. Look at this. See, I told you!” I held up the newspaper for Pep to see. It was the local weekly, the
Abundance Record
. My photo was on the front page.

“Well, don't that just take the cake,” said Pep. She took the paper from my hand and studied the page. Then, she started reading aloud, “‘Eva Knox, Murder Suspect. Eva Knox, daughter of Abundance County crop farmer, Robert Knox, owner of Knox Plantation, along with a woman known as Loretta Cook, an employee of Knox Plantation, has been named as a person of interest in the death of Leonard Lemoni, also known as Leonard Leonardo.'”

Pep interrupted herself. “Well, now that I see it in print, that's a stupid name. Leonard Leonardo. Daphne should've thought there was something fishy about that.”

I nodded in agreement.

Pep shook her head and continued reading. “‘Lemoni, a resident and employee of Knox Plantation working as a fishing and hunting guide, was found shot to death early Tuesday morning on the edge of a one-hundred-acre olive grove at Knox Plantation. Eva Knox was discovered by a neighbor lying unconscious next to the deceased. Miss Knox only recently returned to Abundance after nearly two decades
residing and working in Massachusetts as a public relations consultant, said a source from the Abundance County Sheriff's Department.'”

“Tell me something I don't know,” I said glumly.

“‘Loretta Cook has been living and been employed as a cook at Knox Plantation since early spring, said a source. She has not been seen since late Monday night, when her car, reportedly a light blue Honda Accord, also disappeared. Law enforcement officials are asking for the community's help to find the missing woman. One official expressed concern that she may be another victim of foul play, since her personal belongings, including her wallet and cash, were left in her apartment.'”

“Great,” I said.

“But there's no mention in the article of her being Leonard's sister.”

“Probably because the story was written before I told Buck what I knew about her last night. I gave him the photo I'd found in her apartment.”

Pep continued. “‘Fingerprint analysis and other evidence recently confirmed that Leonard Lemoni resided in Providence, Rhode Island, and was a well-known member of the New England Lemoni Mafia crime family. Lemoni was also known as ‘the Doughboy' and was reputed to be a money-laundering expert as well as mob hit man who had a penchant for gambling. Sources say that although he'd only recently come to town, already there was evidence that Lemoni was running an illegal gambling enterprise in Abundance.'” Pep stopped reading and stared in thought for a moment. “Huh.”

Pep and I had probably been struck with the same thought: There was a good chance that Billy had been involved in Leonard's gambling activities. Where had Billy gone when Pep had returned home with the olive oil? Could Billy have been with the pastry guy the night he was murdered? Could Billy have killed Lenny over some sort of gambling debt? No.
Surely not
.

Pep, lost in her own thoughts, finally cleared her throat and resumed reading. “‘Lemoni's uncle, Anthony Lemoni, Sr., of Boston, Massachusetts, is reputed to be the notorious New England crime family patriarch known as Tony “the Baker” Lemoni, and is considered to be one of the most powerful and dangerous members of the organized crime syndicate in the United States.'”

“Who knew?” I said dejectedly. “His cakes are heaven-sent.”

“‘Suspected of racketeering, drug smuggling, loan sharking, and money laundering, the senior Lemoni owns several businesses, including a bakery in Boston's North End where Abundance native Eva Knox often visited.'” Pep held up the paper. “Look, Eva, they've got a photo of you going into Anthony's Awesome Pastries. That
is
where you ordered your wedding cake!”

“Yep. That's the place. And I know when that photo was taken. The
Boston Globe
newspaper ran a story about my wedding plans. A reporter and photographer followed me around for a week, recording all the arrangements Zack and I were making for the wedding. The feature was published as part of the
Globe
's June bridal section.'”

Pep read on, “‘Sources say Eva Knox used the mob bakery to purchase an expensive wedding cake for a wedding scheduled for this summer. However, in front of hundreds of eyewitnesses, Knox, aka the “Runaway Bride,” deserted her fiancé, Boston celebrity and WCVB-TV weatherman Zack Black, just minutes before their ceremony was scheduled to take place at the historic Beacon Hill Community Church. In a local twist, Eva Knox ran away from Abundance County sheriff Buck Tanner eighteen years ago this month on their wedding day. According to a source at the Abundance County Sheriff's Department, authorities are investigating Eva Knox's connection to the Lemoni crime family, as well as her role in the death of Leonard Lemoni.'”

Pep stopped reading. “Oh gosh, Eva, did you see this other photo? Why, that was just taken, here . . . yesterday!”

I grabbed the paper from Daphne and studied the photo. It was a shot of me, standing in the dining room doorway next to Daphne, talking to Judi Malagutti. I looked like some sort of wild beast, all scratched, hair a wretched mess, wearing my torn and soiled
GEORGIA VIRGIN
tee. And I was making a face at Daphne, with my eyes rolled up in my head.

“Yeah. I look great, don't I? No wonder Daphne had me hide in the pantry. It's a wonder she ever let me out.”

“Well, I admit, y'all weren't at your best there.”

Kudos for the understatement, I thought.

“That must've been taken by one of those two women that came in here after the highway accident,” I mused. “You know, now that I think about it, I saw a camera flash. And there was this one woman who had a camera. She kept walking by as we were talking . . . She had a nose ring, I think.”

“Paparazzi?”

“Could be.”

“Daphne'll have a cow that she let them stay here. I know that they turned up unexpectedly. I never knew their names. And I think they checked out already.”

“Is there a photo credit?”

“Let's see. Here it is, under the photo. ‘Tam See.' And the article byline is Pat Butts. Who is Pat Butts? Must be someone new in town.”

“Or a freelancer. I attract them like flies to a split-open pie.”

“Hey! The caption identifies Judi Malagutti as ‘wife of New York mobster Sal Malagutti' and says your Mafia connections appeared to be ‘intimate and far-reaching.'”

“Omigosh! They
are
Mafia. We've got the New York mob
and
the New England mob here. Well, crap. Doesn't this just make my day.”

I wondered why Buck hadn't told me about the Malaguttis and the Gambinis. Surely, he knew. Of course, I'd forgotten to tell Buck about the gun under the mattress. Neither one of us had come clean.

“Can't see how it can get much worse, hon. Don't y'all
think you ought to call the sheriff's department about the men threatening you? I'm worried about your safety.”

“I doubt it'll do any good. At least the good news is, we don't have to come up with ridiculous gossip about me for the day.” I tossed the paper in the little golden wastebasket. “It's already in print.”