Tess Gerritsen - The Mephisto Club

Regina grabbed Jane’s hair and gave it a painful yank. Wincing, Jane pried away tenacious fingers and stared down at her daughter’s hand. And she thought, suddenly, of another hand, cold and lifeless. Someone else’s daughter, now lying in pieces in the morgue. Here it is, Christmas. Of all days, I should not have to think of dead women. But as she kissed Regina ’s silky hair, as she inhaled the scent of soap and baby shampoo, she could not shut out the memory of another kitchen and of what had stared up at her from the tiled floor.

“Hey, Ma, it’s halftime. When’re we gonna eat?”

Jane looked up as her older brother, Frankie, lumbered into the room. The last time Jane had seen him was a year ago, when he’d flown home from California for Christmas. Since then, his shoulders had bulked up even more. Every year, Frankie seemed to grow bigger, and his arms were now so thick with muscle that they could not hang straight, but swung in simian arcs. All those hours in the weight room, she thought, and where has it gotten him? Bigger, but definitely no smarter. She shot an appreciative glance at Gabriel, who was opening a bottle of Chianti. Taller and leaner than Frankie, he was built like a racehorse, not a draft horse. When you have a brain, she thought, who needs monster muscles?

“Dinner’s in ten minutes,” said Angela.

“That means it’ll run into the third quarter,” said Frankie.

“Why don’t you guys just turn off the TV?” said Jane. “It’s Christmas dinner.”

“Yeah, and we’d all be eating a lot earlier if you’d shown up on time.”

“Frankie,” snapped Angela. “Your sister worked all night. And look, she’s in here helping. So don’t you go picking on her!”

There was sudden silence in the kitchen as both brother and sister stared at Angela in surprise. Did Mom actually take my side, for once?

“Well. This is some great Christmas,” said Frankie, and he walked out of the kitchen.

Angela slid the colander of drained gnocchi into a serving bowl and ladled on steaming veal sauce. “No appreciation for what women do,” she muttered.

Jane laughed. “You just noticed?”

“Like we don’t deserve some respect?” Angela reached for a chef’s knife and attacked a bunch of parsley, mincing it with machine-gun raps. “I blame myself. Should have taught him better. But really, it’s your father’s fault. He sets the example. No appreciation for me whatsoever.”

Jane glanced at Gabriel, who chose just that moment to conveniently escape the room. “Uh…Mom? Did Dad do something to tick you off?”

Angela looked over her shoulder at Jane, her knife blade poised over the mangled parsley. “You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do.”

“I’m not going to go there, Janie. Oh, no. I believe every father deserves his child’s respect, no matter what he does.”

“So he did do something.”

“I told you, I’m not going to go there.” Angela scooped up the minced parsley and flung it onto the bowl of gnocchi. Then she stomped to the doorway and yelled, over the sound of the TV: “Dinner! Sit. ”

Despite Angela’s command, it was a few minutes before Frank Rizzoli and his two sons could tear themselves away from the TV. The halftime show had begun, and leggy girls in sequins strutted across the stage. The three Rizzoli men sat with eyes transfixed on the screen. Only Gabriel rose to help Jane and Angela shuttle platters of food into the dining room. Though he didn’t say a word, Jane could read the look he gave her.

Since when did Christmas dinner turn into a war zone?

Angela slammed the bowl of roast potatoes on the table, walked into the living room, and snatched up the remote. With one click, she shut off the TV.

Frankie groaned. “Aw, Mom. They got Jessica Simpson coming on in ten…” He saw Angela’s face and instantly shut up.

Mike was the first to jump up from the couch. Without a word, he scooted obediently into the dining room, followed at a more sullen pace by his brother Frankie and Frank senior.

The table was magnificently set. Candles flickered in crystal holders. Angela had laid out her blue and gold china and linen napkins and the new wineglasses she’d just bought over at the Dansk outlet. When Angela sat down and surveyed the feast, it was not with pride but with a look of sour dissatisfaction.

“This looks wonderful, Mrs. Rizzoli,” said Gabriel.

“Why, thank you. I know you appreciate how much work goes into a meal like this. Since you know how to cook.”

“Well, I didn’t really have a choice, living on my own for so many years.” He reached under the table and squeezed Jane’s hand. “I’m lucky I found a girl who can cook.” When she gets around to it was what he should have added.

“I taught Janie everything I know.”

“Ma, can you pass the lamb?” called Frankie.

“ Excuse me?”

“The lamb.”

“What happened to please ? I’m not passing it until you say the word.”

Jane’s father sighed. “Geez Louise, Angie. It’s Christmas. Can we just feed the boy?”

“I’ve been feeding this boy for thirty-six years. He’s not going to starve just because I ask for a little courtesy.”

“Um…Mom?” ventured Mike. “Could you, uh, please pass the potatoes?” Meekly, he added again, “Please?”

“Yes, Mikey.” Angela handed him the bowl.

For a moment no one spoke. The only sounds were jaws chewing and silverware sawing against china. Jane glanced at her father, seated at one end of the table, and then at her mother, seated at the other end. There was no eye contact between them. They might have been dining in different rooms, so distant were they from each other. Jane did not often take the time to study her parents, but tonight she felt compelled to, and what she saw depressed her. When did they get so old? When did Mom’s eyes start to droop, and Dad’s hair recede to such thin wisps?

When did they start hating each other?

“So Janie, tell us what kept you so busy last night,” said her dad, his gaze on his daughter, studiously avoiding even a glance at Angela.

“Um, no one really wants to hear about it, Dad.”

“I do,” said Frankie.

“It’s Christmas. I think maybe-”

“Who got whacked?”

She glanced across the table at her older brother. “A young woman. It wasn’t pretty.”

“Doesn’t bother me any to talk about it,” Frankie said, shoving a chunk of pink lamb into his mouth. Frankie the Master Sergeant, challenging her to gross him out.

“This one would bother you. It sure as hell bothers me.”

“Was she good-looking?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Just wondering.”

“It’s an idiotic question.”

“Why? If she’s good-looking, it helps you understand the guy’s motive.”

“To kill her? Jesus, Frankie.”

“Jane,” said her dad. “It’s Christmas.”

“Well, Janie has a point,” snapped Angela.

Frank looked at his wife in astonishment. “Your daughter cusses at the dinner table, and you’re getting on my back?”

“You think that only pretty women are worth killing?”

“Ma, I didn’t say that,” said Frankie.

“He didn’t say that,” said his father.

“But it’s what you think. Both of you. Only good-looking women are worth the attention. Love ’em or kill ’em, it’s only interesting if they’re pretty. ”

“Oh, please.”

“Please what, Frank? You know it’s true. Look at you. ”

Jane and her brothers all frowned at their father.