Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“How do I know that name?” Anthony asked, with a slight frown.

“High school.” So Mary told him the story, and his expression darkened.

“It’s a terrible thing,” he said, after she had finished the story. “I don’t get some men.”

“Me, either.” Mary didn’t elaborate.

“Wait a minute. Why is this your problem? You and Trish weren’t friends, were you?” Anthony cocked his head. “She was so conceited in high school, and he was a dumb jock.”

“She came to me for help.”

“So she’s your client?”

“Not really.”

Anthony arched an eyebrow. “Then if you ask me, I think you did plenty. You found the diary and you told the police. This is their job now. Let them do it. They’ll go forward with their investigation, even though Giulia went on TV.”

Mary nodded. It was exactly what Judy would have said. “Still, I hate doing nothing.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s time for the police to take over. You’re not responsible for everyone from the neighborhood.”

Yet it was exactly how Mary felt. “But that’s what a community does. That’s what it is, to me. Take Dhiren for example, who lives next door to your mom.”

“I’ve seen him. Nice kid.” Anthony sipped his wine.

“He needs help, but I can’t find a psychologist who can test him because everybody’s too busy.” Mary knew that she had just divulged confidential information, but she was a little drunk, so it was permissible under the Tipsy Exception. “Nobody feels the remotest responsibility for others in this world. It’s all the bottom line and the schedule and it’s-not-my-table, and a little boy hangs in the balance. Even the cops have their issues between Homicide and Missing Persons, and Trish falls through the cracks.”

Anthony set down his glass. “You’re not a big drinker, are you?”

“Does it show?”

“Absolutely, but it’s cute.” Anthony smiled softly, and their eyes met over the cozy table, in the candlelight’s glow. It would have been a romantic moment, if not for that pesky homosexual part.

“So, tell me about you,” Mary said. “Do you have a partner?”

“What kind of partner? I teach.”

“You know, a partner. A lifemate. A lover.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“No. Oh, no.” Anthony started to smile. “You’ve been talking to my mother.”

“Your mother? About what?”

“Oh, no.” Anthony laughed, covering his face with his hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

“What is?”

Anthony looked up from his hands. “You think I’m gay.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No! Oh my God, no. Not at all. I’m not gay.”

“What?” Mary asked, puzzled. “Your mother said you were.”

“She thinks I am, but I’m not. She was always fixing me and my brother up, and I would never like any of the girls. Each one was worse than the next.” Anthony couldn’t stop chuckling. “So she decided that I’m gay because I like wine, good food, and books. The books alone will convict you in the neighborhood.”

Mary reached for the wine, dumbfounded. “Why don’t you tell her you’re not gay?”

“Because she’ll start fixing me up again. My brother Dom wishes he had the same scam, but nobody would believe such a slob is gay. She never asked me if I am, so I never lied to her. It’s don’t-ask, don’t-tell, only I’m straight.”

Mary laughed, incredulous.

“Now, we have a running gag. Dom and my sisters are in on it, too. He gives me Cher and Celine Dion CDs for Christmas. My sister took me and my mother to the Barbra Streisand concert last year. They think it’s a riot. I did, too. Until now.”

Mary blinked. “What about when you bring home a girl? Someone you’re seeing?”

“I say they’re my friends, because they are, and she assumes it’s platonic.”

“And when it gets serious?”

“I haven’t met anyone I wanted to get serious about, yet.”

Mary tried to wrap her mind around it. “The funny thing is, I only went to dinner with you because I thought you were gay.”

“Oh no. Are you seeing someone?”

“No, but I’m really sick of fix-ups.”

“Perfect.” Anthony raised his glass, his easy smile returning. “To no more fix-ups.”

Mary took a big swig of wine, suddenly stiffening, and Anthony met her eye in the candlelight.

“So you didn’t know this was a date?” he asked softly.

“Uh, no.”

“It is, and I hope it’s not the last.”

Mary’s mouth went dry.

“Is that okay with you?”

No. Yes. No way. Sure. Mary felt a warm rush inside, but it had to be the alcohol. If Anthony was straight, her makeup needed freshening. She set down her glass. “Order for me, please,” she said, getting up and grabbing her bag just as her phone started ringing. She stepped away, dug in her bag for her cell, and slid it from its case while she fled to the ladies’ room.

“Yes?” she said into the phone, on the fly.

“Mare?” It was her father.

“Pop, hi.” Mary pushed the swinging door into a tiny ladies’ room. “Sorry I didn’t call you back. I spoke with Bernice.”

“That’s not why I’m calling.” Her father sounded panicky. “Can you come home right away?”

“What’s the matter? Are you okay? Is Ma?”

“She’s fine. Just get home. Hurry.”

Mary’s heart tightened in her chest.

“Hurry.”

T he sun ran for cover behind the flat asphalt roofs, and Anthony pulled the Prius in front of her parent’s rowhouse. “I’ll park and be right back,” he said, and Mary thanked him. She got out of the car in front of her two older neighbor ladies, who were standing close together on the sidewalk. They turned and looked at her, oddly hard-eyed in their flowered dresses and worn cardigans.

Mary ran up her parents’ steps. “Hey, Mrs. DaTuno. Mrs. D’Onofrio.”

“Hmph.” Mrs. D’Onofrio sniffed, uncharacteristically chilly, but Mary didn’t have time to deal. She shoved her key in the front door and hurried inside, where a small crowd filled the dining room.

“You’re just in time,” her father said, upset.

“Dad, where’s Ma?” Mary asked, and just then, the sound of a commotion came from the kitchen.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” Her father took her arm and hustled her back through the crowd, as fast as he could on bad knees and slip-ons. They all frowned at Mary as she passed, but she didn’t understand why.

Her father was saying, “Thank God we got the heads-up from Cousin Joey. That’s when I called you.”

“It’s okay, Pop, I’ll handle it,” Mary said, but when they reached the kitchen, she wasn’t so sure.

An angry Mrs. Gambone stood on one side of the kitchen table, an older version of Trish, too much makeup, deep crows’-feet, and tiny wrinkles fanning out from her lips. Stiff black curls trailed down the back of her long black jacket, which she wore with black stirrup pants and black half-boots. Mary’s mother stood near the oven, distinctly Old World with her puffy hair, smock apron, and flowered housedress, and she held a clear plastic bag in her hand. Christening dresses blanketed the kitchen table, as if she’d been interrupted while she was wrapping them.

“Mrs. Gambone?” Mary asked, and Trish’s mother turned on Mary, her dark eyes flashing.

“You!” Mrs. Gambone said in a chain-smoker’s rasp. “What do you have to say for yourself? You let that monster take my daughter.”

“No, that’s not true.” Mary felt stung, and her mother stepped forward, shaking her fist holding the plastic bag and defending her daughter in rapid Italian.

“Don’t you dare talk to our daughter that way,” her father said, a running translation. “This is our home.”