Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

“Okay.” Mary sank onto the couch and kicked off her pumps.

“Drink up. Doctor’s orders.”

“Thanks.” Mary took her first sip, which was delicious. She couldn’t help feeling awful that she was home, drinking merlot, while Trish was missing, maybe dead.

“This is good wine.” Anthony sat in the soft chair catty-corner to her, the moon shining on the dark filaments of his hair. Shadows obscured his eyes, but not his smile, which was a little sad. After a minute, he said, “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling.”

Mary took another sip of wine, the thin crystal warming under her fingers. “That makes two of us.”

Anthony didn’t laugh, which was good because she wasn’t kidding. He leaned over and slid the cheese plate close to her. “Mangia, bella.”

Mary felt herself respond to his voice, soft and deep, or maybe the Italian, the language of her childhood. She broke off a piece of locatelli and nibbled it before it crumbled between her fingers. It tasted tart and perfect with the wine.

“You’re exhausted.”

“You might be right.”

“I won’t stay long.”

Mary looked out the window, and from her third-floor vantage point, she could see the lights of the other rowhouses, and beyond that, the Philly skyline, twinkling in the distance. She wondered if Trish was somewhere in the city, then thought of Mrs. Gambone. “People are crying in the city tonight.”

“Yes. It’s all very ugly and sad.”

“You’re right. Well said.” Mary felt at such a loss. She rubbed her face. She sipped her wine, then changed it to a gulp. “I can’t believe this all happened. That Trish is gone. That he’s dead.” He’s dead. “It’s awful.”

“I won’t mind if I never see another crime scene. I think they’ll find Trish, though.”

“Why? How do you know?”

“They learn so much from the body, like Detective Brinkley said. They’ll find clues as to where she is.”

They’re doing the autopsy right now. He’s on a metal table.

“Brinkley seems pretty damn competent to me.”

“He is. Still it feels so selfish to be sitting here. I should be doing something.”

“You’ve done enough. You’re the one who gave them the tip tonight. You helped them find the body sooner rather than later. As you said, that matters, in terms of finding Trish while she’s still alive.”

“If she’s still alive.” Mary heard herself say it out loud, for the first time, the wine loosening her tongue.

“She is. You have to have faith, and you did an amazing thing tonight, tipping them off.”

Mary couldn’t hear it. “That’s not why I said it, for you to tell me how great I am. I know when I mess up and I messed this up to a fare-thee-well.”

“You can’t feel responsible for what happens to Trish.”

“Let’s not make this about me, okay?” Mary drank more wine, hoping to speed its effect. “There’s a woman missing, and she’s who it’s about. Not me.”

“Okay. Fair enough.”

Mary tried to get back in emotional control, glad of the darkness.

“Fine.” Anthony cocked his head, with a smile. “Is this a fight?”

“No.”

“Good. In any event, I would worry if you got any more involved in this case. You made an enemy in Ritchie Po tonight, and he’s a scary dude.”

Mary shuddered. “You afraid of the Mob?”

“Damn straight I am.”

“Me, too.” They laughed together, and Mary could feel the alcohol bringing a welcome fuzziness to her thoughts. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. She could still taste the locatelli, salty and grainy on her tongue.

“I told you I’m researching Carlo Tresca’s murder, didn’t I? He was shot dead in the middle of Little Italy, and the case was never solved. It’s the Mob, only the names and the places have changed.” Anthony chuckled ruefully, then it died. “The cops know what to do, and if Brinkley wants to reach you, he’ll call.”

Mary shook her head, and her brain sloshed from side to side. “I should have told him. I didn’t get the chance.”

“Told him what?”

My secret. But Mary wasn’t drunk enough to give that answer. She felt so tired suddenly, burdened with all of it. With what she had done, with what she hadn’t done. With lives lost tonight, and before. “I’m a widow, you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“My husband died.”

Anthony nodded, and Mary heard how stupid she sounded.

“Sorry, I sound dumb,” she said.

“No, you’re just beat.”

Mary took another sip. “I knew him, I guess you heard Ritchie say that.”

“You knew who?”

“The deceased.”

“Your husband?”

“No.” Mary’s thoughts caromed off the walls of her skull. “The man in the body bag. I dated him in high school.”

“I heard Ritchie. I didn’t know if it was true.”

“It was.”

“I didn’t know.”

“No one did. It didn’t last very long. He thought I dumped him, apparently.” Mary was remembering what Rosaria had said, on the bench in Brick. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I’ll say.”

“Were you in love?”

“Yes.” Mary didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t love, like with Mike, but it qualified. It was first love.

“Was he?”

“In love? I didn’t think so, until recently.”

“Sorry then, about your loss.”

Mary blinked. It was her loss, wasn’t it?

Anthony said, “That explains a lot.”

“What?”

“You’ve survived two men you loved, already. That’s odd, for our age. It’s a lot.”

Mary absorbed the observation. It hadn’t occurred to her before. But he wasn’t exactly right. “Actually, it’s three, with my friend Brent.”

“That’s three too many.”

It’s four, all told.

“No wonder it’s hit you so hard.”

Mary felt like she wanted to tell him. That she had to tell somebody. She wanted to make a confession, without a confessional. At least it was dark and maybe it was time. She’d held it in for so long. Nobody knew, not even Judy and certainly not her family. She set down her wineglass. She asked, “What happens to a Goretti girl who gets an abortion?”

After a minute, Anthony answered, “You tell me.”

“She keeps it a secret. A big secret.”

“Really?”

“I was May Queen, you know, at the special Mass. Wore the white dress, the flower crown. The whole faculty voted for me. I was the one who most embodied her virtues.”

“Whose?”

“Goretti’s. You know the fable.”

“Of course.”

Then Mary didn’t have to tell him. Maria Goretti was a young Italian girl who died defending her honor, when a man had tried to rape her. She had died to remain a virgin. The irony was too much. Mary swallowed hard, noticing that Anthony didn’t look away from her or seem to judge her. At least she could tell, in the moonlight. Maybe he wasn’t that religious anymore, or he would judge her later, on the way home.

“Things happen, Mary.”

“Evidently. I felt like a fraud. I feel like I cheated them, all those teachers, all those nuns, everybody who loved me. Who had confidence in me.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I didn’t die protecting my virginity.”

“So, you’re not a saint,” Anthony said softly, and it comforted Mary a little. But she fell silent and after a moment, he asked, “So was he the father? Trish’s boyfriend, Bobby Mancuso?”

“Yes,” Mary answered, without hesitation. It felt right to say it out loud, to acknowledge Bobby in public. She couldn’t have confessed the pregnancy to her family, who would have been devastated. Or to Judy, who would have been hurt that she hadn’t been told long ago. Mary sensed that this was her public declaration, and that she was doing it for the baby. Her baby. Their baby, who never made it to the christening, and never got to wear a little white gown.