Lisa Scottoline - Lady Killer

Up front, Mr. Po spoke with the priest, and Ritchie huddled with his partners in crime. Mrs. Gambone, Trish, and the girls formed a fluttery circle, and the room returned slowly to normal, with the mourners talking among themselves and taking their seats. Mary sat down, her emotions in tumult, her thoughts confused. She was thinking about Ritchie and what Judy had said.

Maybe the easy answer was the right one.

Maybe a mobster had killed Bobby, and maybe the mobster was Ritchie. Mary remembered that day at the Po house, when she’d met him.

Boo.

S unlight beamed into her bedroom, and Mary felt almost herself by Sunday morning, lounging in bed in her oversized Eagles T-shirt, enjoying the unaccustomed luxury of loafing. Newspapers made messy tents all over her comforter, and Meet the Press was on TV, all the politicians in gray suits, red ties, and flag lapel pins. She watched idly, thinking that Tim Russert was cute in an altar-boy kind of way, but that reminded her of Anthony, who still hadn’t called. She was too old-fashioned to call him. She looked over and checked the answering machine beside the bed, but nothing had started blinking since five minutes ago. She wasn’t ready for a relationship anyway.

But if he calls, I’m ready.

She sighed and told herself it was a relief. After all, she’d almost gotten back to her life, having spent last night catching up on her e-mail, answering her clients as if she were still an associate at Rosato. She’d called Amrita to check on Dhiren, and he was improving, and she’d even drafted a brief due next week. She hadn’t decided what to do about Bennie yet, but it had felt good to be back in business, dealing with roof leaks and slip-and-falls, and there had even been a ton of e-mail from her clients, congratulating her on finding Trish alive. She wondered if the other clients would come back, now that she had found Trish. Not that it gave her comfort, not completely. The whole time she’d worked, Trish had been in the back of her mind, and Bobby.

Mary picked up the front page and skimmed the article again. OTHER SHOE DROPS WITH BARBI MURDER read a sidebar, and the article went on about the history of the Mob in South Philly, with a list of so many Italian names it sounded like a menu. Mary hated the Mob stereotype because she knew that most Italian-Americans were smart, honest, and hardworking citizens, who kept her in business by slipping on wet sidewalks, crashing their bumpers, and winning the occasional contracts case. She scanned the other news articles, all on the Mob war, and pictured the crowd at Biannetti’s, excitedly comparing notes and trading gossip, murder as spectator sport.

She turned back to the front page, and the lead article reported that there were still no suspects in the Mancuso and Barbi murders. Another sidebar showed the blurry cell-phone photo of Trish and reported that the mobster’s “former live-in love” had returned to her family’s home and wasn’t returning reporters’ calls. There was no suggestion that Trish was suspected of his murder in any way. Brinkley wasn’t mentioned in any of the articles, and neither he nor the FBI must have contacted Trish or she would have called.

Mary watched Tim Russert and tried to think good thoughts. She was a defense lawyer, and the representation was over. Judy, the world’s best girlfriend, had been right. Bobby had been buried, and that chapter of her life closed. She had to pick up the pieces, and right now they were messier than all the newspaper sections. She wanted to feel better. She was so sick of being down on herself for being down on herself, for having no job and no boyfriend, and she felt lost and empty, betwixt and between.

Which told her exactly what to do.

“Ma, I’m hungry,” Mary called from the door, but the noise and commotion from the kitchen took her aback.

“Honey!” her father called back, emerging with a small crowd following him. They flowed into the dining room and expanded to fill it, like last time. But as angry as that crowd had been, this one was joyful.

“Pop?” Mary asked, bewildered. “What’s going on?”

“At church, the neighbors were so happy that you found Trish and they came over to visit.”

“Mare, you done good.” Mrs. DaTuno smiled at her and so did Mrs. D’Onofrio, dressed in their nice church housedresses. Everyone called out “Way to go” and “Congratulations, Mare,” unanimously restoring her status as Neighborhood Girl Who Made Good.

“I’m so proud a you, I could bust,” her father said softly. He gave Mary a bear hug, pressing her to the freshly pressed white shirt he saved for Mass, and she breathed in his mothballs scent, mixed now with meatballs.

“Thanks, Pop. Thanks, everybody.” Mary waved like a Windsor, and they all started clapping. She swallowed the lump in her throat, her emotions mixed. Would they feel the same if they knew Trish could be guilty of murder? Or would they forgive it, given Bobby’s abuse? So she hammed it up and took a low bow, feeling vaguely like a fraud.

“Maria,” her mother called, raising her arms, and Mary gave her a big hug, scooping her off her tiny feet. Her mother gestured to a flock of women behind her, also in their flowered dresses. “Maria, my ladyfriends, you know, from church.”

“Hello, ladies.” Mary turned to them and extended a hand.

“Good to meet you,” the one said, with a Puerto Rican accent. “Your mother, she make my baby’s dress.”

“Mine, too,” said another, grinning, and the woman next to her nodded, too.

“She did a wonderful job. So beautiful, we tell our friends.”

“You have the best seamstress in the business,” Mary told them, realizing suddenly that she’d inherited her business-getting ability. Vita DiNunzio was the rainmaker of South Philly, and Mary’s heart gladdened when she saw her mother beaming.

“Come, see, Maria.” Her mother took her by the hand. “We have friend for you, for dinner.”

“Who?” Mary asked, and the crowd seemed to clear a way to the kitchen, where Anthony was standing with a tentative smile. His dark eyes were bright, and he wore a tan sport coat with khaki slacks and a lightweight black turtleneck. He gestured at her mother.

“Your parents saw me at church, and they insisted I come to dinner. I hope that’s okay.”

Yay! “I think it’s a great idea,” Mary answered, wishing she’d worn her contacts.

Later, the house cleared out except for the four of them, and they had a great meal, during which Mary tried to get used to Mike’s chair being occupied by a another man who, by all accounts, was pretty wonderful. Anthony joked with her mother in Italian and listened to her father’s old construction stories, and when dinner was finished, he even offered to do the dishes, which was when the afternoon skidded to a halt.

Mary froze at the table. Her mother construed an offer to help in the kitchen as an insult, akin to a puppy offering to take the scalpel from a neurosurgeon.

“Grazie mille, Antonio,” her mother answered, with a grateful smile that Mary had never seen in this situation. She watched, mystified, as her mother rose slowly and touched her father on the arm, saying, “Come, Mariano.”

“Wha’?” her father asked, looking up in confusion until he received the Let’s-Leave-These-Kids-Alone message her mother was telecommunicating via her magical eyes. Mary tried not to laugh. Her mother had a varied repertoire of eye messages, and the bestsellers were: Don’t-Eat-With-Your-Fingers, Leave-That-Piece-For-Your-Father, and I’ll-Never-Trust-That-German-Pope.

“That was awkward,” Mary said, after her parents left the kitchen.

“No, that was cute.” Anthony rose, picked up the plates, and took them to the sink. “Let me do dishes.”