Death Will Help You Leave Him by Elizabeth Zelvin

Author:Elizabeth Zelvin [Zelvin, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Detective, Recovery, 12 steps, series, thriller and suspense, amateur sleuth, twelve steps, Cozy Mystery, Murder Mystery, Suspense, 12 step program, mystery series, contemporary mystery, New York mysteries, New York fiction
ISBN: 9780312582661
Goodreads: 6522407
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Published: 2009-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

“How’s Luz doing?” I asked Barbara.

I was home in my own apartment for a change. I had called to talk to Jimmy. But some guy in Australia had IMed him with some information about the transportation of the British criminal classes to Botany Bay. He had been chasing this particular fact for days, and off he went into cyberspace to retrieve it. Barbara, as usual, was already on the extension.

“Still sad,” she said. “Still minimizing how awful Frankie was. Trying to go on one day at a time. You like her, don’t you.”

“How do you mean?” I stalled. “Sure. She’s okay. Nice. Poor kid. Rough time.”

“Only okay?” Barbara said. “She could use a corrective experience with a decent man.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t so damn unstoppable,” I said. “Though I’m glad to hear you think I’m decent.”

“You are, now you’ve stopped drinking,” Barbara said. “All you’ve got to do now is stay stopped.”

“And change my whole life.” Another of those little slogans with a sting in its tail.

“Well, please don’t stop being sardonic. You wouldn’t be Bruce without it.”

“I don’t have to surrender my whole personality? What a relief.”

“Speaking of Luz,” Barbara said, “we had better keep circling the wagons. Those two detectives still drop by every few days. I don’t know how they think evidence that didn’t exist in the first place will suddenly appear. And if they think she’ll change her story, they’re wrong, because it’s not a story, it’s what really happened— at least all she knows.”

“What do you want us to do?” I asked. I felt more comfortable when Barbara played detective than when she played matchmaker.

“How about going back to the bakery? We never did talk to Massimo. We could call first— you know, see if he answers the phone. And I bet if I could somehow manage to talk to Frankie’s mother, I’d hear things we don’t know yet.”

“Aw, you just want more of those little cannolis.”

“Cannoli. You and Jimmy ate just as many as I did.”

“I don’t suppose you could get Jimmy to go with you? I didn’t do anything but stand around and carry the cake boxes last time.”

“It’s a miracle he came to the funeral. Getting him on the subway to Brooklyn twice in one calendar year would be a record. Forget it. You’re the man.”

“Oh, so now I’m the man,” I said. “Okay, okay, I’ll come with you.”

“You can choose the pastries this time,” Barbara offered.

When we arrived at the bakery, Massimo was carrying a tray heavy with mini-cheesecakes from the back room. A blast of hot air propelled him into the cooler café. He set the tray on the counter and took out a large white handkerchief to mop his brow and forearms. His silver hair was lightly powdered with flour. He wiped his hands on the handkerchief and ran them down the sides of his enveloping white apron for good measure.

“Can I help you?”

We both stepped up to the counter. With an older generation Italian male, I didn’t think being a girl carried any advantage.

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