The Goodbye Body by Joan Hess

Author:Joan Hess
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

I was sitting on the patio when Peter showed up. For the record, he was wearing neither shiny shoes nor a tuxedo and diamond cufflinks, but I forgave him and participated in an agreeable, if not passionate, kiss.

“Pour yourself a glass of something,” I suggested.

“Are you aware that Caron and Inez are stalking across the den, each with an arm outstretched, clutching hands, and glaring defiantly at the wall?”

“Is that to be construed as an accusation of motherly malfeasance?”

He shook his head, went back in the house, and reappeared shortly with a glass of something that looked very much like scotch. He sat down next to me. “So you were serious about the ballroom dancing? Shall I call Jorgeson? He and his wife did a mean rhumba at the Christmas office party.”

“I’m too tired to explain,” I said. “How was your afternoon?”

“On a scale of one to ten? When I was obliged to take algebra, I never quite accepted the concept of negative numbers. I applied all the formulas, solved the equations, and slithered by with a passing grade. Now I know better.”

I let my head fall back. “If you want sympathy, I can give you the home telephone number of a really nice guy who works for a florist shop. Have you been sending me flowers?”

Peter caught my hand. “Should I have been?”

“Probably, but someone’s already beat you to it. I’m keeping all of them on the dining room table so I won’t be tempted to talk to them.”

“I assumed they were silk, and Dolly’s doing. My mother has arrangements like that all over her house. The maids dust them twice a month.”

‘Then you’d better watch out, Don Juan,” I said, “because I’ve got an anonymous admirer. When’s the last time you gave me anything more romantic than an egg roll?”

“I let you have the extra packet of soy sauce. Would you have preferred a diamond-encrusted wedding ring?”

The conversation was moving into an uncomfortable area. I slipped my hand out of his and reached for my drink. “Any news from Brooklyn?”

“Quite a lot, actually. Petrolli Mordella, known as Petti to his friends, lived in a brownstone in Flatbush. According to his neighbors, he was an Italian gentleman of impeccable manners and old-world charm who helped elderly women with their packages, played bingo at the parish hall, and bought gelatos for the children on Sunday afternoons. According to the precinct detectives, he was a low-ranking member of the Velocchio family.”

“The what?” I gurgled, nearly dropping my glass.

“The Velocchio family, as in the Mafia. Drug trafficking, prostitution, sanitation, union busting, bribery—the usual things. Is there something you’d like to share?”

I was grateful that I was sitting down, thereby saving myself from months of rehabilitation and physical therapy. “Remember Madison—the girl who was staying here until she left yesterday? Her father works for an antiques gallery called Velocchio and Associates. It’s in Manhattan.”

“And the reason you know this is … ?”

I wondered if I could sink any farther into the chair, or slither out of it and crawl under a shrub.

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