A Room with a Pew

  Cover

  A Room with a Pew

  When Lucille discovers the body of her cousin Louis in the church parking lot, her first thought is that he may have skipped one service too many, but when the cops shock her with the news that Louis was killed by a professional hit man, she realizes the Almighty had nothing to do with the deed.

  Even more shocking is the discovery that the victim, who never had a penny to his name, had socked away a huge wad of cash. As Lucille and her best friend Flo follow the money trail, it leads them from a seedy strip joint to a high-stakes gambling ring and all the way to the mob.

  As the thugs close in and threaten to end Lucille’s detecting days for good, she’s tempted to give in to the most dangerous crooks she’s ever faced, but then she remembers she’s got a little family thing of her own that means more.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Peg Cochran

  Material excerpted from Berry the Hatchet copyright © 2015 by Peg Cochran

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-940846-70-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Excerpt from Berry the Hatchet

  Books by Peg Cochran

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “What are we having?” Bernadette walked into the kitchen, little Lucy on her hip.

  “What do you mean what are we having?” Lucille opened the oven door and peered inside. “It’s Thanksgiving. What do you think we’re having?” She gestured toward the stove. “I’m fixing a nice turkey, a ham, some lasagna, broccoli the way your father likes it, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and sausage stuffing.” Lucille frowned. “I hope there’s going to be enough.”

  Bernadette snorted. “You should invite the whole neighborhood.”

  Lucille pointed at her daughter. “You know your father’s going to be hungry. And Father Brennan, too. Besides, I’ve invited our next-door neighbor.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes.

  “His name is Mario Fuggiano, and he don’t have nowheres to go for the holiday. Imagine that! No family, friends, nothing.”

  Lucille grabbed a dish towel and wiped a bit of drool off the baby’s chin. “Why don’t you put the baby in that bouncy thing Flo bought you and help me get the table set.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes again, but settled Lucy in the infant seat and took the fistful of silverware her mother handed her.

  Lucille was basting the turkey when the doorbell rang. “In the kitchen,” she called out, shoving the oven rack back in with a grunt.

  Flo walked in carrying a large bakery box tied with string.

  “Oh, good, you got the pastries.” Lucille pointed at the box. “All I made was two pumpkin pies and an apple crumb.”

  “Sheesh, Lucille,” Flo said as she put the box on the kitchen table and slipped off her coat. “You could have the whole neighborhood over with the amount of food you’re making.”

  “Don’t you start, too,” Lucille warned as she poured a pot of potatoes and boiling water into the strainer in the sink. Lucille looked over her shoulder at Flo. “Where’s Richie? Is he coming separate?”

  Flo sighed and busied herself opening the box of pastries and setting them out on a platter.

  “I don’t think he’s coming.”

  Lucille turned around with her hands on her hips. “What? You two have a fight again?”

  Flo refused to meet Lucille’s eye. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean not exactly? Either you had a fight or you didn’t.”

  Flo slapped the lid of the box closed. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

  “Fine.” Lucille threw her hands in the air.

  The doorbell rang again. “I’ll get it,” Lucille said, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s probably Angela.”

  Lucille scurried toward the front door, which was already opening. She shivered as a blast of November air swirled through the foyer.

  “Must be cold out there,” she said as Angela stepped inside, followed by her husband, her son Gabe, Father Brennan and cousin Millie. Lucille looked around. “Where’s cousin Louis? He’s not sick, is he?” She gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ve got all this food . . .”

  “He’s coming,” Angela said curtly.

  “What’s the matter?” Lucille eyed her sister’s pursed lips. Angela had been making that same face when she was upset ever since she was a little girl.

  “I’ll tell you what’s the matter,” Angela said, yanking savagely on each finger of her glove. “He’s gone to get his lady friend.”

  Lucille’s mouth dropped open, and she snapped it closed. “What lady friend?”

  “The woman he met when we went to visit Ma, that’s who.”

  “You mean from the retirement home?”

  Angela nodded. “Ever since he went to those AA meetings and gave up drinking . . . I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s too old for this.”

  “You’re never too old,” Lucille said, although she secretly suspected Angela had been born too old. “Besides, what’s it to you?”

  Angela’s lips pursed further. “I don’t think it’s appropriate, that’s all.”

  “I’d better go set another place. I hope there’s going to be enough . . .”

  Lucille turned to go back to the kitchen. She’d leave Frankie to get drinks for everyone while she mashed the potatoes and prepared the rest of the food.

  The doorbell rang again while Lucille was stirring the gravy. It must be their neighbor. She patted her hair and yelled, “I’ll get it.”

  Their neighbor kept himself to himself, and Lucille was the only one who’d met him so far—surprising him as he went to put his garbage out. When she found out he was all alone, and asked him over for Thanksgiving, he’d said no. But Lucille couldn’t bear thinking of him all by himself in his empty
house with a microwaved TV dinner, so she had insisted until he gave in.

  Mario had his back to the door when Lucille pulled it open. He turned around and held out a paper-wrapped bunch of flowers.

  “I brought this for you,” he said, handing Lucille the bouquet.

  Lucille felt a rush of pleasure. No one else ever thought to bring her nothing, except Flo and the pastries she picked up at that bakery in Maplewood.

  Mario was a big man, and Lucille had to press herself against the door to the coat closet as he stepped into their tiny foyer. She led him into the dining room.

  “Why don’t you sit next to Father Brennan.” She pointed toward an empty chair.

  “This is our neighbor, Mario Fuggiano,” Lucille announced.

  “Make yourself at home,” Frankie said without getting up.

  Everyone else murmured a greeting. The chair creaked as Mario took his place.

  “And he brought me flowers,” Lucille said, brandishing the bouquet. “I’ll just go put these in some water.”

  She caught the scowl on Frankie’s face as she headed out to the kitchen. The last time Frankie had gotten her flowers was when Bernadette was born twenty years ago. Even though Mario looked to be at least seventy years old, it didn’t hurt for Frankie to see another man paying some attention to her, even if it was only bringing her what her mother always called a hostess gift.

  Angela barged into the kitchen, where Lucille was sautéing broccoli in a pan with garlic and olive oil.

  “Where is cousin Louis, for goodness sake.” She glanced at the clock over the kitchen sink. “We can’t wait for him forever.”

  There was a loud screech outside followed by the sound of a horn honking. Lucille and Angela looked at each other.

  “Cousin Louis,” they said in unison.

  They ran to the front door in time to see Louis pull up to the curb, his Impala still rocking back and forth slightly from the abrupt stop. They watched as Louis went around to the passenger-side door and opened it with a flourish. A pair of legs emerged from the car’s interior. They were clad in black suede booties. Angela and Lucille looked at each other.

  “He met her at the retirement home, right?” Lucille raised an eyebrow at Angela. “She didn’t like work there or nothing. She was a resident, right?”

  Angela nodded. “Yes. Wait till you see the rest of her.”

  Louis reached a hand into the car, which was grasped by another hand. He heaved and a woman came into view, tottering on the high heels of her fashionable shoes.

  Lucille squinted. “She’s shaped kind of like one of them bowling pins. You know—narrow on the top and then wider on the bottom.”

  “There’s one good thing,” Angela said. “She can’t be after his money. He doesn’t have any.”

  The two approached the front door and Lucille pulled it open.

  “Come on in, come on in.”

  Lucille took their coats—her mink, which smelled faintly of mothballs, and Louis’s nearly threadbare wool one.

  “This is Mona,” Louis said, bowing toward his date.

  She gave Lucille a tight smile and Lucille straightened her top and brushed off the flour that clung to one of her sleeves.

  “Go on in, dinner’s almost ready,” Lucille said as she shooed them toward the dining room.

  Angela hung back and whispered to Lucille, “Rather hoity-toity, don’t you think?” She sniffed.

  Lucille nodded and then crossed herself and sent up a prayer to St. John Nepomucene, patron saint against gossip.

  She followed behind Louis and Mona as they made their way into the dining room. Louis stood with his arm around Mona, looking like he was presenting them with a Triple Crown winner.

  He leaned over and handed Gabe a book. “I thought you might like this.”

  Lucille caught a glimpse of the title. It was The FBI’s 100 Most Wanted Criminals. She glanced at Gabe. She figured he had as much chance of catching one of them as he did of becoming president of the United States.

  Lucille made the introductions and then headed to the kitchen. The oven emitted a blast of hot air when she pulled the door open. She put a hand to her hair. She hoped it didn’t ruin her set. Her next appointment at the Clip and Curl wasn’t until the following Wednesday.

  Lucille wrestled the turkey onto a platter, blew a lock of hair out of her eyes, straightened her back and carried the turkey out to the dining room.

  An ahhh rose from the table when Lucille walked in. She felt a moment of pride—she may not be one of them executive types she read about in magazines all the time who wear pantsuits to work and order their lunch from fancy restaurants, but she knew how to roast a turkey and she knew how to care for her family.

  Lucille brought the rest of the dishes to the table. “Go on, eat,” she said as she finally sat down.

  Her back was killing her and her feet didn’t feel none too good either. She’d been up late baking the pies and had gotten up early to get the turkey in the oven on time. She’d been in the kitchen peeling potatoes and basting the turkey while everyone else watched the Thanksgiving Day parade. But it was worth it. She looked around the table and watched everyone eat. This was her reward.

  She was pleased to see Mario had warmed up a little and was chatting with Mona. He was even helping himself—reaching for the bowl of stuffing. That was his second helping, Lucille noticed. She was afraid she’d overcooked it a bit, but he seemed to be enjoying it, although she noticed Angela was pushing hers around her plate instead of eating it.

  Mario’s sleeve inched up his forearm as he reached for the dish and Lucille noticed he had a raised scar just below his cuff. Funny, it looked like an M. M for Mario, she thought, glancing at Louis.

  He was giving Mario a strange look. Guess he didn’t want no competition when it came to Mona. She and Mario seemed to be enjoying themselves, and it was obvious Louis had noticed. Lucille had to laugh. Some things never changed.

  “So, Mona,” Lucille said as she speared a bite of lasagna, “did you grow up around here?”

  Mona cleared her throat. “I was born in Nutley, but my husband and I lived in Florham Park.”

  “Did he pass away?”

  “Sort of.”

  Lucille stopped chewing. Sort of? What kind of an answer was that?

  “What I mean is”—Mona cleared her throat again—“he disappeared. We think he was killed but his body was never found. After seven years he was declared dead.”

  “How awful.” Lucille put a hand to her chest. “Not to know like that.”

  Mona shrugged. “Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

  • • •

  Lucille dried the last pan and put it away. She’d hoped Bernadette would help with the dishes, but she’d gone upstairs to put Lucy down. The baby had been real good during the meal, but shortly after began to get fussy, rubbing her eyes and crying. The poor thing was probably tired from all the commotion and everyone oohing and aahing over her.

  Tony was no help either—he and Frank had disappeared downstairs to watch the end of the game.

  Lucille hung the dish towel on the oven handle and untied her apron. There were footsteps on the stairs to the basement, and Frank came into the room, breathing heavily.

  “Are you okay? You don’t look too good.”

  Frank slumped into a kitchen chair, his hand on his chest. “I’ve got heartburn. You got anything for that?”

  Lucille opened the cupboard and began to poke around. She pulled out a bright blue bottle of Brioschi. She filled a glass with water, stirred in the Brioschi and handed it to Frank.

  “Here, drink this. This will make you feel better.”

  Frankie made a face as he downed the liquid. “Sheesh, that crap tastes awful.”

  “Yeah, but it’s going to make you feel better.”

  Frank still had his hand pressed to his chest.

  “Maybe you should see a doctor,” Lucille said. She was worried—she didn’t like Frankie’s color, too p
ale. And he was sweating, too—even though the kitchen had cooled down after having the oven on for so long.

  Frankie glanced at her. “I’m fine. I just need to give a good burp.”

  “You know we used to call it indigestion or heartburn, but I’ve heard on TV that they now have a fancy name for it. Acid reflex. Maybe that’s what you’ve got.”

  The look on Frankie’s face eased, and Lucille gave a sigh of relief. Frankie took his hand from his chest and gave a loud burp.

  “See? I told you—all I needed was a good burp. Guess I shouldn’t have eaten so much.”

  Lucille nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. “I still think you should see a doctor.”

  “For what? Heartburn?” Frankie laughed. “No, thanks. Besides, you know how it is—you go in to see the doctor for one thing, and next thing you know he’s found half a dozen other things wrong with you. Like when you take the car in for an oil change and suddenly they’re telling you your air filter is dirty and your tranny fluid needs replacing.”

  Lucille looked at Frank again. He did look better. But she still didn’t like it, and there wasn’t nothing she could do about it.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m off to work,” Lucille yelled up the stairs to Bernadette.

  Frank and Tony had already left for their first job over at some big estate in Summit. They owned JoFra, a pest control business. Frankie had started it with his brother-in-law Joseph, and when he died, his son Tony had taken his place.

  Lucille pulled on her leather jacket—the one Frankie had given her back in tenth grade. It was quite snug now and didn’t want to zip but Lucille couldn’t bring herself to give it up.

  She hurried out to the car, holding the edges of the jacket together, her head bowed against the icy wind. She was shivering by the time she pulled open the door to the Olds. She really ought to switch to her winter car coat. Maybe she’d be warmer if she could get the jacket zipped. She patted her stomach. It wouldn’t hurt her to lose a couple of pounds. Rita at the Clip and Curl had told her about this new diet. It was called the Mediterranean diet on account of you were supposed to eat the way the Italians and Greeks did.