1 Confession Is Murder Read online

  “Where was he when you entered the church?”

  “In the confessional. He must have taken sick in there.”

  “The curtain was closed, you said?” Sambuco moved over toward Joseph, and the uniformed men parted to let him through.

  “Yeah, that’s how come I didn’t see nothing at first.” Lucille followed right behind him.

  Sambuco squatted down next to the body and looked it over. Lucille hunkered down beside him. She wanted to be able to tell Flo everything.

  He turned to her and rested a hand on her knee. Lucille stood up and scurried backward. “Must have been his heart, huh?”

  He didn’t answer. “Was this here when you came in?” He pointed to a canister with a hose and spray nozzle that was lying outside the confessional.

  “As far as I know. Like I said, I didn’t touch nothing.” Lucille took a closer look. “That’s Joseph’s equipment. My Frankie uses the same stuff. They took a course over in New York City and got licensed and everything.”

  “It was his heart, I presume?” Father Brennan bowed his head solemnly.

  “What do I know?” Sambuco got up and began to walk away. “Maybe it’ll turn out to be murder.” And he cracked his gum loudly.

  Murder. The sound of the word followed Lucille all the way out to the parking lot. Father Brennan was letting her go early under the circumstances. There was still some filing to do, but he was going to ask Jeanette to take over as soon as she got back from lunch.

  Lucille shivered, and it wasn’t because of the increasing bite in the late October air. Suddenly it was all too real. Joseph was dead.

  She hurried to her car, looking over her shoulder all the way, and eased behind the wheel. Slipping into her 1987 Olds was like coming home, and she gave a sigh of relief. White exterior, red leather interior, who could ask for more? Frankie wanted to get her a new car, one of them SUV things, but she didn’t want one. The Olds was good enough for her.

  She popped in her tape of Little Richard singing “Lucille”—her fifth copy. Frankie kept having to find her new ones, she played it so often. But she hardly heard it as she peeled out of the parking lot and made a right turn onto South Street. She didn’t even notice, until she looked into the rearview mirror, that she’d knocked over the statue of St. Francis of Assisi. Now he was sprawled in the driveway, the bunnies, birds, and deer looking on sadly.

  All she could think about was Joseph. Dead. It was becoming all too real, and the thought made her teeth chatter even though she had the heater going full blast.

  All she wanted to do was go home and tell Frank about it. Have him make it all better the way he always did. Her Frankie. When he put his arms around her, all her troubles disappeared. There was only one problem.

  Frankie was gone. She threw him out yesterday.

  Chapter 2

  Lucille could hear the organ reaching a crescendo as she neared the church. The double front doors were already closed, and she swore as she quickened her pace. She hadn’t meant to be late, but there’d been the problem with her dress. It had been a year since she’d worn it last, and now she couldn’t get the zipper closed. She finally got it halfway up the side, where she fastened it with a safety pin. As long as she kept her arms down, no one would notice.

  She ought to go on a diet. Everyone at the beauty parlor was going on and on about Atkins—the shampoo girl claimed to have lost twenty pounds on it. Lucille couldn’t tell where the twenty pounds had come off, but of course she didn’t say anything. Just oohed and aahed like everyone else. The diet sounded easy enough—eggs, steak, butter, cream. She’d done pretty well at breakfast—a couple of eggs over easy and a few pieces of bacon. But then there was that tiny piece of coffee cake left in the box. She had to eat it. It wasn’t her fault—it looked so lonely sitting there all by itself. Anyway, the rest of her breakfast was pure Atkins, so surely she would still lose plenty of weight. Boy, would Frankie be surprised when he saw her new figure.

  She reached for the door and tried to ease it open, but it was stuck. She tried again, then with both hands. Finally it came flinging open, and she nearly tumbled back down the steps, wishing she wasn’t wearing a pair of blasted heels. The vestibule was dark, and Lucille could hardly see as she stepped in.

  Unfortunately they were just about to wheel the casket forward, and Lucille ended up between it and Father Brennan. He gave her a very stern look and made a flapping motion with his hand, but there wasn’t anything she could do. The pews were packed, and there weren’t any seats.

  She followed the casket down the aisle. There were some titters from a couple of teenage boys on the right-hand side, but everyone else pretended not to notice. Her best friend, Flo, was sitting in the second row and managed to push the old lady next to her aside just enough for Lucille to squeeze into the vacated seat. More like half a seat—she had to wiggle a bit to get into the space. The old lady threw her a dirty look, and Lucille shot off a quick prayer to St. Quirinus, patron saint against evil spirits, before turning her attention to the service.

  Flo was dressed all in black—black spandex. She liked to think of herself as having “kept her figure,” but Lucille figured the spandex had something to do with it. They used to make girdles out of it, after all, back when women wore stuff like that. Flo had on a leopard-print scarf for accent, and in light of the solemnity of the occasion, had confined her eye shadow to a somber brown.

  Connie, Joseph’s widow, was in the front row looking thinner and paler than usual. Her hair was perfect as always—Rita at the salon said she’d managed to fit Connie in even though they were booked solid. Frank was next to Connie on one side, and Lucille’s mother was on the other, sitting with her arms crossed over her chest. Connie had on a dark gray suit that Lucille had never seen before.

  “Psst.” Flo poked Lucille with her elbow. “What’s with Frankie?” She gestured toward the front pew.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Lucille whispered. It was just unfortunate that at that moment there was a lull in the service and the church had gone completely quiet. Father Brennan’s head swiveled around like the girl’s in The Exorcist, and Lucille sank further down into her seat.

  The church was nearly full—Joseph had been well liked. Lucille looked around discreetly. Her daughter, Bernadette, had gotten there ahead of her and was seated with Tony Jr., Flo’s boy. He was a nice kid, but he looked like a turtle the way his head stuck out and his chin receded.

  Lucille sighed. Bernadette hardly ever talked to her anymore. She spent most of her time plugged into one of them CD players and only came out of her room for dinner or to go to school. And she’d gone and had one of those earrings put in her eyebrow, although Lucille wondered if you could really call it an “earring” considering.

  Everything had changed, and she wasn’t even sure how it had happened. She should be up front with Frankie, not wedged in next to Flo. But that had been her decision. Frank didn’t want to leave—she’d made him. She felt her resolve weaken, but then she thought of what he did . . . She stuck her chin out, squared her shoulders, and dashed a hand across her eyes.

  Father Brennan started swinging the incense around, and Lucille began to feel a little queasy. She never could stomach the stuff. Flo began to cry, silently, but Lucille could feel her shaking since they were wedged into the pew as tightly as a bunch of rolled anchovies in a can. Lucille was surprised. They’d all been friends way back when, but she didn’t think Flo and Joseph had been particularly close.

  Frank had introduced Joseph to his sister, Connie. It was the perfect match. Joseph doted on Connie, treated her like a princess. Lucille glanced over to where Connie was sitting. She seemed to be taking it well. But that was Connie. She’d never allow herself the luxury of crying in public. She was always so perfect—Lucille didn’t know how she did it.

  Finally it was over, and people began to get up. For once no one made a dash to the parking lot like they usually did after Mass. The church was full of the sound of whispering voices, kneelers clunking back into place, and prayer books being slapped closed. But they could still hear Connie screaming after the coffin, “Now I’ll never have a baby, you bastard!”

  • • •

  “He was such a good man.” Elena De Stefano helped herself to another Swedish meatball. The mole on her right cheek went up and down when she talked, and Lucille stared at it, fascinated. “But they say the good die young.”

  Lucille nodded and looked around for a place to unload the toothpick she was holding. Nothing suggested itself so she stuffed it in her pocket.

  Everyone was crammed into Connie’s house for the funeral luncheon. Lucille glanced around the room but didn’t see Frank. She turned back to Mrs. De Stefano.

  Mrs. De Stefano put her hand on Lucille’s arm. “People are talking about the funeral being so delayed.” She glanced over her shoulder, and her grip on Lucille’s arm tightened. “They say the police were holding the body for a—what do you call it—an autopsy? Do you believe that? And Joseph was such a good man. He deserved better.”

  She plucked another meatball from the chafing dish on the card table that had been wedged into a corner between the sofa and a matching recliner. “They’re saying”—she wagged the meatball at Lucille—“that it was,” she lowered her voice again, “cancer that took him.”

  “Well, I didn’t hear nothing about cancer.” Lucille dug around in the pot of Swedish meatballs with her empty toothpick. Looked like Mrs. De Stefano had eaten them all—she couldn’t find nothing but a bedraggled sprig of parsley. She dropped it back into the pot. “I think it must have been his heart. Working with those chemicals, you know. Although he was careful and always wore a mask. But he had one of them heart murmurs, and I guess that made him susceptible-like.”

>   Lucille thought about what Sambuco had said. About how maybe it was murder. Murder wasn’t a word she’d ever heard outside of TV or the movies. She shook her head. There was no way someone could have murdered Joseph.

  Lucille’s mother elbowed her way into the conversation. “Waxy. I thought he looked waxy, didn’t you, Lucille? I don’t know why Connie went with that place. Should have used Ippolito’s like everyone else. They buried old Olivia Francone last week, and she looked better than she ever did in her life.”

  She stared at Lucille’s dress. “You should get yourself something new. The dress I’m wearing, for instance, is perfect for funerals and other somber occasions with its scoop neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, side slit, and coordinating geometric print scarf.”

  “You been watching that QVC shopping channel again, Ma?”

  “You should watch that show. They sell some nice things.”

  Sure. After paying the bills and putting a few dollars away for emergencies, there wasn’t much left. Lucille sidled up to a tray of lasagna and spooned a little onto her plate. Okay, so pasta wasn’t exactly on the Atkins diet. But a little taste wouldn’t hurt. Besides, it would be rude not to have at least a bite of everything when someone went to so much trouble.

  “What’s with you and Frankie?” Lucille’s mother asked when Elena De Stefano wandered off in search of more food. “How come you weren’t in church with us.”

  “I was running late. Told him to go on ahead.” Lucille looked around the room, trying to avoid her mother’s eye. Connie was talking to Father Brennan and seemed to have pulled herself back together.

  “Yeah, then how come he didn’t know where you was, huh?”

  “Listen, Ma, I don’t want to talk about it. Not now, okay?”

  Her mother started to open her mouth, but just then Stella Plotkin, her mother’s next-door neighbor, came up and complimented her on her new dress.

  Lucille looked around the room again and spotted Frank talking to Father Brennan. She tried not to look in his direction but couldn’t help it. Father Brennan said something, and Frank threw his head back and laughed the way he did. Lucille felt herself starting to get hot and turned her head. He still did it to her even after all these years.

  She was helping herself to some more lasagna when Frank came up in back of her.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Lucille jumped. “Frank, you scared me.” A single lock of hair fell over his forehead, and Lucille wanted to reach out and smooth it away, but she took another bite of her lasagna instead.

  “We have to talk.” Frank took the plate from her and started to steer her toward Connie’s back bedroom.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, least not yet. You gotta give me some time.”

  “Please? What harm can a little conversation do?”

  Lucille knew what harm it could do. All her high-falutin’ principles would go out the window with one whiff of Frank’s aftershave. If she left the room with him, she’d be a goner.

  “Come on, Lu, five minutes is all I ask.” He put his hand to the small of her back and tried to maneuver her out of the room.

  “I said no, Frankie, not right now.” She hadn’t meant to speak so loudly—people were turning around to look. “Leave me alone, please. Okay?” Lucille threw her arms up.

  The pin on her zipper sprang open, and her dress parted like the Red Sea.

  Flo hustled her up the stairs before everyone had even stopped gasping.

  “What were you thinking?” She pushed Lucille into the bedroom and slammed the door.

  “I couldn’t get the zipper all the way up.”

  “I can see that. Everyone could see that. What’s the deal with Frank, by the way?”

  Lucille sighed. “I threw him out.”

  “So I noticed. What happened?” Flo tugged Lucille’s dress back into place.

  “You know that money I was saving? To go to Italy and have an audience with the Pope?”

  Flo nodded.

  “Well, he took it. I got the statement from the bank, and it was just . . . gone. I called them, and they said Frank had withdrawn all of it.”

  “I still don’t understand what the big deal is with this Pope thing. Me, I’d be saving for one of those Caribbean cruises or something. Or maybe Club Med with all those hunky guys.”

  Lucille wanted to point out that all those “hunky guys” were the age of Flo’s son. “I’d like to go to the Caribbean too. Frankie and me have talked about it. Kind of a second honeymoon. But this thing with the Pope is special to me. That’s why I was saving my own money for the trip. I can’t explain it; I just imagine that being with the Pope is about as close to being with God as you’re going to get on this earth.”

  “There, I think that should do it.” Flo had worked the zipper all the way up and, for good measure, pinned it into place.

  Must have been the lasagna, Lucille thought. The dress felt even tighter than it had that morning. She was half afraid to breath. What she wanted to do was go home and change into her sweats and her fuzzy pink slippers.

  “I don’t see why you threw him out, though. Guy like Frank—I wouldn’t want him running around loose, if you know what I mean.”

  Lucille stiffened. “No, what do you mean?”

  “Come on, Lucille, Frank’s still a damned good-looking guy.”

  “He’s going gray, has more of a keg than a six-pack, and he snores,” Lucille said, although she agreed with Flo.

  Flo laughed. “So what? Frankie’s still got it.” She looked around the room. “Do you believe this place? It’s like something out of Ozzie and Harriet.”

  Lucille glanced at the twin beds covered in pink spreads and separated demurely by a night table. “Gee, I wouldn’t want Frankie sleeping that far away from me.” She realized, with a pang, that he was now sleeping halfway across town. “Sheesh!” She ran her finger across the top of the vanity. “There isn’t no dust at all. I don’t know how Connie does it.”

  A tall, straight dresser was stationed against the opposite wall. Lucille motioned toward the top, where a dish held a handful of spare change and a Swiss Army knife. “It’s going to be hard for Connie to get rid of Joseph’s stuff. I remember when my father died, we had a hell of a time convincing Ma to clean out his closets.”

  “Connie’s the ultimate ice queen.” Flo was poking around in the closet. “It probably won’t bother her one bit.”

  “Flo,” Lucille hissed. “What are you doing? What if Connie comes up?”

  Flo shrugged. “She’s busy downstairs.”

  “Yeah, but what if she comes up? I don’t think you should be doing that.”

  “I’ve always wondered about Connie. I never could figure her out. Or what Joseph ever saw in her, for that matter.” She motioned toward the open closet door. “Get a load of all these clothes.”

  Lucille peeked inside. The closet was so neat, unlike her own with all her shoes in a tangle and half her things falling off the hangers. Connie had scented sachets and everything lined up on beige padded hangers.

  “Kind of boring, don’t you think?” Flo glanced through a row of beige sweaters, beige blouses, and beige dresses.

  Lucille shrugged. “It suits her, I guess.”

  “Even Connie’s hair is beige,” Flo said. “Rita keeps trying to get her to change it—go blonder or darker or something. But Connie says she likes it that way.” Flo closed the door. “And Rita says she’s a cheap tipper.”

  “Well, she’s been good to Joseph.”

  Flo snorted. “Joseph’s been good to her, you mean. No kids, never worked. Spends a ton on herself.” She gestured toward the closet.

  “She wanted kids. You heard what she said at the church.”

  “Yeah, what was that all about? That wasn’t like Connie.” Flo was peeking into the drawers, and Lucille was getting nervous. “She probably only wanted kids so she could shop in the baby department. They’d be like another accessory.”

  Flo had never liked Connie, Lucille realized. She hated any woman she thought had it easier than she did. She was always going on and on about the ladies at the Clip and Curl where she worked.

  Lucille supposed it was because she’d had to struggle so hard herself, being a single parent almost from the time Anthony Jr. was born.