Dirty Trouble (6 page)

This week’s schedule lay before me on the desk as I stared out the window, lost in thought. The computer sat to the right. With reluctance I pulled the keyboard closer. The mouse clicked under my fingertips, and reports written by the class participants rapidly surfaced. After reading the homework assignments, I typed responses to everyone and sent their e-mail grades off to them.

Unable to settle on the next workload, I figured exercise might lighten my down-swung mood. Lola’s words echoed in my ears. While I’m not the bravest person in the world, I act like it. I hoped Tony wouldn’t be my next challenge.

Exercise usually removed the cobwebs from my brain. Though my muscles whined over the thought of a workout, I slipped my sneakers on and left the house. I walked past Lola’s MINI Cooper still parked in the yard. A smile flitted across my face as I thought about her attempt to woo Aaron.

My Italian grandmother, Nonni, always said the only way to get a man was to feed him well.
I heartily disagree, but hey, I’m not married, so who am I to say she’s wrong?
Nonni, still a strong-willed woman, had ruled her household with an iron hand, or wooden spoon, whichever came first.

Even my father conceded when she entered into a conversation, whether he agreed with her or not. If one disagreed with Nonni, a lecture was sure to follow, along with no dinner, or maybe a smack with a wooden cooking spoon. The worst part was that she was usually right about stuff.

I left the house and noted the street lined with cars. A hearse was parked in front of the church.
Must be a funeral.
The Catholic Church sat on the corner opposite Lola’s Salt & Pepper Deli. As a Catholic, I feel it’s a good thing for others to go to church, but not necessarily for me to participate.

Nonni and my mother disagree with that idea, but I live more than ten minutes away from them, and that’s my saving grace. In Rhode Island, if you live more than ten minutes travel time from someone, likely you’ll never be on his or her visitation list. I often refer to this as the unwritten ten-minute rule. The likelihood of ‘no visitors’ doesn’t faze me at all. I relish privacy.

As I crossed the street, the fresh autumn smells of crisp leaves wafted over me. The hint of a chill made me shiver. Tendrils of my dark hair fluttered around my face in the sweet breeze. My thick sweatshirt and jersey sweatpants seemed appropriate now that I was outdoors.

I rounded the block and passed the fire station as a huge bay door rolled up. The gravelly voice of Bill MacNert, the oldest member of the fire company, carried across the launch pad.

“Whatcha’ up to this mornin’, Vinnie?” He smiled and hustled toward me. His gait hitched with every step.

Bill MacNert was a longtime friend of mine and Aunt Livvy’s since we had lived Scituate. He had handled some of my problems earlier this year. He and his wife lived in this neat village that lay west of Providence. They claimed that though it was only a stone’s throw from the metropolitan area, coming here, to Scituate, was like entering another world.

When I had the gem smuggling issue during the summer, Bill was first on my list to call. Though he gossiped like an old woman, his heart was pure gold.

“Just shaking the cobwebs from my brain, Bill. How’s the fire-fighting business?”

“Well, it’s been slow this season. I was wonderin’ if you might have somethin’ comin’ up that would take the edge off our boredom here at the station?” He cackled, as only senior men do.

 “Saw you talkin’ to Tony DeGreico yesterday. Got nothin’ in common with that bum, so you just watch yerself. Okay?”

Lordy, was everyone aware of my business or what?
Nonni and my parents would be the next ones looking out for me. Geesh. With a mental eye roll I tried a confident smile.

“You know, I’m certain there’s nothing to fear. Thanks for the advice though.”

Sidestepping the conversation, I moved toward the reservoir on the edge of town. Waving my hand, I hustled away from Bill’s inquiring stare. A glance over my shoulder revealed him turning back toward the station.

Was there no relief from these do-gooders? By the time I reached the softball field, a quarter mile from the village, my nerves evened out. Cars lined the lot next to the field and along the road. A preschool kids’ ball game was in progress.

Stationed outside the chain-link fence, I let my fingers curl into the diamond-shaped openings. I watched the miniature players step up to the plate, their bats larger than they were. They were miniature pros. I envied their ability to hit the ball and focus on the game. Swarms of mothers cheered the kids on, proud of the players’ efforts to win.

After a few strikes, I moved away and headed back toward the house. My mind still stuck on the Tony thing, I wondered why everyone was so nervous about him. It seemed I was the only one who didn’t see a threat. Was that dumb or what? Only time would tell.

After I arrived at the house, I wandered out behind the huge Colonial to sit on the deck that stretched across the kitchen and my bedroom. Tubs of geraniums still bloomed, and while I’d planted warm-hued fall mums, the flashes of the geraniums’ bright colors were pleasing to the eye.

It wasn’t but a few minutes before I heard a horrid caterwauling and glanced around to see the origin of such a noise. My gaze settled on a ratty looking tomcat whose tail crooked at a permanent angle. It appeared he’d been in one scrap too many. He rubbed against the rail post and eyeballed me. A ragged left ear sported scars from past fights. I guessed his weight would put him around twenty pounds or so – a husky brute at any rate.

He strutted across the deck, lifted his leg, and sprayed the flowerpot. A rank odor wafted past my nose as he lolled on the deck as though he owned it. It occurred to me that the beast probably thought he did.

My eyes narrowed as my nose wrinkled at the acrid smell. I scrambled into the house for a bottle of vinegar. Wine vinegar was stored in the closet. I grabbed it and proceeded to douse the pot and deck. In an effort to reclaim my territory, I lectured the beast.

“Who do you think you are, anyway? This is my house and my deck.” If he answered, I would have been really surprised. With a stamp of my foot on the deck, I hoped the miserable crumb-snatcher would get his sorry butt out of my yard and head back to his own.
I dislike being wrong, truly.

Not only did the arrogant beast stay put, but apparently he’d taken on worse than me and lived to tell about it. With an evil glance, he stretched and yawned, displaying fangs the likes of which I’d only seen on lions. Was he half mountain lion or just a pint-sized one? As he flexed wide paws, claws sprang forward, gleaming in the sunlight.

Sprawled on the sunniest patch of wood, the beast purred – at home, as though this was his right. I studied his multi-hued coat of grays and black, with a smudge of white thrown in for good measure. His face held full puffy cheeks and the most beautiful eye makeup imaginable. Only nature could produce that perfect eyeliner, I thought with envy.

Content in the sunlight, he lounged as I went in search of something for him to eat. Don’t ask me why, but I thought he might be in need of a meal. A solitary can of tuna sat in the cupboard. After opening the can, I pried the top off, slopped the fish into a bowl, and set it outside the sliding door. The beast jumped it in a flash. I watched him wolf the fish down like it was his last supper.

After he ate, he started the grooming process. Perched on the edge of the top step, he washed the wide paws, rubbing them over his face. One paw stretched open, and his long, sharp-hooked claws protruded, reminding me never to mess with him.

A loud chuckle floated down from the smaller deck suspended from Aaron’s apartment above. I stepped outside the French doors and glanced up.

Aaron’s handsome face smiled down. “You’ll never get rid of him now, you know. That Italian habit of feeding everyone has made you the new owner of that ragged beast.”

“I know, but he looked hungry.”

“He’s the size of a dog, for heaven’s sake. How can he look hungry?” Rich laughter scrolled across the yard. “And what is that horrid smell?”

“Well, he marked the flower pot as his own. I soaked it with vinegar but I don’t think it worked.”

With a shake of his head, Aaron moved inside his apartment. I heard feet rumble down the back stairs into the hallway outside my kitchen door. He strode into my apartment and joined me out on the deck.  “He’s a bruiser, isn’t he?” Dark eyebrows rose as he stared at the cat.

“Yeah, an over-sized feline, if you ask me.”

A chuckle followed, as Aaron leaned toward the cat. The animal puffed up to twice his size and a testy growl rolled from his throat.

“Safe to say he doesn’t like men. Have you tried to pet him yet?”

“No, I only fed him.”

I stepped toward the cat and leaned forward with my fingers extended. He sniffed them with disdain and gave me a haughty glare before meandering off the deck.
So much for warm and fuzzy.

As we watched him wander into the woods behind the house, I turned to Aaron and asked, “How did you like the pastries from Lola?”

“She’s a great cook. It would be difficult to eat her food daily and stay in shape. Nice woman – tiny, but nice all the same.” He looked appreciatively over my long legs and height. I stood only a half head or so, shorter than him.

Aaron’s wrestler-sized body stood over six feet tall, reminding me of Dwayne Johnson. The Rock. Dark good looks were enticing and the brilliant smile he sported, nearly irresistible. If I weren’t so enamored with Marcus, this man would be at the top of my wish list. A true gentleman, but a lawman all the same.

Beware.
The silent voice in my head screamed like it always did when I considered a cop.

Marcus stood nearly the same height, but his craggy features and hazel eyes hooked me. Fit, and somewhat arrogant, as most state troopers are, we butted heads on occasion. It’s inevitable since I’m a confident woman, and Italian besides.

Needless to say Mr. Winky played a part in the happy equation. Marcus and I sleep together on occasion, and we seem to enjoy the relationship we have established. The conversation has never turned toward marriage and we all need to be grateful for something.

“What’s on your agenda for the rest of the day?” Aaron asked with a smile.

“I’m headed to my parents’ for a meal. Lola’s going to lend me her car again. She’s working late at the deli to prepare for the Columbus Day weekend crowd. Want to join me? My mother always has plenty of food.” I offered the invitation without thinking ahead.

“Thanks, but I have some work to finish. Make sure you lock up when you leave, in case Tony comes around.”

“You’re not going to go on about this Tony thing are you? I suppose that Little Miss Dynamite mentioned it when she brought the pastry upstairs this morning.”

“Yeah, she did. She’s worried about your safety.”

Flailing my hands in the air, I shook my head in disbelief. “The man stops to say hello on the street, in broad daylight, and now all of a sudden he’s a stalker and megalomaniac? God help me.” I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

“Okay, okay. Don’t get huffy.” Aaron smiled and raised his hands in mock self-defense. “I just said Lola’s worried about you.”

“Fine, I get the message.”

As we entered the apartment, he went toward the hallway door shaking his head.

“If you have any problems, I’ll be around. You might not hear from Tony again, but just be aware that he’s a free man now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” With a mental roll of my eyes, I watched him leave.

Exasperated, I strode toward the bedroom to find my wallet. My hands shook as I tucked money into my pocket. Maybe Aaron and Lola
were
on target? Could Tony be stalking me? Was the accident on the highway more than coincidence? Was it an attack of some sort? I hadn’t really considered that possibility until now. With a heavy sigh, I locked up before I left for the deli.

Chapter 6

Rolling down the sunlit country roads from Scituate to Cranston in Lola’s car, life’s challenges swam through my head.

My parents live in a suburb near Cranston Stadium where my twin brother, Giovanni Esposito, played baseball when we were in high school. We always camped out in the bleachers. My mother would second-guess the umpire, often using Italian adjectives that burned my ears and brought comments from the other parents. I’d learned from her.

The closer I got to the house, the more Gio lingered in my mind. My brother and I were on the wild side during our teenage years. Gio was the thinker, and I was the doer. The doer gets blamed all the time, so I was always the fall guy – or girl. Needless to say, when I christened him Saint Giovanni, there was good reason. I adore my twin, but I enjoy the fact that he lives in Nebraska and practices medicine out there in corn country.

As I pulled into my parents’ postage stamp-sized yard, a pang of guilt hit me. It was a bit unfair that I lived here and Gio lived away from the family. My mother missed him a lot. My father, well, he never lets me forget that Gio is the man of men. When Gio chose to attend medical school, my father became ecstatic about his decision. My career choice hadn’t been heralded as the best direction I could take. My father insists that I should never have taken on a man’s job.

While I am the woman of women, I am still
only
a woman. A woman who should bear many children, stay at home, be a soccer mom, and cook spaghetti. Yikes, perish the thought.
I enjoy children, as long as they’re someone else’s. Thank you very much.
The Giovanni guilt pang passed quickly as I swung my long body out of the car and strolled into the house.

Plates and flatware lined the table. Dinner for four lay spread out, and I wondered who’d be joining us. My mother handed me a glass of wine while my father stirred the pot of pasta. Nobody uttered a sound. My gaze, filled with question, danced between my parents. I didn’t have to wait long for the answer.