Murder on the First Day of Christmas (Chloe Carstairs Mysteries) (25 page)

    
“Nothing much.” I was surprised to find myself smiling. Sure, Gavin Beaumont was socially awkward and maybe even a little creepy at times, but he was kind of endearing, too. In a weird sort of way. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Saul and Oscar.”

    
He nodded, attacking a wheel well with a vengeance. “Bunny said you and your mom were looking into things, and I must say that I’m glad. I don’t think the police have a chance with this one, do you?”

    
“I don’t know. There’s an active investigation.”

    
“Yes, but we took Nancy some flowers and such the other day, and she said they’re after Trianos.” He looked over at me as if we could both agree that this was absurd.

    
“I guess they think he’s the most likely suspect, given his reputation.”

    
Gavin snorted. “Yes, but what about access? He couldn’t have set something like that up in Saul’s house, and Oscar never would’ve let him get close enough to stab him.”

    
“It doesn’t take much access to stab someone in the back. I doubt that Oscar even saw it coming.”

    
“Does that sound like Tony Trianos to you? Stabbing one man in the back, and poisoning the other? He seems more direct to me - more mano a mano.”

    
“I didn’t realize you knew him.”

    
“Sure. I delivered his sister’s kids - seven healthy boys. Tony was very grateful. Sent me a case of first growth claret with each one.”

    
“So what’s your theory?”

    
“Who says I have one?” Gavin stepped away from the car and picked up a hose, gesturing for me to watch myself. He rinsed the wheel thoroughly, the spray casting a watery rainbow around his hands, the water’s metallic tang reminding me of summer.

    
“I just thought you might. You seem more observant than other people. More intuitive.”

    
“Less apt to be snowed by a pretty girl?”

    
See? Endearing. In a weird sort of way.

    
I didn’t think he was going to tell me his theory, if he had one, but he surprised me.

    
“You’re not going to like it. It might hit a little too close to home.”

    
I rolled my eyes. “My mother? Please. Just because she decorated the houses? Give me a break.”

    
We moved along, so he could do the left rear wheel.

    
“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of your father.”

    
“My father? You can’t be serious.” Had the man lost his mind?

    
“It makes a certain amount of sense, you must admit.”

    
“What are you talking about? How do you figure?”

    
“I told you that you wouldn’t like this.”

    
“I don’t like it,” I said hotly, “but keep going. I can’t wait to hear your logic.”

    
“It’s just that we had dinner with Saul a few months ago, and he said your dad was as good as they come - a real straight arrow.”

    
“Exactly my point. Not a murderer.”

    
“But he also speculated that if he dug for a few months he could turn up something on anybody, even a Boy Scout like your dad. You could tell the idea really appealed to him as a way to take his books to the next level - an exposé. Instead of just recounting a story, he would create one.”

    
“And you think that’s what he was doing when he died? Digging into my father’s life?”

    
Gavin tossed his sponge into the bucket and picked up the hose. “Why not?”

    
Water again roared into the wheel well, and I waited till he shut off the spray. “There’s nothing to find.”

    
“How can you be so sure? Everyone cuts corners now and then, bends the rules.”

    
“Even you?” I wanted him to see how it felt to be accused.

    
“Even me.”

    
“What would Saul have found about you, if he ‘dug around for a few months?’”

    
Gavin laughed. “I could think of a few things.”

    
“So maybe Saul found out something about you, and you wanted to shut him up.”

    
“Maybe, but he wasn’t looking into my past. He was looking into your father’s.”

    
“We have only your word for that,” I pointed out.

    
“You could ask Angela.”

    
“No one’s seen Angela for days. Nobody knows where she is.”

    
Gavin took the news in stride, not a bit concerned. “Look. Do I think your dad is a murderer? Not really. I’m just saying it’s not as far outside the realm of possibility as you might want it to be. Saul was burnt out writing about criminals. He wanted to expose the bad side of basically good people, and he was a man who didn’t care who he hurt.”

CHAPTER 30

    
Tony Trianos owned a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant downtown that served some of the best Mediterranean food in the South. Called simply Tony’s, the place had the corporate crowd lined up out the doorway on weekdays to order thick slabs of Moussaka, rich, hearty Stifado or steaming bowls of lemony Avgolemono. On Friday and Saturday nights, the entire complexion of the restaurant changed. The lights lowered, the tables were pushed aside and a small stage gave dancing girls room to do their stuff.

    
Thankfully, today was Tuesday.

    
Mom and I went after the lunch rush, going on the rumor that Trianos always ate at his own place, ordering the same thing day after day - a steaming wedge of spanakopita and a Greek salad. His real money was made, at least on the surface, in the laundry business. He had a chain of dry cleaners and commercial laundry services throughout the Southeast.

    
“How do they know on the wiretaps if he’s talking about laundering money or laundering sheets,” Mom had asked when I picked her up. “That was smart thinking on his part.”

    
On the way to the restaurant, I filled Mom in on Gavin’s obnoxious theory. She wasn’t nearly as upset as I had been.

    
“Ridiculous, dear. Saul could’ve dug all he wanted to, it wouldn’t have meant a thing.”

    
“Yeah, but…”

    
“But nothing. If anything, Gavin distracted you from questioning him by getting you riled up about Alex. I can’t believe that you fell for it. Now tell me again what Bunny was wearing.”

    
We exhausted that subject, catty comments flying, then got back to the case. Mom was interested in Gavin’s assertion that Saul wanted to do more of an exposé than his usual true crime narration.

    
“I thought he was doing a story on Tony Trianos,” she said thoughtfully.

    
“Yeah, but if that were the case, why would Tony be cooperating?”

    
“We can ask him.”

    
Parked in front of the restaurant, we sat for a moment and collected ourselves. For this venture, I had chosen a pink paisley knee-length skirt, white tank and brown cropped jacket - a look that was smart, casual and easily spotted should my body be dumped in a landfill.

    
Mom had on her favorite A-line silk dress, nipped in at the middle to show off her tiny waist. When I turned fourteen, we knew my wearing her wedding dress down the aisle was no longer a possibility. I wondered if Ms. Hospital-Corners chose to wear red today, so that her outfit wouldn’t show bloodstains.

    
“You’re not putting on lipstick?” she asked.

    
“We’re not on a double date. This is business. No use getting all dolled up just to die.”

    
“Stop being so dramatic.” Mom checked her own perfectly glossed lips in her compact mirror. “Nobody’s going to die. At most we could be sold into some sex slavery ring. No biggie.” She snapped the compact at me.

    
“It’s not too late to back out.”

    
“You’re more than welcome to wait in the car.”

    
Right.

    
We got out. Amanda smoothed her dress, fluffed her hair and waved at a van parked along the street.

     “Who’s that?” I asked.

     She shrugged. “Could be FBI. If it is, I want my face on video. That way if I go in, someone will at least wonder if I don’t come out.”

    
“You watch too much TV.”

    
“You’re probably right, dear.”

    
And I probably was, which meant that my mother was wrong. However, our track records in that area didn’t stack the odds in my favor. I waved at the van.

    
Inside, the restaurant was almost deserted, just one older couple at a table sharing the moussaka. I wondered if the woman had a Tommy gun in her oversized handbag.

    
In a booth, sipping tea and dipping pita into what looked like Taramosalata dip, was Tony Trianos.  I’d seen him on the news, file footage accompanying stories of how he beat yet another racketeering charge and, of course, at Saul’s party. At this proximity, I was struck by his quiet intensity. And again by the fact that his face, though his skin looked like it had never known sunscreen or moisturizer, was downright handsome.

    
Mom, never one to be shy, marched right up to him. “Mr. Trianos? I’m Amanda Carstairs, and this is my daughter Chloe.”

    
“She a dancer?” He asked Mom, flicking topaz colored eyes in my direction.

    
“A what?” I asked.

    
“Girls come in all the time looking for jobs.” Trianos chuckled. “First time anyone’s brought their mother.”

    
Mom hid a smile, clearly enjoying this.

    
“Ok. Let’s see what you got here.” He looked me up and down. “Cute. Good general muscle tone.”

    
“She works out,” my mother said helpfully.

     “A little on the skinny side.”

     Bless his heart.

    
“I could see her working some kind of school girl angle,” Tony said.

    
“Eight years of Catholic school,” Mom said. “Probably still has the uniform.”

     “Excuse me.” I said.

     “Course, we would have to make a few cosmetic adjustments.” He nodded to where my chest would be if I had one.

    
Mom tilted her head, conceding the point.

    
“Excuse me!” I said, more forcefully this time. “I am no dancer.”

    
“It’s true.” Mom grimaced. “Not very graceful, I’m afraid.” She slid into the booth across from him.  “Actually, we’re here to talk to you about Saul Taylor.”

    
“Ballsy little thing, aren’t you?” Tony now checked out my mother. “I like that.”

    
Oh, brother.

    
Mom smiled prettily and gestured for me to join them. Even sitting down I could tell Tony was powerfully built, just a little soft around the edges. Nice hair - thick, dark and shiny. An attractive man. As mobsters go.

    
“We don’t want to interrupt your lunch,” Mom began.

    
“Nonsense. I haven’t even ordered yet. You girls eat with me. Nothing whets a man’s appetite like dining with beautiful women.”

    
Was I mistaken, or had my mother actually tittered?

    
We spent a moment looking at the menu.

    
“I’m having the spanakopita,” Tony said helpfully.

    
“Eggplant parmesan sounds good,” I said. Calories be damned, this could be my last meal.

    
“I hear y’all do a wonderful Greek salad,” Mom said.

    
“The dressing’s a family recipe,” Trianos replied, pleased.

    
“Then I definitely should try it.”

    
Yesterday, I would’ve sworn there was nothing worse than watching your fifty-something mother flirt. Now I knew better. It’s far worse to watch your fifty-something mother flirt and see that it’s working. Who knew how many years of therapy it would take to undo the damage of this little get-together.

    
Tony called over his waiter, a young guy who would’ve been right at home on page twenty-three of any men’s sportswear catalog, and ordered for us.

    
“This is Chloe,” he told the waiter, who nodded in my direction. “And my new friend Amanda.”