“I have another legal option,” I said, “but I didn’t want to bypass you, given your involvement so far. I appreciate your candor, Rebecca.”
“Uh, I wonder…”
I waited a moment, but when she didn’t continue, I went into a soothing mom voice and said, “Something I can help with?”
“I truly enjoy your family, Angie, and they’ve been very gracious about my staying here. But I’m feeling much better and think it’s time to return home. The problem is, well, I feel unsafe, even a little scared. What do you think? Is it premature to get back to normal? Or at least a new normal, since I’m exploring selling the law practice.”
“There’s something you need to know, Rebecca, and I suspect it will shock you as deeply as it did me.” I told her of the discovery of Stephen Carmody’s body in the parking garage.
“I didn’t know him, but… somehow I feel a sense of responsibility since the killer was there to get into my office.”
“There’s only one person responsible for that terrible act, and it isn’t you,” I assured her, “but if you want to help, you can always make a donation in his name, once the obituary is published.”
“I’ll do that,” she asserted with a sharp nod of her head, followed by an almost imperceptible tightening of the muscles of her face.
The headache must be fading. "Detective Wukowski asked Debby to wait things out at the safe house, and I think you should do the same here.” After several moments of silence, I asked, “Is that okay?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I was only thinking… Well, do you know someone who can advise me about security at my home? I’d pay, of course.”
“I do, indeed,” I said. “Spider Mulcahey—”
Her brows rose at the name.
“—whose real name is Leonard, by the way, runs a security company. He’s not the cheapest, but he is certainly the best. I could ask him to check out the house before you move back in, if you’d like, and have him call or meet you with recommendations.”
“Perfect.” Her voice resumed its normal in-charge tone. “I’ll give you house keys when you come over later for supper so he can get inside. And I have to say, Angie, that in this matter, I’d be lost without all you’ve done. There’s no way I can ever thank you enough.”
“Ever see the movie Pay It Forward?”
“Years ago.”
“That would be thanks enough. For now, please just rest. You’ll need stamina for my family’s weekly pasta fest.”
Chapter 33
Italians love sun, sin, and spaghetti.
Lady Randolph Churchill
Papa stood at the stove, his spare frame wrapped in a white chef’s apron to protect his clothing from splashes of sauce. I set the bread and wine on the counter and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Smells wonderful as always, Papa.”
“I’m not sure if there’s enough garlic. Taste it for me.”
I smiled to myself at the concern he evinced with every batch of Bolognese and reached for the teaspoon. “I’d say it’s darn perfect.”
“Bene,” he said, giving the pot a stir and replacing the lid. Lifting the apron over his head, he hung it on the hook next to the stove and turned to me. “You are well, Angelina?”
Uh-oh. Full first name. I resisted rolling my eyes at the impending lecture. “Of course, Papa.”
“And Ted?”
Ah, no reprimand. He was worried about Wukowski bowing out of the family dinner. “He’s up to his eyeballs in work but otherwise fine.”
With a sharp nod, he said, “Perhaps things will ease off and he and his mama can sit down with us next Sunday.”
“That would be wonderful, but I’m not counting on anything right now. Homicide is very short-staffed, and Wukowski and Iggy are working extra hours on top of their already outrageous caseload.”
He patted my cheek and ambled into the family room, where a Packers game was in progress on the big-screen TV.
Turning back to Aunt Terry, who was preparing antipasto at the counter, I asked, “How are things going? Is Papa making you crazy? Are you ready to hightail it to your apartment?”
She chuckled and shook her head. “Actually, he’s been fine. I think he enjoys sparring with Rebecca, which gives me a break.”
“I hope she gives as good as she gets,” I said.
“Count on it.”
Hearing shouts from the crowd, I made my way to the family room. My son David’s twin boys were sprawled on the carpet, immersed in a vicious game of Connect 4. They greeted me with their typical impish smiles and, at David’s prompting, rose to hug me. Fourteen now, they towered over me. “Are you two being-have?” I asked, referring to their childhood response when asked what they were up to.
“Of course, Nonna,” they said in unison.
As usual, my ladylike granddaughter Angela had her nose buried in a book. “Nonna,” she cried, lifting her arms when she saw me.
The sweetest name in the world, I thought, reaching down to hug the twelve-year-old, who balanced between childhood and becoming a young woman. I hoped that the relationship we’d built would survive the tumultuous teenage years.
While the typical pandemonium of a game day—shouts of joy when the Packers made a good play, groans when they biffed, and boos to the referees whenever a call went against the team—swirled around her, Rebecca Franken sat ensconced in one of the two recliners and Papa in the other. If Mama had lived, that would be her there, I thought, missing the woman I barely remembered. But Aunt Terry was as much a mother as anyone could ask for.
I crouched next to Rebecca. “Is this too crazy for you?”
She grinned. “I love it.”
With a pat to her
