“Thanks, Terry. So what do you think?” she said when the girl left.
“I think you’re right: she’s probably never eaten an entire piece of this cake and I think the boobs are real,” I said.
“Not Giada. Caroline…Monica…whatever the hell her name is. Pretty wild, huh, federal marshals coming to take her away? The Main Street Moms must be having a field day with this one. They’ll be dining on this for a year. I guess now we know why Caroline was so hot to put the business in your name. She’s been invisible so long it was probably second nature to her not to put anything in her own name.”
In all the excitement, that hadn’t occurred to me. Had Caroline done something related to the business that had exposed her identity?
“Cripes, I wonder if that’s how she got caught, because I resisted letting her be a silent partner.”
“Don’t start feeling guilty-it wasn’t your fault. Besides, she hasn’t bought anything yet or signed any papers.” Babe shook her head at my ignorance. “Where have you been? People are getting e-mail alerts and Twitters on this, details are flying through this diner faster than blackflies in April. Maybe I should just put the latest news on the marquee outside. I almost wish I had a television in here if only so people would stop asking me what I know. No, I take that back.”
I knew she didn’t mean it; the last thing she’d ever watched on television was Hill Street Blues, and that was only because she’d dated one of the actors. Besides, she liked Caroline as much as I did-neither of us would ever exploit her situation. Maybe deep down we’d both seen something else behind the ballet flats and designer clothes. A layer of experience or sadness. We just didn’t know it had been caused by a year in the slammer.
Babe blew on her coffee and then took a swig. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly. “It was an anonymous tip. Somebody intentionally outed her.”
“But who? And why?”
“Quien sabe, my friend.”
Just then Sergeant Mike O’Malley entered the diner. Babe waved him over, and he joined us, sliding onto the seat next to her.
“Brother,” he said, “not a very convenient week for this to happen. We’ve got a new department spokesperson-fresh out of school. He’s been hyperventilating ever since this story broke. And we’ve got a rookie cop who nearly shot himself in the thigh yesterday, like that dopey football player.” Mike swung around and called to the girl behind the counter. “Darlin’, can I get a decaf here? Skim milk?”
What possible difference could skim milk make when I saw him eyeing the rest of the cake on my plate?
“How awful for you. I’m sure it hasn’t been a banner week for the Sturgises either,” I said.
“True,” he said. “I’m just asking as a neighbor, not a law enforcement official, but you two girls didn’t know anything about this, did you?”
“Let me out of here,” Babe said. “I will not be interrogated in my own restaurant.” It was said in fun, but I had the feeling there was a nugget of truth in it. And, tellingly, she didn’t answer. Babe shoved O’Malley out of the booth and then got out herself. “Don’t say anything without your attorney present.” She gave Mike a playful push and left.
Of course we hadn’t known-at least I hadn’t. Although I don’t know that I would have said anything if I did. It was an ethical dilemma unlike any I’d ever encountered before.
“What was she in jail for, anyway? A couple of joints?” I thought of the horror stories about American kids on vacation who stupidly tried to carry pot across borders and were thrown into foreign jails for years. But Caroline had been arrested in Michigan, not Thailand.
“Not exactly,” Mike said.
He told me that according to the Michigan police, Caroline/Monica had been a big-time drug dealer. And they weren’t talking a few nickel bags for her own use. She had denied everything, but the prosecutor claimed that she had a string of employees working for her, mostly young girls. I’d seen Caroline struggle with her own checkbook and Anna had had to dun her for payment almost every month. This was a big-time drug dealer?
Maybe it was all a ruse. Maybe she had been playing the ditzy blonde for so long she didn’t know how to stop playing the part.
Mike said that Caroline had originally been arrested with a man and an older girl, who had served two years of her sentence before being paroled. Presumably she’d gotten on with her life, while Caroline had spent decades in hiding. Good grief.
“How’s she doing?” I asked.
“Seems okay.” Mike eyed the olive oil cake, which had remained untouched since he’d sat down. “Won’t see anyone, though. Not even her husband. Poor bastard-he keeps coming by the station anyway. Bringing her food and clothing. Her toilet items. Yesterday he brought a suitcase filled with creams and lotions. We had to go through every one of those tiny bottles. Is your bathroom filled with stuff like that?”
It was. And I knew what Caroline used. I seriously doubted whether Grant Sturgis could smuggle a file or a poison pill into jail in a flat jar of YvesSaintLaurent eye cream. “What happens next?” I asked. I took a small bite of cake and washed it down with cold coffee.
O’Malley told me Caroline would be extradited to Michigan and a judge there would decide her fate. He’d either send her back to prison to finish her sentence-possibly with a few years tacked on for escaping-or send her home with a suspended sentence. Presumably they’d take into account the way she’d turned her life around, but you could never tell. She could get titanically unlucky and get a judge who prided himself on being a hard case or one who was running for reelection and didn’t want to appear “soft on crime.” I didn’t know what I thought; it was all too fresh. O’Malley was silent and looked longingly at the half-eaten piece of cake on my plate.
“Go on,” I said. “You know you want it.”
“What makes you think my lean and hungry look is directed at your leftover cake?”
That was as close to a pass as O’Malley had come since I first moved to Springfield. I didn’t mind. I never minded, but I kept that to myself. I guess I could sip wine in front of the fire with a man like Mike, talk about our days, laugh at the stupid things that happened, I just hadn’t done that for so long. And I wasn’t sure I knew how not to be sarcastic and distant with Mike O’Malley.
Just as things were getting interesting we were interrupted by his coffee coming and my cell phone ringing. I fished it out of the bottom of my backpack and froze when I saw the name on-screen: Caroline. I fumbled to unlock the keypad and hit answer before the phone kicked into voice mail mode. Would she be calling me from the Springfield jail? Why? I waited for what seemed like an eternity. “Who is this?” I whispered.
“It’s Grant. Grant Sturgis. I need to talk to someone. Someone I can trust.”
Of course. He most have reconnected their home phone and I had saved the number as Caroline.
“Will you meet me?
“All right,” I said, “where?”
“Your place?”
“No way. Yours?”
“Not a chance. There’s an entourage here. I can lose them and meet you. How about Guido’s?”
“Yes. Yes. Good-bye.” I turned off the phone and shoved it back in my bag.
I slid the rest of the cake toward O’Malley. “It’s all yours. I’ve got to leave. I think it’s a new client.”
Ten
Guido Chiaramonte’s old nursery had been shuttered since his death. The courts had not been able to find any of his relatives in Sicily to claim the property, so it sat there waiting for an out-of-town buyer who either wouldn’t know or wouldn’t be scared off by its bloody history. There weren’t many local takers for the large parcel right on the road and not far from the highway exit. People in town had long memories, and what had happened at Guido’s was still fresh in their minds.
Early on, nearby residents worried the nursery would be sold to a developer who’d raze it and put up a multiple-dwelling housing unit, but sewage issues and zoning restrictions put the brakes on that idea. For the last two years nothing much had happened except that a few windows had been broken, some graffiti had appeared, and Guido’s remaining stock had either died; been stolen; or, the way plants sometimes do, burst through their
