Lucille rang the bell and cleared her throat. She had her pad and pen at the ready, held out in front of her like a shield.

  “Yeah?” The door was jerked open so hard it almost hit the wall.

  She’d had it all rehearsed, and now she’d gone and forgotten what she was supposed to say. Like some kind of stage fright or something.

  “Well?”

  “I just gotta ask you a couple of questions if that’s okay.” Lucille tried to peer around him. Maybe the missus was home, and she could talk to her instead?

  “What about?” He scratched his chest and then poked a finger into his ear and wiggled it around. He was wearing a thin, worn guinea T and had bristly bundles of gray hair coming out of his ears. Lucille stared at them, fascinated. It was a wonder he could even hear.

  “I’ve come about the exterminating company—JoFra. I’m doing this here survey”—she waved her yellow pad at him—“and I need to know what you think of the services.”

  He let out a roar that nearly knocked Lucille back down the steps.

  “You want to know what I think, huh? Well, come on in. I’ll be glad to tell you. And then you go back and ask your boss just what is he going to do about it, huh?” He thrust his face at Lucille’s, and she backed up as far as she could considering she was already teetering on the top step.

  He turned around and marched back into the house. Lucille was right behind him. This was looking very promising. She could imagine this fellow attacking Joseph in a fit of rage. She might have this whole thing wrapped up before lunch. Maybe she ought to think about becoming a private detective? Seeing as how she was so good at it and all. She’d be bound to make more money than St. Rocco’s was paying her—and she was going to need it with Frankie gone. Although she didn’t want to think about that right now.

  No wonder they had ants, Lucille thought when she got a look at their living room. There were dirty dishes stacked on two TV tables in front of the sofa. It looked like the wife must have made them some macaroni and cheese for dinner last night and then got too tired to clean up. Or maybe she had to go out or something. There were crumbs all over the sofa too. There was no better invitation to a family of ants than crumbs, least that was what Frankie was always telling her.

  Lucille followed the man through the living room and out to the kitchen. She wondered if maybe he had some coffee going because she could sure use a cup. Some coffee cake would be nice too. Although maybe it would be better not to touch nothing in this place considering how dirty it was. There was still no sign of the missus—maybe she was out doing the shopping or something.

  An elaborate house of cards teetered on the kitchen table amid dirty coffee cups and crumpled paper napkins. Mr. Flanagan took a seat in front of it, lifted a card from the pile, and placed it atop the shaky structure.

  “That there is really something.” Lucille pointed at the cards. She sat down at the head of the table even though the fellow hadn’t issued no invitation yet—her feet were still killing her from working so hard at St. Rocco’s spaghetti dinner. “We might as well get started.” She had her pad in her lap and her pen at the ready. “So tell me, what did you think of JoFra Exterminating?”

  “Unreliable!” He slammed his hand down on the table, and the card structure quivered but held.

  “You mean they didn’t show up?”

  “Oh, they showed up all right. Like clockwork they were. Same fellow every Monday at 4:30—his last stop for the day.” He stabbed a stubby forefinger into the air in front of Lucille’s face, and she leaned back in her chair. “But he didn’t do nothing. The ants kept coming back and back.” He swept a hand around the kitchen. “All over the counters they were. Disgusting.”

  Well, no wonder, Lucille thought, considering the kind of housekeeping they went in for. “How do you know they didn’t spray or nothing? Seeing as how they was already here and all.”

  “I know because the fellow was too busy to do any spraying.”

  “Too busy doing what?”

  “Too busy screwing my wife!”

  “No!”

  “Yes.” He motioned toward Lucille’s pad. “Write that down. I want to see what his boss has to say about that.”

  “But how do you—”

  “I know all right. Don’t worry about that. They were here alone together, weren’t they? Being that I was at work”—he tapped the side of his nose and winked—“it was bound to happen.”

  Lucille shook her head. This guy was a real nutter. And if he’d gotten it into his head that Joseph was fooling around with his wife, there was no telling what he might do. What if he snuck over to the church on his lunch hour, killed Joseph, and then went back to work as quietly as you please? She was going to need to check his alibi. That’s what they always did on TV.

  “So you were working?”

  “I have to pay the bills, don’t I?” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I got a mechanic’s job at that station on the corner of Springfield and Union Avenue. Been there more than ten years.”

  “You work every day? I know some of them mechanics keep different hours.”

  He picked up a card from the stack and added it to his creation. “Thursdays I’m off, and Mondays and Wednesdays I go in late and work late.” He shook his head. “That’s what made it so easy for them, see. They had the whole evening with me out of the house.” He shook his head again. “Here I am busting my ass to put food on the table, and all the time . . .”

  Lucille wrote this down carefully on her pad so she would remember. She and Flo were going to have to go over to that gas station and check things out. She could bring in the Olds—it was slow starting some mornings and would give them an excuse. She was going to hand this whole thing to Richie Sambuco on a silver platter.

  Lucille started to get up. “I’m going to be sure to tell Frankie—I mean, the boss—all about this here problem you been having.”

  He was poking around in his ear again but with his little finger this time. “The wife says it’s all a load of bullshit and that I’m nuts.” He pulled the finger out and examined the end of it. “But I still think that guy was doing my wife instead of doing his job. Why else would we keep getting all them ants?”

  Yeah, why, Lucille thought. Especially seeing as how his missus was such a spotless housekeeper. She kicked at a pile of dust bunnies nesting under her chair.

  “I guess I’ll be going, then.” Lucille put her pen in her purse and started to get up. She could feel a sneeze forming in the back of her throat. She shouldn’t have poked around at that dust—there was no telling what she might catch on account of it.

  The sneeze began to subside, and she got to her feet. All of a sudden the tickle hit the back of her throat again. She made a quick prayer to St. Bernadine, patron saint against respiratory problems, but it was too late. She sneezed real hard—her head flew forward and then back again.

  And she blew the house of cards off the table along with a whole bunch of what looked like cake crumbs.

  “Shit!”

  “Listen, I’m really sorry. But I couldn’t help it. I got this here tickle in the back of my throat.” Lucille paused with her hand on her neck. Flanagan looked like he was going to choke her. He’d gone all red in the face—right up to the top of his head.

  “Get out of here,” he bellowed and pointed toward the door. “Just get out of here before you do any more damage.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” Lucille tripped over an empty water bottle that had been thrown on the floor. It rolled under the table and ricocheted off the wall.

  Lucille was halfway through the living room when she heard a door squeak somewhere down the hall. She hesitated for a moment. She was dying to get a look at the missus.

  “What is it, Danny?” A woman came around the corner, tying the belt on her bathrobe.

  Lucille’s mouth dropped open. “Jeanette!”

  “Lucille. What are you doing here?”

  Before Lucille could answer, Flanagan took her arm, marched her out to the front stoop, and slammed the door in back of her.

  “Well!” Lucille shook herself and smoothed her sleeve where Flanagan had grabbed it. Funny, Flanagan being Jeanette’s husband. She hadn’t made the connection between the names. Besides, hadn’t Jeanette said she lived in Berkeley Heights somewhere? Or was that the lady who came in to clean, and she was getting the two of them confused?

  Lucille paused with one hand on the door of the Olds. It didn’t make no sense. Why would Joseph be having an affair with Jeanette—even taking into account the saying that there was no accounting for taste? Here was Connie so perfect all the time and Jeanette . . . Lucille shuddered.

  She was going to check Flanagan’s alibi anyway. The way the man came at her . . . She put a hand to her throat again. She could picture Flanagan murdering Joseph a lot more easily than she could imagine Tony Jr. doing it.

  • • •

  Lucille burst through the door of the Clip and Curl Beauty Salon. She couldn’t wait to tell Flo about Flanagan.

  Flo was at her station behind the reception desk, wearing a pair of black leather pants Lucille thought were a little too tight—especially in light of them both about to become grandmothers. Of course Flo didn’t know nothing about that yet.

  It looked like she’d have to wait to talk to her. Flo had the salon’s telephone receiver pressed to one ear and her cell phone pressed to the other

  “Hey, Lucille, what’s up? Today’s not your day.” Flo held one of the receivers with her shoulder as she penciled a note into the appointment book.

  “I stopped by to see how Connie’s doing—she’s Wednesdays, right?”

  “Carmela’s washing her right now.” Flo pointed toward the back with a long, French-manicured nail.

  Flo wasn’t looking so good, Lucille noticed—tired, with dark circles under her eyes even her concealer couldn’t hide. She supposed that was natural under the circumstances—Tony Jr. still being in jail and all. They’d been to see the lawyer, some guy by the name of Al Jerome, but the fellow hadn’t been able to tell them much yet.

  And now there was this baby to worry about. Lucille didn’t want to think about it. There was always the hope that something might happen, it being early days yet . . . She made a hasty Sign of the Cross and sent up a prayer to St. Catherine of Sweden, patron saint against miscarriages. Although what she was praying for, she wasn’t at all sure. Thank goodness she had almost nine months to figure it out.

  The Clip and Curl was noisy with the hum of dryers and the chatter of female voices. Lucille wended her way between the stations to the wash tubs at the back.

  “Hey, Lucille, what’s up? Today’s not your day, is it?” Carmela was running water over Connie’s soapy head.

  “Just dropped in to say hello to Connie. I brought you a cake.” She held it out so Connie could see. She felt a little guilty seeing as how she was planning on pumping Connie for information.

  “Thanks, Lucille.”

  “Here, I’ll put it in the back until you’re done, okay?” Carmela took the plate from Lucille and disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the shop.

  Carmela reappeared, wrapped Connie’s dripping head in a white towel, and led her over to Rita’s station. “Rita’ll be right with you.”

  “Hello, there.” Rita came over and gave Connie a hug. “How are you holding up? Okay?”

  Connie nodded.

  “Hey, Lucille, today’s not your day, is it?” Rita unfurled a cape and tied it around Connie’s shoulders. “What are we doing today?” she asked Connie’s reflection in the mirror.

  Connie laughed. “Oh, you know me, Rita. The same as usual.”

  Rita nodded and reached into the drawer for her scissors. “You look good, Connie. I don’t know how you’re managing. I read about it all in the papers . . . You know, about the police and everything.” She pulled a comb through Connie’s wet hair and briskly divided it into sections with brightly colored plastic clips. “Have they found anything—”

  Connie shook her head. “Not yet, and that’s what makes it so horrible.” She sniffled delicately. “It’s not knowing, you know?” She snaked a hand out from under the plastic cape and took a tissue from the box on Rita’s counter.

  Rita nodded and gently pushed Connie’s head down. She began to snip the hair at the base of Connie’s neck.

  “It’s not like Joseph had any enemies or nothing.” Lucille brushed at the hair on the floor with her foot, making a little pile next to the chair. “I mean, at least I never heard nothing . . .” Lucille crossed her fingers behind her back.

  Connie tried to nod her head, but Rita put a hand out to steady it. “Everyone loved Joseph.”

  Looks like she didn’t know nothing about Flanagan, then, Lucille thought. He sure didn’t love Joseph none.

  Flo wandered over and leaned against the edge of the booth. She sighed. “The phones have been ringing off the hook today.”

  “You look like you need a break.” Rita pulled one of the clips out of Connie’s hair and began trimming that section. “See if Carmela has a minute so you can go out and grab a smoke.”

  “Maybe later, I’m okay.” Flo slipped off one of her high-heeled mules and rotated her ankle around and around. “Marco took me dancing last night, and my feet are killing me.”

  “You still seeing him?” Rita squinted as she feathered Connie’s bangs. “I thought you guys had broken up. Wasn’t there some problem with his mother?”

  “Her!” Flo snorted. “Just because I’m a couple of years older. The old witch didn’t want him to see me.”

  “I thought it was more like fifteen, twenty years.” Lucille watched as Rita took a brush from the drawer and whisked it across the back of Connie’s neck. Flo shot her a dirty look.

  “They say that a younger man and an older woman are the perfect couple.” Rita winked at them. “Considering that guys reach their sexual peak early and women late.” She pointed the brush at Flo. “So don’t go trying to tell us you’re tired on account of going dancing.”

  “Joseph was always so considerate,” Connie said. “He hardly ever bothered me . . . you know . . . like that.”

  “Oh,” the three ladies chorused at once.

  Connie shuddered. “I don’t see what the big deal is about,” she lowered her voice, “s-e-x anyway.”

  “If they don’t get it at home, believe me, they’re going to get it somewhere.” Rita brushed the hair off Connie’s shoulders and reached for her blow dryer.

  “Joseph wasn’t like that.” Connie pressed the tissue to her nose.

  “How do you know?” Flo picked up a hand mirror hanging on the side of Rita’s station and stared at her reflection. “Got any tweezers, Rita? These damn hairs keep coming back.” Flo poked at her chin.

  “Joseph spent all his time with me.” Connie twisted the tissue around and around in her hands. “He always said I was everything he ever wanted. The only time he went out alone was to go to his Knights of Columbus meetings on Wednesday evenings.” Connie dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now that he’s gone,” she wailed.

  Lucille patted her on the back comfortingly.

  “So, yeah, I’m still seeing Marco . . . when it suits him.” Flo plucked at her chin with the tweezers. “Which isn’t often enough, if you ask me. I’m hoping for a ring by Christmas. If he expects to have a couple of kids, we’d better get going.”

  “But, Flo.” Lucille opened her pocketbook and got out a package of antacids. “You can’t have kids no more—you’re having hot flashes. You’re going through the change.”

  “No, I’m not.” Flo slapped the mirror down on the counter and rubbed the red spot under her chin. “I could have a kid like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “I saw a lady on Oprah who had one of those menopausal babies.” Rita took the last clip out of Connie’s hair and began to dry the section.

  “Joseph and I were never blessed.” Connie reached for another tissue. “I had a miscarriage when we were first married and then . . . nothing.”

  Lucille wondered what she would have done without Bernadette. Not that Bernadette was ever more than just there. She had wanted more children, lots of them, but it wasn’t to be. That’s when her scheme of visiting Italy for an audience with the Pope had originally been hatched. Maybe if the good pontiff had been able to pray on her behalf . . . But it was too late for that now. Now was the time to concentrate on grandchildren.

  “You ever try any of those treatments? The shots and all?” Rita put down the dryer. “Olga did it, and she had twins. Look.” She reached around to the booth next to hers and plucked a framed picture off the counter. “Here they are.”

  Connie shook her head. “Joseph didn’t want to put me through that. He said I was more than enough for him.”

  “We would have tried it ourselves, but it was too expensive,” Lucille said as she glanced at the picture of Olga’s twins. “Sheesh, the drugs were a fortune. And you had to take all those shots . . .”

  Flo shuddered. “I sure as hell hope Marco doesn’t expect me to go through that!”

  “Sometimes it doesn’t even work. I guess Olga was lucky.” Rita stretched Connie’s bangs over a round brush and aimed the blow dryer at them. “I hope that when the time comes I’ll be able to have kids the easy way.” She put the dryer down and picked up a can of spray. “Close your eyes.” She misted Connie’s hair lightly. “You’re all set.” She untied the plastic cape.

  “I’m just going to run up to the counter and pay.” Connie patted her newly done hair and slipped out of the chair.

  Lucille, Flo, and Rita looked at each other as soon as she was gone.

  “Bother her?” Flo finally exploded. “How did she think they were going to make babies if Joseph didn’t bother her?”

  Bother? Lucille thought to herself. She’d never considered it a bother. There was a time when she and Frank couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Sure, things slowed down as they got older, but still . . .

 

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