Brooklyn Bones Page 10

  “Sure,” I said, automatically, my mind caught by something else. “But what did you mean, you are ‘concerned?’ Does that mean you found something? I’m sure I could be more helpful, if you would just explain more. What do you want?” It was worth a shot.

  She sighed. “It’s up to us to decide what is helpful, not you. You can keep thinking about what you might know. Asking me questions I can’t possibly answer is not helping. We do the asking. Call if you think of something to tell me.”

  “But…”

  “There are no ‘buts.’”

  And she was gone. I hated everything she said. She wasn’t exactly wrong, but I still hated it.

  What did I really know about Rick? He liked to go fishing off Long Island and in the Caribbean too. He liked to go to Atlantic City so I guess that meant he had a taste for gambling. Sure he did, because I knew he liked the track too. He liked live music clubs in New York, the older places that still played straight ahead jazz. I don’t suppose he did any of those things alone, but who he went with and where he stayed, I had no idea.

  He was retired, but he never seemed old. He never even seemed older. He was always the unencumbered bachelor who seemed immune from the everyday cares of life that kept my parents busy. He always seemed to be having fun.

  I worked my way through a couple of business calls about insurance and pension, filing the necessary information, finding out what my responsibilities were.

  Then there were only two items left on my to-do list: call Rick’s recorded next of kin, and call the funeral home named in Rick’s papers.

  I’d run out of excuses.

  “Is this Eileen Malone Donovan? This is Erica Donato. I’m so sorry to be introducing myself in these circumstances, but I was a friend of Rick Malone, your cousin, and it seems I’m his executor, too, at least until my father is able to come back to New York. He was Rick’s old friend….”

  She cut me off. “I’ve had a flood of calls from some New York detectives.” It was an old woman’s voice. “First call was about Rick. Such a shock. And then all these questions and questions. What is going on here?”

  “Trust me, I wish I knew. The police haven’t told me anything at all except that he was killed. And I want to express my sorrow for your loss.”

  “Ha. Not much of a loss. We weren’t a close family, miss, not at all and I never liked Rick that much, with his swagger. A show off, he was.”

  I had no idea how to respond to that.

  “Even if I’m the closest one left—our mothers were sisters—but they ought to be talking to his good time buddies if they want to know what he was up to. I’m sure I have no idea.”

  That got my attention.

  “What he was up to? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know! They had a lot of insulting questions for me, as if he might have been some kind of low life. Why would they ask me about things like that? As if I would even know. I saw Ricky maybe once or twice a year, at someone’s wedding or funeral. He was a lot younger than me and my late husband didn’t get on with him at all.” The indignant voice started to quaver. “Another funeral now, and somehow it’s my job?” She stopped, seemed to gulp, then said, “You’re the executor? It’s your job,” and hung up.

  I was speechless. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry but knew both impulses were shock. I needed to calm down but I wasn’t there yet when the phone rang.

  “This is Eileen Donovan calling back.”

  She went on, “Please explain again why you called. We probably need to talk more.”

  I did.

  “I should not have hung up like that. It was very rude.” She said it stiffly. “I was shocked by all the calls, and I’m not young and not well. If you are Rick’s executor you don’t need me, I wouldn’t think, but yes, I do have some family responsibilities here. There are blood ties, no matter what.”

  I thanked her then for calling back, and did my best to have a real conversation. “I thought you might know who else should be called and maybe you have some requests about the funeral.”

  “Yes, there are some other cousins. I’ll tell them. I don’t have anything to say about funeral plans. You tell me where and when and I’ll show up. Is there anything else?

  “Nothing I can think of, right now.”

  She made an exasperated sound and said, “I just realized who you must be. You’re Len’s daughter.”

  “Yes, exactly. I guess you know him?’

  “Met him a few times, years ago, when Rick was married to—oh, one of his wives—and entertained some. I should have picked up on it sooner.” She sounded a tiny bit warmer.

  “You said you weren’t close, but you know, Rick was good to me and my daughter too, and I’d like to understand what is going on.” I need to, I thought.

  “We were far from close. My late husband and me, we thought Rick was way too much of a good time Charlie. Family, yes, but he just wasn’t our kind of person, BUT—and it matters—I was offended by the questions those cops were asking. I don’t care if he fell away from church and all but I know what his upbringing was.” She came down hard on the last two words. “He knew right from wrong.”

  I took a deep breath. “Just what were they asking?”

  “They thought he was involved with some no good stuff. Never exactly came out and said it, but I could tell. Did he use drugs himself? Did he ever associate with questionable characters? Why would he have a lot of cash in his house? How should I know? Maybe he didn’t trust banks! The nerve of that woman.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Did they think Rick’s death had something to do with Rick’s life? Something that was all wrong in his life? Rick, who behaved like a protective father toward me? A cop, on the right side of the law? Not possible. Not for a moment. That cool detective was going to get a sizzling earful from me, too.

  Eileen went on. “Even if we were never friends, we were family. He was my baby cousin and I was fond of his mother.” Her voice shook. “I’m going back on what I’ve been saying. When you get to emptying his house, if you find some pictures or keepsakes, some of his mother’s things, could I have them? I’m hardly a sentimental woman, but still and all.” She stopped. “I remember the day he was born.”

  “Absolutely. Of course I don’t know when I will be in the house again. I suppose it’s still a crime scene.”

  Chapter Eleven

  A huge headache was forming right behind my eyes. Again. Maybe I could go beg a cup of coffee from Mrs. Pastore in awhile. For now, it was back to work. I called the funeral home.

  The answering voice was warm and even soothing. Perhaps it was an act, straight from the funeral directors’ training program, but I was happy to take it.

  He had Rick’s file in a moment, and told me they would take care of everything. Rick had made all the arrangements. Did I want to come and see where it would take place? He said it was certainly not necessary but that many people found it reassuring.

  Strangely, I did want to. I was having trouble comprehending the reality we were discussing. Perhaps seeing the location would help me get some focus. We made an appointment for early the next day.

  I would call the camp tomorrow, after that visit, when I would at least have something concrete to tell Chris. Was I trying to put it off? Definitely.

  I couldn’t do that without more coffee. I went to knock on Mrs. Pastore’s door. She was home, and I was surrounded by a cloud of sweet baking odors and garlicky tomato sauce as soon as she opened the door. It was so much like my mother-in-law’s kitchen I felt a pang of longing for my old life with Jeff and his big family.

  Mrs. Pastore saw me looking around and shrugged. “I’m cooking, I don’t know for who. Guess I miss the grandchildren. Your timing is perfect. You’ll have a piece of coffee cake.” It wasn�
��t a question. “And come back for dinner?” She looked at my face, and quickly added, “Or if you are tired, I’ll fix you a plate of ziti with sausage to take home.”

  “You are a life saver.”

  “Honey, you’re doing me a favor. Who’s gonna eat it? Sal and me?” She put out a generous slice of cake. “Raspberry and pecan. Sal grew the berries himself.” She added a small mountain of whipped cream and put down a mug of coffee as big as a soup bowl. “You eat, we chat, get your mind off your troubles.”

  My mouth full of cake, I managed to mumble, “Thank you. I…we lost a family friend…and I’ve been dealing with things….”

  “I’m so sorry.” She patted my hand. “I tell you what. You stay right here and I’m going to get that old photo album from Sal’s mother. Sal would laugh at me, he says no one cares about old times, but you do. Give you something different to think about.”

  I let the cake and whipped cream and coffee work its spell, and she returned with two books. “The pictures are mostly her own kids and grandkids, but see, right here, Christmas dinner in this very house. Aunt Philomena with the ham, right over in that corner.” She pointed in her own kitchen. “Of course that stove is new. And the food processor. That skinny kid is my Sal. Cute, isn’t he? He looked like that when I met him. And that’s Uncle Sal there, hanging the lights on the tree.” A short, broad man, perched on a ladder and waving at the camera. “And there’s some party pictures right here in this house, too, when cousin Marco got back from Viet Nam. So you see what you can make of this.” She shook her head, smiling. “He would sure get a kick out of his house being some kind of research project, you can bet on that.”

  She made up a plate of dinner for me, and walked me to her door. There on the stoop was Mary, looking more cheerful than the last time I saw her. She made a grand gesture toward the garden. “Roses are looking good, Mrs. P.”

  “I’ll tell Sal you said so. Can I interest you in some baked ziti?”

  “You betcha. I smelled it from way out here. And how are you, honey?” she said to me. “And your little girl? I keep forgetting to tell you. You should get that Egyptian necklace away from her. I saw it before she went away. That’s real bad luck.” She put her hand on mine and looked deeply into my eyes. “Real bad. You’ve got to get it away from her.”

  I had no idea what she meant, but I humored her. “I will, Mary, next time I see her. Sure I will. And how are you?”

  “I’m good. Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it? And I do like a nice plate of ziti. My lucky day. That’s cause I wouldn’t never wear an Egyptian necklace.”

  Mary accepted Mrs. Pastore’s paper plate with thanks and left, to go on about her mysterious business.

  “She hasn’t been around lately.” Mrs. Pastore said. “Poor old soul. I don’t think she’s always had this life, but I can never get her to tell me anything that makes sense.”

  I went home balancing my own plate of ziti and my house keys. My plan was dinner and really loud rock and roll to power-chord every grim thought out of my brain, at least for an hour or two.

  It did cross my mind that I needed to talk to someone, but I couldn’t even focus on who to call.

  Darcy called me. Girlfriend ESP. “I haven’t heard from you,” she said, “even e-mail, so I thought I should check in.”

  I burst into tears. She waited patiently, and when I was done, I told her about Rick.

  “Oh, Erica. Oh, how awful. He was a nice man. What can I do for you? I’m so far away, I can’t come over and give you a hug. Can I send you anything? Do you want to come here for a change of scene and some mothering from me?”

  I teared up again at that but said, “No, thank you, but no. I have too much to do, I can’t walk out on my job, which I’m neglecting as it is. I’ll muddle through.”

  “Well, of course you will. That was never in question. Ummm.” There was a long pause. “I’m thinking of ideas. Now, how is Chris?”

  I was half aware she was trying to move my mind into other directions, and, truthfully, I appreciated it. We went on to have a normal conversation about the ups and downs of large family gatherings, Maine’s beautiful coast and vicious mosquitoes, her sailing mishaps, my house renovation progress. She was fascinated and amused by my meeting with Leary. The ordinary stuff of life. At the end, she said, “Don’t forget for a second that I am only a phone call away. Call anytime. And there is a bed for you here anytime you need one. You get that?”

  I went to bed, somewhat cheered, and slept through the night.

  The next morning, I battled truck traffic on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway all the way to the funeral home. A battle suited my mood perfectly. I was ready to cut off large trucks ruthlessly and outrun showoff kids in sports cars.

  The funeral home looked reassuringly like a bank. I was relieved to see that it did not at all resemble the church where Jeff’s funeral had been. The last Catholic funeral of my experience. This would be nothing like Jeff’s, I assured myself.

  In the hushed, carpeted, oak paneled lobby Mr. O’Hanlon was already waiting for me. He was a middle-aged, middle-sized man in a discreet suit and he shook my hand warmly, expressing his sympathy in a soft voice. We went on to a comfortable office, vaguely cozy in a neutral way, where he offered coffee or juice and we went over the plans.

  He quickly realized I had no context for the discussion and explained that Rick, though raised religiously as Catholic and socially as Irish, had specified no traditional wake or visiting hours. He wanted an immediate businesslike cremation without a service, and a large memorial later, a real celebration, nothing sad. He had left a page of details.

  “Sinatra and Ellington are unusual music choices, but of course we are happy to carry out his wishes. He has a message to be read at the event and a list of people he wanted to speak.”

  One of them was my dad. One of them, I thought, seemed familiar. A cop friend I met sometime, perhaps. I said I would contact him and fill in for Dad myself and the director said he could handle the rest.

  He walked me to another room with rows of comfortable chairs and a podium. This is where the speeches would take place, with a reception in the adjoining room. Here was an easel for a photograph of the departed. They could blow one up to portrait size if I had one to give them. I told him I would hunt one down.

  With no funeral, there would not be an open coffin. Raised in the Jewish tradition of a closed coffin, I must have looked as relieved as I felt, because he said quickly, “It would have been, if he had wanted it. We make them look perfect.”

  The last time I had been to a funeral with an open coffin was Jeff’s. And he did not look perfect. He looked dead.

  Then we were done. There were keys to Rick’s house in the fat envelope of papers I had with me. If I could get in, I would look for a picture to display at his funeral, a picture of the Rick we knew, not the Rick who would be in the coffin. And if it was still a crime scene and I could not go in, I could talk to the cops on duty. With luck I would get an inexperienced, bored one who would want to talk to me. I was sure I had a right to be in the house. Pretty sure.

  Now I had to go do battle on the Long Island Expressway. I had a date with Nettie Rogow, widow of a Brooklyn real estate millionaire.

  The first twenty miles of the Expressway, not so fondly known as the world’s longest parking lot, took an excruciating hour, but once I had escaped the tentacles of city traffic I barreled along, rock and roll blasting from the radio. I had fulfilled my immediate responsibilities, I would force Rick out of my mind for a few hours, and reclaim a piece of the rest of my life. At least that was my plan. My interest in Mrs. Rogow was what she could tell me for my project. And if I should learn something further, about my own house or my own block, that would be an interesting bonus to share with Chris.

  That’s what I told myself.

  When I responded
to her call, I had told her Chris had to go away. Well, she did have to, because I said so. As I explained what my work project was, and that I would love to meet her myself, she said “Of course, dear. I’m happy to have a chance to set the record straight about my Harry, may he rest in peace. I don’t drive anymore. Would you like to come out here? I’m free tomorrow morning. Let’s make it noon. We’ll have lunch. Now, you’ll need directions. Do you have a pen? Yes? Listen carefully.”

  That quavering old voice gave exhaustive information, down to landmarks at every turn and distances in half miles. I had a feeling that this would be an interesting meeting.

  Here was the exit. I held her directions in one driving hand, looking nervously from the road to the paper and back again, and had my Mapquest directions on the passenger seat next to me. I always get lost in suburbia’s gracefully curving parkways. Give me a city grid any time.

  It was immediately apparent that this was not the Long Island I knew, the land of neat bungalows and split levels, with above-ground pools and quarter-acre plots. That’s the Long Island where my cousins and my parents’ friends lived. I drove down a landscaped parkway, then roads that wound their elegant way past stone and brick houses with spacious lawns, manicured gardens, and many shiny cars in each driveway.

  After a few wrong turns I arrived at last at the address I had been given. I could see the tennis court from the road. I didn’t see the pool—in-ground and landscaped, of course—until later. Chez Rogow.

  I expected a butler, or at least a maid—yes, I watch Masterpiece Theater—but the door was opened by a plump old lady with perfectly coifed white hair and penetrating blue eyes. She wore a smart silk pants suit in bright turquoise and a lot of rings and necklaces. Some matched; some didn’t. I suppressed a smile when I saw she was wearing bedroom slippers on her feet.