Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Read online

  “It is serious, though,” she continues.

  “How serious?” Now I feel bad for grumbling about coming.

  “He’s going to have to have surgery” Ma says, turning down another corridor.

  “Like open heart surgery?”

  “No, stomach surgery. He swallowed his top denture. If your father hadn’t smacked him on the back he’d have choked to death.”

  “I thought you were supposed to do the Heimlich maneuver when somebody’s choking?”

  “That would’ve have been a better plan, but you know your father. He won’t listen. Now the teeth are in Tonino’s stomach. They’ve got to open him up and get them out. If only the dentures were smaller he could poop them out.”

  “This is awful,” I say, covering my mouth with my hand so she won’t see me smiling.

  “Yeah, but it’s his own fault. He shouldn’t have been dancing to Beyoncé. He tripped over the rug, landed smack on his face and swallowed his partial. It was that last pelvic thrust that did it.”

  Ma opens the door to Zio Tonino’s room. Pa is sitting on a chair by the bed, holding Zio Tonino’s hand and weeping. Pa is a big weeper. He cries when his football team loses, he cries when his team wins. He cries when he burns the meat on the grill and he cries at Budweiser commercials. He once cried for three whole days when Donald Trump announced his candidacy for President.

  Ma pats his shoulder, “Oh, honey, he’s going to be all right.”

  Pa wipes his eyes and chokes out between sobs, “Surgery, Bella, it’s never good. Staph infections, MRSA, the dangers of the Kugel Hernia Mesh patch…”

  “He’s been on the internet,” Ma whispers to me.

  “I thought it was his dentures not a hernia,” I say, staring down at Zio Tonino tucked into the bed. He’s heavily sedated but has a smile on his face. I recognize that smile. It’s his Beyoncé smile. Zio Tonino is a self-proclaimed ass man.

  “Doesn’t matter. There are so many things that can go wrong. At least he bought his plot next to his beloved wife,” Pa says. He blows his nose in a tissue.

  Ma whaps him on his head. He yelps. “Why’d you do that?” he asks, rubbing the back of his head.

  “To snap you out of it. Tonino is not going to die. He’s healthy as a horse. You keep talking about graves and God will take him from us. Now, go buy him something at the gift shop. Get something to lift his spirits,” Ma says.

  Pa lumbers from the room still dabbing at his eyes.

  “Geez,” she says with a big sigh. “Men are worthless when it comes to a crisis.”

  Since Pa was out of the room, I felt a need to defend him. “Not entirely worthless. He did smack Zio Tonino on the back and get him to stop choking.”

  “Yes, and that’s the reason the dentures are now in Tonino’s stomach.”

  She has a point.

  Ten minutes later, the doctor comes in. She’s a petite woman and looks to be about twelve. She reminds me of Woody’s girlfriend Jessie in Toy Story. But maybe it’s just the braids and freckles that make her look young.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Webb and I’ll be doing the surgery,” she says.

  “Is he going to live?” Pa asks from the doorway. He’s holding a big bouquet of shiny helium balloons. “It’s a boy,” is printed across each balloon.

  “’It’s a boy’ balloons?” Ma asks. “That’s what you got?”

  Pa shrugs. “They were on sale. Tonino won’t mind. Look at him.”

  We all look at Zio Tonino. He has a far away look in his eyes and is still wearing the goofy smile.

  “He’s in a Beyoncé stupor,” Pa says. He looks at Dr. Webb. “Will you be able to save his dentures? They’re expensive, you know. He can’t afford to buy new teeth.”

  Dr. Webb nods. “I’m sure the dentures will be fine. It’s a very simple operation. It won’t be a very big incision. . .”

  Ma interrupts her by waving her hands in the air and saying, “Don’t mention the ‘B’ word. He faints when he sees ‘B’ or you even say ‘B.’”

  “‘B’?” Dr. Webb asks.

  Ma uses her hand to shield her mouth from Pa’s view. “Blood,” she mouths.

  “Oh, there won’t be much blood,” the doctor says. “It’s a very small incision and the blood is sucked out by a. . .”

  Pa faints, keeling over backwards.

  Ma throws her hands up in the air. “Did I just say not to say the ‘B’ word? Did I or did I not tell you he faints when you mention ‘B?’”

  The doctor kneels over Pa and feels for a pulse. She opens one eyelid and shines a penlight in his eye. “He’s okay. Thankfully, the balloons cradled his fall.”

  Pa comes to and sits up. “What happened?”

  “Eddie, really. Can’t we just have one crisis at a time?” Ma asks.

  Zio Tonino moans, “Oh, Beyoncé, keep doing that, yeah, right there, darling.”

  I grab Pa under the arms and help into a chair. “Sit there. And don’t move.”

  Ma looks at me and orders, “Jamie, I can’t take much more of this. I’m on my last nerve. Run home and get the melanzane. I made it this morning. Heat it up in the oven for fifteen minutes with some gravy. Wrap it up and bring it here. Quick. And don’t forget the plates and forks.”

  “You sure?” I ask. It’s one thing to sneak a candy bar in to a hospital room, but an entire dinner?

  “Sure, I’m sure. It’ll make everyone feel better. Comfort food. You like melanzane, Doctor?”

  “Um, I’ve never had it,” Dr. Webb says. She looks at me for help.

  I decode for her, “Eggplant parmesan. Ma makes the best eggplant in the city.”

  “You’ll like it. It’ll pep you up for surgery,” Ma says like it’s a done deal.

  “Well, I haven’t had dinner,” Dr. Webb says, caving in.

  “Bring some garlic bread too,” Ma instructs me.

  “I’m on it,” I say.

  As I’m walking out the door Zio Tonino sits up in bed and says, “And don’t forget the cannoli!”

  Seventeen

  The eggplant works like a charm. My mother clearly knows what she’s doing. Every time there’s a family emergency, she loads us up with food and we slip into a carb coma until we calm down. My father’s pulse went back to normal and Dr. Webb did brilliant surgery after consuming three heaping plates. Who knew such a little thing could pack away so much food? And Zio Tonino was off in la-la land with a small incision in his belly and his partial being disinfected in a water glass by his bed.

  I go home and there are no signs of Travis or Michael, so I prop myself up in bed and sip some much deserved chamomile tea while I flip through my latest edition of True Detective magazine. My eyes keep closing until I finally give in, finish my tea, and put the magazine on the nightstand. Ivan snuggles up on the pillow next to me and we’re both snoring within seconds.

  My phone rings at three a.m. I pick up and say groggily, “Hello?”

  Veronica’s voice blares, “Help! I have a dead body in my bed!”

  You know what happens next: I rush over to Veronica’s condo in my white tux, argue with the doorman, see the helter skelter scene in her apartment, and pass out cold. When I wake up, Veronica is kneeling over me, slapping my face.

  “Leave me alone! I’m trying to sleep!” I bat her slaphappy hands out of the way.

  “Jamie,” Veronica says, “You can’t go to sleep.” She grabs me by the lapels of my tux jacket and pulls me into a sitting position. That’s when I see the blood again. And it all comes flooding back. Veronica has murdered Beth Ellen Warren in her bed.

  I point to my left where Ivan is sniffing a big white kitchen bag. “What’s that?”

  “Garbage,” Veronica whispers.

  “Okay,” I whisper back. “Why are we whispering?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispers.

  With Veronica’s help, I make it up to a standing position. From this height advantage I can now tell that the lumpy garbage bag is in the shape of a lumpy hum
an body. “That doesn’t look like garbage. It looks like a human body.”

  “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “That’s Beth Ellen?”

  “I guess you could say that, too.”

  “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  “No, she’s just a real sound sleeper,” Veronica says with a super-straight face. Then she goes all crazy-eyed and shouts, “Yes, she’s dead! Of course, she’s dead! Don’t you think I know dead?”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” I say, holding my arms up in a defensive posture. “Just asking.”

  “Luckily, I always buy the Febreeze scented bags,” she says, waving a hand in front of her nose. “Dead people stink.”

  I pace in a tight line. Three feet one way, about-face, three feet the other way. “Veronica, you’re a lawyer. How could you do this?”

  “What does being a lawyer have to do with anything?”

  “You can’t move the body or touch anything in a crime scene. In legalese, it’s referred to as tampering with the evidence, which is illegal even for lawyers. You must know that.”

  “Stop being such a fuddy-duddy. Why do you think I called you over?”

  “I don’t know, to be a witness so when you enter a plea of insanity I can back it up?”

  “No, dummy, I need you to help me dispose of the body. I thought maybe we could dump her in the lake and let someone else find her. Then it would be their problem.”

  “Omigod. . . I cannot believe you’ve done this. You’re going to jail if we can’t fix this.”

  “See, that’s why we have to put her in the lake. I’m a prestigious person in the community—not to mention what it would do to my legal career. I’ll never make partner now if they find out about my dead lover.”

  I bend over at the waist, hands on knees, and try to not hyperventilate. I take three deep breaths—the stink of death assaults my nostrils—and I plop down on the couch. I lower my head between my knees. This is not how I’d imagined my first murder case.

  “You know your histrionics are not helping the situation,” Veronica scolds.

  “You really have no idea what you’ve done?” I say with my head still lowered.

  “Of course not. How would I know? I’ve never had a dead person in my bed before. Can you imagine waking up to a dead body lying next to you?”

  “Let me think. . .uh, no.”

  “See? We’ve got to clean up and dispose. This is like the Occam’s razor of murder. You know, where the simplest solution is the best solution. Get rid of the body. If there’s no body, there’s no murder.”

  “When you say ‘dispose of the body,’ what do you mean exactly?”

  She shrugs. “How would I know? You’re the Italian.”

  “Me? You think just because I’m Italian-American I know what to do?”

  “You work for the mob, am I right?”

  “Well, yeah, sometimes. But I’m not a cleaner for the mob.”

  “See, you even know the lingo,” she says.

  Veronica is going insane. Does she really think this makes sense? I need to call for backup. “Veronica, I need to make some calls.” I stand and pull my cell out of my pocket.

  “Who are you going to call? Travis?” she asks.

  “No, I’m going to call London Wells, my homicide detective friend, and see what we’re supposed to do,” I answer. “You do realize that this—moving and bagging a dead body— makes you look guilty? As in person of interest numero uno?”

  “Well, that’s just stupid. Why would I murder my girlfriend and then put the body next to me in bed then put her in a lilac scented tall kitchen bag?” She taps the toe of her foot. “With drawstring handles?”

  “It’s called a crime of passion. People do stuff all the time when in the throes of passion.”

  Veronica seems to consider this. She stares at me as if the solution to her problem might be found in my eyes. “I didn’t kill her, you know.”

  “No, I don’t really know. You sure are behaving like you did.” I scroll through my contacts menu and find London’s number.

  Veronica lunges for the phone. “You can’t call the police. They’ll think I did it.”

  I sidestep just in time and she falls on the couch. I back away from her. “I’m calling. You need to keep quiet while I do this or I’m walking out that door right now and telling everybody you’re a cold-blooded murderer.”

  “I’ll kill you if you do that,” Veronica says. She suddenly realizes what she just uttered, and clamps her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean I’d really kill you. I meant it figuratively.”

  I sigh. “Please don’t implicate yourself any more than you have. You’re a lawyer—start thinking like one.”

  Tears suddenly pour down Veronica’s face. Then the wracking sobs begin. I’ve never been good in these kinds of situations—unless it’s comforting Griffin when he falls down and skins his knee. But I doubt seriously if Veronica wants me to kiss her boo-boo right now.

  Veronica, sans makeup and power suit, looks so vulnerable curled up on the couch, crying. I sit next to her and hold her trembling hand in mine. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out.”

  She looks at me. Her nose is red and she actually wipes her snot on her designer pajama sleeve. “I didn’t kill Beth Ellen. I swear. I know it was stupid to do this,” she says, making an expansive wave of her hand to incorporate the whole crime scene. “But I was in shock. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Let me call London and see if she can come over here and suggest a few things, okay? Better her than a whole troop of cops. She can make sure you’re not mistreated.”

  Veronica nods. “Okay.”

  I hand her a box of tissues and make the call. While the phone rings, I glance at the wall clock. Why don’t murders ever happen at a decent hour?

  London picks up on the third ring. “Wells,” she answers.

  “Hey there, London. It’s Jamie Bravo, how are you?”

  There’s a long pause then London says, “Jamie, is this a booty call? I have to get up in three hours.”

  “No, I have a problem. A really big problem.”

  “What kind of a problem?” London asks, her voice low and kind of sexy. It reminds me all over again why I had/have a thing for her. She’s incredibly gorgeous and incredibly good in bed.

  “Remember my ex-girlfriend, Veronica?”

  “The hotshot bitchy lawyer that you broke up with 72 times?”

  “That would be her.”

  “Is this a relationship problem? ‘Cause I’m not exactly in Dear Abby mode right now.”

  “No. You see, Veronica, who by the way I’m not sleeping with anymore, woke up next to her dead girlfriend.”

  “Okay… How’d she die? In her sleep?”

  “You could say that. She was sleeping when somebody stabbed her. Several times.”

  “She was murdered?”

  “Apparently. But that’s not the worst part.”

  “It gets worse?”

  “You see, not only did Veronica wake up to her dead, murdered girlfriend, but she cleaned up the mess and tied up the body in plastic bags and now she wants me to dump the body in the lake.”

  “Isn’t she the lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Doesn’t she realize that she tampered with a crime scene?”

  “She does now.”

  “Christ!”

  “What should we do?”

  “Hold on, don’t do anything else. Don’t touch anything else, or move anything else, okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’ll be right over,” London says. “Where are you?”

  “The 509 on Creston Avenue. There’s a dickhead doorman. Just tell him you’ve come over to play pinochle. It’ll expedite the process. Veronica’s apartment is number 12.”

  “It’s a condo not an apartment,” Veronica hisses.

  “It figures she’d live in The 509,” London says. “I’m on my way. Don’t touch anything e
lse.” She clicks off.

  I pocket my cell and say, “She’s on her way. You might want to put on something else.”

  Veronica looks down at her pajamas. “What does one wear to a murder scene?”

  “Listen, you’re probably going to spend some time at the police department. They’ll have a lot of questions. You might even have to. . . you know. . . go to jail. For a while.”

  “So, I should put on something that’s wrinkle resistant?”

  “That’d be a good idea.”

  “If you would’ve just helped me dispose of the body, we wouldn’t be in this pickle,” she says.

  “You’re kidding right? You can’t possibly blame me for this pickle.” No matter what happens Veronica has the uncanny ability to blame me. “I’m not the one who woke up to a dead girlfriend in my bed.”

  “That’s because you don’t have one,” she says tartly.

  “You don’t either. Now.”

  Veronica makes a phhttt noise and walks out of the room, saying, “I have just the suit to wear. I got it home and thought it made me look too Shirley Temple. I couldn’t take it back because I bought it on sale. It screams ‘I’m innocent.’ I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  A jiffy? That didn’t seem like something Veronica would say. Of course this whole murder thing didn’t seem like her either. It makes me wonder if I really know the real Veronica at all. Have I spent several years of my life with a woman who was deep down a murderer?

  *

  Veronica returns wearing a sharp pinstripe suit in powder blue hues. I don’t get the Shirley Temple reference. Whatever. The doorbell rings and both of us jump.

  “You answer it,” Veronica orders.

  “It’s your apartment.”

  “It’s not an apartment, it’s a condo,” she says sharply.

  There’s a knock on the door. I succumb and walk softly to the door and peer through the peephole. You can never be too careful these days.

  I see London’s big fish-eye looking right at me. She waves. How’d she know I was looking through the peephole?

  Feeling a bit sheepish, I open the door. “I had to make sure it was you.”

  “Good plan,” London says. “You never know, I could’ve been the murderer returning to the scene of the crime to finish what I started.”