Page 71 of A Week Away
Was I any closer to getting myself out of this mess? It made sense that whoever killed Joanne also killed her husband. Thatdidmake sense, didn’t it? Someone helped her get rid of Dominick. My asking around with Cass had caused that person to kill Joanne. Had they thought she would tell?
Wait. Given my brief experience of the woman, knowing someone was looking into her husband’s disappearance wouldn’t have caused her to confess… It would have caused her to demand something of the killer. Even if that killer was doing her bidding.
That raised an issue I hadn’t thought about much: What if Joanne didn’t ask that her husband be killed? What if she knew who did it but wasn’t involved? Honestly, that didn’t make a lot of sense.
Which brought me back to Luca. He probably killed the real Dom Reilly. But he probably didn’t kill Joanne. He was being followed by the Feds, they wouldn’t have just watched him kill Joanne, they’d have arrested him. He’d be in an interview room right now turning state’s evidence on whoever he had to—probably the old men in the living room—to make his life easier.
From where I was sitting, I could almost hear the conversation in the living room. I heard Mr. Cray saying “…believe this has happened. I left…after she…driven right by and not … anything.”
I didn’t quite hear the answers to that but they seemed kind. He was getting a much warmer reception than I’d gotten. And then they were talking about money. The number six thousand kept coming up. They were talking about whether the stock market would get over six thousand. Mr. Cray said it would never happen if Clinton won the election. That caused a bit of spirited discussion, Joanne’s family being Catholic and democrats.
That made me think of home. Ronnie was very engaged in the upcoming election. He’d put a Clinton sign in our window, was threatening to canvas, and had begun arguing about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell with our friends—some of whom felt betrayed. I was planning not to vote—without letting Ronnie know that. It wasn’t that I didn’t have opinions, it was more that we already knew California would go for Clinton so my one vote didn’t matter much. And if it didn’t matter, I didn’t see a reason to add voter fraud to my list of crimes.
I’d just about finished my pasta and was deciding whether I should get more—I definitely wanted more of the lemon soda—when there was a rushing noise from the living room and something fell over. Something else broke. Voices were raised. I stepped into the foyer so I could better see what was happening.
Luca had Mr. Cray shoved up against the wall. An end table had fallen over and a lamp lay broken on the floor. One of the furniture store landscapes hung crookedly over Cray’s head.
Two of the old men had gotten up and were yelling at Luca to stop. His forearm was across Cray’s throat and he was pressing. Cray’s hands were attempting to pull Luca’s arm away. Cass stood behind a chair looking confused.
I wondered if I should step in. I was one of the younger people in the room. But Cass’s grandfather and great uncle were in the way. And then, Salvatore Di Stefano—still on the sofa—said, “Luca. No.”
Reluctantly, Luca released Mr. Cray, letting him slide a few inches down the wall. The man tried to recapture his dignity. He adjusted his clothes and said, “Really, I meant nothing disrespectful. And I’m sorry if you took it that way.”
Luca returned to his former seat. He did not look appeased. The old men sat down. Mr. Cray looked around and, wisely I thought, said “I really should be leaving. My family, they’re upset, of course. It could have happened to anyone.”
He walked out of the living room, passed me and went out the front door. I managed to catch Cass’s eye. I nodded my head toward the back of the house. Then I turned and walked back through the dining room, through the raucous kitchen—where they seemed to have missed the fight in the living room completely—and out into the garage.
The garage was empty. Joanne’s car had been impounded somewhere. Cass was right behind me. I turned to him and asked, “What happened in there?”
“Mr. Cray said that he’d told Mom not to be so flashy. Luca said that sounded like he was blaming the whole thing on her. Then he rushed at Mr. Cray and everything got crazy.”
“Do you think that’s all there was to it?”
“What do you mean? That’s what they said.”
“People don’t always say what they mean. I’ve gotten the impression your mom might have had something going on with her cousin and then maybe with Mr. Cray.”
“My mom wasn’t a slut.”
“I didn’t say that. And believe me, I’m not one to talk.”
He looked like he was trying not to think about that last bit. I went on, “Look, I’m going to go soon. Do you know where Mr. Cray lives?”
“In Novi. Not far from the office. Bellagio Drive. Are you going to talk to him?”
“No. I might drive by tomorrow. Get a sense of who he is.”
“He’s kind of an asshole, to be honest. But I don’t think you’ll be able to figure that out from his front lawn.”
“You’d be surprised what I can figure out from someone’s front lawn.”
We were quiet a moment. I had the feeling the whole thing was hitting the kid, and hitting him hard. Half to distract him and half out of curiosity, I asked, “How come you haven’t put your car in here? It’s a classic. You want it to stay safe.”
He looked sheepish for a moment, then said, “My mom wouldn’t like it.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
September 17, 1996
