Page 68 of A Week Away
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said reflexively. I suspect it made more sense to him than he wanted it to.
Aunt Suzie turned the water off, effectively ending our conversation. She opened the door and left the bathroom. Cass and I followed her downstairs.
Little had changed in the living room. Everyone was silent. Aunt Suzie excused herself and slipped by us, going to the kitchen. There was an awkward moment, and then I elbowed Cass.
“Oh. Yeah. This is my friend…”
“Nick Nowak,” I said.
He glanced at me, he’d not heard the name before, then he continued, “Nick, this is my great grandfather Salvatore Di Stefano, my grandfather Gianni Di Stefano and my great uncle Fredo Amato, and my second cousin Luca Amato.”
Uncle Fredo was the one who’d slapped Luca in the back of the head earlier.
“You have my condolences,” I said. None of them seemed to hear me.
Luca sniffed, and then asked, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
Neither question was the one he wanted answered, I trotted out my cover story. “I met Cass in a chatroom on AOL about missing people. I’m trying to help him find out what happened to his dad.”
That caught Fredo’s attention and he turned to glare at me, but it was Gianni who said, “He ran off. The piece of shit. Left my helpless little girl alone with a baby.”
Our brief acquaintance had told me Joanne was anything but helpless.
“We’re trying to figure out where he ran off to. Cass would like to see his father again.”
Attention shifted to Cass, who said, “Yeah… I would… like to.”
Strangely, Gianni just shrugged. He knew we’d never find Dominick Reilly and he seemed to not care if we tried. I said, “If you have any ideas about where he might be…”
Even Cass understood what a dangerous thing that was to say. He said, “Let’s get some food, okay?” He led me across the foyer to the dining room where the table was already covered in food, mainly cookies.
I wondered if the Feds had gotten most of the conversation in the living room. Then I wondered if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. For one thing, I’d used my real name. Was that a bad thing? Maybe not. There had to be a hundred Nick Nowak’s in the country. And this Nick Nowak could disappear, and would, at a moment’s notice.
A woman in her early thirties came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of cookies.
“Aunt Josette, this is my friend, Nick,” Cass said.
She moved a few things, set down the platter, wiped her hands on her apron then extended one to shake. I shook it. Then she pointed to the table and explained, “Pignoli, amaretti, pizzelles, butter cookies, anisette. There will be real food out in a bit.”
I picked up a paper plate and picked out a few cookies. Aunt Josette was watching me. Defensively, I smiled.
“Did you come by the bakery? I heard someone was asking questions.”
“Ah, yes. That was me.”
“No, Vicky said the guy was named Charles. Are you Charles?”
“Sometimes it’s good not to leave your name, you know?”
“If you’re up to no good, it certainly is.”
This conversation needed a change of direction, so I said, “I enjoyed the biscotti I bought. Are these the same kind?”
“Biscotti,” she corrected my pronunciation emphasizing the strong ‘o’ sound in the middle. “What exactly were you trying to find out?”
“Cass wants to know what happened to his dad. Your coworker said you think Joanne had him killed. That you though she was a narcissistic whore.”
She had the decency to look embarrassed by that. To Cass she said, “Oh honey, you know what happened to your dad. Everyone knows what happened to him.” She lowered her voice, and said, “His killer is sitting in the living room. I wouldn’t be surprised if…”
