Pushing Up Daisies

CHAPTER 45

Three hours later, Gerald and I were released, with stinging slaps on the wrists and strict instructions to stay away from Guido’s nursery and the Stapleys, who were still in the police station being questioned. No one was sure what charges, if any, would be brought against them regarding the baby’s body; it was completely uncharted territory in Springfield’s history.

Hillary Gibson had been looking at paint chips when she got the call to pick her honey up from the slammer, and the way she glared at me told me I should keep my boca cerrada. I felt like the bad kid your parents didn’t want you to hang out with.

Alone on the steps of the police station, I wished someone was coming to pick me up. To take me home, pour me a drink, rub my shoulders, and tell me everything was going to be all right.

The whole way home, the Bruce Springsteen lyrics kept going through my head, “One Step Up, Two Steps Back.” We’d learned who the baby’s mother was, and how it died, but that was only part of the puzzle. Now that Guido was dead, anything he might have known about Yoly Rivera’s disappearance died with him. Was he responsible for Yoly’s death; was that why he was killed? Or did he know someone else was?

That’s what I was grappling with when I eased into my driveway and saw someone waiting for me. I rolled down the window. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s a gracious welcome. Is that what they teach you in the suburban matron’s handbook? You invited me, remember?”

“Today’s Friday?”

“Last time I checked,” Lucy said.

I helped her in with her bags. “How did you get here?”

“I availed myself of that quaint cab service you’ve got at the train station. Had to share with three Dashing Dans. Good way to meet men, I guess, if you like the harried, married type. I waited fifteen minutes, then called your cell. Helps to check messages every once in a while.”

“Don’t be mean to me, I’ve had a horrible day.”

“Worse than it’s been?” she asked suspiciously.

“Just as bad. Guido Chiaramonte?”

“Sure. The guy who looked like John Gotti.” She stopped on the stairs. “What about him? He got… whacked?”

“For God’s sake, it’s not TV. The man’s dead. And Hugo’s about to be charged with murder. I’ll give you chapter and verse when we get upstairs, but please tell me there’s food in one of these bags. They weigh a ton.”

“Better. Booze.”

I opened a bottle of Grey Goose and brought her up to speed.

“So, you find a body and think that the mother is a missing girl from thirty years ago, but it turns out to be someone else. Now a local man is murdered and you think he had something to do with one or both of those other things,” she recounted.

“Something like that.”

“Nice friendly place you’ve got here. What ever happened to town meetings at the old fire house to resolve local disputes?”

“It is a nice town. It’s like the garden, though: everything looks beautiful from a distance. It’s only when you look closely that you see the snakes.”

“That sounds like something on a needlepoint pillow, like ‘Old Gardeners Never Die, They Just Spade Away.’ “

“That reminds me. There’s something I keep meaning to look up. Some quotes.”

“If they’re from the movies, I’m your girl. Otherwise, don’t think I can help you.”

I poured us each another martini, then went inside to get my copy of Bartlett’s Quotations. “Why would Richard Stapley risk his reputation by burying a body in a soon- to- be public garden?” I asked when I returned.

“He told you. He’s a wonderful husband,” Lucy said. “He wanted to spare his beloved wife the agony of being exposed as a whore and unwed mother. Or worse.”

“After all this time? Who’d care? She could have made up some story or said she was pregnant when her husband died. Who’s still around to say otherwise?” I leafed through the Bartlett’s.

“Look,” Lucy said, “the happy townsfolk were skewering the Peacocks when they thought the baby belonged to one of them. And those girls are dead. They’d probably crucify a living person. Those poor women probably lived in fear for years, worrying someone would find out about the baby. I’d risk it. That sound?” Lucy said.

“What sound?”

“It’s your cell. Feel free to delete the half- dozen snippy messages from me,” she yelled.

I couldn’t find my backpack and couldn’t find the phone once I did. It had stopped ringing by the time I found it buried among the other squarish black things in my bag. The message light flashed eight. I skipped over the messages to missed calls. The last one was a Springfield number I didn’t recognize. I called it.

Felix Ontivares kept it brief. Did I want to meet him and Celinda Rivera for breakfast the next morning?