Page 3
CHAPTER 3
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Tuesday, March 29, 3:45 p.m.
Dammit. Dottie’s little window garden was destroyed.
Charlotte stood in front of her aunt’s rowhouse, staring in dismay at the mangled window box. Last week it had been filled with at least five different kinds of daffodils, with impatiens and sweet peas mixed in. It was a delicate cacophony of color, and Dottie had been so proud of it.
Now, it was ruined. The flowers had been ripped out and lay strewn on the ground.
Who would have done such a thing? Dottie had suffered enough without this.
Charlotte pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the mess. She wasn’t sure who she’d show it to or what they might do about it. But if the cops had done this when they were processing the crime scene, she was going to have words with them. This mess was inexcusable.
She’d worked herself up a head of angry steam when the sound of a closing door had her whipping her gaze to the right, her heart leaping into her throat.
Her aunt had been viciously beaten here in her home where she should have been safe. It had triggered Charlotte’s memories of her own attack. Also in her home. Also where she should have been safe.
It can’t be him. He’s in prison.
Please let him still be in prison.
Please, please, please.
It took a moment for her panic to subside, for her to see the woman standing on the stoop next door.
“Mrs. Murphy.” Aunt Dottie’s best friend and sometimes nemesis—but only when it came to flowers. The two had been neighbors for more than forty years and kept their window box competition in the friendly zone. Mostly.
Mrs. Murphy was frowning, her concern clear. “Charlie, child, are you all right?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, forcing a smile that felt as fake as it was. “What happened to Dottie’s flowers? Did the cops do this?”
“Oh no. Not the cops.” Mrs. Murphy slowly shuffled sideways down her front stairs using her walker, her arthritis visibly worse than it had been just last week. She was in an obvious flare-up.
Charlotte knew just the food she’d make for her aunt’s best friend. She had a recipe for a fish dish that had all kinds of good anti-inflammatory properties. And berries for dessert. Berries were also good for reducing inflammation, and she knew dozens of ways to prepare them. Hundreds of ways.
She was no longer a professional chef, but she still loved to cook.
Maybe she could cook for Tino.
And... no . She was not even considering it.
But you’re friends again. Friends cook for friends. If she cooked for him, maybe he’d call her Charlie again.
No , she thought firmly. Not gonna happen. It was cruel to Tino for her to expect it and cruel to herself to hope for it. They’d be friends. Nothing more.
She brought her mind back to the conversation at hand, shoving Tino Ciccotelli out of her thoughts. She had a lot of practice doing so. She’d been shoving Tino out of her thoughts since the day she’d walked away from him.
“If it wasn’t the cops, then who did this?” Charlotte gestured to the ruined window box. “Was it those teenagers from up the block?”
“No, it wasn’t the kids. I don’t know who it was, but I saw him.” Mrs. Murphy finally reached her side and scowled at the flowers on the ground.
Charlotte froze. “Him?”
The older woman met her gaze. “It was a man wearing a gray hoodie. Didn’t see his face. He was trying to break the window, trying to get inside the house, I guess. My son put a stronger lock on the doors and windows after Dottie was...” She swallowed audibly. “After she was hurt. Put stronger locks on my doors and windows, too.”
Charlotte opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Mrs. Murphy grabbed her arm, squeezing hard. “Charlie.”
Charlotte blinked and Mrs. Murphy’s face came back into focus. How long she’d been staring blankly, she didn’t know.
Mrs. Murphy searched her face. “Okay, you’re back. Do you get panic attacks?”
“Recently, yes.” Since her assault a year ago, but she wasn’t going to admit that. Not to Mrs. Murphy. Her aunt would be informed before the hour was out. “I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Murphy gave her a don’t-be-stupid look. “Come with me. I’ll make some tea.”
Charlotte shook her head, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. “I was going to get Dottie’s robe and slippers and the book she was reading. I’m going to read to her. She’ll want her things.”
She was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop.
Mrs. Murphy squeezed her arm again, the old woman’s grip almost painful. “Charlie. Stop. Listen to me. You’re still panicking. Come with me and we’ll figure this out.” She tugged on Charlotte’s arm, somehow steering them both up the stairs while hunched over her walker.
Charlotte let herself be dragged into Mrs. Murphy’s kitchen and lowered herself into the chair, wincing when her hip protested the solid wood seat. She’d left her cane in her car, still parked on the curb in front of Dottie’s house. She’d thought that she would only be a minute and that she’d use her aunt’s stair lift to get up to Dottie’s bedroom. Then all rational thought had fled when she’d seen the mess.
A steaming cup of green tea was placed in front of her, Mrs. Murphy grimacing as she, too, sat down. “Drink,” the woman commanded.
So Charlotte sipped, feeling herself calm a little. Just a little, though.
He’d returned. The man who’d hurt Dottie. The man who’d left her aunt for dead.
Or...it could have been someone else. “Could it have been a curious person? Someone who wanted to see the scene of a crime?”
“It’s possible. I turned on my front-porch light and he froze, like a deer in the headlights. I have a superbright light now. My son just installed it after Dottie...” She shook her head. “I didn’t say anything to the man.” The words sounded like a confession. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I was too scared to confront him.”
“No, no. Don’t be sorry. You were smart not to confront him. If it was the same man, he could have hurt you, too. What happened when you turned on the light?”
“He spun around to face me, both hands filled with daffodils. We kind of stared at each other for a minute, then he threw the flowers on the ground and took off toward the avenue.”
Passyunk Avenue was a major artery through the neighborhood. Lots of stores and restaurants. “Maybe a security camera got his face.” Then she frowned. “If you stared at each other, did you see his face? Maybe a little of it?”
Mrs. Murphy blinked. “I guess I did. It wasn’t a full view and he had a mask on. One of those...what do you call them? They’re a knitted tube and you wear it around your neck but can pull it up over your face.”
“A neck gaiter?”
Mrs. Murphy nodded hard. “Yes. A gaiter. It was...” She frowned, thinking. “Orange. Orange and black.”
Philadelphia Flyers colors, Charlotte thought, wondering if the man was a hockey fan. And wondering why he’d wear something so bright to break into a woman’s home.
Charlotte’s attacker had been dressed all in black. “Did you see his eyes?”
“I must have.” The older woman frowned. “I did. But only his eyes.”
Charlotte thought about Tino. “A police sketch artist visited Dottie in the hospital this morning. Could you talk to him? Maybe help him with the eyes?”
Mrs. Murphy hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. “Yes. Do you think he can come here?”
“I think he would. The artist was one of Dottie’s students a long time ago. He wants her attacker caught.”
“Good.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Of course I did,” Mrs. Murphy said, her tone going a little bit haughty. “I called my son first and he rushed over, but the police came out. Took some fingerprints, but the man wore gloves, so they’re not going to get anything. They asked me to leave the flowers where they were. That they’d send someone out to take photos.”
“Did they?”
“Not yet, but I bet you could light a fire under their asses better than I can. My son unlocked Dottie’s door so that one of the officers could look around. Nobody was inside. My son locked it back up. I made you a key. If it’s all right with you, we’ll keep a copy, too.”
Charlotte found a genuine smile. “Of course that’s all right. You’ve had a key to Dottie’s house for how long?”
“Since before you were born,” Mrs. Murphy said. “Your color is better. I thought you were going to pass out on me.”
“I might have. Thank you, Mrs. Murphy.”
Mrs. Murphy’s smile was sad. “You’re welcome. I wish things were different, that Dottie was in her house and fussing at me for having nicer flowers this year. She’d be wrong, though. Hers were stunning.” A tear streaked down her wrinkled cheek. “Always better than mine. But that’s to remain a secret. Just between us.”
Charlotte carefully covered the woman’s gnarled hand with her own. “Just between us. You grabbed me pretty hard. That must have hurt your hand.”
“Needed to be done. Or I could have slapped you like they do in the movies.”
Charlotte chuckled, surprising herself. “Don’t do that. I was so out of it that I might have slapped you back, just out of reflex.”
Mrs. Murphy laughed quietly. “Then think of how awful you would have felt. I might have even taken advantage of your guilt to get some cream puffs.”
“I’ll make you some. Along with something to help with the flare-up.”
“That berry dessert was wonderful.”
“It’s on my list to make for you.”
“You’re a good girl,” Mrs. Murphy said fondly.
I wish I were still a girl. Charlotte thought of Tino once again. I’d do so many things differently.
Mrs. Murphy was watching her, eyes sharp. “You can talk to me, you know. If you’re not okay.”
“Thank you, ma’am. But I’ll be fine.” I always am. “This tea is good.”
“And you’re just as bad at changing the subject as Dottie. Drink it. It’s good for you. Antioxidants or some such thing.”
Charlotte obeyed, and when they were both finished, she washed their mugs and put them in the dish drainer. She was calmer now. Able to think. “I wonder why he came back. If it was the same guy.”
Mrs. Murphy shrugged. “I don’t know. My son and I racked our brains over it and came up with nothing. We thought maybe he was afraid she could identify him and came back to...you know. Finish her.” They both winced at that thought. “But my son said that Dottie’s assault has been in the news and all the reports say she’s in critical condition in the hospital. Whoever hurt her wouldn’t have come back to finish her off, because everyone knows she’s not home.”
“Maybe it wasn’t her attacker, just some guy in a gray hoodie. Some opportunistic jerk who knew she wasn’t home and thought he’d steal from her.”
“But Dottie doesn’t have anything valuable. Nothing anyone would want to steal.”
“He wouldn’t have known that.”
“Well, he’ll think twice before coming back. My son put cameras up when he fixed the locks, but this morning he installed even better cameras. If that bastard comes back, we will get his photo.”
“I hope he doesn’t come back. I have faith in your son’s abilities, but I’d prefer not to test them out.” She took a step, gritting her teeth when her hip joints protested.
I’m going to double the berry recipe. I need to eat some anti-inflammatory foods myself.
But she was going out to dinner tonight. With Tino Ciccotelli.
She’d cook tomorrow. She had a list of people to cook for anyway. She’d made a few friends since returning to Philly, and those friends had been through their own recent trauma. Cooking for them was the only way she knew to help.
“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Murphy. I’ll call you when I’ve talked to the police sketch artist.”
“All right. You’ll call? With your voice? None of that texting nonsense?”
Charlotte nodded soberly, keeping her lips from twitching. “I promise. Now, I need to go over and get Dottie’s slippers and robe.”
“And the book you’re going to read to her.” Mrs. Murphy’s eyes lit up with an unholy glee. “I’d love to be a fly on her hospital room wall.”
Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“She’s reading a romance. A steamy one. She’ll probably want you to skip to the really juicy parts.”
Charlotte laughed. “If that’s what she wants, that’s what I’ll do.”
* * *
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Tuesday, March 29, 6:55 p.m.
Tino pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning on when Charlotte got out of the Uber in front of the restaurant. He’d been afraid she wouldn’t come, but here she was, looking as tentative as he felt.
This was probably a bad idea, seeing her again like this. He could have kept things casual. Professional even. He could have treated her as he did every family member of every victim or witness he’d interviewed for a sketch.
He could have simply said goodbye and wished her a nice life when he’d seen her at the hospital once again that afternoon after finishing his interview with Mrs. Johnson.
He could have told Charlotte that he was busy tonight, that something had come up. He could have canceled this dinner.
But he hadn’t done any of those things because she’d looked so damn frightened and vulnerable. Someone had tried to break into her aunt’s house during the night, destroying Mrs. J’s flower beds in an apparent rage because he couldn’t pry the window open.
That Philly PD hadn’t informed her as Mrs. J’s next of kin was something he’d given Nick Lawrence a ration of shit about. Nick had agreed with him, calling Charlotte with a personal apology. Yes, Philly PD was busy, but they’d owed her a heads up.
Nick had also told her that he was checking on her attacker back in Memphis but hadn’t yet heard back from the prison where the man was serving his sentence.
The gratitude in Charlotte’s eyes when she’d realized that Tino had gone to bat for her with the Philly PD had been like a physical punch to the gut. She’d been dealing with too many things all alone.
Tino could help with some of those things. Because that’s what friends did for one another, and they were friends. Or they had been.
Hopefully they would be again.
She paused at the curb, looking around warily before approaching him. “I thought you’d be inside already,” she said.
“I confirmed our reservation,” he said, “then came out here to wait.”
Her lips quirked. “You thought I might not show up.”
He shrugged. “It crossed my mind.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.” She looked over her shoulder again with a slight frown. “Let’s go inside. It’s chilly tonight.”
He took her arm, leading her to the door. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just jumpy. I see shadows and it freaks me out. Just me being paranoid.”
“I don’t blame you, especially after the attempted break-in last night. I’m glad you weren’t there.” It had been a small comfort, knowing that she’d been safe in Mrs. J’s hospital room all night. But she couldn’t stay there forever. “Where are you going to stay tonight?”
“My apartment, I think. Marian Gargano was so nice to get me a more comfortable chair, but my bones are telling me to sleep in a bed tonight, and I’ll be sorry if I don’t listen to my bones. The nurses said they’d call me if Dottie has any problems during the night. I’m a light sleeper, so the phone will wake me up.”
Tino didn’t want her alone in her apartment, but she lifted her chin, as if challenging him to try arguing. He wisely kept his words to himself as he followed Charlotte into the restaurant.
“We’re ready now,” Tino said to the woman behind the podium.
The woman grinned at him. “Prepare yourself. Polina is here tonight. You’re going to get hugged.”
Charlotte’s brows rose as they followed the woman to their table. “Who is Polina, and why will she hug you?”
That she sounded a little miffed was good for Tino’s ego. “She’s the owner of the restaurant. My brother Gino’s company built this place and I did some of the artwork. Polina was so happy with the result that she kind of adopted us.”
“Many women seem to have adopted you,” Charlotte said dryly. “Marian Gargano, Angela from this morning, and now this Polina.”
Tino laughed. “I’m not complaining. Most of them feed me.”
He pulled out Charlotte’s chair for her, more out of habit than anything else. She’d insisted on it when they’d been teenagers. She’d said her mother taught her not to date boys who didn’t have manners.
In the many years that had followed, Tino had rarely pulled out a chair for another woman without remembering Charlotte.
“What?” she asked softly when he’d taken his own seat. “Your face just got sad.”
“Memories,” he said, hoping she’d leave it alone.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Having a lot of those today. But artwork.” She looked around. “They’re all portraits. Which ones did you do?”
“All of them,” Tino said. “Polina especially likes the one I did of her and her husband. Her parents and grandparents, too.” He pointed to the far wall where the six portraits hung. “She wanted a wall where she could showcase her family, since the recipes she uses were passed down from her grandparents.”
Charlotte studied the portraits for a long moment before she smiled. “You do faces so well. What other portraits have you painted?”
Tino felt his cheeks heat. “Well, for a while I was doing more...personal portraits. Mostly married women who wanted something sexy to give to their husbands.”
She laughed, the sound husky and inviting. “You did boudoir portraits?”
Her laughter took him back once again. Made him want what he couldn’t have. “Don’t knock the boudoir portraits. They helped me earn my half of the down payment on the house my brother Gino and I own. We bought the house intending to flip it, but we liked it too much to part with it once we were done. So we kept it.”
Her expression sobered. “You always wanted a house of your own. Does it have a white picket fence?”
He had to take a deep breath. He’d grieved the loss of the married life he’d envisioned after she’d left for college. She clearly hadn’t shared his dream, being so very desperate to leave Philly, to leave everything behind and have adventure. That was what she’d called it then. Adventure.
“It does. I finally realized I could have my dream house even if I was alone.”
She winced and he considered retracting the words or at least apologizing, but if they were to move forward, even as friends, he had to be honest.
“I’m glad you have it,” she said stiffly, then sighed. “And I deserved that.”
“You didn’t, but I deserved to be able to say it.”
“That’s fair.” She picked up her menu. “What’s good here?”
“Everything, but my favorite is the spanakopita. Save room for dessert. Polina makes a baklava that’s to—” He cut himself off before he could say to die for . “It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted.”
“You can say ‘to die for,’” she said, smirking slightly. “My stalker didn’t actually kill me, after all.”
Tino shuddered. “Thank God for that.”
“I do.” She put her menu aside and folded her hands in front of her as she straightened her spine. “Aunt Dottie said you got enough for a good sketch. Can I see it?”
She’d left the hospital room when he’d resumed his interview with her aunt, needing to take the call from Nick Lawrence. But she hadn’t come back until he was finished and had packed up his sketchbook.
After their conversation that morning, he’d understood. Even if her attacker was in jail and not the man who’d attacked her aunt, hearing Mrs. Johnson talk about a man with big hands had brought back some very bad memories.
“Are you sure you want to?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated before shaking her head. “I don’t want to, but I need to.”
He took out his phone and showed her the photo he’d taken of the image. “I sent it to Lieutenant Lawrence. He’ll upload it to the server and it will become evidence in your aunt’s assault case.”
She visibly steeled herself to look at the photo, staring at the man’s face for a long, long moment before her shoulders sagged. “Not him.”
Tino covered her folded hands with his. “Good.”
She laughed, a brittle sound. “If it had been, at least we’d have an ID for Dottie’s attacker.”
He wanted to promise that the police would find the man who’d beaten her aunt and left her for dead, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not every case was solved, despite the best efforts of everyone involved.
She swallowed hard. “Thank you for not promising you’d find him. It’s a promise with no teeth.”
“How did the cops find your attacker?” he asked, unable to help himself. “Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s okay. His mother took him into the ER.” Her chin lifted. “I stabbed him in the leg with a screwdriver. He didn’t go right away because he didn’t want to answer any questions about how he got hurt. The wound got infected. By the time his mother got involved, he was pretty out of it.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “For a while we were in the same hospital. At least he was handcuffed to his bed.”
Rage flared up within him and Tino had to take another deep breath. “Good for you,” he said, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. He squeezed her hands gently. “I’m glad you had a screwdriver handy. Was it rusty?”
She hiccuped a laugh. “A little, yes. I’d been tightening a screw on the sconce next to my front door, and I’d left the screwdriver on the table in my entryway, intending to put it away later. He was waiting in my kitchen when I got home that night, and he grabbed me when I went to the refrigerator to start making my dinner. He bound my hands and taped my mouth so I couldn’t scream. He’d been there long enough to gather up all my knives and any other utensils I could use as a weapon.” Her jaw clenched. “He used my own knives on me. Then he freed my hands because he wanted me to...well, to...”
Tino could guess. “Service him?” He nearly choked on the words, but was glad he’d said them when gratitude filled her eyes. At least she hadn’t had to say it.
“I was going to fight him, but I was weak by then. I’d lost a lot of blood. I managed to crawl away, trying to get to the door. He’d ‘taken a break’ and was drinking my twenty-year port. Guzzling it like it was a beer. Worked in my favor because he was a lot less steady on his feet by that point. I got to the door, but he caught up with me, so I grabbed the screwdriver and stuck it in his leg. He screamed so loud that my neighbor came over to see if I was okay. He ran then, or hobbled, at least. My neighbor called the cops.”
Tino didn’t know what to say. He could only close his eyes and be grateful she was still alive, that she’d been clearheaded enough to use the one weapon at her disposal.
She freed one of her hands and patted his. “It’s okay, Tino. It’s over and done. He’s in prison. I’d like to be a better person and say that I hope he’s getting the help he needs, but I’m not a better person.”
“Neither am I,” he ground out. He opened his eyes to find her looking around the restaurant.
“Someone should have come to take our order by now.”
She sounded like a restaurant critic, but he had the feeling that falling back into a familiar behavior was how she was coping with reliving her nightmare.
Tino spied Polina standing across the room watching them, her expression concerned. “She’s waiting for us to stop talking, trying not to interrupt us.”
“Oh.” Charlotte forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to criticize. This is a no-criticism date.”
Date. Was that what this was? Tino wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
You like it.
That he did was supremely stupid. He waved at Polina and she came over to their table.
“Tino,” she said warmly, leaning down to hug him. “I’ve missed you.”
“Same. Gino said he came last weekend and he told me all about his amazing meal, even though I was in a hotel room eating burgers from a carryout bag.” He said it pitifully, causing both Polina and Charlotte to laugh.
“Poor baby,” Charlotte said sarcastically.
“I know,” Polina said, then extended her hand. “I’m Polina. This is my place. I hope you enjoy your meal.”
“It smells wonderful in here, and I understand your baklava is to die for.”
Polina beamed, just as Angela had earlier. Charlotte certainly knew how to compliment restauranteurs.
They placed their orders and Polina left, leaving them in awkward silence.
Once again, Charlotte folded her hands in front of her. “Did you see Mrs. Murphy?”
“I did. She’s a real pistol.”
Charlotte smiled fondly. “She is. She’s been Dottie’s neighbor since before I was born. One of my earliest memories is making Christmas cookies with her and Dottie when my parents dropped me off for a weekend visit.”
Charlotte’s aunt had been a big part of her life, especially since she’d taught at their high school. She’d hung out in Mrs. Johnson’s room after class, which was how Tino had gotten to know her better. He’d also hung out in the art room, hungry for the opportunity to paint—and hungry for the praise Mrs. Johnson always heaped upon him.
“I heard about your folks,” Tino said. “I’m sorry.” Her parents had died in a car accident years ago.
“Thank you. How are your parents?”
Tino shrugged. “They’re still married, but they had a falling out over some lies my mother told him awhile back. My mother spends a lot of time with her sister in Jersey these days. I don’t miss her, but I feel bad for my father, because I think he does miss her, at least a little bit. He didn’t deserve to be manipulated by her. But Dad will be okay. He’s got congestive heart disease but still gets around. Still lives on his own, although we all stop by during the week to make sure he’s okay. He’s constantly surrounded by grandchildren and that makes him happy.”
“I’m glad he’s doing well. He was always so nice to me.”
That his mother hadn’t been nice to Charlotte didn’t need to be said. Tino’s mother had always been critical of her children, which was why he’d spent so much time with the Garganos as a teenager. He’d tried to keep Charlotte out of his mother’s way as much as he’d been able.
Charlotte sighed. “I’ve stalled long enough. Can I see the drawing you made at Mrs. Murphy’s house?”
He figured she’d ask. “I only got a sketch of his eyes, because that’s all your aunt’s neighbor saw. But they’re identical to the eyes your aunt described.”
Her expression tightened. “So he did come back. Why?”
Tino had a theory, but it would only make her feel more paranoid. More vulnerable. He’d wondered to himself if the man had been looking for Charlotte both times, beating her aunt because Charlotte wasn’t there.
It sounded a little crazy, which was why he’d kept it to himself.
“I don’t know.” Technically not a lie because he didn’t know. “But at least we know it wasn’t your Memphis stalker.”
“Right.” She nodded hard. “That will let me sleep better tonight.”
“Does your apartment have security?”
“Kind of. The night guard is a little wacky, so we all avoid her. She’s one of those end-of-the-world people who has a huge gun safe and tells everyone all about it. I imagine her going home to an underground bunker.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I wish I’d known before I moved in. I might have picked another apartment building.”
“Where do you live?”
“Rittenhouse.”
Tino couldn’t keep his eyes from popping wide. “Whoa. Restaurant reviews must pay well.” That was the swanky part of the city.
“Nah. More like my ex wishes he’d made me sign a prenup. He made money after we got married and I got half of it when we divorced. Which I felt entitled to after he started sleeping with his assistant.”
“Then he was a dick, and you’re better off without him.”
“When we get our drinks, we can toast to that.”
“Sounds like a plan. I’m serious, though. Will you be safe there?”
“Yes,” she said, but he heard the doubt in her voice.
He had until dinner was over to convince her to stay somewhere else.
With me.
No, not with me.
“Maybe you should book a hotel room. Just until the cops find the guy who hurt your aunt.”
“If I do that, I might never go home. I’ll be fine at home. I have extra locks on my doors, and I’m on the ninth floor. Nobody can get to my window and if they do, the glass isn’t breakable. It’s the kind that firefighters need a special saw to get through. It’s safe.”
“Good. You being safe is all I care about.” He was not angling to get Charlotte Walsh under his roof.
In his bed.
No, not in my bed.
Not tonight anyway. Who knew what the future held?