Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [92]
“I’ll put it back in the box tonight and I’ll keep the box in a safe place.”
“That’s probably a smart thing, Dolores. It should only be a few days till I can get in touch with him.”
The waiter returned with their orders and a smile. “Lobster ravioli for the lady, and mussels in red sauce for the gentleman.” He beamed. “Enjoy.”
“Vinnie, I hope you know what you’re doing,” Dolores whispered after the waiter walked away.
“Hey, at least I’ll die smiling.”
“Don’t even say that.” She crossed herself, and he laughed out loud.
“So you’re superstitious,” he said.
“No, but I don’t believe in courting trouble, like my mother always said.” She took a sip of her wine. “God rest her soul.”
He tipped his glass in her direction. “Here’s to a great dinner and an even greater dessert.” He winked.
He plowed through the mussels. They were excellent—he was going to hate even pretending that they made him sick, but hey, you do what you have to do. And right now, what he had to do was to get rid of Connie.
He glanced at his watch. It was twenty after nine. Her last client should be gone by now.
He’d give her another five minutes.
“Vince, you feeling all right?” Dolores tore off a piece of garlic bread and placed it on the edge of her plate.
“Actually, now that you mention it, I am feeling a bit queasy.”
“Are you serious? Really? You really feeling sick?”
“Yeah.” He tried to look sheepish. “I hate to admit it, but yeah, I’m not feeling so good right now. Would you excuse me?”
“Maybe we should tell the waiter . . .”
“No, no. I don’t want the chef to feel badly, you know, like there was something wrong with the mussels. It’s me, not them, you know?” He shook his head. “I think I’ll just head on back to the men’s room. Just give me a few minutes. I’ll be okay. But don’t say nothin’ to the waiter. Don’t want anyone feeling bad . . .”
“Vinnie, I think we should leave—”
“Nah, nah. I’ve had this before. Just a stomach thing. It might take a few minutes, but don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
He pushed away from the table, smiling stoically, and walked to the back of the restaurant. He went three steps past the men’s room door and right out the rear door.
Keeping to the shadows, he ran past the back of the darkened shops to the one place that was still lit. He paused and looked around. There was no one in the parking lot. He pulled the thin rubber gloves from his pocket and slid them on, opened the back door of the Cut N Curl, and slipped inside. Connie had just turned off the outside lights and those that illuminated the front of the shop. She was walking toward the rear, a broom in one hand, her handbag in the other, when Vince stepped out of the back room.
“Dee isn’t here,” she said bluntly, making no attempt at hiding her feelings for him.
“I’m not here for Dee,” he told her.
“What do you want, Vinnie?” She leaned the broom against the wall and one fist on her hip. “What is it you want?”
“I want to eliminate a potential problem, Connie. That’s what I want.”
She took a step back. “What problem is that?”
“Oh, come on. Don’t play with me. I already know that you saw the newspaper article. That drawing. You made the connection. You know it’s the same pendant.” He took a step forward, careful not to walk into the light. “I know that you know, and now you know that I know. And you know what that means, don’t you, Connie?”
“Vinnie, I didn’t tell anyone. I swear. I didn’t say a word to Dolores. I won’t.” She backed away, her eyes filled with terror.
“I know you won’t.” Before she could scream, he pulled the small handgun from his pocket and fired.
In the blink of an eye, she was bleeding out on the floor. Damn, but that had been fast.
He stepped over her and went to the cash register. The day’s proceeds were missing. Of course. Her purse . . .
He went back to the body and opened the bag that had fallen onto the floor. There was a thick envelope containing cash and checks. Might as well make it look like a robbery, he figured. Might as well take the cash along for my trouble.
As he leaned down to scoop up the cash, the light caught