Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [113]
“Well, there’s probably also going to be an ‘unfortunate interview’ if I do this in front of thirty witnesses,” I argued.
I heard the two men discussing it, then Lucky came back on the phone. “You’re an actress. Make it look like an accident.”
An accident. Right. I would just accidentally open a switchblade at a church meeting and cut Elena with it. “Great,” I muttered. “Fine. All right. I’ll call you back.”
“We’ll be right here.”
I put my phone back in my purse. I felt around for Lucky’s little knife and opened it inside the handbag. Keeping the short blade concealed with my hand, I took the knife out of the purse and lowered it to my side. My gaze sought the widow. She was walking in this direction. She stopped about five feet away from me to look at the selection of desserts, evidently wanting a snack to go with her cup of coffee.
If only Lopez could be right. If only this were all a delusion.
I approached the widow and stood alongside her, pretending to peruse the same selection of cakes and cookies.
“Hello,” I said brightly. “We meet again.”
“Yes,” she said without enthusiasm. “Hello.” She didn’t lift her gaze from the food.
As she leaned forward and picked up a cannoli, I figured it was now or never.
“Oh, that looks good!” I leaned across her, reaching for a cookie. I pretended to lose my balance, toppled sideways, and grabbed for her, as if reflexively seeking rescue from my fall. I took the widow, her cannoli, and her coffee cup crashing to the hard floor with enough force to break her cup. Through her shrieks and our tangled limbs, I managed to slash her hand quickly with my knife. I was pulling on her hair at the same time, hoping this would distract her.
“Agh!”
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I cried, rising to my knees. “Are you hurt? Are you okay?
A dozen women descended on us to help us to our feet and inquire after our well-being. And I had evidently given a good performance. Everyone present seemed to assume I was just very clumsy.
Except for Elena, who snapped, “Are you drunk?”
“I’m so sorry.” I concealed Lucky’s small knife by pressing it against my midriff with my spread palm. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right.”
She looked down at her hand. I looked, too.
There was blood.
I was torn between relief and a desire to blurt out a muddled confession. But I stayed in character. “You cut yourself on your coffee cup!” I exclaimed. “Here, let me see.”
“Stay back,” Elena said firmly, shying away from me.
“May I have a look?” Father Gabriel stepped through the women crowding around us. Smiling kindly, he took Elena’s bleeding hand and examined it. “Oh, my, it is bleeding, isn’t it? Nothing serious,” he said reassuringly, “but you should get a bandage and some disinfectant. I believe Mrs. Campanello has some supplies in the office. Shall I come with you?”
“No, thank you, Father. It’s just a cut. And I’d like to stop by the ladies room, anyhow.” She glared at me. “I feel a bit disheveled now.” She turned and left.
The priest asked, “Are you all right, Esther?”
“Just fine.”
The women around us were already tidying up the cannoli, coffee, and broken ceramic cup that had scattered across the floor. I picked up my purse. Keeping the knife concealed, I dropped it in there under the pretext of fishing around for a comb to tidy my hair.
“I think I’d better go,” I said to the priest.
“There’s no need for that,” he assured me.
“I feel self-conscious now,” I said. “She didn’t like me very much to begin with.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll come around. You don’t need to—”
“And, actually, I banged up my knee when I fell. It’s throbbing a bit now.”
“Oh, well, in that case, yes. You should go home and rest. Be sure to put some ice on it.”
“Yes, I will, Father. I’ll see you again, I hope.”
“Straight home now,” he said with