Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [66]
“I witnessed one of these deaths, so the cops think the killer may target me,” I said. “And there’s too much about these killings that we don’t understand, such as how they were accomplished—”
“The papers say Johnny was hit over the head and dumped in the river,” Elena said. “No mystery there.”
“—and what the role of these doppelgangsters is.”
“Doppelgangsters?” the priest and the widow said together.
“Um, it’s complicated,” I said. “Anyhow, my point is, these aren’t typical mob hits; there’s something very strange occurring, and since we don’t know why Charlie and Johnny were chosen for these murders, we can’t say for sure that the next victim won’t be an innocent bystander—like me or Lucky.”
“There is nothing innocent about Lucky Battistuzzi,” the Widow Giacalona spat.
Since she had every reason to feel that way, I didn’t argue. Instead, I asked the priest to escort me into the crypt.
“Now?” he said. “You don’t want to wait for the others?”
I explained that I had come early in search of my wrap. Seeing his blank expression, I asked, “Didn’t the administrator I spoke to on the phone today give you the message?”
He shook his head. “At least, I don’t think so. I admit, I can be a bit absentminded. But I was in the crypt earlier, Esther, to set it up for your meeting, and I don’t remember seeing an evening wrap there. Of course, I’m not very knowledgeable about ladies’ accessories, and I wasn’t looking for it. Shall we go and have a look now?”
I nodded and thanked him. He gestured for me to precede him, then encouraged the widow to find solace in her prayers. With Father Gabriel’s sturdy footsteps echoing behind me, I went toward the stairs that led down into the crypt.
13
Once Father Gabriel and I were out of earshot of the widow, I said, “I think I made her angry. I didn’t mean to.”
“Well, it must be admitted that she’s prone to anger,” Father Gabriel said gently, as we descended the stairs to the crypt. “Especially when the subject of, er, certain families comes up. The Gambellos and Corvinos have given her much to grieve over.”
“Both families?” I asked curiously.
“Oh, yes. Both families. It’s terribly sad. The trials she has been through, the sorrows and injustices . . .”
The lights were already on at the bottom of the brick-lined staircase, as well as inside the crypt. Within the underground chamber, I found no memories of Johnny, thank goodness. Just bunny costumes, chairs, tables, and food. A lot of food.
I said, “Wow! When you said refreshments, I thought you meant a pot of coffee and a box of doughnuts.”
There was a folding table set up near the far wall, and it was practically groaning beneath the weight of deli foods from, I assumed, one of Little Italy’s mouth-watering salumerie. Paper-thin slices of prosciutto were delicately rolled and arranged on the same platter with shining slices of fresh mozzarella, creamy-colored provo-lone, plump purple figs, well-marbled salami, crisp-looking slices of red and green bell pepper, and pale green melon balls. Another tray contained slices of lightly seasoned roasted eggplant and grilled zucchini, four kinds of olives, and marinated mushrooms. There was a basket of Italian bread, and a generous supply of miniature cannoli—crispy tubes of dessert pastry stuffed with sweetened ricotta cheese and tiny bits of dark chocolate, then dusted with powdered sugar. A selection of sodas, fruit juices, and bottled water was chilling on ice, and there was an electric cappuccino maker with a pitcher of milk beside it.
“There’s no wine,” Father Gabriel said apologetically. “I just thought, you know, a tense meeting about a deadly matter among bitter enemies . . .”
“Ah,” I said. “Yes. Alcohol might not be a good idea. They could get tipsy and shoot up the church.”
“Or one of us,” he said with feeling.
“Good point,” I said.
“I hope they won’t mind.”
“With this spread, I don’t see how any reasonable person can have objections.” Our eyes met . . . and though we exchanged no words, we