Chapter 16

“JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH, ARE YOU DRUNK?”

“I just… it was champagne. Only a glass. Maybe two. I swear.”

“Mr. Pesaturo, if you would just calm down for a moment-”

“And you!” Mr. Pesaturo swung around on Jillian, beefy face bright red, thick finger stabbing the air. His blue electrician's uniform strained over his gut, two of the white buttons literally quaking with the force of his rage. The effect was rather comical, and now that he was safely yelling at Jillian, Meg started to giggle again. Jillian tried shooting her a warning glance. Meg had had nearly six glasses of champagne. It was hopeless.

“How dare you serve my underaged daughter alcohol!” Tom Pesaturo boomed. “For God's sake, haven't you done enough already?”

Jillian blinked. “Done enough?”

“Daddy-”

“Tom, calm down, have a seat. Meg is home now and that's what's important.” Meg's mother, Laurie, intervened, placing her hand on her husband's bulging forearm. She was clearly the voice of reason in the family, thank God. Mr. Pesaturo glowered at Jillian again, but finally, reluctantly, sat.

Meg chose that moment to exclaim, “Holy Lord, I have got to pee!” and go racing from the room.

Mr. Pesaturo renewed his growl of disapproval. Jillian sighed, took her own seat on a threadbare blue recliner and realized she had a raging headache.

“Mr. Pesaturo-”

“Have you seen the news? Do you understand what happened this morning? Our phone has been ringing off the hook since nine A.M. The first news van was here by nine-fifteen. And we didn't even know where Meg was.”

“We knew exactly where Meg was,” Laurie interjected again, her voice firm. “I told you she was having breakfast with Jillian and Carol.”

“That's what Meg said,” Tom asserted, with just the right tone of doubt.

Jillian looked at him. “Mr. Pesaturo, do you think we were running around shooting Eddie Como this morning? Is that what you thought we were doing?”

“Hey, I'm not saying I disapprove…”

“We were at the restaurant, Mr. Pesaturo. All day, as a matter of fact. With witnesses. Though you should know that the police stopped by. Detective Fitzpatrick and a man from the state, Sergeant Griffin, definitely have us on their radar screen.”

“What did you tell them?”

“We didn't tell them anything, of course. We don't have to give them a statement, and personally, I don't want to give them a statement. As far as I'm concerned, they'll have my cooperation the day they bring my sister back from the dead.”

Mr. Pesaturo finally stopped scowling. After another moment, he grunted and settled deeper into the loveseat, probably as close as she'd get to praise. “Yeah, well,” he said gruffly. Sitting beside him, his wife smiled.

“They will start looking into all of us,” Jillian said levelly. She'd been thinking of nothing but that for the last half hour. The state police were on the case. The state police were going to get serious. She wondered what that really meant. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin, who probably could've ripped off that pedophile's head. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin with those penetrating blue eyes. She felt herself getting angry again, then confused. Big, bad Sergeant Griffin… She cut off the thought, focused again on the matters at hand. “I'm told that every detective in the state is now working this case. The next order of business will be examining our financial records for any unexplained withdrawals.”

Mr. Pesaturo rolled his eyes. “Good luck. I don't have any unexplained withdrawals. I got a mortgage and I got two kids. That pretty much covers it.”

“I imagine they'll also want to talk to your brother,” Jillian said. “You know, Uncle Vinnie.”

The smile vanished from Mrs. Pesaturo's face. She jerked back, looking at her husband sharply. “Tom?”

“Oh come on. Let 'em talk to Vinnie. He don't care.”

Mr. Pesaturo was looking at Jillian now. From the hallway, Jillian could hear Meg's voice, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Meg was talking to her little sister, Molly. More laughter floated down the hall.

“You care?” Tom asked Jillian abruptly. Jillian was not an idiot. She understood the nuances of the question.

“I'm all right.”

“'Cause you know, if you needed anything…”

Jillian smiled. In his own way, Mr. Pesaturo was a very sweet man. It made it almost tempting, but the problems she had were nothing he could help her with. Now that she'd had more time to contemplate the impact of Eddie Como's death, she figured she had twenty-four to forty-eight hours before she saw Sergeant Griffin again. Life would get tricky. Then again, had it ever been simple?

“I'm all right,” she repeated. Mr. Pesaturo was smarter than she'd given him credit for, however, and she could see the open doubt on his face.

“Vinnie… he's got a lotta friends.”

“I know. In fact, I'm not sure if you know, but I believe Vinnie and my mother have some of the same friends.”

“No kiddin'?”

“Do you follow music? My mother used to literally sing the blues-”

“Wait a minute. Hayes. Olivia Hayes. That's your mom?”

“She'll be pleased you remember.”

Tom Pesaturo was clearly impressed. He rocked back, turning to his wife. “No kidding, Olivia Hayes. You ever hear of her? Pretty little thing about a hundred pounds soaking wet. Then she'd open her mouth and blow the place away. My father used to listen to her records all the time. I probably got a vinyl or two stashed in the attic. Fine, beautiful lady.” He turned back to Jillian. “What happened to her anyway? I haven't heard her name in years.”

“She retired.” Said she was going to finally spend time with her daughters. Had a stroke. Lost her legs. Lost her voice. At least they'd never had to worry about money.

“You tell her I said hi.”

“I'll do that.”

“Vinnie's gonna flip.” Mr. Pesaturo suddenly smiled and sat up straighter. “My daughter is friends with Olivia Hayes's daughter. Vinnie's gonna have a fucking cow!”

“Tom…” His wife rolled her eyes at his profanity, then glanced at Jillian apologetically. Jillian smiled. She was genuinely pleased that Mr. Pesaturo was pleased. Her mother's time, Jillian's own childhood, was a bygone era not many people remembered anymore. When Trish had been little, stories from the nightclubs had been her favorite ones. The night their mother had sung for Sinatra. How later Frank had let eight-year-old Jillian sit on his knee. Jillian had done her best to tell the tales, though even for her they'd taken on a hazy quality, a life lived so long ago it now seemed more like a distant dream.

The days her mother had had a voice. Jillian had not even heard her hum in years now.

Tom Pesaturo had settled back into the sofa. His face was finally relaxed, his big hands resting comfortably on his knees. Jillian's parentage had done the trick. They were now old friends and he was happy to have her in his living room. It was funny, but during the last twelve months that Jillian's and Meg's lives had been intertwined, she'd never visited Meg's house. Not Carol's home either. By some unspoken rule, the group always met in restaurants or other public places. It was as if after everything they'd told one another, they couldn't bear to share this last little bit.

“I was worried,” Mr. Pesaturo said abruptly, maybe even a little apologetically. “When I heard the news on TV, when I couldn't find Meg. I went a little nuts.”

“I understand.”

“You got kids?”

Jillian thought of Trish and her bright, bright eyes. She thought of her mother, wheelchair-bound since her stroke. “No.”

“It's not easy. You wanna keep 'em safe, you know. I mean, you want 'em to go out in the world. Be strong. Make you proud. But mostly, mostly you want 'em to be safe. Happy. Okay.”