Alice went to the front door, picked up the messenger bag, took out Bennie’s wallet and checkbook, then grabbed her black cloth bag and headed upstairs.
She had banking to conduct, after all.
Chapter Seven
Mary blinked as Fiorella Bucatina posed in the threshold, placing a hand on each doorjamb. Fiorella was in her seventies, but her skin was preternaturally unlined, though it didn’t look Botoxed or lifted, and her hair, a rich espresso brown, had no gray at all. A chic coif emphasized her lovely, almond-shaped eyes, prominent cheekbones, and Cupid’s bow mouth lipsticked a come-hither crimson. She was petite, and her black knit dress showed off curves that could shame a fertility goddess. The woman was no Strega Nonna. On the contrary, she was Strega Sophia Loren.
“Wow,” Judy said, and Anthony’s mouth dropped open.
“HIYA, FIORELLA,” Mary’s father said, rising.
Her mother faced Fiorella Bucatina with a nervous smile. “Per favore, Donna Fiorella, sit, per favore. Ti piaci?”
“Thank you.” Fiorella sashayed to the chair and sat down as if it were a throne. Gold bangles jangled on one slim forearm, and she had sensational legs that ended in black slingbacks.
“Donna Fiorella,” her mother said, gesturing, “please, meet… ecce mia sposa Mariano e mia figlia, Maria.”
“I prefer English.” Fiorella’s speech bore no trace of an Italian accent. In fact, she sounded like Queen Elizabeth, or maybe Madonna.
“IT’S A PLEASURE.” Her father extended his hand, and Fiorella’s red-lacquered nails spread around his fist like talons.
“I had no idea you were so handsome, Mariano.”
Her father blushed all the way to his liver spots. “WELCOME. IT’S ALWAYS NICE TO SEE FAMILY.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, finally.” Fiorella smiled seductively, and Mary stepped in.
“Fiorella, this is my boyfriend Anthony and my friend Judy, from work.”
“PLEASE, SIDDOWN, EVERYBODY.” Her father gestured Mary, Anthony, and Judy into their seats. “FIORELLA, SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR HUSBAND.”
“Thank you, Mariano. This is a very sad time for me.”
“IT’S A SIN.” Her father’s expression fell into sympathetic lines, and his shoulders collapsed like an old house. Her mother winced, then fluttered too quickly to the stove, where she slid a floured sheet of homemade gnocchi into the boiling water. They landed with a steamy hiss in the sudden silence. It was a moment slow to pass, and Mary knew they were all thinking of Mike, her late husband, an elementary school teacher who had been killed, and whose death Mary’s parents had taken very hard. It had happened years ago, but Mary still thought of him every day, too.
“FIORELLA, HOW LONG WERE YOU MARRIED?”
“Three months. Can you imagine what that was like for me, losing my beloved husband, as a new bride?” Fiorella touched her father’s arm, and Mary thought her hand lingered too long, so she interrupted again.
“Were you married before?” she asked
“Enzo was my fifth husband,” Fiorella answered, without batting a mascaraed eye.
If her father was shocked, he didn’t let it show. “VITA AND ME, WE GOT MORE MILES THAN A CHEVY.”
Everybody laughed, including Fiorella, who said, “Mariano, you have such a wonderful sense of humor. If I had been married to you, I’m sure I would have been married only once.”
“HA!” Her father went to the stove. “I’LL GET THE COFFEE.”
“I love your dress,” Judy said, and Fiorella lifted an eyebrow.
“Thank you. It’s Armani. Are you interested in fashion?”
“Uh, a little.”
“I see that.”
Fiorella kept eyeing Judy, or more accurately, her clothes. Judy had come straight from the office, so she still had on her work clothes-an oversized yellow T-shirt, a jeans miniskirt, and red patent clogs. Her hair, cut in its trademark choppy bowl, was dyed only one color today, crayon yellow. Mary was by now used to Judy’s eccentric wardrobe, but this morning she couldn’t resist telling her she looked like a McDonald’s franchise.
“Do you always dress so?”
“Sure.” Judy nodded happily, but Mary bit her tongue. She was starting to think that Fiorella was Strega Anna Wintour.
“HERE’S COFFEE!” Her father poured a glistening arc of percolated coffee into Fiorella’s cup, then took care of everybody else. “CREAM AND SUGAR’S ONNA TABLE.”
Fiorella was still scrutinizing Judy. “I must say, I’m absolutely appalled by your appearance.”
Mary felt compelled to defend her friend. “Excuse me, Judy’s my best friend, and nobody can criticize her clothes but me.”
Her mother froze, and her father and Anthony blinked. Fiorella recoiled, and Mary knew it hadn’t come out the way she intended, so she tried again.
“I mean, Judy can dress any way she pleases. She’s a genius lawyer and a great painter, and at the office, we value her brains more than her looks.”
“I wasn’t referring to her clothes, but her health.” Fiorella turned coolly to Judy. “Your head aches, does it not?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Someone is thinking ill of you. They are giving you the evil eye.”
Her mother gasped. The gnocchi pot bubbled like a cauldron. “Deo, the malocchio?”
Her father’s resigned expression said, Here we go. Mary and Anthony exchanged looks because they knew what was coming. Mary’s mother could cast off the evil eye, too. In fact, she was probably kicking herself for missing the diagnosis.
But Judy was worried. “Am I going to be okay?”
“Yes, but only if you listen to me. I will keep you safe from harm.” Fiorella reached across the table, her bracelets jangling. “Give me your hand, my dear. I can help you. I am the most powerful witch in all of Abruzzi, the witch of all witches.”
Mary said nothing, except to thank God that she hadn’t invited Bennie to dinner. It would have killed her partnership chances.
Magic was one thing, but crazy was quite another.
Chapter Eight
Bennie lay in the box, exhausted and in pain. Pounding and screaming had burned off her panic. She swallowed hard, her mouth parched. Sweat drenched her. She’d had to go to the bathroom. She remained still, breathing shallowly. She needed to conserve her air and her energy again, so she could try harder.
She wondered where the box could be. People might hear her screaming, unless the box was in the basement of Alice’s house. It was the one place that they hadn’t gone, but Alice was way too smart for that. Alice was brilliant, despite appearances. Bennie had learned that the hard way a long time ago, when Alice played her during her murder case.
Bennie remembered how she’d started to lose her way, proving Grady right that if she took on the representation, she’d have no professional distance. She’d found out that Alice had been cheating on the murdered cop and she knew it wouldn’t have struck a sympathetic note with the jury. So Bennie did what few other criminal defense lawyers would have done. She cut her hair as short as Alice’s, and they dressed alike at trial, so they sat at counsel table side-by-side, like a double image. She figured that the jury would see the identity between them and project the goodwill that Bennie had earned onto her less likable twin. That her gambit had worked hadn’t made it any less uncharacteristic, and looking back, Bennie realized that during that trial, at some time she couldn’t pinpoint, she’d shed her own identity and merged in some uncanny way with her twin.
Now, she couldn’t believe how far it had gone. Couldn’t believe that she had ever wanted to be with Alice, much less be her. It was Bennie’s loss of perspective that had put her inside a box that was God knows where, with her very life in jeopardy.
Suddenly, in the quiet, she heard a noise, like a scratching. She waited, then heard it again. It was coming from outside the lid, right near her head. Was Alice scratching on the lid? Why? How? She listened for the noise to come again, but the only sound was her own panting. Then just as abruptly, the scratching returned.