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Because everything was just fine at the house.
Agnes walked into the kitchen, trying not to beam, but it was hard. He was going to quit. Maria was mad but she was going to marry Palmer. If Butch would just show up with his van and pick up Cerise and Hot Pink, and Frankie would cough up the money, and she could get her column done?—
“Uncle Michael isn’t here,” Maria said, her hands on hips, splendid in her pink wedding dress.
Agnes blinked at her. “What?”
“Uncle Michael. The Don.” Maria folded her arms. “The guy who was giving me away. He’s not here.”
“He ain’t gonna be here,” a brand-new Frankie said from the doorway as Rhett padded past him, oblivious to the drama going on around him. “And you ain’t gonna miss him.” He straightened the jacket of his tux and lifted his newly shaven chin, and he looked every inch a Fortunato.
“Oh, God,” Agnes said. “What happened to the Don?”
“I’m giving you away, Maria,” Frankie said, offering Maria his arm.
Maria blinked at him. “Doyle?”
“I’m your grandpa Frankie, honey,” Frankie said.
Maria looked at Lisa Livia.
“This is my daddy,” Lisa Livia said. “Frankie Fortunato. Your grandmother tried to kill him twenty-five years ago, so he swam the Blood River and got away from her, but now he’s come back and he’s going to walk you down the aisle.”
Maria sat down on of the kitchen chairs.
“Want a drink?” Agnes said. “‘Cause I’m thinking I’m going to need one after the next question.” She looked at Frankie. “Where’s the Don, Frankie?”
“He’s sleeping with those he did wrong to,” Frankie said.
“Oh.” Agnes got out the bourbon. “Did Shane kill him?”
“Nope,” Frankie said while Agnes poured herself a shot. “Don’t ask no more questions, Agnes,” he added with affection.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Frankie,” Agnes said, and knocked back her drink. “Maria?” she said, offering her the bottle.
“No, I’m good,” Maria said. “So. Grandpa. You’re going to walk me down the aisle. Okay.” She looked at Agnes. “You find out who ruined my dress yet?”
“Oh, that was Brenda,” Agnes said.
Maria’s nodded. “So when she sees me coming down the aisle in her dress with Grandpa Frankie ...”
“Could be a coronary,” Agnes said. Maria stood up. “Hello, Grandpa.”
“Wonderful,” Agnes said. “And you really do look beautiful, Maria.” When Maria didn’t look at her again, she thought, Well, I have to earn that, and started for the door, almost toppling over as her knees met the hem of her pencil skirt, a problem she’d been having all morning. Small steps, she told herself, and tried again.
To Do List, she thought as she minced her way down the porch steps. Take back Maria’s wedding from the clowns. Get Brenda to incriminate herself. Get Lisa Livia her money back. Get Shane a better job. Write column.
Burn this damn dress.
Shane surveyed the wedding party. There were about a hundred people gathered. The Don’s goombahs were clustered together on Maria’s side, and they were going to be surprised when Frankie walked down the aisle instead of the Don. Brenda was not there yet. Probably waiting to make an entrance. That should be good, too.
He checked off the players on the groom’s side: the groom, best man, ushers, preacher, musicians, and photographer were in place, and yes, there in the front row was Evie wearing something in that same pink that Agnes had been slinking around in. Evie had a jacket over hers, though. Good plan, Shane thought. Then he frowned as he looked out past the lawn: Wilson’s boat was back, anchored just off the dock and to the left of Brenda’s yacht. Coming to watch the hit?
Had he watched a hit before? Shane wondered. Had the consigliere reported to him so that he knew the details of the deaths—the words they say echoing in his mind—or had Wilson known firsthand? What the fuck was the real deal?
Shane walked across the lawn to the photographer, an attractive woman with several cameras dangling on straps around her neck. “Could I borrow your camera with the best zoom for a second?”
The woman turned to him and smiled. “Sure.” She pulled one off and held it out for him.
