AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Fine by me.” The engine roars, he changes lanes, and glances over the cupholder. “So, babe, I’ve been thinkin’.”
“A very dangerous habit, husband dearest.”
“Let me continue, if you wouldn’t mind?” Suds’ lips purse under his furrowed brows.
Wondering if he’s going to broach the subject of having a second child, I hold my breath and lose the grin. “Sorry. Please do.”
“Whaddya, say we giveThe Case of the Dismembered Finger,to the police? Seems to me, Howie stole some trees, and perhaps he got in deeper than he should’ve.”
Glad we’re still speaking about Matteo and not my pregnancy, my shoulders relax, and my lungs let out my held breath. “There’s no crime, so they won’t do anything, anyhow. Dammit, we’ll never get our money back.”
“Don’t you think you ought to be focusin’ on things a mite more important… like say, a certain fundraiser?” His gaze flicks off the road.
As his eyes narrow, my stomach churns and I clunk the back of my head on the seat. “What do you think of moving to Sicily? I’msure Uncle Vinny could find us work.”
“Sure thing, sugar. You could get a few lessons from Frankie, and I’ll be set for life.” Shaking his head, he smirks. “Seriously, if you need some help getting donors, I could go door to door and offer my body to the blue-haired ladies.”
We’ve been married long enough to know he’s using humor to get me to focus on something I am trying hard to avoid. “You’re too willing. No, I got this. St. Thomas’ fund raising needs to enter this century. They’re using the same techniques from when my grandmother was a kid. If I create a Go-Fund-Me page and a marketing campaign, I’m certain I can exceed their expectations.”
Chapter 8
Suds
On Tuesday morning, my shoulder aches less and when I stretch, there’s no shooting pain. My sleep alarm stayed silent throughout the night, so the way I figure it, my PTSD setback was a temporary blip on my well-being radar.
Whistling, I open the daycare door and help my son take off his jacket. When he spies one of his best buds, a girl with dark braids, he gives me a quick hug and races after her.
While I’m signing out, the office lady delivers me a piece of yellow-lined paper. “As requested, these are the school’s volunteers and phone numbers.”
“Thank you, kindly.” I picture poor Samantha’s brain exploding when she attempts to decipher the illegible hen scratching.
Because I prefer my wife’s head intact, I squint at the Egyptian hieroglyphs, and frown. “Don’t suppose y’all have a typed version? Because my eye was damaged in Afghanistan, I can’t see as well as I used to, sorry.”
The woman takes the list back and about fifteen minutes later, I walk away with a clean copy. With the sun shining and the weather in the sixties, I meander to our PI office. After I stop for two cups of joe, I trot up the stairs and plop in the chair next to my partner.
“What’s new, Scooby-doo?”
Rolling closer to the glass conference room table, Sam smirks, and turns her laptop so I can view the screen.” Here’s a street cam video of Matteo unloading the trees.”
Her obsession with getting our money back is worrisome, but to say so, will only make matters worse. “Babe, ain’t we got any payin’ customers we ought to be investigatin’?”
Ignoring my question, the dogged ex-FBI analyst zooms in on block letters painted on one side of a yellow, U-Haul-sized vehicle, LARRY’S TRUCKING.
Samantha points to a six-foot man in a plaid shirt tossing cut pines out the back door. “Betcha he knows where Howie’s at, wouldn’t you agree, Suds?”
“Knowing your neighborhood, he won’t talk.” This should be the end of the conversation, but my danger magnet simply smiles, picks up her phone, and hits speed dial.
“Hey Uncle Vinny. WereI to send you a guy’s name and number, could you text him and say I’m on the level?” For my benefit, she presses the screen’s green speaker icon and places the electronic device between us.
“What’s in it for me?” If nothing else, the mobster is consistent.
Light brown brows raised, she crosses her fingers. “A favor for your favorite niece?”
“How about tit for tat?” His chuckle sends a chill down my spine, but my brave spouse doesn’t flinch.
“Considering you’re the one who recommended we purchase a tree from a certain lot, I’d say you owe me, but, because you’refamiglia, I’ll snagyou a tin of Rose’s fresh-baked cookies.”
“Stop by later. We’ll talk. Bring your son, but not yourmarito bastardo.”
