The Gardener of Aria Manor Page 2

  “Added to what you just gave me,” Eilis said, “I’d say about three hundred sixty-eight dollars and...twenty-two cents.”

  Janie folded arms over her chest. “Sounds like we got you to California, Eilis.”

  “Ho, don’t ’cha know it!” The woman beamed. “And then some. Why, I’ve got enough here to buy all me kids rail tickets, food, and a room to stay in till we find me sister.” She stepped away from the stool and embraced Janie tightly with a sob. “I don’t care what your father says about you, I think your mother raised a saint, and a good one.”

  Janie pressed her an arm’s length away. “Go on—get outta here. You’ve got to get packing.”

  After a moment’s reflection, Eilis replied gravely, “Oh, but I can’t leave now. Your father needs me to stay and clean up.”

  Janie clicked her tongue and frowned. “Never mind my father. I’ll take care of him, and anything that needs cleaning up.” She pushed a reluctant but elated Eilis out of the kitchen. “Go on now. Get. And wave to my mother when you pass Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh, but I thought she was coming back tomorrow.”

  Janie shook her head and grabbed a lined trench coat from the hall closet. “Not for another two weeks.”

  “Why? Is she sick?”

  “No, no.” Janie said. She followed Eilis out the door and then helped her with her coat. “It’s nothing like that. She and Aunt Bess are helping a Dutch neighbor with some sort of quilting project.”

  “Oh,” Eilis cooed. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Outside on the sidewalk, Janie said, “Well, now’s your chance to reinvent yourself, Eilis. Do anything you want. You’re moving to a new place, going to meet new folks. Why, I’d even bet you’d be able to find a fine Hollywood actor or actress to work for in a fancy house on the beach.”

  Eilis cackled. “Wouldn’t it be something if I worked for the great Douglas Fairbanks?”

  “God has given you an open door, Eilis. Life will be as adventurous as you want to make it. So, live a little or live a lot.” Janie sighed at the next thought. “I just know this place won’t be the same without you.”

  The woman drank in Janie’s warm gaze and sighed deeply. “I don’t know how to thank you, Janie O’Grady.” She embraced Janie one last time.

  “You just did,” Janie said softly. She stepped away and buttoned up her coat. “Oh, almost forgot.” She reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out a small envelope of pills. Eilis whooped as she juggled to get a grip on the packet.

  “For little Jimmie,” Janie added. “Give him two pills a day till they’re all gone. That should take care of his fever.” Eilis held the envelope over her heart and wept, and Janie smiled. “A doctor friend owed me a favor.”

  “May God bless you as you’ve blessed me, Janie.”

  Janie began to backpedal. “I don’t think God likes me too much right now. I just knocked out his priest.”

  ADDI’S KOSHER DELI was a corner store just across the street from Abraham Ephraim’s bakery. Mr. Goldstein, the owner and proprietor, stayed open late on Thursdays to make up for the hours the store was closed on the Sabbath. It was just past eleven when Janie knocked on the window. Mr. Goldstein had already started to count his register, but he squinted out at the shadowed features. He peered around the pulled blinds on the door as she called his name.

  “Janie, is that you?” his tired voice asked. Before she could answer, he flipped the lock, turned the knob, and opened the door. “Come in. Come in.”

  “I’m sorry it’s so late, Mr. Goldstein.”

  “Ah.” He waved her to silence. “It’s never too late to make another nickel. Come. Come. You’re letting in the cold.” He closed the door behind her and went to the counter, where he slipped his white apron on. “So, tell me, Janie. How’s your father?”

  “Acting busy.”

  “Good. Good. God hates a lazy man.”

  She walked past the barrels of pickles and sauerkraut and eyed the lox and salami behind the glass counter, next to the corned beef.

  “He wants a good chunk of your corned beef today, please.”

  As Mr. Goldstein weighed and wrapped her meat, she tossed several jars of the caviar into a basket. At thirty-six cents apiece, it was the good stuff. She added a handful of figs and a small white bag of hard sugar candies filled with raspberry, her father’s favorite.

  The bell on the shiny brass Standard cash register chinged melodically as Mr. Goldstein rang up her few purchases.

  “I know your father likes the end pieces,” he said, stuffing the corned beef into a paper bag. “So, I gave him an extra chunk. Needs to be eaten anyway.”

  Janie smiled as she handed him the money. “Thanks, Mr. Goldstein.”

  “’S’all right. Your father’s good to my business. I earn interest. America’s very good to me.”

  She frowned. “Yeah, that’s America. Give it everything you’ve got, and maybe you’ll get a dime back.” She scooped the bag up, disregarding the change he held out to her. “Keep the change, Mr. Goldstein.”

  “Keep it?” he shouted, his fist clenched around the coins. “Do you know how many starving people are on the streets out there selling matches for this kind of change?”

  “Then give it to them. I’m sure my father owes them interest too.”

  On her way home, Janie was hailed by a scruffy bearded, middle-aged man who huddled over a fire in a trash can.

  “Janie—”

  “Hey, Joe.”

  “Say, you got a cigarette?”

  She dug a pack of Lucky Strikes out of her coat pocket, pulled one out with her lips, and then handed him the pack. “Keep ’em.”

  He nodded at her paper bag as he lit a match. “Old man got you running again?”

  “Yeah,” she said gruffly. “Say, you hungry?”

  He took a puff off the cigarette and stuck his nose in the bag. “Sure. Whatcha got?”

  She pulled out the extra chunk of corned beef.

  “Now you’re talking.” He beamed as he added slyly, “You wouldn’t happen to have a little shine on you now, would you?”

  She pulled a silver flask from the back pocket of her trousers. “I want the flask back.”

  He stuffed the corned beef in his pocket and eagerly snatched the flask. He took a big swig and happily let the burn streak down his throat. After he swallowed, he said, “Have you heard? They killed Coll tonight.”

  Janie had heard a rumor that some mob bosses had put out a substantial contract on some schmuck named Coll, but she had paid little attention.

  “When?” she asked.

  “Just a couple a hours ago at a drugstore on West Twenty-third. Shot ’im up bad.” Joe chuckled. “He was on the phone, the stupid son of a bitch. Everyone knows you don’t get on those phones. Not if you want to stay alive.”

  “I wonder who he was talking to,” Janie mumbled.

  “’His mother...who knows? Point is, he’s dead. Good riddance to bad rubbish. We don’t need his like around here stirring up trouble. It was his boys that hit up Clancey’s bar last week, and Capone’s club, remember?” He cackled darkly. “Bastards breaking every bottle the Westies smuggled in from Canada. Now just who in his right mind would go wasting liquor at a time like this?”

  Janie pondered on the sleaziness that was Madden. She had heard of Madden’s on again/off again business arrangements with the likes of Capone and other bosses, but something in her gut told her that Madden was definitely “on again” that night.

  “A little talk, a couple of phone calls—right, fellas?” her father had said.

  She couldn’t help wondering whether it was Madden who had kept Coll on the phone in the booth just to set him up. Janie felt a flash of panic. “I gotta go, Joe.”

  He grunted, swallowed the last gulp of her brandy, and shoved the flask out at her. Taking a step back, she snatched it from his loose grasp and then hurried toward home, taking a shortcut through a nearby alley.

  As she
rounded the corner of her street, she could hear a babble of voices. Neighbors, passersby, and police officials all milled about on the steps of her home. Sergeant Kelly was doing his best to hold off the press of onlookers. He barely had a chance to grab hold of Janie’s arm as she flew by.

  “Janie, Janie, don’t go in!” he urged. “Janie!”

  She jerked her shoulder from his grasp and ran up the stone steps. She dashed into the parlor in time to be caught in the glare of the photographer’s flash.

  The pop of the flashbulb would be forever embedded in her mind, as would the gruesome vision of dark sanguine splatters all over the walls, fireplace, rug, and bodies. The bodies were all drenched with blood. From that day on, she absolutely hated the color red. Jake, Jimmie, Tom. Even young Paddy. She couldn’t help thinking of his wife. Poor Lucy. What was she going to do? Her father was by the fireplace, just where she had left him.

  Janie’s shaking hand reached out to touch her father’s brow. Police Lieutenant Cross put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Janie, come on,” he coaxed. Her fist batted his arm away. He sighed deeply at her tearful anguish and peered around the room at the corps of investigators. “Okay, boys. Leave us alone for a while, will you? Come on, take a coffee break.”

  Janie slid down the marble edge of the fireplace and sat with knees tucked up underneath her. Shocked into silence, she stared blankly at her father’s limp form, clutching the paper bag that held his favorite things.

  A short while later, her coat was lying on a kitchen counter and she held a half full bottle of whiskey she had grabbed out of a cabinet. Lieutenant Cross followed her as she pulled a rocks glass from another cabinet above the sink.

  “Where’d your father get the liquor?” he asked.

  “That’s a stupid question, Cross,” she spat. “Madden’s boys.” She lifted a glass and raised an eyebrow. He politely declined and she closed the metal door with a clank. Sliding the bottle onto the kitchen table, she took a seat. “Got a cigarette?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Cross dug into his breast pocket and tossed a pack onto the table.

  A man in his forties, Cross’s features were hard and his stringy black hair was neatly slicked back out of vanity, but his eyes were honest and compassionate. He had known James O’Grady, as well as most of the other Irish Americans that associated with the Westies in some manner. O’Grady wasn’t a big name, but this was a big-time hit. Lieutenant Cross assessed Janie as she exhaled a puff of smoke and then took a deep draught of whiskey.

  “You got any ideas who did this or why?” he asked with typical candor.

  Her throat spasmed at the acid burn of the first swallow and she winced. “I’ll tell you who I’d blame.”

  “Who?”

  “Madden.”

  Cross slowly took a seat opposite her. “Owney Madden, himself, would knock off your father and his buddies?” Her stare was cool until she lowered her gaze to her glass. Cross sat back and pondered. “What are they to him? Have you seen Madden lately?”

  “He left here about an hour ago. I don’t know how long he was here. I wasn’t home.” She snorted. “He was wearing his best Italian suit.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean what?”

  “Whenever Madden does business with Capone, he wears an Italian suit. I don’t know why. Guess it’s to show his respect for Capone or something.”

  “Anything else?”

  Janie shrugged. “Pop told me they had talked and made a couple of phone calls.”

  “Phone calls?” He spotted an officer in the hall. “Hey, Kelly, do me a favor.”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant,” the sergeant responded quickly.

  “Call the telephone operator. See if she remembers O’Grady making a call a couple of hours ago to a particular drugstore.”

  Kelly nodded and hastened off, and Janie smirked as she poured herself another double shot. “Now you’re going to ask me if I know about Coll.” She grinned at Cross’s surprise. “News travels fast on the streets.”

  After a moment, he asked, “Would you testify if we arrested Madden?”

  She glared through the ringlets of smoke she exhaled. “That’s another stupid question, Cross.”

  Cross frowned, drumming his fingers on the table. “So, I guess you also know your father was embezzling Madden’s money. Right?”

  Janie stared in disbelief. “What?”

  He nodded. “Proof’s in the bank documents provided by a ‘do gooder’ coworker who caught on to your father’s sleight-of-hand. And some sleight-of-hand it was, I’d say. Some big bucks your pop shaved from Madden’s account. The note came across the wire at the station not six hours ago. Madden’s thugs must have heard the news too.”

  After a moment, the chain of the fatal repercussions sank in. Janie flung her glass across the room. Cross ducked reflexively, then watched the glass shatter into pieces against the cabinet behind him. The shards slithered across the white marble floor like jacks being scattered. He raised an eye to Janie as she stood and kicked the chair aside.

  “The bastard never cared for anything but his goddamn money, and look where it got him.” She paced around the room with arms akimbo. “God dammit!” She slammed a fist atop the countertop.

  Cross waited. “Janie...I gotta tell ya. The money’s still missing,” he finally said. He waited a while for her slumped head to lift. “You wouldn’t have any idea where he might have stashed the money...would you?”

  She blew out a hard breath and ran her fingers through her hair. “Is that another stupid question?” She shot a glare over her shoulder. Turning about abruptly, she gritted her teeth and snatched another cigarette.

  Cross pushed his chair back and stood to his full height. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wallet which he tossed on the table.

  “I thought you might want your father’s personal effects before the coroner takes him.”

  “I thought you were supposed to confiscate stuff like this as evidence.”

  A grin played around his lips as he pointed at the wallet. “My card’s in there. Call me if you find anything. All right?” He strode toward the kitchen doorway, where he paused. “Janie, I think you ought to lay low for a while. If you saw Madden here, there’s a damn good chance someone saw you. Don’t take that chance of being the next target. Like you said, news travels fast.”

  Cross left Janie as he mumbled something about finding officer Kelly.

  Janie sat down, propped her elbows on the table, then flipped through her father’s wallet. Burning eyes wincing through curls of smoke, she spied a slip of paper tucked between her father’s driver’s license and a twenty dollar bill. She set the wallet aside and opened the folded paper. It was a bakery slip, but not just any bakery slip. It was an order her father had placed at Frank’s father’s bakery three days earlier for twelve large loaves of challah bread. Surely Lieutenant Cross must have seen this, she thought. Her father had never cared for challah, nor did he know enough Jews in the community to host a dinner that would require twelve loaves.

  Janie slid past investigators, including Cross, who were busy in the parlor, and snuck upstairs to her bedroom. She flung open the double closet doors, exposing coats, men’s trousers, suits, and shoes. She grabbed a long, worsted gray wool coat and matching felt fedora. As she hurriedly swung about, her coat tails smacked against a table lamp and knocked it to the floor. Concerned that the shattering ceramic might alert Cross, Janie hurried to the door and listened for voices from below.

  She heard Cross order, “Kelly, check the kitchen.” A moment later, she heard him say, “She in there?” Knowing that Kelly would be replying in the negative, she was not surprised when Cross shouted her name.

  Janie swallowed hard. Her heart was beating so loudly she thought it would deafen her. She opened the window, tucked her hair under the tight fitting fedora, and hitched herself over the windowsill and out onto the fire escape. In the vague pools of light and shadow below her, she spotted a figure m
oving under the metal grids. A familiar voice softly called out to her, derailing her initial impulse to climb back inside.

  “Janie,” the voice hissed.

  “Frank, is that you?”

  “Yeah.” Frank waited for her to descend the stairs, smiling broadly as she approached.

  “Frank, what the hell are you doing here?” Janie whispered.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you. I heard what happened and thought I should make sure you were all right.”

  Cross’s head appeared out of the window and he yelled down, “Janie!”

  “Come on,” she said desperately, shoving Frank ahead of her. “We’ve got to go.”

  “Why, what’s the—”

  “I’ll explain later. Just go, quickly.”

  “Janie,” Cross yelled again. “Janie, wait!”

  She and Frank ran down the alley, then skidded to a stop when they spotted a figure dimly lit by the lamp on the street corner. The silhouette fired a shot in their direction.

  “Not that way.” Janie grabbed Frank and spun him around.

  The gunman was in hot pursuit, the slapping of his shoes echoing down the narrow alley behind them. Two uniformed police officers rounded the other end of the street, and Frank and Janie attempted to stop in their tracks, but slid on the ice.

  “This isn’t working, Janie,” Frank gasped.

  Throwing a glance behind them, she spotted a side door to the neighboring strip club. She tugged Frank off his feet as she pulled him with her. “This way,” Janie insisted.

  Inside the club, Janie and Frank hurried down the back corridor. They walked briskly and undetected until a blonde in a scanty dress slunk toward them. Spying Janie under the fedora, the woman flipped her pink ostrich feathers and smiled slyly.

  “Well, if it ain’t Janie O’Grady.”

  “Lois,” Janie acknowledged politely.

  The blonde stopped her with a finger. “Where ya been doll? Haven’cha missed me?”

  Frank gawked through his round spectacles at the blonde’s shapely figure and toned legs. “Hubba, hubba.”