Death on Planet Pizza Read online

  There was also the Indian River Bait and Tackle and the carpentry shop that he set up in Mom-Mom Raquela's garage. Big ideas from the consummate salesman, but absolutely no management skills to back them up. And so they failed. Spectacularly.

  So, when Spenser was only four, and a frustrated Mary had given the ultimatum of steady work or a divorce, Nathan Isaacs, with wanderlust in his heart and stars in his eyes, left his wife, his son, and his daughter and never returned. There were some scattered reports of sightings, but never any confirmations. He never phoned. He never wrote. He was gone before he could even be. At least to Spenser.

  Of course, having a blank canvas allowed her to paint her father in various incarnations. He could have joined the Merchant Marine and been lost at sea. Or have become a contemplative monk and taken a vow of silence. An interesting career choice for a Jew. Or, he could have just gotten tired of his ordinary life with its ordinary failures and opted for something a bit less mundane. A new life filled with adventures, devoid of guilt and responsibilities.

  Spenser could commiserate with that. Especially on this ordinary Tuesday evening as she stared at her ordinary reflection that, for some base reason, seemed to memorialize her ancestors in rather unflattering terms. A phrase she'd heard once ran through her head. 'We are everyone who came before us'. Spenser cringed. "What a depressing thought."

  Spenser vacated the bathroom and walked to the living room where she stooped to plant a kiss on her beloved uncle's forehead. Bruno Antonio DeCampli was a compact gyro who looked just like Perry Como with a crew cut. He was loyal, fearless, funny and the best father an uncle could ever be.

  "Hi ya, Unc. How ya feeling?"

  "Bene, piccola."

  That was his standard answer, bene, good. Spenser couldn't count the number of times she'd asked that question and been given that answer. The truth was that Bruno was in constant pain. An accident at the factory had left him permanently disabled. But he never allowed the discomfort to rule his life. He was ambulatory, with a cane, enjoyed bingo with Ruthie at Immaculate Conception every Friday, attended monthly meetings of his local VFW and never missed the Monday night poker game at the Eagles Lodge.

  "Do me a favor, cara. Go tell your mother that her sibling is starving."

  "You got it, Zio." Spenser turned and headed for the true hub of the home.

  "1909," pronounced Bea, just as Spenser entered the aromatic kitchen.

  Bea was seated on a high stool inches from the stove, anxiously waiting for Little Mary to appoint her official pasta tester. Little Mary actually wasn't. Little, that is. She was a healthy 5' 5", with a matronly figure, full but not heavy. Her hair bobbed and straight, was a creamy L'Oreal brown. Her smile was infectious. She was tough but fair. Practical and idealistic. A conundrum to Spenser at times, but always a joy.

  "Did you know that, Nell?" asked Mary.

  "Know what?" Spenser picked up a piece of fresh baked bread and dipped it in the meat sauce.

  "That Guglielmo Marconi won the Nobel Prize for Physics in 1909."

  "Must have been absent that day. And pray tell, she asked hesitantly, what does anything have to do with Guglielmo Marconi?"

  Bea sheeshed and Mary rolled her eyes heavenward.

  "Marconi...macaroni...," answered Bea patiently as if to a child.

  They were always doing this. Playing word or idea or picture association games that Spenser hardly ever caught on to. "Yeah," said Spenser. "Right."

  "You need to exercise those little gray cells." Mary playfully tapped Spenser's forehead, invoking the celebrated phrase from her favorite fictional detective.

  Though her mom had only completed high school, Mary Isaacs knew more than Spenser could ever hope to assimilate. Her love of Latin had led her to study that dead language at the local library, becoming as proficient, if not more so, as her parish priest. Her passion for baking prompted a week-long stint at the Santa Marguerita Culinary Academy. Another reason for Spenser's bulk.

  There was very little that did not interest Little Mary and absolutely nothing that stood in the way of her learning more about those interests. Even if she were not her mom, Spenser would still love and admire this formidable woman.

  "Mom, your brother is starving."

  "Starving? Have you seen the paunch on him lately?"

  "I heard that," came a muted masculine voice from the front room.

  "Here, Bea." Mary held a large wooden spoon containing two sample penne regate under Bea's nose. "Done?"

  This was what she had been waiting for. This was the defining moment for Beatrice Hildegaard McNichols. Her hero, Maria DeCampli Isaacs, a true, full blooded Italian, was entrusting an Irish-French-somewhere-along-the-line-Dane-American to test the pasta. It was up to her to determine if the penne was al dente. A responsibility that Bea took very seriously. She nibbled, savoring the delicate essence of durum, relishing the wheat flavor.

  "Bene, Mama," proclaimed Bea. "Al dente perfetto."

  "Soup's on," called Mary, a hundred-watt smile crossing her face.

  The next hour passed with good food and good conversation, when Spenser was paying attention. It wasn't until she and Bea were at the sink washing and drying respectively that her preoccupation became far too annoying for Bea to ignore any longer.

  "Did you know that Webster's New Riverside University Dictionary defines anomie as 'personal alienation resulting in unsocial behavior'?" Still no recognition from Spenser so Bea tried again. "'Loneliness is never more cruel than when it is felt in close propinquity with someone who has ceased to communicate'. Germaine Greer, The Female Eunuch, 1971."

  "What?" Did Spenser hear the words propinquity and eunuch in the same sentence?

  "Welcome back, Captain Janeway. Nice trip?"

  "Sorry."

  "What?"

  "What what?"

  "We could do this Kathy Najimy, Mo Gaffney shtick all night long ..."

  Spenser took a deep breath. "Pam died."

  "Pam?" Bea was puzzled for half a second until recognition hit her like a tsunami. "Oh, no, Pam with the dancing eyes?"

  "Yes."

  "What happened?"

  "Her heart stopped."

  "Damn." Bea hesitated before adding, "But, Spense, she was in such pain."

  Silence filled the steamy kitchen. "You know that saying 'a meaningless death'?" Spenser asked after a while. "Sometimes I think it's life that's meaningless."

  Bea felt a stab of sadness, for Pam, and for her dear friend as well. There had been far too many 'leavings' in Spenser's thirty odd years on earth.

  "Life is life, Nell."

  Spenser simply shook her head. "I know."

  Bea put her arms around her best friend and held on tight. She felt Spenser's arms encircling her then pull away.

  "Sorry. I think too much. As you well know." Spenser squeezed her best friend's hand then returned to the dirty dishes.

  Bea kissed her friend on the cheek. "We all grieve in our own way."

  The two comrades silently put away the dishes, silverware, pots and pans, then headed for the post prandial game of pinochle being played with much zeal in the front room.

  "I bump," said a dejected Ruthie.

  "Bump?" yelled her partner, Bruno. "Whadda ya mean ya bump? If you couldn'ta make the meld why'd ya even bid?"

  "The trump was your call, Mister Man," countered a defiant Ruthie. "Not mine."

  "I was bidding on the kitty. What, ya didn't see that?"

  "Did I see it?" Ruthie was losing control. "Oh, I get it. I'm supposed to recognize what all those goo-goo eyes you make at me mean, huh? But you, you don't notice when I look at you? If I'da stared at you any harder when you trumped my eyes woulda popped out!"

  "Well, at least then I'da known you couldn't've made meld!"

  "Children, children," interjected a joyful Mary. "It's just a game."

  "I believe that's 500, Mary," added an elated Dee. The two friends were trying real hard to contain their jubilation. Unsuccessfully. "O
nce again the incomparable team of Walker and Isaacs has reached the pinnacle of pinochle."

  Groans filtered through the warm night air. "Okay, the girls are here." Mary started putting the cards away. "Let's get out the dominoes."

  Spenser deliberately banished sad thoughts to the back of her cluttered mind and started choosing tiles. It's good to be home.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday - late evening

  The carpeted halls of the Sunflower were quiet as Gina Mae made her way toward Tucker's room. Her stomach was doing somersaults and she could barely restrain her giggles.

  Every Monday, after 11:00 pm lights out, Gina Mae would impatiently watch her Miss Piggy digital alarm clock blink the minutes until the red numbers reached 11:15. Then she would stuff her night-robe pockets with pilfered PayDay bars and wend her almost silent way to Tucker's room, around the eastern side of the Sunflower. The walk was fraught with intrigue, at least to Gina Mae. She would pass through the reception area, avoiding the night attendant, and rap lightly on Tucker's door; two knocks, silence, then two more knocks. That was their signal.

  Gina Mae's eyes narrowed as she reached the reception area. Mrs Quinn-Jackson, the chief attendant, was an intimidating obstacle. Though she stood no more than 4' 11", and weighed no more than 98 pounds, the intensity with which this staid African-American performed her duties was legend.

  Gina Mae remembered the one and only time that Mrs Q-J had discovered her once weekly nocturnal stroll. She remembered the fire in her eyes. She remembered the multi-decibel voice that seemed to grab Gina Mae physically. She especially remembered the TV restriction imposed on her for this minor infraction. Gina Mae was not about to let that happen again. Not with “Glee” on tomorrow.

  She trained her eyes on every object before her. She scrutinized every shadow. And when she was absolutely convinced that Mrs Q-J was nowhere in sight, she hunched over and ran as best she could around the reception desk and into the relative safety of the eastern hallway. The sigh that escaped uncontrolled from her lips made her jump. She calmed herself enough to resume her perilous journey only to be halted yet again. "Uh, oh," she whispered.

  A sliver of light shone into the hallway from one of the rooms, its beam crossing directly in her path. It was Chloe's room. Chloe was her best friend, and not just because she hoarded PayDay bars for Gina Mae. It was awful late for Chloe to be up. Somehow, this troubled Gina Mae. She stood against the far wall and peered around the small crack between the door and the jam. A dark figure opened a bureau drawer and took out something small. It had a long chain and was shining in the dim light. She saw the figure take out a handkerchief and wrap the silvery thing in it then pocket the handkerchief. Gina Mae wasn't sure what was going on.

  She inched a bit closer to the door and saw Chloe. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Almost like she was having trouble breathing. Gina Mae saw the panic on her friend's face and wondered if she should go in and talk to her. Then, suddenly, Chloe's panic subsided. Gina Mae watched in fascination as Chloe's head jerked back and hit the wall without even a whimper from her. She saw a smile form at the corners of Chloe's mouth as her eyes became transfixed on the ceiling.

  Gina Mae scrunched her body low and walked quickly away from Chloe's room toward Tucker's. She would have to tell Tucker about seeing someone in Chloe's room, and about how Chloe went and hit her head and she didn't even cry. But, by the time she'd reached her boyfriend's door, her thoughts were of Tucker only. She'd almost forgotten all that she'd seen, grateful that no one had seen her. She rapped two times, silence, then two more times. Tucker let her in. She was safe.

  But, back down the hallway, just outside Chloe's room, stood Ival Overoye, his face pinched with anger. Gina Mae was not safe after all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Tuesday - morning

  Spenser's day began with a headache. Seven days shy of Halloween and it was still 80 degrees at 8 o'clock in the morning. Not even cranking up "Appalachian Spring" on her stereo had been a palliative. The Santa Anas had churned up every mold spore, every pollen molecule within a hundred-mile radius, the likes of which were now invading Spenser's sinuses; quark sized soldiers on a mission of destruction, or at least congestion. It was beyond her how a five-pound head could manufacture fifty pounds of mucous.

  The devil winds had completed their rampage overnight and retreated into the trade winds off the coast. Now the air was eerily still, and an unseasonal blanket of smog was wrapping itself around the Valley. Spenser ejected the Copland and pushed in a Chopin waltz hoping the calmer music would ease her agitation. It didn't.

  She exited the trailer and sat on the porch praying for a breeze. The contradiction escaping her. Well, she could no longer blame her mood on the Santa Anas. They were gone, but her melancholy remained.

  "Mr Delgadillo spotted a white owl yesterday morning." Rasmussen's disembodied voice raked the air between the two trailers. "Mrs Szumowski says it’s an omen."

  Mrs Szumowski thinks everything's an omen, sniped Spenser to herself.

  "’Course, Mrs Szumowski says everything's an omen," added Rasmussen as if in union with Spenser’s thoughts.

  Spenser smiled.

  "But last night, little Donny Hooks came down with the ague."

  What the hell is the ague?

  Rasmussen was suddenly gone without clarification. It was 8:30am. Spenser answered the phone.

  "Know what I think?" came Bea's static-y voice.

  "More often than I care to."

  "I think," continued Bea, unfazed, "that at some point in time everything is true."

  Spenser knew better than to bite. "So...there is a Santa Claus and Elvis really does shop K Mart?" She knew better but that never stopped her.

  "Love is eternal. There is life after death," reasoned Bea, trying to bring the conversation back to a serious tone.

  "Is there life before it?"

  Bea ignored the sarcasm. As usual. "There is a God. There is hope for humanity."

  "You just lost all credibility."

  "Everything we feel and dream is true." Bea was feeling pretty darn smug.

  "But," countered an unrepentant Spenser, "doesn't that imply that the converse is also true?"

  Bea reluctantly began reassessing her apothegm. "You mean, Santa is a fantasy. Elvis really is dead?"

  "There is a Satan."

  Bea felt defeated, but unbowed. "You know what I think?"

  This is where I came in.

  "I think philosophy is highly overrated." Spenser couldn't restrain the smile that covered her face. "See you at six," reminded Bea.

  "I'll be here."

  Bea rang off and Spenser had breakfast.

  Spenser sat on her mini-porch and was about to chow down on her bagel when she heard the unmistakable sound of an RV chugging noisily up the hill. She watched as an enormous fifth-wheeler attempted to maneuver the 90-degree turn in front of her trailer and realized there was absolutely nothing she could do to prevent the impending disaster. Her metal house was at the end of an already narrow, tree-lined road that jerked violently to the right toward the lake. Volkswagens had trouble making the curve without obliterating flowerbeds or chipping bark off the despondent-looking poplars that hugged the winding track.

  The truck, a haul-ass gazillion-ton monster, had miraculously completed its turn, but its precious tag-along cargo had a mind of its own. As the truck merrily went south, the fifth-wheeler went east, directly into Spenser’s front room window. The scraping sound was worse than fingernails on chalkboard.

  Spenser sat, openmouthed, waiting for the driver to realize the extent of his miscalculation. It took him about an hour. The truck finally stopped and a middle-aged weekend warrior jumped from the cab and stood in front of the trailer cursing like a midshipman or a sophomore at the local poly university. He looked at Spenser, turned a bright orange and babbled something about Allstate or State Farm or some equally stately insurance company that would take care of everything, honest. Spenser manage
d to find her legs and walked unsteadily toward the cataclysm.

  Viewed from the street the damage seemed minimal. However, on closer inspection, the partitioned double window that spanned the entire width of the trailer was pane-less. A rather radical solution to the problem of no air conditioning in the Silverstream, Spenser thought. Plus, the aluminum paneling on either side of the defunct window was now concave, as though the trailer had taken a deep breath inward and had forgotten to exhale. Spenser walked back to the side entrance and into her kitchen slash front room with the blathering destructo in tow.

  The glass had, rather neatly Spenser thought, fallen almost completely intact onto her love seat. Small shards gleamed prettily on her greenish-blue carpet. But the only thing that Spenser cared about was how her prized N-scale locomotive collection had fared. She let out a breath, relieved to see it hanging proudly on the wall above the kitchen table gratefully intact. She opened the glass door and cradled the black, silver, and red Jupiter in her hands. The model steam locomotive was a birthday gift from her Uncle Bruno. She smiled remembering the first time she’d seen the Jupiter.