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Until today my life
has just been getting
better and better.
But in a split second
all goodness slipped
out from under me
when the realization
hit like a cold spike
through my heart
that my
granddaughter,
Jillian, has been
kidnapped.
I've had two
husbands and one
child in my 63
years. And one
innocent
grandchild. Now
she's missing.
I've been rich and
poor. I've had power
over men. I've never
felt so powerless as
this minute. The
image of Jillian's
broken glasses on
the floor of her empty
room blocks
everything else from
my consciousness.
I'm speeding after
her, and getting
nowhere.
If I go to the police,
which Al Scarsia has
warned me not to
do--I don't even have
a picture of Jillian to
show them. She's
only lived with me
for two weeks. I
suppose Jamie has
one. But with her,
you never know.
The last run of tears
has already dried
crusty on my
cheeks, although I
can still taste salt at
the corners of my
mouth. I have a
dread feeling that
there'll be more
before this is over.
Jillian wouldn't be
in this trouble if she
and Jamie hadn't
come to live with me.
It's my fault. Her
own grandmother
has put her in the
hands of a greedy
mobster who's
already killed one
man to show me he's
serious.
My tire clips the
curb. The wheel
jerks in my hands.
Everything inside
the car jangles like I
dropped the
silverware drawer.
Jamie bounces off
the passenger door.
"Slow down, Trixie,"
my old friends
Cheryl and Diane
scream from the
back seat. You're
going to miss the
turn." Cheryl sounds
frantic.
I can't really feel the
wheel. And, the road
is only a blur. But,
I'm getting ahead of
my story. It began
only five days ago,
and already it seems
like an eternity. . .
Murder She Wrote. . . The Grannies--Diane, Trixie and
Cheryl--find themselves neck-deep in mayhem when Trixie's
cousin, Joe, is accused of murdering his gypsy wife, Fatima.
She's found dead in the churning surf below Joe's five acre
estate on beautiful Belvedere Island, just across the Golden
Gate from San Francisco.
Wealthy and powerful residents are killing mad over Joe's
idea to bore a tunnel through the middle of the island for
fire and traffic control. The crisis peaks when a ruthless San
Francisco mobster kidnaps Trixie's granddaughter.
Snake bites, mob threats and grandkids moving in
unexpected;y don't deter Diane, Trixie and Cheryl from
exposing the killer in the this mystery thriller.
we should call
first?” Cheryl said,
sliding forward on
the back seat. “He
might not be
home, and it’s a
long drive to
Sacramento.”
“I’d rather surprise
him,” Trixie
answered as they
sped down
Interstate 80
heading east.
“Do you really
think he might
have killed
Fatima?” Diane
asked between
applications of lip
gloss, with the
vanity mirror
flipped down.
“Well, we know
she was doing a
little free lance
blackmailing of
Dicky Dock. I can’t
imagine Rudolfo
Tenore took
kindly to that.”
After about two
hours of reverse-
commute traffic,
Diane squinted at
the yellow sticky in
her hand and
compared it to the
numbers on the
mailboxes as they
edged along
along Fruitvale
Lane. A battered
grey box
displayed the
numbers. Just
numbers, no
name.
Trixie’s tires
crunched on the
long gravel
driveway as they
inched along
between two rows
of 50-foot-tall
Italian cypress
trees. A large
ranch house
came into view,
along with a half
dozen cars and
trucks parked
randomly around
the house. Three
dogs, legs flying
sideways,
scattered gravel
as they
approached the
Lexus trying to
bite the tires.
Diane hid her face
in her hands.
“Shit. No sneakin’
up on this guy,”
Cheryl muttered.
The front door
opened, and a
man who
appeared to wear
the door frame
gripped the
screen door
handle like it was
a Colt 45. His
eyebrows were
raised. He didn’t
smile.
Trixie pulled the
car so her window
faced the front
door and the
large man. She
lowered it a crack.
All three dogs
exploded, paws
pounding against
the SUV door.
Trying to shout
above the yelping
dogs, Trixie said:
“I’d like to speak
with you about
Fatima’s death. I’
m a relative of her
husband.”
From somewhere
behind the house,
Trixie heard a
clap. The dogs
skidded around
the corner and
disappeared.
The large man
nudged open the
screen door. His
hair was kinetic
salt and pepper.
Deep creases ran
from his chin to
his temples,
perfectly matched
on each side. His
skin was leathery
and rough, like a
pork roast. Trixie
felt his dark eyes
against her.
She rolled the
window down
farther and smiled
at the man while
looking cautiously
at the dog corner
of the house.
“You’re Joe’s
family?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m his
cousin, Trixie
Hills.”
He moved slowly
with a slight limp
across the porch,
looking up the
driveway as if he
was trying to spot
his luggage
coming down
some airport
carousel. He
leaned on the car
door, into the
window almost
completely
blocking the light.
“What can I do for
you?” He looked
into the back of
the SUV, at Diane
in the front, and
up and down at
Trixie. “What
brings you here?”
One elbow
peeked through a
worn spot on his
green work shirt.
He smelled of
cloves.
“My cousin Joe is
being charged
with Fatima’s
murder, and I
know he didn’t do
it.”
“How do you
know?”
“Well, for one
thing, he told me
he didn’t.”
Tenore looked
over the hood of
the SUV.
“And he loved
Fatima.”
Tenore leaned
away from the
window—studying
Trixie’s face.
“People kill for
love—everyday.”
His lips struggled
to produce a smile.
“But not Joe. He’s
not a killer. I know
it.”
“The police
disagree?” His
steel wool
eyebrows
scrubbed his
forehead as they
rose.
“They just don’t
have any other
suspects. And,
they’re not trying
very hard to find
any.”
“You’ve come to
me, why?”
“I don’t know
much about
Fatima. Maybe
you know
someone who
might have
reason to hurt
her. You are
Rudolfo Tenore,
aren’t you?”
Cheryl leaned
forward in the
back seat. Diane’s
eyes twinkled in
anticipation.
“Have you had
your coffee yet
this morning?”
Tenore asked,
without answering.
“No, we haven’t.
That’s sounds
great.”
He pulled open
the driver’s door
and nodded for
Trixie to exit. His
bad foot slid on
the gravel as he
steered her
toward a picnic
table in the
dappled shade
under a small
grove of trees.
They had scarcely
sat down when a
woman appeared
with a tray of fruit
pastries and a
carafe of coffee.
She served him
first, then the
others. Then she
disappeared.
“These are Joe’s
cousins, too?”
Tenore said
pointing with his
coffee cup to
Cheryl and Diane.
“No, they’re my
friends. For 50
years. We’ve
been through a lot
together.”
“I can’t imagine
you’ve been, as
you say, through
a lot. You look too
smooth and
relaxed.”
“Believe me, I’m
not relaxed.”
“She’s not,”
Cheryl said,
letting the
homemade cherry
pastry melt on her
tongue.
“They even
suspect me of this
murder.” The
vertical lines
above her nose
betrayed her
regret for making
the comment.
“You, but why?”
“Like I say. They
have no real
suspects. And, I
think they’re just
lazy and under
pressure to arrest
someone--
anyone, to quiet
the community.”
“I know a lot about
being unfairly
accused of
crimes. We’ve
grown used to it in
500 years.”
Trixie looked
slightly puzzled.
“My ancestors
faced persecution
as far back as the
16th century—in
Moldavia—
because they
were Romani.
Nothing else.”
Tenore’s face
grew soft in the
flickering shade.
He sipped his
coffee and began
to speak almost in
a whisper.
“My ancestors
were royalty.
Kings. Princes.”
He spread his
tanned, gnarled
hands on the
table in front of
him. “They were
driven from their
kingdoms and
hounded and
persecuted—
killed many
times—in every
country in Europe
for 500 years.” He
balled his first and
thrust it toward his
chest. “Yes, I
know what it is to
be unjustly
accused.”
Almost
immediately sorry
she’d uttered it,
Trixie said: “I’m
surprised the
police haven’t
been here to see
you.”
“I do my best to
stay away from
the police.”
As they talked
and drank coffee,
several people
exited the house
and got into vans,
cars and trucks
parked around
the property. A
young girl with
trailer park blond
hair. An aging
motorcycle jock
built like Jackie
Gleason in jeans
and a cut-off tee-
shirt that didn’t
quite reach his
belt. Two children
with a middle-
aged heavy
woman. Tenore
made no notice of
any of them. He
just kept talking.
“Just how was it
that you found my
address?”
Trixie told him
about the
envelope. She
saw the large
muscles in his jaw
tense. His eyes
grew smaller and
changed from
liquid to molten.
“I don’t know
exactly how to say
this, Mister
Tenore, but
someone said
Fatima was
blackmailing a
veterinarian in
Tiburon. And
keeping the
money instead of
sharing it with the
family.”
“Oh?”
“Is that true?”
“Do you think I
would tell you my
family’s
business?” He
smiled openly for
the first time.
“I hope so,” Trixie
flashed her
cheeriest smile
back.
“Well, I have
nothing to hide. If
you’re insinuating
that I would kill
Fatima because
she was—as you
say—not sharing.
. .”
He looked off into
the fields behind
the house, then
picked up another
pastry and refilled
his coffee cup. He
motioned with the
carafe to each
guest. Cheryl took
a cup and shooed
a fly away from
her face.
“We have a family
code. A strict
code. Handed
down through
many
generations. We
live by it.” The
timber of his
voice, and the
emphasis,
indicated that
violating the code
would bring
consequences.
“If Fatima were to
be doing this
blackmail, as you
say, it would be a
minor offense—a
minor violation of
our family code.
Very minor. It
would involve
repaying some
money. Nothing
more. After all, we
are all thieves,
you know, we
gypsies.” His eyes
twinkled and he
almost laughed
again.
“And, if you think I
killed Fatima, I
was in Boston for
a week. I just
returned
yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t think
that.”
“Of course you
did—or you
wouldn’t be here.”
“No sir, but I’m
desperate. Joe
and I and my
family will be hurt
if the real killer isn’
t caught.
“And, there’s
justice to be
done,” Tenore
said.
“Yes. Can you
help?”
“All I can tell you
is that no one in
this family would
hurt Fatima. You
can focus your
search elsewhere.”
“Just one more
thing. Was Fatima
married to
someone besides
Joe?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, Fatima was
seen with a man
who looked like he
might have been
her husband.”
Tenore put his
hands flat on the
table again.
“Looked like he
might have been
her husband?” he
repeated, head
cocked, eyebrows
scrubbing up.
“Well, you know—
they were
affectionate
toward each
other.”
“And, who is
making these
observations?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Just various
people.”
Tenore’s face
hardened. He
leaned forward
toward Trixie and
pushed her back
with his strong
flashing eyes.
“Was Fatima
married to
someone besides
Joe? you ask me.
That would be
illegal, wouldn’t it?"
“Was she?”
Tenore’s lips
were stretched
white across his
teeth.
“You came to my
house uninvited.
And you ask me
to tell you if my
dead niece was a
bigamist. My
coffee break is
over.”
He hauled his
huge body to a
stand. The three
women scrambled
to their feet
toppling the
coffee carafe.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t
mean to offend
you,” Trixie said.
The gravel
scraped under
Tenore’s right foot
as he walked
away.
Small dust devils
behind the rear
wheels chased
the Lexus up the
driveway and out
onto the hard
road.
“Do you think he
killed Fatima?”
Cheryl asked.
“No,” Trixie
answered.
“Oh, good, me
neither,” Diane
said.
“I think he could
be very
intimidating if he
wanted money
from her. I don’t
think he’d have to
kill her.”
“I’d sure give him
anything he
wanted,” Cheryl
said.
“One thing I’m
absolutely sure
of,” Trixie said.
This Joaquin guy
definitely was
Fatima’s husband,
or lover or
something.”
After a couple of
hours of wrestling
with Rudolfo
Tenore’s eyes,
the girls were tired
and stopped at
The Nut Tree for
a leisurely lunch
washed down with
several glasses of
wine. They buzzed
over the morning’
s events, and it
was after three
before they were
back on I-80
heading toward
the Bay Area.
series--Tunnel of Death--is now
available from Seecliff
Publishing. PO Box 102,
Belvedere, CA 94920. 368 pps,
$7.95. It also is available from
Amazon.com or from Book
Passage bookstore in Corte
Madera, Calif.
