“Why?”
“I’m not sure. Waterproofing? Tear resistance? It must be an expensive process. I think this fabric has some very specific purpose. I just don’t know what it is.”
Rizzoli leaned back on the lab stool. “Find this fabric,” she said, “and we’ll find our perp.”
“Yes. Unlike generic blue carpet, this fabric is unique.”
The monogrammed towels were draped over the coffee table for all the party guests to see, the letters AR, for Angela Rizzoli, entwined in baroque curlicues. Jane had chosen them in peach, her mother’s favorite color, and had paid extra for the deluxe birthday gift wrapping with apricot ribbons and a cluster of silk flowers. They’d been delivered specifically by Federal Express, because her mother associated those red, white, and blue trucks with surprise packages and happy events.
And Angela Rizzoli’s fifty-ninth birthday party should have qualified as a happy event. Birthdays were a very big deal in the Rizzoli family. Every December, when Angela bought a fresh calendar for the new year, the first thing she did was flip through the months, marking the family’s various birthdays. To forget a loved one’s special day was a serious transgression. To forget your mother’s birthday was an unforgivable sin, and Jane knew better than to ever let the day slip by uncelebrated. She’d been the one to buy ice cream and string up the decorations, the one who’d sent out invitations to the dozen neighbors who were now gathered in the Rizzoli living room. She was the one now slicing the cake and passing the paper plates to guests. She’d done her duty as always, but this year the party had fallen flat. And all because of Frankie.
“Something’s wrong,” Angela said. She sat flanked on the couch by her husband and younger son, Michael, and she stared without joy at the gifts displayed on her coffee table-enough bath oil beads and talcum powder to keep her smelling sweet into the next decade. “Maybe he’s sick. Maybe there’s been an accident and nobody’s called me yet.”
“Ma, Frankie’s fine,” said Jane.
“Yeah,” Michael chimed in. “Maybe they sent him out on-what do you call it? When they play war cames?”
“Maneuvers,” said Jane.
“Yeah, some kinda maneuvers. Or even out of the country. Some place he’s not supposed to tell anyone about, where he can’t get to a phone.”
“He’s a drill sergeant, Mike. Not Rambo.”
“Even Rambo sends his mother a birthday card,” snapped Frank Senior.
In the sudden hush, all the guests ducked for cover and took simultaneous bites of cake. They spent the next few seconds chewing with fierce concentration.
It was Gracie Kaminsky, the Rizzolis’ next-door neighbor, who bravely broke the silence. “This cake is so good, Angela! Who baked it?”
“Baked it myself,” said Angela. “Imagine that, having to bake my own birthday cake. But that’s how it goes in this family.”
Jane flushed as though slapped. This was all Frankie’s fault. He was the one Angela was really furious with, but as always, Jane caught the ugly spillover. She said quietly, reasonably: “I offered to bring the cake, Ma.”
Angela shrugged. “From a bakery.”
“I didn’t have the time to bake one.”
It was the truth, but oh, it was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. She saw her brother Mike cringe into the couch. Saw her dad flush, bracing himself.
“Didn’t have the time,” said Angela.
Jane gave a desperate laugh. “My cakes are always a mess, anyway.”
“Didn’t have the time,” Angela repeated.
“Ma, do you want some ice cream? How about-”
“Since you’re so busy, I guess I should get down on my knees and thank you for even making it to your only mother’s birthday.”
Her daughter said nothing, just stood there with her face stung red, fighting to keep her tears under control. Guests went back to frantically devouring cake, no one daring to look at anyone else.
The phone rang. Everyone froze.
At last, Frank Senior answered it. Said, “Your mother’s right here,” and handed the portable phone to Angela.
Jesus, Frankie, what took you so long? With a sigh of relief, Jane began gathering up used paper plates and plastic forks.
“What gift?” her mother said. “I haven’t gotten it.”
Jane winced. Oh no, Frankie. Don’t try to pin the blame on me.
In the next breath, all the anger magically melted from her mother’s voice.
“Oh, Frankie, I understand, honey. Yes, I do. The marines, they work you so hard, don’t they?”
Shaking her head, Jane was walking toward the kitchen when her mother called out:
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Who, me?”
“That’s what he says.”
Jane took the phone. “Hey, Frankie,” she said.
Her brother shot back: “What the fuck, Janie?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
At once she walked out of the room, carrying the phone into the kitchen, and let the door swing shut behind her.
“I asked you for one fucking favor,” he said.
“Are you talking about the gift?”
“I call to say happy birthday, and she lights into me.”
“You could’ve expected that.”
“I bet you’re thinking this is so cool, aren’t you? Getting me on her shit list.”
“You got yourself on it. And it sounds like you weaseled right off it again, too.”
“And that’s what pisses you off, isn’t it?”
“I don’t really care, Frankie. It’s between you and Ma.”
“Yeah, but you’re always in there, sneaking around behind my back. Anything to make me look bad. Couldn’t even add my fucking name to your fucking gift.”
“My gift was already delivered.”
“And I guess it was too much trouble just to pick up a little something for me?”
“Yes, it was. I’m not here to wipe your ass. I’m working eighteen-hour days.”
“Oh yeah. I hear that all the time from you, ‘Poor little me, working so hard I only get fifteen minutes of sleep at night.’ ”
“Besides, you didn’t pay me for the last gift.”
“Sure I did.”
“No, you didn’t.” And it still pisses me off that Ma refers to it as “that nice lamp Frankie gave me.”
“So it’s all about the money, is that it?” he said.
Her beeper went off, rattling against her belt. She looked at the number. “I don’t give a shit about the money. It’s the way you keep getting away with things. You don’t even try, but somehow you always get full credit.”
“Is this the ‘poor shitty me’ act again?”
“I’m hanging up, Frankie.”
“Give me back to Ma.”
“First I got to answer my page. You call back in a minute.”
“What the hell? I’m not racking up another long distance-”
She disconnected. Paused for a moment to let her temper cool down, then punched in the number from her beeper readout.
Darren Crowe answered.
She was in no mood to deal with yet another disagreeable man, and she snapped back: “Rizzoli. You paged me.”
“Jeez, try a little Midol, why don’t you?”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Yeah, we got a ten fifty-four. Beacon Hill. Sleeper and I got here ‘bout half an hour ago.”
She heard laughter in her mother’s living room and danced toward the closed door. Thought of the scene that was sure to come if she made an exit during Angela’s birthday party.
“You’ll want to see this one,” said Crowe.
“Why?”
“It’ll be obvious when you get here.”
TEN
Standing on the front stoop, Rizzoli caught the scent of death through the open doorway and paused, reluctant to take that first step into the house. To view what she already knew waited inside. She would have preferred to delay an extra moment or two, to prepare herself for the ordeal, but Darren Crowe, who’d opened the door to admit her, now stood watching her, and she had no choice but to pull on gloves and shoe covers and get on with what needed to be done.