“What’s up? What’s wrong with you, V.I.?” Jake had come in, holding a bottle of Orvieto. I’d forgotten asking him to pick up wine to go with the fish.
“Only a brief brainstorm. I’m over it.” I’d succumbed to the rage of Stella, the rage that led her to bludgeon her daughter to death. The rage that filled her head day after day. No wonder she hadn’t bought time off for good behavior.
Max gave Jake a short précis of the news.
Jake nodded. “She is Medea, isn’t she? You think it’s a myth, and then you meet it in real life. Euripides knew something about human nature.”
“Medea gets off scot-free at the end,” I said, “she rides off in Apollo’s chariot. I guess that’s what Stella’s trying to do.”
“In Cherubini’s version, she’s burned up in the temple with the children she murdered,” Jake said. “I like that one better.”
“Fine,” Bernie said. “Turn it into a game, don’t do anything to help. I thought you loved Uncle Boom-Boom.”
I forced myself out of the chair. “Bernie, racing around town firing my gun wouldn’t solve any problems, just get me killed or arrested. I wouldn’t even know whom to shoot.”
“That terrible old woman, that Medea!”
“No, darling. She may be demented or delusional, which isn’t a reason to shoot her. Or someone else may be manipulating her for reasons none of us can even begin to guess at. We don’t know if this diary is real or if someone planted it in her house to stir up Stella’s passions.”
Bernie glared, her lower lip thrust out. “What will you do?”
“Try to get a few facts. But not until morning, when my head is clearer. Come help me set the table while I try to cook this branzino the way I had it in Venice.”
CROWD NOISE
While we ate, my landline kept ringing. Max answered. Every television station in North America wanted to talk to me about Boom-Boom. Max told callers it was a mistake that would be absurd if it wasn’t so vile and that all questions should be directed to my own attorney. It shouldn’t have surprised me that Max had Freeman Carter’s name and number in his Rolodex—he’s the kind of person who knows everyone and puts people together.
When dinner was over, I called Freeman myself, on my cell, to let him know what was going on. “I don’t suppose I can sue Stella, or whoever made up this story.”
“Didn’t you go to law school, Vic?” he said. “This is stomach-turning, but you know as well as I that the dead can’t bring a cause of action for defamation. Nor can their angry relatives. It will be a two-day wonder. The only thing reacting to it will accomplish will be to keep the story alive longer.”
I snarled at him, but I knew he was right. When he’d hung up, I went into the walk-in closet next to the living room. I have a trunk full of memorabilia there, and after carefully laying aside my mother’s velvet and gauze concert gown, I dug through the papers, looking for a condolence letter Annie Guzzo had sent Tony and me when Gabriella died.
When I came on it, I called Freeman again. “I have a sample of Annie’s handwriting. If you can get Stella’s lawyer—”
Freeman cut me off. “Stella’s lawyer just called me: he’s persuaded a judge to sign an emergency restraining order against you.”
I was almost too astonished to be angry. Almost. “On what spurious grounds did that happen?”
“She says you came to her house and hit her.”
“Damn it, Freeman, she aimed a punch right at my throat. If she’d connected, I’d be dead. As it is, I have a bruise on my shoulder that went pretty deep.”
“Vic, I don’t doubt you—but who’s a judge going to believe? An eighty-year-old grandmother, or an athletic younger detective? Just make sure you do not go within fifty feet of her until we can settle this in court.”
The muscles in my neck were so taut Jake could have strummed on them, but I forced myself to keep my voice level. “Who is her lawyer? Is it the same person who represented her in her murder trial?”
Freeman deliberated. “If I don’t tell you, you can find it out easily enough: Anatole Szakacs. Don’t go calling him: you talk to him through your own lawyer, namely me.”
“Did he happen to say why none of this was brought up at her trial? Why she didn’t try an appeal?”
“I don’t know if Szakacs defended her twenty-five years ago. And anyway, it doesn’t matter, Vic. It’s not your story, it’s not your problem. Don’t let them make it that.”
I told Freeman about talking to Stella the week before. “She didn’t say anything about a diary then. It makes me think—”
“Don’t,” Freeman ordered me. “Don’t even pretend to think. Stay away from her. For pity’s sake, for Lotty’s sake, if not your own, do not go near that woman. Got it?”