And so much Italian too. He was laying the charm on thick. Oh, look at me, I’m Alessandro, so handsome, so refined, at such a disadvantage because I don’t speak good English and have to reach for my native tongue. He probably had a better English vocabulary than I did. Ugh.
“I didn’t cook it,” Mom said. “Catalina did.”
Alessandro froze.
Ha! Didn’t expect that, did you?
“That’s nothing,” Runa said. “Just wait until you taste her pithivier. It’s to die for.”
I glared at her. She gave me a look of pure innocence and went back to eating.
Alessandro made a short cough that sounded suspiciously like choking. “There is a pithivier?”
“Yes,” I said.
He put his fork down and faced me, his expression besotted.
Do not blush, do not blush . . .
Alessandro opened his mouth. “Marry me.”
“If she says yes, shoot him,” Bern said to Leon, his face completely serious. “She’ll thank us later.”
Bug stirred in his seat. “Catalina, do not marry this dickfucker. There are better birds in the sea.” He turned to my mom and said, “Pardon my French.”
Matilda leaned forward, looked at Alessandro, then looked at me. “Your children would be very attractive.”
Alessandro winked at Matilda. “Thank you. You are most kind.”
Runa covered her face with her hands and made some whimpering noises.
Okay, no. I had to nip this in the bud. “Matilda, picking a husband is more complicated than just selecting an attractive mate. He has to be smart and kind, and he has to be a good person.”
Alessandro glanced at me. The sharp fire in his eyes sparked and vanished before anyone else noticed.
Runa’s cell rang. She took her hands from her face and looked at my mom.
Mom sighed. “Go ahead.”
Runa answered it and frowned. “Uh, Mr. Moody?”
Sigourney Etterson’s financial adviser.
The table went completely silent. Bern pulled a tablet out of thin air and set it to record.
“So you want me to come to your office, right now?” Runa asked, and held the phone out at arm’s length toward us.
“Yes,” a distant male voice said. “It’s urgent.”
“I understand it’s urgent, Mr. Moody. I just don’t understand why. My mother has been dead for four days, and I’m the executor of the estate. Why do I have to see you in person, now?”
“I can’t discuss this over the phone.”
“Yes, but it’s almost seven o’clock, it’s dark, and your office is across town. Can you come here instead?”
“I have documents I need to show you. They’re of a sensitive nature and cannot leave my office.”
“Why can’t I see the documents tomorrow?”
His voice spiked into exasperation. “If you want to see a cent from your mother’s estate, you need to come here as soon as possible. Tomorrow may be too late.”
The call cut off. Runa put the phone down. “He hung up.”
Bern turned the tablet toward us. On it a white, dark-haired, middle-aged man smiled into the camera. He was the type my mom called the “good ole boy in a suit.” He could have been handsome in high school in an I-love-football way, but time, indulgent diet, and money had softened and thickened his features. He looked like he wore suits to work, drove an expensive car, and practiced trustworthy smiles in the mirror to more effectively separate clients from their money.
“Dennis George Moody II,” Bern announced. “Fifty years old, married twice, adult son from the first marriage, two children from the second. MBA from Baylor. Series 7 license from FINRA, which enables him to sell stocks, bonds, options and futures, in addition to the sale of packaged securities. Never declared bankruptcy. One DUI arrest in college, nothing since. Wife sells real estate. Good credit score and a two-million-dollar house, three quarters paid off.”
“Wow,” Ragnar said. “You found all of that in three minutes?”
“No,” Bern told him. “Catalina ran a background check on Moody because he’s mentioned in your mother’s financial documents. I just pulled up the file.”
“How well do you know him?” I asked Runa.
Runa shrugged. “I’ve seen him at Christmas parties once or twice.”
“He was helping Mom to readjust her portfolio in response to the market slowdown and recession,” Ragnar said. “He’s been our financial adviser for four years. I interviewed him for my economics class essay. He doesn’t belong to any House and he’s proud of being a self-made man, his words.”
“So, he isn’t a friend of the family?” Mom asked.
“No,” Ragnar said. “Mom worked with him closely, but I wouldn’t call him a family friend.”