The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,21
a silver chain. And just like that, those tiny Elvises crooned Trouble in my ear, “If you’re looking for trouble, you came to the right place . . .”
“It can’t be your mom’s. That means—”
“That means we need to think about this before we call the police.”
But Lisa was already saying what I would never believe. “Your mother killed Dickey? Your mother who captures flies in a glass so she can release them to the great outdoors? Your mother the Vegan? The Hippie? This woman shot her cousin?”
My head was churning with suspects and reasons and family history. But mostly I was thinking about the paperwork that was now sitting in my mother’s bedroom, the paperwork that turned our business over to Dickey.
My heart fluttered and panic washed over me.
“You know she couldn’t do it, and I know she couldn’t do it, but the police won’t know that.”
She shook her head. “Mia, we have to call the police. We can get into a lot of trouble if we don’t.”
“I know, but somebody obviously tried to set her up. This is way too obvious, don’t you think?”
“You can tell that to the police when they get here.” She pulled out her iPhone to make the call. I couldn’t let her do it. Not yet, anyway.
“A minute ago you wanted us to figure this out. What happened to that idea?”
“A minute ago I hadn’t noticed the bullet hole.”
She began pressing the numbers.
I had to think fast. Lisa was getting carried away with the law, and if I had learned one thing from this family, the law was not necessarily your friend, so I did the only reasonable thing a daughter of a mobster would do.
I snatched the phone out of her hand and threw it in the open fusto. “I can’t let you do that.”
SIX
La Famiglia
“Tell me you didn’t just throw my phone, with all my contact information, and my notes for my next book into a vat of olive oil.” Lisa stood with her arms akimbo, mouth tight, eyes narrowed, head tilted as if her brain had suddenly gotten heavy with thought.
“You gave me no other option,” I told her.
“There are always options. You simply chose to ignore them.”
“We can’t call the police.”
“Fine, but did you have to destroy my phone in the process? Do you have any idea what a nightmare that little act of defiance is going to cause me?” Her voice went up an octave.
We heard the soft clunk of the phone hitting bottom. She winced.
“I’m sorry, but my mother is not going to prison for something she didn’t do. I already lost one parent to this damn family, I won’t lose another.”
Her face softened. “Ah, now I get it. Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
“I wasn’t conscious of it until this very moment. I just knew my mom wasn’t guilty and you were getting ready to call the police and I simply reacted. It was a gut level thing.”
“Next time your gut wants to tell you what to do would you please ask your head if it agrees?”
“That’s not always an option, but I’ll see what I can do. So, any suggestions?”
She eyed the futso. “You think the three minute rule applies to phones floating in olive oil?” She bent over and peeked into the open thirty-liter futso, then slowly knelt next to it trying to get a good look inside, careful to place the long black screw down next to her.
“That’s the three second rule, and it only applies to food you drop on the floor. This is an entirely different animal.”
“I’m going in,” she said and plunged her hand into the olive oil, our Italian Blend, made from a combination of Frantoio, Leccino, Moraiolo and Pendolino olives. Not for the timid. This oil was pungent and spicy.
Half her arm disappeared inside the futso. She began to cough as the scent of the oil caught in her throat. “There’s . . . something . . . else…”
But her coughing stole her voice. She retrieved the phone and held it over the futso so the oil could drip back in from both her arm and the phone. A somewhat startled look spread across her otherwise tranquil face.
“What?”
She tried to speak, but still couldn’t. Instead, she pulled a handful of tissues out of her shoulder bag to wipe off the glistening olive oil from her arm and phone, careful not to let any of it drip on the table or on her clothes. Neither one of us