The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,31

my head. “I don’t think so. His finger was covered in oil and there was an oil stain on his shirt and jacket. I remember he had a hard time getting it over his knuckle. I’m thinking whoever took it couldn’t get it off right away, so they slathered on the oil after he was under that stone.”

She stared at me for what seemed like a long time. Then she said, “This is good. We have a real clue and a trail to follow. Somebody went to a lot of trouble for that ring.”

“The killer?”

“More than likely.”

I had another idea. “Or somebody else could have grabbed the ring before we found him.”

“Either way it gives us a starting point.”

Finally, an opening in her closed mind.

“You said us. Does that mean you’re in the game?”

She hesitated for a moment, playing with the strap on her purse. “I know I’m going to regret this, but okay. I’ll help, but if I get knocked off in the process, I’ll come back and haunt you. I’ll make you read all my books, even the ones that were never published.”

“How many do you have?” I was thinking this might not be an even deal, not that there was any possibility that Lisa would get knocked off, but still . . .

She snickered. “A lot. Not everything I write gets published. It should, but the editors don’t always love what I give them. I personally don’t get it, but such is publishing. Deal?” She stuck out her hand.

“Deal,” I said, giving her our girly-girl handshake. Then we hugged again. Such was our ritual ever since we saw Sister Mary Benedict, our second grade teacher, give Miss Carson, the music teacher, a limp girly-girl handshake when she agreed to allow Miss Carson to teach the students how to read music. Sister Mary Benedict had sealed our fate for the next four years with the limpest of handshakes. Lisa and I assumed that was the correct female handshake. It wasn’t until we were well into our teens that we learned otherwise, but she and I never changed that handshake. It was our way of making a sacred pact.

For the next couple of hours, Lisa and I tried to get Nick and Leo to leave. Nothing seemed to work, and at some point Lisa began to show real interest in Nick, in that I-could-date-you sort of way. I just sat there stressing.

At one point, I played the sleepy hostess trying to get them to leave, yawning, stretching, even stating that I needed sleep. Everyone ignored me.

We still had the minor problem of Dickey’s body to contend with, and Lisa was acting as if it didn’t exist. Either she was the best actress I’d ever seen, or she simply forgot about it. Neither of which satisfied my burning desire to come clean or run, I couldn’t decide which would be more effective under the circumstances.

I thought about disappearing into the barn, grabbing the gun, hiding it somewhere then screaming as if I’d just found the body. A simple, straightforward plan. One that seemed to fit the evening, considering that both Nick and Leo were determined to wait for a dead man, but every time I stood, Leo took the opportunity to try to get me alone. Any other time I would be thrilled to have all his attention, something he rarely gave, but not now. Not when I was trying to save my mother from a life sentence in Soledad.

When Leo opened the bottles of his prize winning Pinot Noir, my mom and Aunt Babe stepped off the porch to join us. Mom wore one of her expressionless grins, which had me wondering what she knew—had Aunt Babe told her everything?—but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get her attention, so getting a read on her was impossible.

Botox had its advantages.

Uncle Benny didn’t join us. He hadn’t really moved from his perch in the rocking chair, except once when he and my mom disappeared inside the house for about a half-hour. Uncle Federico went in the house with them for awhile, but then he came out and walked off toward his house, wishing us a good night. Other than that, Uncle Benny sat in his chair watching, puffing and rocking. About the only body part of his body that moved was his hand to remove his cigar from his mouth so he could take a swig of wine, then he’d replace the cigar and stared at us once