The Spia Family Presses On - By Mary Leo Page 0,36

here for at least fifteen or twenty minutes. Right before they left, the shorter one, with the thick Italian accent, told me he needed more equipment and one more man to move it, even with our forklift. He said he would return tomorrow, or was it the day after tomorrow? Whatever. All I remember is him saying he couldn’t do it today.”

“That might explain it then,” Nick said, stepping out from behind the stone.

“Explains what?” I needed to know.

“There’s some blood on the mill, not a lot, but it looks fresh. One of the men must have cut himself on one of those screws trying to take this thing apart. Those screws look nasty.”

“I’ll have to call the company tomorrow and see if they’re all right,” I said, relieved that Nick had come to his own innocuous conclusion. “I wouldn’t want anyone suing us.”

“So that’s what happened,” my mother mused.

Nick jumped on that little statement. “What’s that, Mrs. Spia?”

“Oh, call me Gloria, dear. I saw them right before they left, and one of them had a piece of cloth wrapped around his index finger. I didn’t even think to ask what had happened. I suppose that doesn’t say much about me. At any rate, I bet that poor man cut himself on those nasty screws and didn’t want to tell me.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I alleged, then changed the subject. “Nick, you can’t leave without a few bottles of our oil.”

He gave me a tepid smile as he walked out from behind the millstone. “Actually, I’ve been eyeing those steel containers. Can I buy one of those? I do a lot of cooking.”

He might as well have stuck a knife into my neck for all the pain that little statement caused. “The smallest we have is three liters.” I grabbed one of the empty futso that sat on a shelf next to me, but he kept eyeing the larger ones, the one that contained my mom’s handgun in particular. I knew which one it was by the oil smear along the side. Whoever put everything back missed the smear.

I walked over to him, carrying the empty futso, ready to put the thing in his hand and lead the entire group out of the barn. I’d had enough fun for one night. It was way past my bedtime.

“We can fill this up on the way out,” I told him while angling toward the door.

But he wanted no part of me or my tiny futso. Instead he glommed onto the very futso that could potentially hold my mom’s handgun. Like I said, the man was all cop.

“This should work,” he said, grinning.

My mother’s eyes lit up. The combination of that thirty-liter futso, plus the oil it contained, was worth several hundred dollars. “Because you’re a friend of Leo’s I can give you a good deal on that,” she cooed.

“No!” I said, tripping over Leo to get to Nick, arms flailing, feet stumbling over feet. “You can’t.”

But Lisa was next to him holding onto it before I could get there.

“What Mia is trying to say is that I already bought this particular one for my family. We own a restaurant in Chinatown, and we’re always running out of oil. This will be great. Really great.” She tapped the spigot on the futso.

“But honey, maybe you should stick to our Mission Blend, the Italian Blend might be too peppery for Chinese food,” my mother said. She pointed to the Mission-filled futso with both hands, as if posing for an ad. That’s when I noticed the missing bracelet. She always wore a charm bracelet. Always. No matter what she wore or what event she was dressing for, one of her many charm bracelets dangled from her right wrist.

Except tonight.

I was so hoping the Elvis bracelet in my pocket had been stolen and purposely placed under Dickey. Now I didn’t know what to believe.

I instantly pushed that un-daughterly thought out of my mind and focused on heaving the thirty-liter futso out of the barn, the futso that held my mom’s future inside.

“Too late, Nick,” I chimed in. “This one is already sold.”

Lisa and I hoisted the futso by the two handles and walked it straight out of the barn, hoping everyone would follow right behind us.

We didn’t stop until we got to her car where she beeped open the trunk. We hoisted it inside, tucking the stainless steel container into the mesh sling that ran across the width of the trunk, but no way would the trunk