What Happened to the Bennetts(61)

I had been here plenty of times. When the kids were little, I had taken them for the annual Mushroom Festival; the surrounding farms produced over half the mushrooms sold in the country. The town’s demographics were an uneasy mix of undocumented workers who worked on mushroom farms, and the well-heeled horsey set that rode with Cheshire Hunt and owned horse farms where Olympic riders trained.

I drove through the center of town. People went to and from the bank, lawyers’ offices, and a drugstore. There was no traffic except for a fleet of empty school buses rattling uphill toward the high school. I kept my eyes peeled for the GVO funeral cars.

The ice cream store on the corner had a line of customers on this balmy day. Allison loved the place, and Lucinda would take her after away games at Kennett or Unionville. I put them both from my mind, on a mission.

I drove past the brick clock tower, then spied the sign that read colon funeral home, in front of a beautifully maintained colonial house with a wraparound porch. It had been the funeral home the Verias used for Junior. On the side of the building was a parking lot, and three limos lined up in front of a few regular cars.

On impulse, I pulled in to the parking lot. I adjusted my sunglasses, left the car, and hustled toward the front door, which was propped open. I went inside, and there was no one around. Immediately to my left was an open doorway through which I heard the noise of a vacuum cleaner. The cloying fragrance of refrigerated flowers wafted from the room, and I guessed it was where Junior’s wake had been held. Outside the room was a lectern with a white guestbook, closed.

I opened the guestbook and wasn’t surprised to find the pages blank. The members of a criminal organization weren’t supplying their names and addresses. I ducked inside the room.

The room was a long, carpeted rectangle, empty except for a man in a blue jumpsuit pushing a vacuum that was so loud he didn’t hear me enter. White folding chairs had been lined up against the wall between ornate floor lamps, and at the front of the room was a display of flower arrangements on wrought-iron shelves.

The man looked up, shutting off the vacuum cleaner. “Can I help you?”

I thought fast. “Yes, about the Veria funeral. I’m with the courier service. I think they’re at the luncheon—I forget where it is, do you know?”

“They went back to the house.”

Duly noted. “Right. I’m supposed to get the cards from the flowers.”

The workman frowned. “Bill usually does that.”

“The Verias sent me. I do what I’m told.”

“Okay. You can take that, too.” The man pointed to a small box near the baseboard. “Extra Mass cards and stuff.”

“Great, thanks.” I hustled to pick up the box, and the man switched the vacuum cleaner back on.

I went to the front of the room, and each flower arrangement had a white card in a plastic holder, displayed to show the sender. They were of varied shapes and sizes, from massive sprays of calla lilies and gladiola to smaller ones of daisies. Some had themes; a green-sprayed carnation bouquet within a little Philadelphia Eagles helmet and a spray of red miniature roses in a ceramic baseball for the Phillies.

I took the cards and put them in the box, moving quickly. I waved to the man on the way out, and he nodded. I hurried from the room, out the entrance, and to the car, then climbed inside and left the parking lot.

I drove a few blocks away, and when the neighborhood turned residential, I pulled over under a tree and tugged the box onto my lap. Inside were the white cards from the flower arrangements, but I moved them aside in favor of a thick black folder embossed with the name of the funeral home.

I opened the folder.

It contained an invoice for George Veria.

With a home address.



* * *



—

    Big George Veria’s house was a massive McMansion with a fieldstone fa?ade on the north and south wings, forming a U-shape around a circular driveway that held a catering truck and parked cars. The front lawn was manicured, with surprisingly tasteful plantings in a parcel of about twenty acres. A tall fence of black wrought iron ran along the front of the property, protected by a gate with ornate scrollwork. Beside it was a call box with a visible security camera, plus white cameras mounted in the trees.

I parked on the opposite side of the street, a distance from the house, eyeing the magnificent place. Whoever said crime didn’t pay didn’t know what they were talking about. My thoughts turned to Milo, and I knew he would be inside. He wouldn’t have risked showing his face in public, but he was safe among Big George’s crime family.

I scanned the cars parked out front, wondering which was his. I couldn’t remember exactly which cars had been at the funeral, so I couldn’t spot any new ones. None of them had their neon placards in the windshield. My gaze found the charcoal Mercedes that belonged to Paul Hart. He and his girlfriend were inside, too.

I straightened in the driver’s seat, having gotten the lay of the land. I twisted on the ignition. My plan was to get to Big George and bust Milo, but I had always known I couldn’t do it this way.

I had to start on more familiar terrain.





Chapter Thirty-Seven



I sat in my car, edgy and waiting. Night had fallen, and drizzle dotted my windshield, but I didn’t turn on the wipers. I didn’t want to be seen by security cameras.