Cold Moon Dead by J. M. Griffin Page B

up the steps to their miniscule deck behind the house. The property was the size of a postage stamp. The deck took up the better part of the backyard and the garage ate up most of the rest. There was only a smidgen of grass and flowers to be seen in the summertime. Right now, the yard looked forlorn with no snow to give it a pristine appearance. Brown, crusty grass and weeds lingered.
    My mother opened the door as I crossed the deck. Though Theresa Esposito was shorter than me and a bit round in the middle, the resemblance between us was there for all to see. The genes on Mom’s side of the family were strong, even though I had inherited her sister Livvy’s particular looks and height.
    “Oh, Lavinia, I’m glad to see you. I wondered if you’d be by for supper. I told your father to make that chicken soup you like so much.” Mom smiled and bustled around the kitchen.
    A kettle simmered on the stove, I raised the lid and inhaled with appreciation. The chicken soup, officially named Wedding Soup, was served at traditional Italian weddings in Rhode Island. It was also a staple on holidays like Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving. The soup came first at holiday feasts, followed by pasta with meatballs, then the regular meal, then the antipasto salad. Aaron and Marcus were astounded at the amount of food consumed by those of us who enjoyed this ritual. By most accounts, people that aren’t Italian don’t have huge meals such as these. I was sad for them, because they surely missed out.
    A loaf of Italian bread sat on the counter. My mother took a serrated knife from a drawer and sliced the bread. She piled thick chunks high on a plate, retrieved earthenware bowls from the cupboard and set the table. My father strolled into the kitchen.
    “Hi, Dad. The soup smells delicious.” I kissed his cheek as he grunted his greeting.
    “Your brother called today,” my mother said.
    “What’s going on with him?” I asked.
    “He and his wife are off on a cruise tomorrow. He wanted to let us know in case we called and couldn’t reach him.” She looked up for a second, glanced at my father, and then asked, “He wondered if you’d heard anything about some stolen art that was recovered by the FBI?” She shrugged. “I told him that you didn’t have any connections with the FBI, so how would you know?”
    “Right, I wouldn’t know,” I said as my father’s eyes flicked toward me from where he stood at the stove.
    Mom smiled. “Well, that’s what I said. Giovanni seemed fine with that answer.”
    My brother had been here, in Little Rhody, just before Thanksgiving. He’d managed to become embroiled in a stolen art ring that my deceased uncle, the cat burglar, had been involved with. It had taken some work, but I had straightened it out and sent Gio back to the cornfields of Nebraska to his wife and their mundane life there. What this latest query was about was beyond my comprehension. Regardless, it was the last thing I wanted to deal with, if I could help it. Thank goodness Gio and the wife were heading out to sea.
    We had just settled at the table when there was a knock on the door. My mother started to rise, but I stopped her and answered the summons instead. Marcus stood outside, bundled in his winter State Police uniform and heavy outer jacket.
    “I saw Lola’s car and thought I’d stop in.” He looked beyond me to what was on the table. A smile crept over his face as my mother jumped up from her chair, got a bowl, and set a place for him at the table. “Is everything okay?” he asked and gave me a peck on the cheek.
    “All is well,” I answered.
    “Did you get the car thing straightened out?” he murmured as my mother ladled soup into Marcus’s bowl and passed the bread to him.
    “What car thing, Lavinia?” Mom wondered aloud as she added more soup to my father’s bowl.
    A withering glance landed on Marcus before I answered my mother. He shrugged and started to eat.
    “My car was stolen