“It’s going to have to cook for a while,” Scarpetta told her guests, as she walked into the great room, drying her hands on her apron.
“I can tell you right now, it’s worth it,” Lucy promised her friends.
“A little later, I’ll make bread,” Scarpetta went on. “We’ll eat around eight Tomorrow, if you’re here for lunch, the stew will be even better.”
Ideally, it needed to simmer for at least five hours.
“Can’t we help with something?” one of the ATF agents asked
“No.” Scarpetta smiled. “It’s no good unless I do it myself. If any other hands get involved, something goes wrong. It never fails. And by all means don’t ever use expensive wine,” she added, as she returned to the kitchen, “It doesn’t like that, either.”
“It?” the FBI agent puzzled
“Every stew has its own personality,” Lucy explained, “like people. It’s really strange, but each batch kind of reflects where Aunt Kay is coming from.”
“You mean she projects herself onto it?”
“It channels through her?”
“Some kind of Taoist thing?”
“Kind of like that,” Lucy said
“Makes sense, really. The same way someone’s domes or the way they decorate their house fits who they are.”
“Yeah,” Lucy said “And the more peppery it is, the more you’d better run for cover.”
“What about garlic?”
“Wards off bad spirits. The more she uses, the more stuffs going on that she probably hasn’t told you about,” Lucy replied.
“What if she chops up more raw meat than usual?”
“Or puts on surgical mask and gloves to cut up vegetables?”
“Or sections the gizzards?”
The women were getting silly.
“We should invite Marino over,” Lucy suggested
“I thought you said the roads were bad.”
“He’s got a truck with chains,” Lucy said
10
Marino had picked up Mrs. Simpson and was dropping Jimmy and her off at their home when Lucy rang his portable phone.
“What ‘chu doin’, dude?” Lucy loudly asked.
“Who’s this?” Marino demanded, as if he didn’t know.
“Your snitch, man.”
“Which one?”
“Can’t tell you over a cellular phone, dirt bag. Ten-twenty-five me in the West End at the usual spot.”
“Hold on a minute,” Marino said, covering the phone with a big meaty hand.
Jimmy and his mother were sitting in the truck, the boy in front, she in back.
“You guys have a good night, okay?” Marino said. “And listen here, you little runt.” He poked his finger at Jimmy. “One more snowball at my house, and it’s all over. Juvenile court. Death row. Get it?”
Jimmy wasn’t the least bit scared, but suddenly he looked sad. His mother was very quiet and seemed too young to have a child of any age. She was bundled in an old corduroy coat with a fake fur collar, her face tired and pale.
Marino changed his mind.
“Hold on,” Marino said to them. “Hey, listen up,” he then said into the receiver. “Get the doc on the phone.”
Scarpetta got on the line.
“Where are you and why aren’t you here?” she asked. “I’m cooking stew.”
“Shit. I’m gonna have the big one,” Marino said, and he might have meant it. “I knew you’d be cooking something. You always do after you been around your old lady and whacko sister.”
“Please watch your language,” Scarpetta told him.
“You got enough for two more people?”
“Have you done background checks on them?” she asked.
“I’m not too sure of the kid,” Marino said, giving Jimmy a look that was supposed to be hard and terrifying. “But I’ll keep my eye on him.”
This was fine. In fact, Scarpetta knew Marino well enough to sense that his guests were special and in need of warmth and nourishment. He had brought strangers over before, but never anyone who might harm her.
Chains cut into ice, clanking rhythmically as he pulled out of the Simpsons’ driveway and followed the street to Midlothian Turnpike and soon was chopping through I-95 North and taking the West Gary Street exit. Very few people were out, and really, no one should have been. Marino kept his speed down to no more than forty miles per hour.
“Why are you doing all this for us?” Mrs. Simpson quietly asked.