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  “I know him, this man, the man in the cap. I recognize him. Everybody in our office knew him. He always wore that cap, just that way.”

  “You’re kidding!” Mary edged forward on her slippery cushion. “Do you know his name? I think he may have been a friend of the other man, the shorter one, Amadeo Brandolini. Do you know the short one in front?”

  “Let me see.” Mrs. Nyquist picked up the photo and looked at it through her bifocals. “No, I don’t know him.”

  “You sure? Amadeo was a fisherman from Philly.” Mary was trying to jog Mrs. Nyquist’s memory. “He committed suicide. He and the man in the cap worked in the beet fields together.”

  “Oh, wait, I had heard about that.” Mrs. Nyquist set the photo down on the placemat. “I didn’t know him, but I heard about that. That one of the internees killed himself, sometime after his wife died.” Mrs. Nyquist tapped on the photo. “But for sure I recognize the man in the cap, I knew the one in the cap. We all knew him, the girls in the office, that is. He was one of the youngest internees, very talkative. A wolf, we used to call his type.”

  “Really?”

  “My, my, my,” Mrs. Nyquist said, shaking her head at the photos. She almost seemed to forget about Mary’s presence. “His English was very good. We used to use him as a translator around the office. He wasn’t really an Italian Italian, like the others.”

  It jibed with what Mary knew. Most of the internees at Fort Missoula spoke only Italian, and the inventory sheets she’d found in their files at the National Archives showed that almost all of them owned an English dictionary, apparently for teaching themselves the language. But she didn’t get one thing. “Why would an internee be hanging out in the office? I mean, they were in prison camp, right?”

  “It depended. The Japanese, when they came, were always under light guard, and my husband had border guards on them often. We kept an eye on the Germans, too. I have to admit, I’m not proud of that. Those groups were treated different, and they kept more to themselves.” Mrs. Nyquist nodded. “But it was much looser for the Italians, and we all got to know each other. They helped us out in the office or delivered things. They were just a bunch of young sailors, most of ’em from the cruise ships, and they were all so happy-go-lucky.”

  Mary smiled. She had never been happy-go-lucky. She was the only unhappy-go-lucky Italian on the planet.

  “They helped out a lot at the camp, in town, and with the logging and the sugar beet fields, and the way the camp was set up, the barracks were close to the administrative offices and the officers’ homes. We were always running into them. My husband and I lived in a house at the camp, like the other officers. It was a white house, very pretty.”

  Mary flashed on the black-and-white aerial views of the camp, then she thought of something. “If the Italians weren’t under guard, then how come guards monitored their visits?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Did they? That surprises me.”

  “I think so, at least sometimes. I found a memo that shows a guard monitored a visit Amadeo had with his lawyer, and they even sent a copy of that memo to the FBI.”

  Mrs. Nyquist blinked behind her bifocals, then shook her head. “I have no idea why that was, but I wouldn’t know everything. And I was only there a while.”

  Mary made a mental note. “Okay, back to the man in the cap. Tell me about him.”

  “As I recall, he’d been educated, too, back where he was from. He could read and write. He’d had a year or two in an American high school.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “I don’t recall, offhand. Give me a minute.” Mrs. Nyquist lowered her hand, still holding the photo, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Maybe your husband had some photos around, or papers that could jar your memory?”

  “No, no, no.” Mrs. Nyquist shook her head, her eyes still closed. “Aaron wasn’t the sentimental sort. He didn’t save a thing from those days.”

  “Not even some pictures?”

  “No, none.” Mrs. Nyquist was rubbing her lined forehead, as if she were trying to scratch the answer from her brain. “The war wasn’t the happiest time for Aaron. He did feel so terrible, being left behind with all us women, when the others were fighting. He didn’t want to remember anything of those days. He never even talked about it.”

  Mary remembered that was what Will had said, back in the garage. She shut up and let Mrs. Nyquist think in peace.

  “Let me see. The truth is, the other girls in the office liked him, but not me. I thought he was too smooth. You know, bedroom eyes and a slick smile. I don’t like that type. He was my age, in his twenties, but he acted a lot older, and he had a lot of city ways.” Suddenly Mrs. Nyquist snapped her fingers. “Oh, he was from the East Coast — Philadelphia. Like you!”

  “He was from Philly?” Mary asked, amazed. No one was ever from Philly, except her. And she had been assuming that although Amadeo and the man in the cap had been friends, they had met in the internment camp. But what if they hadn’t? What if they’d known each other before, from the city? She felt her heartbeat quicken, but it could have been the fructose lava.

  “I remember now, his name was Saracone. Giovanni. Giovanni Saracone. The girls in the office called him Gio.”

  “Giovanni Saracone! Gio!” Mary jumped out of her chair, came around the table, and gave Mrs. Nyquist the hug she’d wanted to give her at the beginning. “Giovanni Saracone is his name?”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Nyquist emerged from her clinch, smiling. “Why are you so happy? Do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh.”

  “I know the other man, Amadeo.” Mary caught herself, as she returned to her seat. “Well, I don’t know him, either. I’m trying to find out more about him. I wonder if this Saracone went back to Philly after he was released. Do you know?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know anything else about Saracone?”

  Mrs. Nyquist thought a minute. “No, just that. His name, and that he was a wolf.”

  Mary thought a minute, taking in Mrs. Nyquist’s pretty blue eyes and sweet smile. She must have been lovely in her younger days. “A wolf, huh? Did he hit on you?”

  “Hit on?” Mrs. Nyquist’s eyes flared behind her bifocals. “Is that what they say nowadays, for making a pass? No, he didn’t make a pass, not at me. I was a married woman, and I can shoot.”

  Mary laughed.

  “Hold on, let me show you something.” Mrs. Nyquist rose abruptly, walked over to the side table, and picked up a photo in a wooden frame and handed it to Mary. The photo was in black and white, of an attractive woman in fringed leather chaps and a cowboy hat, riding a bucking horse. Despite the death-defying arch to the horse’s back, the woman rider hung on with a huge grin, and Mary looked at Mrs. Nyquist in amazement.

  “Is this you?”

  “Sure enough. I rode rodeo, roping and penning, I did it all.”

  “You were a cowgirl?” Mary handed her back the photo. “How did you learn it?”

  “From my mother. I was a rancher’s daughter, like my mother. She became a rancher after my father died. She kept the place herself, she even knew Calamity Jane. Jane was a real Montana cowgirl, born Martha Jane Cannary, she was.”

  “Calamity Jane!” Mary knew about her only from a Doris Day movie she’d seen on TMC. If it weren’t for TV, she wouldn’t know anything about Montana. “You were so brave to get on a horse like that! Weren’t you afraid?”

  “Surely! It’s no fun if you’re not afraid.”

  Mary laughed. The notion was as foreign to her as, well, Montana. “I wish I could be that way.”

  “You can. Anybody can.” Mrs. Nyquist took the photo from Mary and replaced it on the side table, then came back to her seat. “You just climb up on the horse and stay on. Why can’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I just can’t imagine it.”

  “Haven’t you ever been on a horse?”
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br />   “Are you kidding? I can barely drive. I’m not brave.”

  Mrs. Nyquist set her lips firmly. “I’m not brave, either, but I’m determined, and the horse can sense it. People can, too. Can you be determined, Mary?”

  “I think so. It’s like stubborn, and the DiNunzio women are good at stubborn.”

  “Well then, you come by it honestly.” Mrs. Nyquist nodded. “If you can’t be brave, be determined. And you’ll end up in the same place.”

  Mary blinked. “Is that true?”

  “Try it.”

  Determined. “I will.” Mary looked down at the photos from the camp, which she had almost forgotten about. “Well, yes, where was I? Okay, do you know anyone else in the office, anyone you knew, who would know more about Giovanni Saracone?”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Mrs. Nyquist quieted, her mouth falling into the sad line she’d worn earlier. “They’re all gone, now. The last one, Millie Berglund, she worked with me in the office. Millie passed right before my son and his wife did.”

  Mary felt her words like a weight. “Your son and his wife?”

  “Yes, they were killed in a car accident, last year. A drunk driver, out on I-93. That’s when Will came to live here. He was their only child. He’s saving to get back to the U, but they didn’t have insurance and the burial expenses alone…” Mrs. Nyquist’s voice trailed off.

  Mary hadn’t realized. The older woman had seen so much pain, in only a year. But she had gone on. Determined. Mrs. Nyquist sat stoic in her sweat clothes, and Mary got up, went around the table, and gave her another hug. This time Mary didn’t say she was sorry. The words, for once, couldn’t come. After a minute, Mrs. Nyquist patted her arm, and Mary released her. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, dear.” Mrs. Nyquist reached for her napkin to wipe her eyes. “Why is it you want to find this Saracone fellow, Mary?”

  “It’s a legal matter.”

  Mrs. Nyquist frowned. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “Hard to believe, huh?”

  “But you’re so nice!”

  “I’m the nice one.”

  Mrs. Nyquist smiled, her eyes glistening. “What kind of legal matter is it?”

  “I represent the estate of the other man, Amadeo Brandolini. And I actually think Saracone may have had something to do with the death of my client.”

  Mrs. Nyquist’s lips parted in surprise. “But didn’t you say it was suicide?”

  “I’m not sure it was. I think it may have been murder.”

  Mrs. Nyquist’s pale eyes widened. “My goodness, how awful!”

  “I’ll say. But I can’t figure it all out. There are too many pieces to this puzzle.”

  “You think it was a murder? What do the police say?”

  “I haven’t asked. Yet.” Mary got up to go, regretting that she’d even brought it up. “Well, thank you so much for your help. I’ve probably overstayed my welcome.”

  “Not in the least.” Mrs. Nyquist suddenly looked crestfallen, for a cowgirl. “You can stay and have another piece of pie, if you like. I’m a night owl. I read for an hour or so, then watch the television.”

  My routine, too. Mary thought a minute. She would love to get back to the motel, but Mrs. Nyquist looked so alone. “Who do you watch, pardner? Leno or Letterman?”

  “Jay Leno.”

  “Right answer!” Mary smiled. “Now for the tough one. Conan or Craiggers?”

  “Conan!”

  “Yes!”

  Mrs. Nyquist grinned. “I’ll get more pie!”

  Later Mary hit the road, rejuvenated by caffeine, Conan, and her first break on the case. When she had almost reached Missoula, her cell phone started ringing. She grabbed for her purse, fumbled for her phone, and flipped it open, all at top speed. “Yo,” she said, and the voice on the line was Judy’s.

  “Mare, you have to come home. Now.”

  “You’re damn right I do. Listen to this, I don’t think Amadeo committed suicide. I think he was murdered, and I think the killer is from Philly!”

  “Then that’s two murders we have to solve.”

  “What?” Mary asked, stricken.

  Twenty-One

  “Frank Cavuto is dead?” Mary asked, in pain. She slumped in the soft chair opposite Judy’s desk. It was almost seven o’clock at night, and the offices of Rosato & Associates were quiet and still. Mary’s briefcase, purse, and suitcase were beside the chair where she’d dropped them, damp from the downpour outside. It had taken a full eight hours to get home, including a layover, and in all that time, Mary still hadn’t been able to process the news. “Frank is dead? I can’t believe it. What happened? Any more details?”

  “He was killed in his office during a break-in, at about ten o’clock last night. Taken by surprise as he was working late. Shot twice, robbed.” Judy buckled her lower lip, atypically grave. “I’m sorry. I know you liked him.”

  “I did.” Mary swallowed the tightness in her throat. She flashed on a younger Frank Cavuto, waving her into third base. Now, he was gone. Yet another ghost, this one too close to home. “I don’t know why he wanted to fire me, but I still liked him. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “Your parents okay?” Judy’s blonde bangs had been brushed off her face, and she must have been in court today because she was wearing a blue linen dress with real leather shoes, even if they were the official slingbacks of Rosato & Associates, from the office closet.

  “Are you kidding? They’re freaked. The circolo’s freaked, too. I called Frank’s house, but nobody’s answering.” Mary’s temples began to throb and she didn’t bother telling herself it was jet lag, trail mix, or the hassle at baggage carousel B. “I don’t think it happened during a break-in. I don’t care what they made it look like, I ain’t buying.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Frank never worked late. He wasn’t a lawyer like us, writing briefs and reviewing documents at night. He was a hustler kind of lawyer. At night he went to softball games. Church bingo. Justinian Society cocktail parties. Sons of Italy receptions.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. So maybe he was meeting somebody at his office. And I can’t stop thinking about that guy in the Escalade.” Mary eyed the gifts she’d brought for everyone from the Missoula airport, lying forgotten on Judy’s desk. A copper elk pin, huckleberry gummy bears, fuzzy bear claw slippers, and Moose Drool Soap. Mary had even bought herself a straw cowboy hat. Montana used to seem so far away. Now it wasn’t. In fact, it had come home. “I think it’s all connected, somehow, to Amadeo.”

  “I knew you would say that.”

  “Let’s get real.” Mary held up a certain hand. Something felt different in her, and she didn’t know why. Whether it was Montana or Amadeo she didn’t know, but something had gotten under her skin and stuck there. “I investigate Amadeo and Mr. Escalade starts following me around and a reporter shows up. I checked online and there is a reporter by that name at the Philly News, but my Uncle Joey doesn’t remember cutting his hair.”

  “That’s strange, and there hasn’t been an article in the paper about it. You don’t know what the reporter did with the information, or who he gave it to, either.”

  “Right. So where were we? Frank tries to fire me, then somebody breaks into my office and takes Amadeo’s file, and I go to Montana, where I find out that Amadeo may have been murdered by a man named Giovanni Saracone. Then Frank himself is murdered. Jeez, poor Frank.”

  “I looked Saracone up on the web. No one by that name or any reasonable variation in Philly or the subs.” Judy’s phone rang and she let voicemail pick up.

  “Don’t you have to get that?”

  “It’s a conference call in Alcor, which turns out to be the mother of all securities cases. Let them get the other three hundred lawyers on the line, then they can patch me in.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I searched for Saracone online, too, until my laptop battery and my cell phone battery gave up.”
Mary fell silent a minute, watching rain slake the window. Nimbus clouds darkened the sky, and this high up, she could see lightning flash behind the storm clouds. It was better than seeing it from seat 17A. “It ain’t rocket science, Jude. Even I can put this together.”

  “Meaning what?”

  Uh. Gimme a minute. “Well, basically, there must be something about Amadeo, a reason he was killed, and it’s behind everything.” Mary was convincing herself as she went along, but she still felt like she was fishing.

  “So why did whoever it is kill Cavuto?” Judy’s phone finally stopped ringing.

  “I don’t know. Maybe to keep him quiet, to keep secret whatever he knew. Frank seemed worried to me that morning, and he wasn’t that good a liar. He could have been getting nervous, as I was digging around, maybe getting closer to the truth. Do I flatter myself?”

  “Somebody has to.”

  Mary laughed, which felt good, temporarily. “I knew Frank, and whatever his role in this mess, he couldn’t have been a principal. He wasn’t a real bad guy at heart, he was just a guy whose law firm had some involvement. Maybe that’s why the house sale at bargain prices.”

  “This isn’t my main concern.” Judy’s face darkened, matching the clouds. “I’m worried about you.”

  Me, too. “I’m worried about my job. Am I fired yet?”

  “You caught a break. Bennie didn’t ask where you went on vacation, so I didn’t volunteer it. She sent her condolences for Cavuto, but she can’t get an extension on her trial. We’re free at last, free at last.” Judy frowned. “But I’m still worried about you. I think we should go to the police.” Her phone started ringing, and she ignored it again. “Tell them the story.”

  “I’m on it. I called the Homicide Squad on the way in and left a message for Reggie and his partner, Detective Kovich. Remember them?” Detectives Reginald Brinkley and Stan Kovich had become Mary’s friends on an old murder case, and Reggie still stopped by her mother’s house for meatball sandwiches, raising the African-American population on Mercer Street to one. “I know they’d help, but the detective answering the phone said they were out on jobs.”