1. The Murder

Wednesday, May 4, 2005

Having played an afternoon pick-me-up game for over 30 years, Leslie Marionette obeyed the alarm clock tickle.

Time to hop in the Benz!

Weather permitting, of course.

Living in New England meant there were times that driving conditions were not always favorable and Leslie had a professional grade bar at the house, but that was strictly for entertainment. Or such weather-related emergencies.

Whenever possible, Leslie preferred to go out for her daily pick-me-up. Helped to stay busy.

The afternoon of the murder, Leslie wore a pale blue version of the workout suits that Jenna, her youngest daughter was always buying for her; a bit clingy for Leslie’s taste, but she was tall and slim and made all manner of clothing work.

Leslie slipped slippers for sneakers and put a sweater on over the athletic wear.

Walked through the kitchen and through the breezeway and into the garage; pressed the switch to the electric door and got into the yellow Mercedes E-Class; turned the radio to NPR and made her way across Worthboro, as she had tens of thousands of times before.

Leslie raised three children in this town, now grown and with children of their own.

“Six,” she said with a nod to a passing motorist.

Sing-songy, over the droning radio voices, “Si-ix!”

Leslie said that number multiple times, every day now.

She still couldn’t believe it—six grandkids!

How on Earth had she gotten so lucky?

Who cared where William was or who he was with. This month. That stuff didn’t matter. Anymore.

All that mattered were her three, wonderful children, now grown into outstanding adults and having brought six angels into the world; three grandkids between her two daughters and three more from Jonny, her famous son.

Leslie sang as she drove, “Si-ix!”

At first glance, the center of Worthboro appears better suited to the artsy-fartsy of the Berkshires rather than its place amongst the wealthy baubles that dot the tectonic bulge south of Boston.

A picturesque downtown, New England village style. Buildings of wood, specialty shops, restaurants, the local bank and a lone building of brick, headquarters for The Chronicle, the local paper.

The Chronicle sat across from an impressive town common. Walkways crisscross the grassy area, including a branch that leads to the town library, designed to resemble Monticello.

Leslie lived on the south side and today’s run would bring her through the center and into the eastern half of Worthboro, where there would be Mario’s.

Mario’s was a convenience store owned by a Portuguese guy named Mario.

Perhaps some of the old timers in town knew the actual business name, but that didn’t matter because everyone had been calling it Mario’s since he bought the place 34 years ago.

Faded letters on a two-pole, pylon sign by the road read: Daily Market Convenience.

Mario’s started as a simple rectangle with a mono-pitched roof, but had sprung partitions over the years, lengthening in the back and gaining additions on either side. Painted white with barely a slope to the black-tarred roof, surrounded on all four sides by stone-mixed asphalt, but as the saying goes: location, location, location.

Spectacularly situated on the corner of Second Street and Gulf Road, the little market may have appeared unorthodox, but Mario kept his place air conditioned in the summer and cozily heated through the harsh winter, faithfully providing candy, cigarettes, chips and milk and eggs and a hodge-podge of handy goods, all marked for a profit-per-item twice that of the closest supermarket.

Because it’s convenient, right?

Putting real gold into Mario’s endeavor was the liquor license he gained after several years of persistent application.

The winnebago shaped wing he’d stuck to the north side of the original box was lined with shelves of wine and liquor and coolers with beer and that’s where Leslie was headed.

She parked the Benz and went through the door that jingled and Mario was behind the counter and Leslie said, “Good afternoon Mario” before cutting down an aisle past Betty Crocker and Ritz and Pop-Tarts.

Veered down the hardware aisle, past batteries and bug spray and work gloves and viola!: there sat an elegant bottle of Grey Goose vodka.

At $40 a liter, Grey Goose was placed on the shelf at the front of the liquor section, that part having the unobstructed view from where Mario maintained vigil behind the counter.

Mario took care of another customer and then Leslie plunked a handbag and the bottle of vodka on the blue placemat on the counter.

“Leslie,” Mario said, smiling beneath a salt-n-pepper mustache trimmed exactly as wide as his upper lip.

“Mario,” Leslie said, beaming.

She did that often, beamed; though, now it was just a semi-vacant look combined with a well-practiced smile, her gaze bouncing over half-pints of Seagrams and Southern Comfort and Popov before settling back on the store owner.

She has a nice voice, Mario thought. Kind. Her blue eyes matched the outfit beneath the sweater.

Leslie said, “What would I do without you?”

“Why I am always here,” Mario said, habitually enunciating each syllable, though his English was now excellent.

Leslie rummaged through the red, calf-skin Chanel handbag that matched the sweater she’d thrown on, Mario waiting patiently, smiling, a bit wistfully perhaps, because the bag was genuine and the gold metal inlays matched Leslie’s earrings.

A tall, handsome woman, he thought.

Could easily see her progeny as that famous, professional baseball player.

Of course, everyone in Worthboro knew who Leslie Marionette was. Because of Jonny.

Leslie wore her fame graciously and Mario refrained from allowing his mind to wander down the path of customers who bought high-proof alcohol from his store, month after month, year after year … until they didn’t anymore.

Mario’s grand nephew Manny appeared from the end of the counter, having been hidden behind a hanging display of tobacco products.

He sidled next to the blue lottery machine.

Expectant, he said with the same accent as Mario, “Play today?”

Leslie said, “Of course. You know, Mega-Mega Money!”

“Drawing last night,” Manny said. “But no winner. Jackpot prolly over 40 million.” He threw a glance at Mario, as though to ask an unspoken question, but his great uncle was busy running the credit card.

Leslie, digging through her bag for cash, smiled when reciting her Mega-Mega numbers.

Having used the lottery terminal software thousands of times, Manny’s fingers flew over the touchscreen.

“One ticket is two dollah,” he said and Leslie handed over a 20.

Mario asked if she wanted her receipt and got a no thank you.

“Good luck,” Manny said, handing the money to Mario and the ticket to Leslie.

Mario provided change out of the store register for the 20.

Leslie dropped the ticket into the handbag and as she reorganized, Manny shot another, meaningful look at his great uncle and this time Mario caught it.

Leslie sang, “Happy spring!'' and was headed for the door when Mario called, “Hey, did you check your ticket from the other day?”

Leslie paused, turned, a questioning look.

“We sold a million dollar winner,” Mario said and actually giggled. Brought a hand to his prim mustache. Dropped the hand, embarrassed. Added, “We get our commission from the lottery, you know, but we don’t know who the customer was. The million dollar winner.”

Mario smiled and asked, “You bought a ticket on Monday, yes?”

Protective of those afternoon pick-me-ups (which, unfortunately, were now wreaking havoc on her short term memory), Leslie looked away and looked back and said, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe.”

She continued toward the door, saying, “But you know, I do that. Sometimes I forget to check the numbers. Toodle-loo!”

Leslie exited as Manny called after her, “You better check! Could be a million dollah!”

The drive home was short and that was good, the tickle having grown strong enough to remind Leslie of the tsunami it would become if left unattended. Still, by the time she parked the Benz in a garage with four bays and enough room to be an actual house, her mouth had filled with saliva.

Leslie slid from the car with impressive agility, the pocketbook handle slung over the wrist of the hand clenching the neck of the goose.

At 61-years-old, she was still, exactly six-feet tall and trim, her blond hair expensively maintained.

Leslie enjoyed yoga several times a week and really didn’t have to eat much anyway, because of the steady supply of high-octane sugar that came at the expense of her liver.

The rare, physical ability possessed by her son had likely come from her side of the family.

The Benz was the only car in the vast garage with little to show for all that space other than a lawn tractor, a couple wheelbarrows and garden tools hanging along the wall that had no windows.

Leslie padded across a cement floor that looked as though it were poured just a few months ago (though it had been over a decade) and went through the brightly lit breezeway with the skylights.

Entered the kitchen and crossed to the marble topped kitchen island to set the pocketbook down, the vodka beside it.

Turned and went to the cupboard next to the sink and opened the door and grabbed a glass.

Stepped to the stainless steel fridge for ice, sticking the glass under the dispenser for a few chunks.

Returned to the island and set the glass on the marble top and reached for the goose and that’s when the marble base of one of Jonny’s old trophies slammed into her skull.

Leslie collapsed to the tiled floor in a sprawl of limbs.