Chapter Six
Sam
I can count my hours slept on one hand but I promised Aunt Marion I’d show up to work today. All her patrons will be talking about Bobby Gabrielli, the murder, and the break in. I’m destined to give them an exclusive Suds and Sam update.
My cousins greet me at the door. More like sisters, we group hug and prepare the salon for the day.
Saint Mia, the youngest, kisses her cross as she folds warm towels. “I heard you had a burglary last night."
“How’d you hear that?” Sometimes living in Bensonhurst is worse than a small town.
She shrugs, kneels, and shoves the pile of cotton into a cupboard under my sink. “Joey had his police band radio up real loud. Kept everyone awake. He said I have to call him with what happened first thing and says you’d be safer if you’d move back in with us.”
“Yeah, right. Never happening.” I’m brought back in time to when I lived in their spare bedroom. I love my two female cousins but Joey-the-watchdog is a pain in my ass.
Yo, Sammy, you done with the bum? Yo, Sammy you going out? Yo, Sammy, when you plan on being home?
After me and Suds got serious, the bed banged against the wall. My God, we needed a place of our own. Still, making love in the small bed brings a smile to my face.
“Earth to Samantha.” The eldest, Rose, snaps a finger in front of my face. “Who did you piss off this time?”
“No one. Really. It was some random lowlife. He didn’t even have a gun. The alarm went off, two Patten guys came, and the police took the thief away in cuffs.
She stops restocking hair spray and raises her brows. “I don’t suppose any of the security men were single.”
“Didn’t notice.” I smirk as Aunt Marion walks in with the danishes and hands me the box.
“What’s new?”
“Oh, nothing… except a little murder and mayhem.” I cut the string, place them on the platter, and her eyes sparkle.
“Perfetto. Let me start a phone chain. Mia, Instagram. Now.”
I roll my eyes at Rose as she opens the front door. “You bring in the business, what can I say?”
The bingo crowd is already lined up for a hair washing event. Apparently, there was a sudden outbreak of arthritis, rendering fingers incapable of opening shampoo bottles.
My Aunt reaches into a cup of plastic stirrers, cuts one, then sticks them in her fist. “Pick.”
“Sorry ladies.” Mrs. Murphy picks the shortest and smiles. I swear she resembles my cat lapping my coffee mug.
Strutting back to my sink, she plops in my chair. “Okay. I want everything and don’t leave out the gory bits like you did last time.”
A pro, I share what happened Monday night and finish as I wrap a towel around her head. “And that’s it.”
The elderly baker pats my hand, leans in, and whispers, “Good for you. It’s definitely not suicide. Do you have suspects?”
“Well, there was the guy who broke in last night.”
Her eyes go wide. “I heard your husband shot him dead.”
“No, but I’m sure he wanted to.” I grin, picturing her senior friends on the phone, many of them hard of hearing. God knows what the gossip will be at the end of the day.
As I walk her to the next station, bony fingers grab my wrist and her eyes widen. “Why him?”
Huh. Good question.My sleep deprived brain hasn’t had much time to ponder last night. “He seemed awfully interested in my camera but the joke was on him. All my pictures were confiscated.”
“The cops took your film?” The elderly woman rises as Rose pumps a bar with her foot.
