Chapter 3 - The Table We Left Behind

At seven on Christmas morning, Chloe woke in a hotel bed she had never seen before and asked if Santa knew we had moved.

I was sitting in a chair by the window because I had not slept.

“He’s good with addresses,” I said.

She pushed the blankets down.

“Even hotels?”

“Especially hotels.”

“Did he bring my star back?”

The question landed softly and hurt anyway.

“Not yet.”

She looked at the small tree in the corner of the suite. Someone from the hotel had placed three wrapped boxes beneath it during the night.

I knew immediately who had arranged them.

“No,” I said.

Chloe blinked.

“What?”

“Those aren’t from Santa.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Santa and I have an agreement about strangers buying expensive presents.”

She climbed out of bed and inspected the packages without touching them.

One was shaped like a dollhouse.

One was probably clothes.

The smallest had a card.

She read the name slowly.

“Chloe.”

I took the card before she opened it.

Grace, these are not charity. They are Christmas presents for a child who had dinner in a closed restaurant because the adults around her failed. If you want them returned, tell me. I will return them. — J.M.

I stared at the sentence.

The adults around her failed.

Not you failed.

Around her.

I hated how carefully he had chosen the words.

Chloe tugged my sleeve.

“Can I open one?”

I should have said no.

Instead I pointed to the smallest box.

“One.”

Inside was a pair of red mittens, a knit hat, and a paperback collection of children’s mysteries.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing that could make me accuse him of trying to buy us.

Chloe held up the book.

“He picked a detective book.”

“That might be a bad sign.”

She grinned.

The knock came five minutes later.

I opened the door expecting room service.

James stood in the hallway.

He had changed clothes but not slept. I could tell from the shadow beneath his eyes.

Luca was beside him carrying my red coat in a clear evidence bag.

“Good morning,” James said.

“It depends.”

He looked at Chloe.

“Merry Christmas.”

She held up the book.

“Thank you.”

James looked at me.

“I was prepared to return everything.”

“She opened one.”

“I see that.”

Luca lifted the bag.

“We should talk.”

I let them in.

Chloe sat at the dining table with her book while Luca spread photographs across the kitchen counter.

The coat had been slit along the interior seam.

Inside the bottom hem, someone had found a narrow strip of fabric with words written in permanent ink.

NOT THE STAR. FOLLOW THE TABLE. M. KNOWS WHY.

“M?” I asked.

James was silent.

“Michael?”

“Possibly.”

“But Daniel never met your brother.”

“Not alive.”

I stared at him.

“What does that mean?”

“Michael kept records.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that made people nervous.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

I laughed without humor.

“Of course you don’t.”

Luca tapped the photograph.

“Grace, the first part matters. ‘Not the star.’”

“So Daniel expected somebody to find the coat.”

“Or he expected you to.”

I looked at the ripped lining.

“He hid one message behind another.”

James nodded.

“The star was a decoy.”

“Then why did he tell Chloe about it?”

“Because a six-year-old remembering a star is believable. A six-year-old remembering a bank name, address, or combination is dangerous.”

Chloe looked up from the table.

“I’m six now.”

James glanced at her.

“You were four when your dad told you.”

“Oh.”

She returned to the book.

I lowered my voice.

“What table?”

No one answered.

Then Chloe did.

“Daddy’s wobbly table.”

We all turned.

“What?” I asked.

She pointed at the table in the hotel suite.

“Our old table. Daddy called it the wobbly table because Mommy put paper under the leg.”

I stared at her.

The old oak dining table.

It had belonged to Daniel’s grandmother.

We had eaten every birthday dinner at it.

Daniel repaired one leg shortly before he died.

After his death, when I moved to the smaller apartment, it would not fit through the stairwell.

I had donated it.

“Oh God.”

James stepped closer.

“Where is it?”

“The St. Matthew resale center in Jamaica Plain.”

“When?”

“About eighteen months ago.”

Luca was already on his phone.

I held up a hand.

“No.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“We are not sending ten men into a church resale shop on Christmas morning.”

“It may be closed.”

“It definitely is.”

James took out his phone.

“I know the pastor.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”

“I donated to the roof repair.”

“You own half the city and apparently every priest.”

“I do not own priests.”

Luca said, “That would be expensive.”

James gave him a look.

I almost laughed.

I hated that too.

Twenty minutes later, we were driving through quiet streets dusted with last night’s snow.

Chloe came because I refused to leave her with a stranger.

James objected.

I won.

That felt important.

The resale center occupied the basement beneath St. Matthew’s community hall. Father Patrick Kelly met us at a side door wearing jeans, boots, and a green sweater.

He looked at James, then at me.

“This is the first time a Moretti has called me before breakfast on Christmas and asked about furniture.”

James shook his hand.

“I apologize.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No.”

Father Kelly looked at Chloe.

“And who is this?”

“Chloe Bennett.”

She held out her mittened hand.

“Merry Christmas.”

The priest smiled.

“Merry Christmas, Chloe.”

I showed him a photograph of the old table from Daniel’s birthday.

He studied it.

“We get a lot of furniture.”

“I know.”

“Eighteen months is a long time.”

“I know.”

He led us downstairs.

Rows of donated chairs, lamps, cabinets, and tables filled the basement.

My heart sank.

Then Father Kelly stopped.

“Wait.”

He turned.

“A family returned a table last month because one leg kept loosening.”

My pulse jumped.

“Where is it?”

He pointed toward the back.

There it was.

The same scratched surface.

The same dark stain near one corner from the time Chloe spilled grape juice.

The same repaired front leg.

I touched the wood.

For one second, I was back in our old apartment with Daniel complaining that I had put folded mail under the leg instead of letting him fix it.

I swallowed.

James stayed back.

I appreciated that.

Chloe crawled beneath the table.

“Here!”

I knelt.

The repaired leg had a thin seam near the top.

Luca crouched beside me.

“That’s not original.”

“I know.”

He took out a small multitool.

I grabbed his wrist.

“No.”

He looked at me.

“I want to open it.”

He handed me the tool.

The wood cap came loose after three turns.

Inside the hollow leg was a brass key wrapped in wax paper.

Nothing else.

I took it out.

A stamped number ran along the side.

317.

James looked at the key.

“Safe deposit box.”

“Where?”

“No bank name.”

I unfolded the wax paper.

Daniel’s handwriting covered the inside.

G—If you are reading this, I failed to keep you away from it. I’m sorry. The key is not the evidence. The key tells you who can be trusted. Ask for the box under Michael’s winter name. Do not ask J until you know why M left.

My hands began shaking.

James read over my shoulder.

His face went pale.

“What is Michael’s winter name?” I asked.

He did not answer.

“James.”

Luca stood.

“Boss.”

James looked at him.

Luca’s expression had changed.

“What?”

“Someone’s upstairs.”

Father Kelly frowned.

“The church is open.”

“Not parishioners.”

“How do you know?”

Luca pointed toward the small basement window.

Two black sedans had stopped at the curb.

James’s jaw tightened.

“Dominic.”

My blood turned cold.

“How would he know we came here?”

James looked at Luca.

Luca shook his head.

“Not me.”

Father Kelly crossed himself.

“I’m beginning to regret the roof donation.”

James moved toward the stairs.

“Take Grace and Chloe through the kitchen exit.”

“No.”

He turned.

“Grace.”

“You’re not leaving me with another half-answer.”

“This is not the time.”

“It is exactly the time. They came because of us.”

Voices sounded upstairs.

One of them was calm and familiar from television interviews.

Dominic Rinaldi.

“James? It’s Christmas morning. You’re making Father Kelly nervous.”

James’s expression hardened.

He looked at Luca.

“Get Chloe behind the storage room.”

I grabbed his arm.

“No guns.”

“I didn’t say guns.”

“Your face did.”

He held my gaze.

“No one fires unless someone else does first.”

“That is not comforting.”

“It’s the best promise I can make.”

Dominic appeared at the top of the stairs.

He was in his late fifties, silver-haired, beautifully dressed, and smiling like a man who had arrived for brunch.

Two men stood behind him.

“Grace Bennett,” he said.

The fact that he knew my name frightened me more than the men.

James stepped between us.

“You followed me.”

Dominic spread his hands.

“You disappeared from Christmas dinner plans. I worried.”

“You don’t worry.”

“Not often.”

His eyes moved to the table.

Then the key in my hand.

His smile vanished for half a second.

I saw it.

So did James.

Dominic recovered.

“What is this?”

“Furniture shopping,” James said.

“On Christmas?”

“Grace needed a table.”

Dominic looked at me.

“Mrs. Bennett, I knew your husband.”

My grip tightened around the key.

“Everyone seems to have known my husband except me.”

“Daniel was persistent.”

“Was?”

“Very.”

James took one step forward.

“Why are you here, Dominic?”

Dominic’s eyes remained on me.

“Because Daniel Bennett caused problems that never needed to become problems.”

The basement went silent.

I could hear Chloe breathing behind the storage room door.

“Did you kill him?” I asked.

James turned sharply.

Dominic’s smile returned.

“Grief makes people reckless.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.”

“Which part?”

His eyes narrowed.

Then church bells began ringing above us.

Christmas Mass.

The sound filled the basement.

Dominic looked at James.

“You’re bringing civilians into old business.”

James answered, “You brought men to a church.”

“Because I thought you might need protection.”

“From whom?”

Dominic’s gaze shifted toward Luca.

“People who forget what side they are on.”

Luca’s hand tightened at his side.

I looked between them.

There was history I did not understand.

James said, “Leave.”

Dominic did not move.

“Give me the key.”

“No,” I said.

He looked at me.

“That wasn’t directed to you.”

“It’s in my hand.”

His smile disappeared.

“Mrs. Bennett, your husband died because he believed information was protection.”

James stepped forward.

“No.”

Dominic glanced at him.

“No what?”

“You will not threaten her.”

“I offered advice.”

“You’re done.”

For the first time, Dominic looked angry.

Then Father Kelly came down the stairs carrying a wooden processional cross.

Behind him were six members of the choir.

“Dominic,” he said pleasantly, “either attend Mass or leave my church.”

Dominic stared at the priest.

Father Kelly stared back.

After a moment, Dominic smiled again.

“Merry Christmas, Father.”

He turned to me.

“Be careful what you unlock.”

Then he left.

We waited until the sedans pulled away.

James looked at the key.

“I know the bank.”

My heart jumped.

“You know Michael’s winter name?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

He looked at me.

“When we were boys, Michael hated winter. He used to say he would move somewhere warm and change his name so our father couldn’t find him.”

“What name?”

“Michael Costa.”

“Costa.”

“Coast.”

I understood.

“And the bank?”

“Harbor Federal. Michael kept an account there under a holding company.”

Luca swore softly.

James turned toward him.

“What?”

Luca’s face was tense.

“Harbor Federal closed its downtown safe-deposit division three years ago.”

My stomach dropped.

“What happened to the boxes?”

“They transferred them.”

“Where?”

Luca looked at the key again.

“To private storage at the old North Harbor Trust building.”

James stared at him.

“That building belongs to Dominic.”

The brass key suddenly felt much heavier.

I looked at the table where Daniel had hidden it.

“He didn’t leave us a way to the evidence.”

James’s face became cold.

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“No.”

“He left us a way into Dominic’s house.”