The Goddaughter

  THE

  GODDAUGHTER

  MELODIE CAMPBELL

  Copyright © 2012 Melodie Campbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Campbell, Melodie, 1955-

  The goddaughter [electronic resource] / Melodie Campbell.

  (Rapid reads)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0126-4 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0127-1 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads (Online)

  PS8605.A54745G63 2012 C813´.6 C2012-902257-8

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938155

  Summary: A young gemologist, who happens to be related to the local mob, is reluctantly recruited to smuggle diamonds across the border… with hilarious consequences. (RL 2.8)

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to Dad,

  who taught me to love books

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  I like Pete Malone of the Steeltown Star, especially when he comes bearing drinks.

  “Big crowd at this gig,” he said, handing me a glass. “The art gallery will be pleased. Did you bring the thug from New York?”

  I nearly spilled some really good scotch. “I’m doing a favor for Uncle Vince.”

  Pete nodded. “Figured that. You’re the Goddaughter.”

  I struggled for something smart to say.

  “Does it show?”

  Pete shrugged, then smiled. “Not as much as other things. I like the dress.”

  Bugger. Never buy a wraparound. It won’t.

  We watched the gilded crowd for a while, or at least I did. Pete never took his eyes off me.

  “Where is the Italian Stallion, by the way? I’d like to get a few words for the paper.”

  I shook my head. “You really don’t want to do that. Nope…I don’t recommend it.”

  “Vince wouldn’t like it?”

  It was my turn to smile. “Vince doesn’t read the paper. It’s your tender ears I’m thinking of. They might be shocked.”

  Pete laughed easily. He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the outdoor patio.

  “Where are we going?” I said, with a sideways glance. Pete looked good from any angle. I like a tall man in a dark-gray suit.

  “Somewhere I can speak with you in private. I never get to see you alone.”

  My flirt-alert went off the scale.

  “Why not? Are you philosophically against calling a girl and asking her out?”

  He laughed. “Now, see? That’s what I like about you, Gina. Always a smart-ass.”

  I took a sip of scotch. “I thought you liked the way I dress.”

  “That too.” Pete’s big hand on my arm was hot. I liked his wavy honey-colored hair, and the set of his solid footballer body.

  “So why haven’t you picked up a phone?” I said.

  “Because I’m not suicidal.” He held the glass door open.

  I paused a beat. “Ah. You fear the family connection. It wasn’t my choice, you know. You don’t get to choose your relatives.”

  As our feet touched the terrace, the night exploded.

  “What the—?” Pete grabbed me, and we slammed to the ground. I landed on his arm. Our drinks went flying. More shots rang out. We rolled.

  The air went quiet.

  Seconds later, Pete pushed away from me. He vaulted up, scanning the terrace for damage. I struggled to see through the dust. When I got to my feet, Pete was standing over a dead body.

  “You fond of that guy from New York?” he said.

  I took a breath. “Not so much, now that he’s full of holes.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Pete stood guard over the body until the cops arrived. He was good at it. Crowds of haughty people in swank evening garb tried to find a way through the glass doors to peek at the carnage. Pete used his big arms to motion people back. He also frowned a lot and looked mean.

  I sat down on the edge of a concrete planter and tried to remain calm. It was a beautiful May night, softly warm and just a tiny bit humid.

  But three bullets and a river of blood can mess up a girl’s composure. After all, I did arrive at this gala with the man on the ground…I was even related to him, in a completely depressing way. You might even consider that he had been in my care, in so much as he was a guest of my Uncle Vince. This was just not a good train of thought. It led one to contemplate other distressing things. Such as—what the hell was going on, and why didn’t I know about it?

  Ten minutes later, the cops were in control, and we were seated in the art gallery’s swish boardroom. The black leather chair swallowed me up. We were surrounded by lavish paintings that graced the dove-gray walls. Pete kept me company as we waited to be questioned. He seemed to think I needed comforting, or maybe even protecting. I like that in a non-relative.

  I was deep in thought, gazing at the floor. So, apparently, was Pete.

  “Nice shoes,” he said.

  I looked down at the glittering evening sandals. “Thanks,” I said. “You know my cousin Angelo, who works in the morgue? His dad is a cobbler.”

  Pete looked puzzled.

  I tried again. “A shoemaker—you know? He does custom work for the rich.”

  Pete shook his head. “Are you related to everyone in this town?”

  “Not everyone.” I smiled. A man in uniform was walking over to us. “No cops in the family.”

  Rick Spenser—Spense to his friends—strode to a halt in front of me. He frowned. I wasn’t a friend, but we had gone to school together, so Spense knew all about my connections. Hence the frown.

  “Well, well. Gina Gallo, what a surprise. The girl with the longest confession.”

  I choked. Beside me, Pete strangled a laugh.

  “Don’t see you in church much these days.”

  “The nuns frighten me.” I worked to make my voice sound smooth.

  Spense stared a hole through me, as if trying to figure out if I was serious or not.

  “You know the vic?”

  I nodded. “He’s Tony Rizzo, a cousin-in-law by marriage, from New York.”

  At Saint Bonaventure Secondary, Spense had been tall, thin and nerdy. Now, he looked even taller, thinner
and baffled. “What the hell is a cousin-in-law by marriage?”

  “My cousin Marco—you remember Marco from high school with the souped-up Camaro?”

  Spense nodded. In the old days, he had loved cars.

  “Well, Marco moved to New York and married Tina Rizzo. Tony is her brother.”

  “So he’s your cousin’s wife’s brother.” Spense shook his head. “You people are loaded with relatives.”

  I just shrugged.

  “What was he doing in Hamilton?”

  “Not sure,” I said carefully. “Visiting family. I think he was interested in collecting art. You’ll have to ask my uncle about that.”

  I heard Pete snort beside me. The only art this guy collected would have come from gas stations and porn shops.

  “Are you in the art biz now?” Spense asked.

  “No, no.” I shook my head. “I’m a gemologist.”

  Spense raised an eyebrow. “Certified and everything?”

  I nodded. “Got my degree first. Geology and chemistry.”

  Spense seemed impressed. “You always were smart.” His eyes shifted to my décolletage and lingered there too long.

  Pete was looking at me, curious. I could feel his attention as surely as if his arm had been wrapped around my shoulders. His eyes flipped back to Spense, and he frowned.

  Spense shifted his gaze. “Malone, you got anything to do with this?”

  Pete leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. His solid body overflowed the leather back.

  “Just working my beat. And making sure you don’t harass the witnesses.”

  “You got a lot of nerve, paperboy. I oughta thump you one.”

  “You can try.”

  That seemed to get Spense nicely upset. “That’s it. Goddamn reporters. Down to the station, both of you.”

  Pete stood up and winked at me. This was his way of ensuring I didn’t have to face the music alone. I could learn to appreciate a man like that.

  We took Pete’s sweet little convertible rather than ride in the cop car. I tried to hold my long hair down with one hand, but it was going to look like ’80s big hair after the ride, no matter what.

  We got to the station in under five minutes. As it happened, Spense didn’t keep us long. They took us to separate poky little rooms that also had gray walls but no art. They grilled us about what we saw, what we heard, who else was there. They asked all sorts of personal stuff that probably wasn’t strictly allowed, but I saw no reason to hide. I’ll buy that Spense might need my phone number for follow-up, but was it really necessary to determine that I lived alone?

  We must have given the same answers to the important questions, because they let us go half an hour later. Pete dropped me off at my small condo. I had to stop myself from inviting him upstairs.

  “So…” he drawled as he opened the car door for me. “About that never calling before. You free tomorrow night?”

  I hesitated. “I don’t think I can do tomorrow. But what about the night after?”

  Pete beamed. “Done. I know a nice place on James. Called La Paloma.”

  It was my turn to grin. “It’s good,” I said. “My cousin Vito owns it.”

  Pete rolled his eyes.

  “Falling for the Goddaughter. I must be nuts.” He laughed as he got back in the car. “Oh, and wear those shoes. I’ve got a thing for shoes.”

  “So do I,” I said softly. “You have no idea.”

  I watched him drive off and wondered if it could be workable.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Around nine the next night, I waited in a coffee shop, nursing a double cream, no sugar. Angelo came to the door, looked around and spotted me. He smiled in a crooked way and made his way over. The black bag he carried matched mine. He slung it to the floor.

  “All in there, Gina. I’ll take your bag when I go. Dad says hi, by the way, and when are you going to come over for that shoe fitting. Red leather, with a stacked heel, just like you ordered.”

  “I’ll be over soon. Did you have any trouble?”

  Angelo grinned. “Nada. Place is so quiet—”

  “—it’s like a morgue. I know. That’s getting old, sweetie.”

  He sat back. “No worries anyway. I’ll manage the switch.”

  I nodded toward the coffee counter. “You want anything?”

  Angelo shook his head. He had thick curls like the kind you see on those chubby angel drawings that seem to be everywhere. “Nah. Can’t sleep if I have caffeine at night. Besides, I’m just on a break. Gotta get back to the morgue.”

  I took a sip of coffee.

  “You know why he got hit?”

  Angelo frowned and leaned forward. “Heard he slashed a hooker. I think he got too dangerous to keep around, and the New York people wanted him done out of the city. It wasn’t us.”

  I was thoughtful. That’s what Uncle Vince had told me this morning. It wasn’t us. Perhaps he knew I needed to hear it from someone else. Or perhaps it was even true.

  “Come around to this side and give me a hug,” I said. “Then you can pick up my bag.”

  Angelo got up and did that.

  “Give my love to Aunt Vera,” I whispered.

  “Done,” he said, and was gone.

  I waited two minutes to finish the coffee, picked up Angelo’s bag and went home.

  In the privacy of my study, I took the dead guy’s shoes out of the bag. Angelo would be taking a nearly identical pair back to the morgue.

  I placed the shoes on the worktable. A special screwdriver helped me to disconnect the heel of one shoe from the body. The cavity was packed with stuffing to keep the contents from rattling. I carefully removed everything and counted.

  Seven gemstones lay on the tabletop. Two were over two carats, and one was a beaut. A stunning pear-shaped sapphire, at least ten carats in weight. I looked through my loupe to see that it didn’t disappoint—no visible inclusions.

  They might strip-search you when coming through customs, but they don’t usually take apart your shoes.

  Which is a good thing, because we have a thing for shoes in our family.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sammy the String Bean phoned at dawn. Sammy is Vince’s Jewish cousin and skinny sidekick. Yes, we can buy both our salami and mortadella wholesale in this family.

  “We got a problem,” he said.

  I groaned. I hate it when they say “we,” especially—dammit—before seven in the morning.

  “Those rocks? They weren’t supposed to come to us.”

  “You gotta be kidding.” I was sitting up in bed now, wide awake.

  “Vinnie says so. The Battalias in Buffalo? They were the pickup. ’Cept they didn’t.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Okay, I was miffed now. At least three hundred g’s of hot rocks on my hands, and they weren’t even mine. Well, of course they weren’t mine…I mean, I wasn’t supposed to have them. They weren’t mine and I wasn’t supposed to have them.

  “Joey—the Battalias’ pickup stooge—went awol. Got crazy with a dame he met in a bar in North Tonawanda—where do they get these names? Anyway, Joey didn’t show, so Tony just carried on with the next part of the assignment, which was to meet with us. So the shoes came over the border with him.”

  I took a breath.

  “He didn’t know what was in the shoe? Why?”

  “’Cause they don’t—didn’t—trust the knob with knowing things like that. Not a rocket scientist. They just tell him to wear the shoes, and go visit whoever.”

  “Whomever,” I said automatically. I didn’t bother to correct the tense.

  “You got it.” Sammy agreed. “And we weren’t the who.” He snickered. It sounded like a donkey with laryngitis. “Hey, The Who—get it? We’re not The Who.”

  Sammy is an acquired taste.

  I was out of bed now, looking out the window. Bright sunshine filtered through the smog. I could see smoke plumes rising from the steel plants off in the distance. Hamilton does it best.


  “So what does Vince want me to do?” I asked.

  “Go to Buffalo. We’re making the link with the Battalias now.”

  “Drive or fly?”

  “Drive. You know—go shopping or something. Women stuff. Border cops believe that crap.”

  “Bugger,” I muttered. This was not part of my plan for the day. Actually, it wasn’t part of the plan for my life. I decided to remind Sammy.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Not doing it,” I said firmly. “This wasn’t part of the deal, remember? I came back to run the jewelry store and do appraisals when called upon. That was the deal. Not running courier, or playing Mata Hari, or anything else to do with the other business interests you and Vince have. I’m through with that. It’s why I left in the first place.”

  There was silence. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator two rooms away.

  “Sammy?”

  “I heard you. I remember.”

  He ought to. I’d only been back for a year. And it took them two months to find me, and another seven to sweet-talk me back.

  More silence. A whole lot more, in fact. I’m not good at silence. So I said, “I don’t owe you anything. You got what you wanted. I came back. I’m looking after the store. Clients respect me.”

  More silence. I can’t abide silence. “Did you hear me, Sammy?”

  “Yeah. Gotta go.” He hung up.

  I stared at the wall for a moment, holding my breath. Then I let out the air with a whoosh. Well, that’s that, then. I was feeling pretty proud of myself. First time I ever said no to them. This was a historic day. Damn, I was hot.

  Then why was I so uneasy?

  The phone rang in my hand. I looked down. Different number.

  I put it down on the bed. Paced the room. Waited until all eight rings were done (exactly eight—Uncle Vince always counts).

  No more. I wasn’t going to be pushed around anymore. I marched to the bathroom, grabbed a hairbrush and started massacring my hair. I yanked the brush through the unruly curls until they got caught. Then I yanked some more.

  They knew the rules. They knew I wasn’t playing the game—not that game, or any game! And unless it was something really important, life-threatening, in fact—