“Eye for eye and tooth for tooth is Old Testament,” I said to Vincent Ricci, the reputed head of Rhode Island’s underworld.  “With Christ we live under a new covenant, and we are admonished to seek justice, not revenge.  It’s part of his teachings in that Love thy neighbor commandment.”

“Basta!”

I looked to my friend Richard.

“It means enough.”

This time, Vincent pointed his finger at me.  Whoops!  I suppose I had gone too far.

“I gave my word not to start a mess that could put everyone in danger,” Vincent said.  “But I can’t speak for this lunatic.  He murdered a completely innocent and trusting woman.  That makes me more uneasy than you know.  In my business, any trouble is always business related, always.  Anyone who knows me knows this.  Taking out my wife isn’t business.  It’s personal or it’s warped beyond simple understanding.  I need time to find out whether it’s personal or warped.  I need help to . . .”

Screams rent the air and Vincent jumped to his feet.  He jerked his head to Tiny, who put his hand in his pocket and dashed from the room.  I had a suspicion Tiny wasn’t looking for his handkerchief. . . .

We practically crashed into him at the door to the kitchen, but he quickly stepped aside and then went to the back door, blocking it with his height and bulk.  This was my third face-to-face encounter with pure evil.

A young girl sprawled half on and half off a chair, as if she had jerked backward with great force before she toppled.  There was spittle on her lips, which were curved into a grotesque grimace, and some vomit on the bodice of her modest grey dress.  She looked un-corseted, yet wore tiny pearl earrings stuck into her lobes and a small pearl and gold cross at her neck.  Her blond hair was pulled back into a bun covered with a delicately crocheted net.  Her hands . . . one was clutched around the table cloth, the other at her bodice.  The nails were clipped in a rounded arc.  They were shiny, but not polished.  She was obviously working as a maid or kitchen helper, but from her jewelry and the way she took care of her nails I wondered if that’s what she truly was.

Most of all, I wondered who she was. . . .

When I gave more attention to the others, Monsignor Grace was taking out his extreme unction kit.  He handed the small candle to Mother Frances, who lit it as he unfolded his stole, kissed it, hung it around his neck, and made the sign of the cross before starting the prayers for the dead.  As he and Mother Frances worked, Josiah checked the girl’s pulse, and looked up, shaking his head.  Winnie bent to close the poor girl’s eyes, and seemed surprised at something.  She sniffed, and sniffed again, then motioned to me to come closer.

In a very low tone, she asked, “Do you smell that?”

“Tea and vomit,” I whispered.

“Not that.  The other.”

I sniffed away from the vomit, near the girl’s ear, whispering, “Almonds?  There were candy almonds on the table during dessert.”

“Not candy.  Something just underneath the tea.  Try again.”

It was there, that acrid smell that reminded me of my grandmother’s penchant for lapsong oolong and something else, something like . . .  “Smells like pits that have been left out too long after a day canning peaches.”

“That’s it.  Not everyone can smell it.  But many women can.  Cyanide.  Probably from rat poison.”

2009, Barbara Cummings