Page 28 of The White Picket Fence

“Not much,” Vito admitted. “The killer of the shop owners used a gun with a silencer, and Mrs. Johnson’s attacker didn’t. We never considered that the cases could be connected. I’m still far from convinced that they are, but we need to at least explore the possibility.”

“Especially since we have a sketch of Mrs. J’s attacker,” Tino said. “I sent it to Nick last night.”

Vito nodded. “He sent it to me while you were driving over. Mrs. Johnson’s sketch and the one you did based on the neighbor’s eyewitness account. You didn’t recognize him, Charlotte?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I didn’t. I mean... To be honest, I was just concerned with whether or not he was the same man who attacked me. I can look again.”

“Not right now,” Vito said. “Tell me about your relationships with the victims on your street.”

“Well, there’s Mr. Lewis who runs the convenience store. He’s the one who’s in critical condition.” She grimaced. “But you know that already. Sorry.”

“Charlotte,” Sophie said quietly. “Breathe. We’re here to help you and nothing more. If you need to ramble, my husband will deal. He’s used to it, because I ramble when I’m stressed, too.”

Charlotte sucked in a desperate breath and let it out. “Okay. Mr. Lewis isn’t usually on night duty at the store, but he was that night. His regular night clerk was sick. He’s a nice man, and I hate that this happened to him and his family. They’re just trying to make a living. And if this is connected to me...”

“If it is, it’s still not your fault,” Vito said firmly. “It’s the fault of whoever shot him. Did you know him well?”

“Not that well, no. We were acquaintances, mainly. I know his wife better. But I know he likes hockey and football and that he’s so proud of his children. He works hard to give them a good life. He talks about them to whoever will listen.”

“And you listened?” Vito asked.

“I did. I was new in the neighborhood and he made me feel welcome. Told me where to get the best pizza and where to get my dry cleaning done.” She stopped abruptly. “They pushed each other’s businesses. The three of them kept business cards and posted flyers for the others’ stores.”

“Just those three?” Sophie asked. “Or did they push the other businesses on the street, too?”

“Just those three. They were friends. Mr. Lewis in the corner store, Mr. Lombardi who owned the pizza place, and Mrs. Fadil who owned the dry cleaner’s. If I asked about a certain service, like fresh flowers, they’d name a few places, but there was no feeling behind it, no real recommendation.”

“Interesting,” Vito murmured. “Nobody’s brought that up yet.”

“I’m new to the neighborhood,” Charlotte said. “Maybe the people you talked to had been there long enough that they didn’t remember.”

“Possibly. Go back to what you know about the victims, please.”

“Mr. Lombardi’s sons worked for him, all but the youngest. Mr. Lombardi said he was okay with it, that his son was following his dreams, but he was worried about him. The son’s a schoolteacher in one of the more...troubled schools.”

“He was afraid his son would be hurt,” Sophie said.

Charlotte nodded sadly. “Mr. Lombardi was terrified there would be a school shooting. But then he himself got shot.” She dabbed at her wet eyes with a tissue. “Sorry. I really liked him. He was jolly, with a big laugh, and he always had a smile for me. The neighborhood won’t be the same without him.”

“And Mrs. Fadil?” Vito asked.

“She was an American citizen. She was so proud of that. Had a flag on the wall and everything. The first time I took my clothes to her store, she told me that she’d gotten her citizenship fifteen years ago. Told me about building the business with her husband, who died a few years ago. Cancer. She told me about her children and her grandchildren, who all live in or around Philly. She told me about her parents, who still live in Morocco. We talked a lot about cooking. When I told her I knew how to cook with a tagine and owned three of them, she came around the counter and hugged me. Then she gave me her mother’s recipe for kefta. I made it that evening and...” Her voice broke. “I took her some.”

“You knew them all quite well,” Vito said, sounding surprised.

“I just listened. All three of them were friendly and I...I just listened.”

“No ‘just’ about it,” Sophie said. “Not everyone listens.”

Charlotte wiped her eyes. “I guess I was lonely. I came back home, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing was really the same. I think they knew — the three storeowners — that I needed the connection.”

“When did you come back? And why?” Vito asked, but there was no accusation in his tone.

Tino would have put a stop to it if there had been.

“I came back about six months ago. I got out of the hospital in Memphis and I couldn’t sleep in my bed. Literally.” She glanced at Tino. “The man who attacked me had destroyed the mattress and punched holes in the wall.”

“Sonofabitch,” Tino muttered. “I’m sorry.”

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