“Stop it!” she screamed. “Let me out! What are you doing? Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

But the scratching didn’t stop, so Bennie started pounding with all of her might.

Alice found Bennie’s home office, dumped the cloth bag on the floor, and sat down at her laptop, switching on the desk lamp. She hit a key and the screen came to life, but it asked for a password. She thought a second. She had no idea what password Bennie used, and she didn’t know the name of the dog. She took a guess and typed in their mother’s name, Carmela.

INVALID PASSWORD.

She looked through the papers on the desk, but there was no list of passwords on a sheet of paper or random Post-it. The desk had file drawers on the right, and she opened the first, searched through manila folders stuffed with bills, bank statements, and legal papers, but found no passwords file. She went through the second drawer, but still no luck. She sat back in the chair, her gaze falling on an old-fashioned Rolodex. She flipped through the business cards, then on impulse, skipped ahead to P. The first card was handwritten, and at the top it read Passwords.

Bingo.

She skimmed down to Laptop, Home-2424bearmom. She typed it in and the screensaver appeared. She spotted Quicken, clicked it, and read the screen. USABank Household Account, USABank Business Account, and USABank 1717 Building Account. She skimmed the online registers as her heart beat a little faster. There were three major accounts with nine subaccounts, all at USABank. She logged on to the Internet, typed in USABank.com, and clicked Online Banking, but the page asked for her username and password. She went back to the Rolodex, looked up USABank, got the username Bennie Rosato and the password Bearly01, then went back to the bank’s site and plugged it in. She clicked onto the main page, where her gaze shot like a bullet to the balance.

Three million dollars and change.

She hadn’t known for sure that Bennie was a multi-millionaire, but she wasn’t surprised. She clicked on the first account, the Home account that was divided into Personal and Business, and checked the balance-$78,016. The second account, Rosato & Associates, had subaccounts titled Payroll, Expenses, and Travel & Entertainment, with a balance of $2,437,338. She clicked on the third account, 1717 Building, which she knew from the website was Bennie’s new office building. It had subaccounts entitled Rent, Expenses, and Miscellaneous, and the balance was $536,393. She checked the bottom of the page, for liabilities.

Zero. None. Nada. Zip.

She should have known as much. Bennie didn’t have a mortgage for the house or office building, nor loans of any kind, not even a home equity or car loan. Bennie played everything safe, so she wouldn’t carry a debt load if she could help it. Everything was bought and paid for, and the girl was a saver, which explained her wardrobe.

Alice considered the implications. All of Bennie’s money at USA-Bank was liquid, and the online transfer functions had been enabled, so any or all of the money could be transferred among the different accounts or out of the bank. She wouldn’t dream of doing it from a home laptop, not with assets this large, and she’d start tomorrow. She had a plan, which was to set up an offshore account and move the money to it, then leave the country. It would take a few days to accomplish, but she could impersonate Bennie for a day or two, until the jig was up.

She thought a minute. Bennie should have some stock and investment accounts elsewhere, or maybe T-bills and bonds. That money would be more difficult to convert to cash quickly enough, but she opened Outlook and skimmed Bennie’s email anyway. There was a note from someone named Sam Freminet, a friend on vacation in Maui, and Bill Pontius of Plexico Plastics, a client who needed to reschedule his deposition, and after the first twenty emails, Alice knew everything about Bennie’s work and personal life, emphasis on work. She couldn’t find anything from an investment house, another bank, or a stockbroker.

But she’d keep looking.

Mary would have been mortified when Fiorella announced she wanted to cast off Judy’s evil eye, but she knew that their friendship was strong enough to survive a family exorcism.

“Excuse me.” Fiorella glanced around the table. “Everyone but Judy must leave immediately.”

“Why?” Mary asked, surprised. Her mother never made anybody leave when she was casting off spells. That was the kind of professionalism that ran in the DiNunzio women.

“You must do as I say or I cannot help your friend.”

“Maybe we should forget this,” Judy said. “It’s just a little headache, a sinus thing. I’m fine.”

“No, you are not fine.” Fiorella shook her head. “I know better. Please, everyone, leave immediately.”

“Mary has to stay.” Judy clutched Mary’s arm. “I want her here.”

“She cannot.” Fiorella frowned. “Only you and I may be present.”

Mary said, “She’ll take her chances, and everybody else can wait in the living room.”

“I’ll be in the living room, no problem.” Anthony rose, but her father looked longingly at Mary’s mother, or more accurately, at the stove.

“CAN I GET A MEATBALL TO GO, VEET?”

“No, no, go! Come, Matty, Anthony, we go.” Her mother lowered the flame under the burners and wiped her hands hastily on her apron. It had taken her three hours to make homemade gnocchi, and now it would taste like wallpaper paste.

Fiorella raised a hand. “Vita, before you leave, bring me what I need.”

“Sì, sì.” Her mother hurried to the cabinet, extracted a white bowl, filled it with water, then placed it before Fiorella, who merely sniffed.

“Vita, the olive oil should have come first. Get me the olive oil.”

Judy shot Mary a look that said, Is she going to eat me?

“Mi dispiace, sorry, Donna Fiorella.” Her mother turned to a shelf over the oven, grabbed a big tin of Bertoli olive oil, and toted it to the table.

Fiorella frowned. “The olive oil must be the best.”

“Is all we have, Donna Fiorella.” Her mother’s hands fluttered to her chest. “Is all we use.”

“Leave, Vita.” Fiorella sighed heavily as her mother hurried from the kitchen. “Judy, place both hands on the table, with your palms down. Close your eyes. Mary, you, too.”

Judy obeyed, but Mary tilted her head down and watched as Fiorella picked up the olive oil and poured some into the bowl. The oil spread over the water, forming a map of Italy, but that could’ve been Mary’s imagination.

Fiorella said, “Judy, I’m preparing what I need to help you, but you must clear your head.”

“My head is-”

“Speak only when I tell you to. This is very important. Listen to me and clear your head.”

Judy clammed up, and Mary watched as Fiorella stabbed the water with her scary thumbnail and swirled the oil and water together, though they didn’t mix. They were like, well, oil and water.

“Now I will begin the prayer for you, for God to deliver you from the evil that threatens you.” Fiorella kept stirring the olive oil, making a culinary whirlpool. “I will say a secret prayer, known only to me. It will be in Italian, so you won’t understand it, but you are not meant to.”

Mary suppressed an eye-roll as Fiorella reached over the table, made the Sign of the Cross on Judy’s forehead, and began praying softly, in dialect. Then she seemed to notice a stain on her dress, below her breast, and kept praying as she reached for her napkin, dipped it in a glass of water, and swabbed at the stain. When she had finally blotted it dry, she stopped praying.

Mary frowned, disapproving. Fiorella couldn’t deliver a full-strength prayer if she was playing with her Armani. She wasn’t a witch queen, she was a designer fraud.