by Lee Strauss
As a teenager, the patio had been her favorite place to sit and have breakfast. It overlooked a tennis court, a huge flower garden that featured a terraced lawn with carefully manicured hedges, and a large kidney-shaped swimming pool with a beautiful stonework deck, which was surrounded by padded lounging chairs. Three tiled Mediterranean-style water fountains with the soothing sound of trickling water greeted her as she stepped outside into the warming air. The sun cast the whole scene with a golden filter.
Palm trees, planted in a border around the yard, swayed gently in the warm breeze. From the pool, one could enjoy a view of the town below and just beyond that, lay the Pacific Ocean, which sparkled in perfect blue in the early morning sunshine. Rosa felt a sense of contentment rush over her. It would be a gorgeous day.
Claiming a cedar wood pool lounger, Rosa took a sip of orange juice and, closing her eyes, felt the warmth of the sun on her face. After Aunt Louisa’s comment on her pale English skin, she was determined to get a tan, even if it meant an unleashing of freckles. She was glad she’d come to California and sighed contentedly.
Then as if a curtain were quickly drawn, the memory of the shocking turn of events from the night before returned. Her eyes snapped opened.
She must still be suffering from jet lag to have such a dramatic event slip her mind, or maybe her hunger pangs had taken her focus. A lady had died, which was tragic, but Rosa didn’t have the authority of WPC Reed in California. She had no investigative rights here, and she’d do herself a big favor by turning off her compulsion to butt in.
Not to mention how unsettling it had been to run into Miguel Belmonte. She and Miguel had lost touch after the war—despite initial promises to keep writing—and Rosa had thought he’d be living in his home city, Los Angeles. She’d never expected that he’d settled in Santa Bonita, and she certainly hadn’t known he’d joined the police force, much less made the rank of detective.
Rosa exhaled through pursed lips. None of this had occurred to her when she had impulsively flown to California.
“Hola, señorita!” Señora Gomez’s cheerful voice rang out across the garden.
Pulled out of her reverie, Rosa smiled at the familiar figure, older now, and rounder in the face and the hips. The Forrester family’s long-standing housekeeper had smooth brown skin, sparkling dark eyes, and long black hair now showing some gray and tied back in a bun. She carried a tray set with a small silver coffee urn and containers for cream and sugar, which she lowered onto the table next to Rosa.
“Buenos dias, señorita!”
“Buenos dias.”
The housekeeper’s gaze dropped to Rosa’s bowl of cereal sitting on the table. “I’m glad you enjoy my granola, Miss Rosa.”
“It’s the best.”
Señora Gomez cupped her hands at her waist and studied Rosa with an appraising look. “Look at you. Una mujer muy hermosa! A very beautiful woman! Si?”
Rosa laughed, well aware that her face was bare and her hair mussed and unbrushed.
Despite this, the housekeeper gushed, “Oh, señorita, you will have every young man in Santa Bonita at your command, no? So slender. Maybe too slender, no? No matter. Muy bien. I heard about what happened in London, you don’t worry about anything. I'll take care of you. My cooking has healed broken hearts before.” She gave Rosa’s cheek a pinch. Something she used to do often.
For a moment, Rosa felt fifteen again.
“Please enjoy your coffee, Miss Rosa. Mrs. Hartigan is on her way out to visit with you.” She smiled warmly, lifted Rosa’s empty granola bowl, then turned back towards the house.
Rosa took off her slippers and padded over to the pool, bent down to sit on the edge, and dipped her feet in the warm, clear water.
“Good morning, Rosa,” her grandmother said, her Bostonian accent filtering through. Rosa smiled over her shoulder toward the voice. Her grandmother, Sally Hartigan, had grown frailer over the last eleven years, but as a lady in her eighth decade, she still carried herself with a certain grace. Wearing a simple summer dress in a good-quality floral print cotton that hugged her ample bosom and the plump curves of her hips, she slowly made her way from the house to the pool area.
Rosa clasped the elderly woman’s wrinkled hand. “Did you sleep well, Grandma Sally?”
Rosa had mistakenly called Sally Hartigan ”Grandmother”, and had been firmly admonished and accused of being “thoroughly British”.
Sally Hartigan wasn’t Rosa’s grandmother by blood. She had been her maternal grandfather’s second wife, and stepmother to Rosa’s mother, Ginger.
“I slept. I'm getting old, of course, but that can’t be avoided.”
Rosa helped her get seated at the patio table and then sat across from her. Grandma Sally pursed her lined lips, and the wrinkles around her eyes deepened. “I’m desperately curious, you know, and I hope you’ve been here long enough that I’m not violating social protocol—I know how important that is to you Brits—but could you tell me what happened?”
About the death the night before? Rosa felt her expression crinkle in confusion. How was asking about that breaking protocol? Perhaps the elderly lady’s mind was slipping.
As if she could read Rosa’s mind, Grandma Sally snorted. “About your nuptials. I'm sorry I couldn’t make the journey to London, it’s a bit much for these old bones, but . . . can you tell me what happened?”
Rosa sighed, leaned back in her chair, and let her arms drop loosely on her lap. Oh, that.
Her grandmother didn’t seem to notice her obvious reluctance, or if she did, dismissed it out of hand. She pressed on, “It seemed like such a good match, you and that Lord Winston Eveleigh fellow. I mean, I know your mother had certain reservations bu—”
“My mother was right,” Rosa interrupted. “I should have taken more heed of her advice. I almost made a huge mistake, Grandma Sally. I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”
Disappointment flashed behind her grandmother’s watery blue eyes. “Of course.” She sat back, straightened as much as one with aged shoulders such as she had, could. “I understand, dear. Well, maybe time spent breathing in the Pacific air will help you put it all behind you.”
“I hope so.” Rosa felt bad about not giving her grandmother what she wanted. Perhaps she’d be enticed by a possible murder investigation.
“Did you hear about last night?”
Grandma Sally lowered her chin. “Louisa told me all about it when she got in. I couldn’t sleep, so I made the mistake of coming down into the kitchen just as she got home. She was upset. Terrible, just terrible. To think this kind of thing could happen in this little town. Now Boston, that’s a different story.” Grandma Sally’s gaze drifted to the distance, and the subtle smile that pulled on her wrinkled lips made Rosa believe the elderly lady had more fond memories of New England than not.
“I don’t really remember Aunt Louisa being involved in charity work when I was here last time,” Rosa said. Uncharitably, Rosa wouldn’t have pegged her aunt as the philanthropist type.
“Well, that was during the war, mind you. There were lots of other things going on. But yes, organizing charity drives has become a new passion of hers—unlikely as it sounds. Though they don’t seem to last long. There was the Santa Bonita Society for the Preservation of Animals which she raved about until a puppy peed in her lap at a rally.” Grandma Sally’s lined lips tugged up into a grin as she recalled the incident.
“Yes, that was the end of that. Then there was the Society for Santa Bonita Public Library, but that ended over a disagreement she had with the head librarian, Miss Cumberbatch.”
Rosa’s mind stuttered at Grandma Sally’s innocent mention of the local library. It was the one place in Santa Bonita that—despite Rosa’s love of reading and discovering intriguing bits of trivia—she’d vowed never to step foot into again. Her memories and emotions attached to that place and the park it nestled against were too strong, and she had Miguel to blame for that.
“… after t
hat, she took over as president of the local Rotary Club…”
Rosa blinked forcing her mind back to the present and on Grandma Sally’s recitation of Aunt Louisa’s trail of dissatisfying ventures.
“… until she resigned two years ago—she got offended by a remark someone made at a fundraising dinner. Then there was the United Way, and she was asked to leave after one year. I never did find out why. My daughter can be very closed-lipped when she wants to be.”
Rosa nodded politely.
“Now, this charity for Polio, which, as far as I understand, exists to raise money for polio victims. I can applaud Louisa’s desire to do some good in the world when she has all this money, but she does like to be the center of attention.”
Grandma Sally removed a handkerchief she had tucked in the cuff of one sleeve and dabbed at her eyes that watered in the brightness of the morning sun. “I always tell her to let some of it go. After she lost Harold, she immersed herself in his business affairs, so this passion for charities seems frivolous to me. Quite honestly, I don’t know what she’s trying to prove.”
Harold Forrester, Rosa’s uncle, had died during the war. Rosa remembered how distraught Aunt Louisa had been when she’d heard the news. She had had a hard time coming to grips with this tragedy. Besides the obvious heartache she suffered, it had also seemed inconceivable to her aunt that someone so rich and powerful would’ve been put in harm’s way, or could die.
Rosa poured a glass of orange juice for Sally Hartigan, who gave her a look of gratitude before drinking.
Her grandmother carefully set the glass on the table, then continued, “I hope I don’t sound callous. I understand the loss and emptiness a person can feel at the loss of a spouse. I lost my George long ago, back in 1923, and sometimes it feels like yesterday. But I didn’t try to be someone I wasn’t to forget him.”
Rosa had never met her grandfather. He died before her mother and father had even met, and he was rarely spoken about, though Rosa’s mother only had kind things to say when words were said about him.
“What was he like?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Grandpa Hartigan.”
Sally Hartigan’s eyes grew soft with remembering. “He was older than me by quite a bit. Twenty-five years, in fact, twice my age. Perhaps I missed my own father. He passed away when I was just a girl. I can’t really say why I was drawn to George, but I was. He was kind, intelligent, very good at business. Some accused me of marrying him for money, but that was only partly true. I loved him, dearly.”
Rosa blinked at Grandma Sally’s admitting she’d married George Hartigan for money, even in part. But, in those days, a woman had to do what she had to do to survive, Rosa supposed. She was glad to hear love had been part of the equation.
“I’m sorry he was taken from you so soon,” she said.
“It was a dreadful disease, and a horrible time watching him die a little every day. It was very hard on Louisa. Oh, she likes to act like she’s a terribly strong person. I think it was her way of coping with life without her father.”
Rosa felt honored that Grandma Sally was confiding in her in this way and determined to be a little easier on Aunt Louisa.
Grandma Sally moved to stand up, and Rosa rose to help her.
“Anyway,” Grandma Sally started, “I better get ready. We have a visitor coming soon.”
Rosa raised a brow. “Oh?”
“Yes, that young Latino police detective is apparently coming by this morning to talk about what happened last night and . . . oh, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
A rush of blood made Rosa feel off balance. Miguel was coming here? She blinked rapidly to regain her composure. “Um . . . I have to . . . I mean, it was nice chatting, Grandma Sally. I’ll see you later.”
Rosa darted back into the house, skirted the dining room, and ran up the wide staircase, puffing. She was quite out of breath when she reached her room. She had no makeup on, and her hair was a mess, and worst of all, she was still in her pajamas and her housecoat! Miguel was coming! As her mother liked to say, oh mercy!
4
Shortly after Rosa had arrived at Forrester mansion, one of the maids, Darla—Rosa was determined to learn all their names—had ironed and then hung her dresses in the built-in closet. They had only wooden wardrobes back home at Hartigan House. Though there were many similarities in the two large homes—entrances with high ceilings, large, curving staircases to the second floor, grand living rooms, dining rooms, morning rooms, and mature gardens, along with a full staff including housekeeper, cook, and gardener, there were many differences. Where Hartigan House was made of stone and had been standing for over a hundred years, the Forrester mansion was a newer wood-frame construct with a facade of white stucco. The gardens in England were typical for climates that enjoyed four seasons but lacked the dynamic and playful additions of palm trees and citrus plants.
None of these things was on Rosa’s mind which swirled in a state of irrational panic as she flipped through her dresses, unable to decide on what to wear to her first nonpublic encounter with Miguel.
Her heart raced. When she’d flown into Santa Bonita, she couldn’t stop the memories of her time spent here previously, which had included Miguel Belmonte, but she hadn’t anticipated seeing him again. He was supposed to be safely ensconced in Los Angeles.
Oh dear.
Mid-decade fashions for dresses were quite unified—some variation of a full skirt, a belted waist, and fitted bodice. The differences lay in the fabric, color, design, and type of sleeve—three-quarter length, capped, or without.
Rosa finally settled on a jade-green dress, no pattern, with matching green buttons that ran from her cleavage to the hem. A matching green belt brought the outfit together. It was simple, yet elegant, not too loud, but classy. And green always brought out the best in her eyes. Rosa brushed her hair and pulled it from her face with a hairband. Finally, she added tasteful pearl stud earrings and a pearl choker necklace.
Oh, did she look too sophisticated? Did this dress make her look older than her twenty-eight years? If only Gloria was awake, she’d get her advice. Staring at her image in the mirror, she chastised herself. She was overthinking this. Miguel wasn’t coming to take her on a date. He might not even want to see her.
She was overthinking this.
A knock on the door produced Aunt Louisa. “Good, you’re awake and dressed. That Mexican detective is here, asking questions about Florence.” She frowned. “For some reason, he wants to see you, though I can’t think why. You didn’t know Flo, and you’ve only just arrived.” Aunt Louisa’s right eye twitched. “Should I tell him you’re indisposed?”
Rosa wasn’t fooled. Aunt Louisa knew full well who Detective Belmonte was and was likely afraid to leave Rosa alone in the same room with him.
“I’m a trained police officer,” Rosa said, unnecessarily, “and I was one of the first at the scene.”
“It’s all rather moot, isn’t it?” Aunt Louisa said. “Flo drank too much and fell off the pier. It’s tragic but hardly unusual.”
“I’m sure he’s only after my professional impressions.”
Aunt Louisa narrowed her eyes suspiciously, then walked away. Rosa called after her, “Where is he?”
Her aunt spoke without looking back. “Front parlor.”
Rosa’s heart drummed in her chest most annoyingly. She felt like a schoolgirl being picked up for a prom, rather than a professional about to speak to another professional. Before she entered the front parlor, she put her shoulders back, took a deep fortifying breath, and told herself, “I’m Woman Police Constable Reed of the London Metropolitan Police. I’m confident and trained. I’m the daughter of Ginger Reed.”
Miguel sat on the sectional couch, his legs crossed, and his dark eyes studying a notebook. He wore a detective’s plainclothes uniform of trousers—or as she was now in America—pants and suit jacket, with a white shirt and blue tie. When he saw her, he stood, his hat in hand. Rosa and
Miguel stared at each for an awkward moment.
“Well, this is sure a surprise,” Miguel remarked. “How long has it been since you were last in Santa Bonita?”
Did he not remember? She, for one, would never forget. “Eleven years.”
Rosa wondered if he would offer his hand or perhaps an embrace between old friends, but the tear in their relationship was too ragged.
Rosa fanned out her skirt, sat down gracefully—the way her mother had taught her—and crossed her ankles to one side. Miguel stared as she did this, and then seeming to catch himself, he returned to his seat on the sofa.
He tipped his chin. “I’ve heard you’ve become a police officer too?”
“Yes. You might remember that my mother has an investigation agency in London. My father was a superintendent at Scotland Yard until his retirement, so I guess you could say the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence until Miguel cleared his throat and recited a short account of his history. “I entered the academy in Los Angeles a few months after the war, then worked as a patrol officer for some years. Later, when I was promoted to detective, I was transferred here to Santa Bonita.”
The air was thick with questions neither dared to ask, such as Did you marry? Are there children?
Miguel pulled at his collar to loosen his tie. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about yesterday?”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you see anyone you would call suspicious last night? I know you don’t know many people, but given your training, you may have noticed something. I should tell you that we are tentatively treating this death as suspicious. At least, until the official pathology report.”
“I may have noticed a few things,” Rosa said as Miguel opened his notebook again. “I witnessed a heated exchange between Shirley Philpott and Florence Adams not long before the body was found. I couldn’t hear what it was about, but it took place away from the main party. I did hear Florence yelling at the end of it. She said her drink was empty, and she needed more.”