by Jance, J. A.
“You read Harry Potter?” she asked.
Dave rolled his eyes. “I’ve got kids, don’t I? Now, are you coming to dinner or not?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere no one will expect to find you,” he said. “Denny’s. And don’t give me any grief about it. After forking over a fortune in tips this afternoon, it’s the best I can do.”
“Are you kidding?” Ali asked. “If you’re offering a Grand Slam, I’m there.”
{ CHAPTER 10 }
In the months Ali had been back home in Sedona, she had become reacquainted with the small-town intimacy of the Sugar Loaf Café. Now she found herself disappearing in the bustling anonymity of a corporate-run restaurant. The colorful, multipage plastic menus were the same everywhere. So was the food. The meal Ali ordered was good, but it didn’t come close to measuring up to one of Bob Larson’s.
“Victor thinks you should leave,” Ali told Dave over dinner. “You and Mom both. He’s afraid that having you poking around will somehow ‘muddy the waters.’”
“Tough,” Dave Holman replied. “I don’t like Victor. Victor doesn’t like me. That makes us even. I have three weeks of vacation coming. I called the office this afternoon and told Sheriff Maxwell I’m taking ’em. I’m here for the duration. And if things get settled sooner than that, I’ll camp out over at Lake Havasu and visit with my kids.”
“How are they doing?” Ali asked.
While Dave had been off serving in Iraq with his reserve unit, Roxanne, his now former wife, had taken up with a sleazy timeshare salesman. Months earlier, when the new husband had been transferred to Lake Havasu, Roxanne had moved, taking Dave’s kids with her. He had been devastated.
“Medium,” Dave replied glumly. “Gary, the cretin, lost his job. Got caught in some kind of corporate hanky-panky. Roxie didn’t tell me any of the gory details, and I’m probably better off not knowing. The thing is, Gary is currently unemployed, and they may end up having to move again. I’m not sure where—Vegas, maybe. The kids are sick about it. So am I.”
“Have you thought about taking Roxie back to court and trying to get custody?” Ali asked.
Dave shook his head. “Are you kidding? I’m a man. I’ve got about as much chance of winning a custody fight as I do of winning at Powerball. And since I never buy a lotto ticket, that’s not likely to happen. But let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about you.”
“What about me?”
“This is serious, Ali. Really serious.”
“Victor has already pointed that out,” Ali responded. “Several different times. And it could be serious for you, too. Earlier the LAPD cops were asking a lot of questions about you. So was Victor, for that matter.”
“Screw Victor,” Dave said. “But it makes sense. If the cops are looking for you to have an accomplice, then I could be a likely subject. Who better than a renegade homicide detective to figure out a way to cover up a murder?”
“So what do we do?” Ali asked.
“We fight back.”
“But you can’t do that, can you? You’re a cop.”
He smiled grimly. “You’d be surprised at what I can do. What did you tell the two homicide dicks?”
“I told them exactly what happened, that you and Mom and I were all together at the hotel this afternoon, right up until we went over to the house and found Monique at the bottom of the staircase. I got the impression that they were going to go check out the hotel’s security tapes to see whether or not I was telling the truth about my comings and goings.”
“Did they tell you what time Monique took her header?” Dave asked.
“No. Why?”
“Because she may have been on the floor for a long time before we found her. If she fell before I got to the hotel, we could still have a problem on that score.”
“Is there any way to find out?” Ali asked.
“Officially, no,” Dave replied. “Unofficially, maybe. I’m assuming they asked you who all was at the house today.”
Ali nodded.
“You’d better tell me, too, then,” he said. “Give me the whole list. As far as I’m concerned, it’s time we started running our own parallel investigation.”
“But—” Ali began.
“Victor Angeleri is looking out for you,” Dave said, “but the man is being paid good money to look out for you. Nobody’s paying my freight. I’m the one who has to look out for me. If you don’t want to have anything to do with this, fine. I’ll do it on my own.”
“What do you need exactly?”
“I need you to tell me whatever you told them. In detail.”
Knowing she had been leaving April’s room for the night, Ali had dragged her computer along with her when she headed out. Now, at Ali’s request, Dave went out to his Nissan and retrieved Ali’s laptop. For the next hour or so, Ali told the story one more time, using her air-card network to pluck appropriate telephone numbers and addresses off the Internet. Dave’s method was far more low-tech. He jotted his notes expertly on a series of paper napkins, including the part about her close encounter with the boulder.
“You’re sure it was an accident?” Dave wanted to know.
“I think it was an accident,” Ali told him. “It looked like an accident, but with everything else that’s gone on…”
“We’d better check it out,” Dave said.
When they finally finished the grueling process, Ali was a rag. “I’ve got to go back to the hotel,” she said. “It’s time.”
By then it was late enough and the lobby deserted enough that Ali risked venturing in through the front door. Upstairs, walking toward her room on what was posted as a nonsmoking floor, she was surprised to find the corridor reeking of cigarette smoke. She was tempted to call back down to the lobby to complain, but then she thought better of it. The last thing April or Edie needed was someone from hotel security pounding on doors and waking everybody up.
Inside the room, Ali found that her mother hadn’t bothered to close the blackout curtains. Even without turning on a light, there was plenty of illumination for Ali to find her way around the room. Her mother was sound asleep, clinging to the far side of the single king-sized bed. Ali undressed and climbed in on the other side. By the time her head hit the pillow, she was asleep. She awakened to the click of the door lock and the smell of coffee as Edie let herself back into the room. A glance at the clock told Ali it was past seven.
“Sorry to wake you,” her mother apologized. “I’ve been up since four, and I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to go downstairs to get some coffee and the newspapers.”
She unloaded two paper cups and a stack of newspapers onto the coffee table while Ali got up and staggered into the bathroom.
“You must have gotten home late,” Edie observed over the top of a newspaper when Ali emerged.
“Dave took me to Denny’s for dinner,” Ali answered. “And you’re right. It was late when I got home. Anything in the paper?”
“Lots,” Edie replied. “Help yourself.”
Ali settled onto the couch and picked up one of the other papers where Monique Ragsdale’s death, under suspicious circumstances, was front-page news. Her relationship to network executive Paul Grayson, who had been murdered two days earlier, was laid out in tabloid-worthy detail. The cops were cagey. The public information officer mentioned that detectives had identified several people of interest in the case but that no arrests had been made at this time.
Edie was evidently reading something similar. “I’m assuming you’re one of the ‘persons of interest’?”
“Who else?” Ali responded. She said nothing more.
When the first cup of coffee was gone, she called room service and ordered breakfast for two along with more coffee—a full pot this time. Then, with Edie still preoccupied with the hard-copy newspapers, Ali booted up her computer.
Dear Babe,
My name is Adele Richardson. I used to watch you when you were on the news here in L.A. and I’ve be
en a fan of cutlooseblog.com from the time you started it. And I’m sure you know the reason. Something very similar happened to me. Not the job thing but a very similar marriage disaster. Over the months I’ve admired the way you’ve picked yourself up and gone on, reaching out to help others along the way. In fact, I think it’s safe to say that you’re one of my heroes. And, because of you, I’ve started reading other blogs as well. Who knows? Maybe you’ve turned me into an addict. Are there twelve-step programs for people addicted to reading blogs?
Anyway, I read your last post and I’m smart enough to read between the lines. As long as you’re caught up in any kind of legal proceedings, I’m sure your attorney won’t let you do any posting. But I’m also selfish enough to miss having cutloose as part of my morning routine. So I’m writing to you today with a proposition. Maybe you’ll think I’m being too forward. If so, all you have to do is press the delete button.
I was a journalism major in college. Then, during my senior year, I got engaged and realized that for me, marriage and kids and a career in journalism just wasn’t going to work, so I switched over to elementary education. I’ve been teaching third grade in Escondido for the past fifteen years. It turns out that marriage and elementary education didn’t work out very well, either, but how was I to know?
So here’s the nervy part. Unlike you, I’m not famous, but I am a survivor. My husband ended up getting caught up in online gambling. We lost everything, including the house, our savings, and most of my retirement account as well. I’m divorced now. Slowly but surely I’m rebuilding my life—just as you’re rebuilding yours.
Sometimes one of the bloggers I read needs to take a break to go on vacation or to have a baby or even because there’s some kind of health crisis. A lot of the time, they just put their blog on hiatus for a while and then go back to writing it when they’re good and ready. Others invite guest bloggers to sit in and take over for them in the meantime. That way, regular readers don’t get out of the habit of checking the site every day.
And that’s why I’m writing to you today—to see if you’d like me to be your guest blogger for the next little while—until you’re able to come back. Yes, I suppose I could just kick over the traces and start my own blog, but I’ve followed what you do on cutloose, and I’d really like to make a contribution and help you.
I’m assuming you can see from this that I’m not exactly illiterate. From reading your blogs, I know we share similar opinions on many issues, although you probably can’t tell that from what I’ve written here. (I do have an unfair advantage, since, through reading your columns, I know you far better than you know me.)
You don’t have to answer right now. In fact, you don’t have to answer at all, but if you’d like to have me do a couple of sample blog postings for you, I’d be glad to audition. Let me know.
ADELE RICHARDSON, AKA LEDA
Ali was touched by Adele’s offer. She was also provoked by it. Based on Victor’s advice, she had announced she was putting cutloose aside for the time being, and Adele was responding to that in a kind and supportive fashion. But included in that kindness was an implicit agreement with Victor’s take on things—that Ali Reynolds needed to sit down and shut up. This morning that didn’t seem likely.
Dear Adele/Leda,
Thank you for your kind offer. I’ve been rethinking my position. In the past I’ve used cutloose as a way of responding to and dealing with events that were going on in my life at the time. As you so correctly pointed out, the legal ramifications occurring in my life right now make that difficult since there are things happening—the things that are most important to me—that I won’t be able to discuss. But I don’t think I can walk away from cutloose entirely.
From your note, I see you have an interesting perspective about having had your life blow up and figuring out a way to move on afterward. And that’s the whole point of cutlooseblog.com—to support women who find themselves in those difficult circumstances. So do send me your comments, and I’ll be glad to post them, but for right now, cutloose is back in business, and I’d better go to work.
BABE
About then room service showed up. Edie let the waiter and his serving cart into the room. “Shall I see if April’s ready for breakfast?” Edie asked.
Ali had ordered a fruit plate along with a basket of pastries. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty,” she said.
Edie bustled off down the hall. She returned a few minutes later with a puffy-eyed April in tow. Her hair was in disarray, and she was wrapped in a terry-cloth robe that once again didn’t quite cover her middle. The faint odor of cigarette smoke entered the room when April did.
“Thanks for waking me,” she said, helping herself to a coffee cup and a plate of pastries. “The baby was jumping around all night. I hardly got any sleep at all, but now I’m starving.”
April had been starving the day before, too. Ali remembered how, while she was pregnant with Chris, she’d also been hungry all the time. “Help yourself,” she said.
Settling into the room’s only armchair, April set her coffee on a nearby end table and perched a loaded plate on her belly. “The cops said I won’t be able to go back to the house until they’re done with it,” she announced, buttering a blueberry muffin. “They say it’s a crime scene. I thought Mom just fell down the stairs, but they’re thinking she was pushed.”
Ali simply nodded.
“One of my friends, Cindy, runs a shop called Motherhood in Bloom,” April continued. “I thought I’d call her later this morning to see if she can bring some stuff by here—underwear, bras, and some new maternity clothes. I’ve got to have something to wear. And what about colors? I don’t have anything in black. Or should I wear navy? Would that be better?”
Ali and her mother exchanged glances. As far as Ali was concerned, April’s preoccupation with her wardrobe seemed very cold-blooded. Edie was the one who answered. “For the services, you mean?” she asked.
April nodded. “And for interviews, too,” she said. “Last night at the hospital I happened to run into someone named Sheila Rosenburg. She wants to set up an interview with me.”
Happened to run into her? Ali thought. That was no accident. “An interview for Court TV?” she asked.
April nodded again. “You know Sheila then?”
Ali had flat-out refused Sheila Rosenburg’s offer of an interview, and she hoped April would do the same, but it wasn’t Ali’s place to tell her so. It’s April’s decision, not mine, she reminded herself.
“I know of Sheila Rosenburg,” Ali answered aloud, “but I don’t know her personally. I’m concerned that she’ll try to turn your mother’s death and Paul’s into some kind of media circus.”
April seemed unconcerned. “Some people pay for interviews,” April replied, reaching for another pastry. “And she said she knew of an author who might be able to get me a book contract—you know, so I can write about all this while it’s going on, sort of like a diary or a journal. She said people are really interested in true crime. It might even end up being a bestseller. I wouldn’t have to do the actual writing, either, since I’m not that good at it. My name would be on the cover of the book, but the publisher would hire somebody else to do that part of it, a ghostwriter, she called it.”
Ali was appalled. Shocked and appalled, but her mother was the one who spoke up.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Edie asked. “I know this is all happening to you, April, but it’s also happening to your baby. It’s going to be part of Sonia Marie’s history, too. Do you want to bring a child into the world with that kind of notoriety?”
It’s also happening to me, Ali thought, but there didn’t seem to be any point in mentioning it. April was totally absorbed in her own concerns.
“Maybe not,” April agreed, “but I think I’m going to need the money.”
“Surely we’ll be able to work something out so you won’t have to lay all our lives bare for the world to see,” Ali said.
�
��I hope so,” April said. She stood up. “I’d better go make that call. Those detectives said they’d be by to see me later this morning, too. I’d like to have some clean clothes to wear before they get here.”
April went out and closed the door behind her.
“Whoa!” Edie Larson said. “That girl is a lot tougher than she looks.”
Ali nodded. “Maybe she’s a chip off her mother’s block.”
“And smoking while she’s pregnant?” Edie shook her head.
At that juncture Edie’s cell phone rang with a call from Bob Larson back in Sedona. While Edie brought her husband up to date, Ali’s phone rang, too. It was Chris.
“Sorry I was so cranky last night,” he said. “I felt like you were leaving me out of everything.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said.
“So do you want me to come out there or not?”
“Not right now,” she said. “I’ll probably need you to come over later, but for now I think Grandma and I have things under control.”
“All right then,” he said. “But remember, keep me posted.”
Edie was still chatting on the phone, so Ali returned to her computer.
Ms. Reynolds,
You fired my uncle yesterday without giving him even so much as a day’s notice much less two weeks. And then you have the gall to say you have no idea what you could have done or whether or not you should apologize? How dare you?
ANDREA MORALES
But I didn’t fire anyone, Ali thought. What the hell is this woman raving about?
Then, sitting staring at the words on the computer screen, Ali had a sudden flash of memory. She remembered coming home late one night to find the house alive with the smells of cooking meat and masa. Following her nose and the sound of voices and laughter to the brightly lit kitchen, Ali had found Elvira and several others, women and girls both, clustered in the kitchen busily making dozens of tamales in advance of Paul’s annual Cinco de Mayo celebration. One of the women had been Jesus Sanchez’s wife, Clemencia. Had one of those girls been his niece, perhaps? Ali had a dim memory that one of them had been named Andrea, but she wasn’t sure.