Table of Contents
Title Page
Praise for Rebecca Grace and…
Blues at 11
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
A word about the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
“Someone needs to find the killer. What if he’s after me too? Think about Lindy’s accident. She was driving my car. The hit and run driver might have been after me.”
Hank waved an impatient hand. “From what I’ve heard, she was driving too fast and may have been racing the other car.”
“She told me she was careful.”
“You think she’d tell the truth if she was racing? Look, I would appreciate it if you hired a PI and left my dad out of this.”
“All you’re worried about is looking bad for your mayor and rich people like the Brookings family. I’m sure they’ll give you a nice contribution to your next campaign for providing personal attention.”
“I am not elected,” he said through gritted teeth.
“But you are worried about your job and appearances. Isn’t that why you were making such a big deal out of my ‘security arrangement’ with your dad?” It was my turn to hold up the quote fingers.
The coldness that grew in his eyes was like an approaching glacier. “Look, I know what's happening. You’re doing your normal Kimberly crap.”
His harsh words smacked into me like a slap of hard wind to my face. “My what?”
He unloaded on me with the force of a blizzard. “You’re a pampered princess who is so damned used to getting your own way that you can’t handle it when the real world invades your private fantasy life! Well, it’s here, lady, and it’s real. But I won’t stand by and let you hurt my father by getting him involved.”
Praise for Rebecca Grace and…
SHADOWS FROM THE PAST
“Mystery and romance come together in this hauntingly beautiful tale of love and hope… I recommend this to fans of mystery/suspense with an unforgettable love story.”
~The Romance Reviews (4 Stars)
“SHADOWS FROM THE PAST is a great story that pulled me in immediately. It’s haunting, suspenseful and enjoyable. Rebecca Grace has created a thrilling ride with this story. I had no idea what I would find out next… If you’re a fan of romantic suspense, SHADOWS FROM THE PAST is top notch!”
~Siren Book Reviews (5 Stones)
“SHADOWS FROM THE PAST is an enjoyable read… a good story. I recommend it for people who like a little mystery and suspense in their story…”
~Sizzling Hot Book Reviews
DEADLY MESSAGES
“The action and suspense in this book will truly keep you on your toes. A roller-coaster ride of scenes set the stages as Mitch and Connie come together to find out whether they are hunting for one killer or two. A romance blossoms and they learn to rely on each other. A very balanced narrative combined with a solid mystery make this a must read!”
~Rt Book Reviews (4 Stars)
Blues at 11
by
Rebecca Grace
The Blues Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Blues at 11
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Rebecca G. Martinez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-721-4
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-722-1
The Blues Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my family and my friends in TV news business—and no, this is not based on anyone I know.
Chapter One
Saturday afternoon
“Rick Wells needs to die.”
When I made that pronouncement to my best friend Delia Lindsay while sitting at the Geneva bar on a Saturday afternoon, I had no idea how much I would regret saying those words. It seemed like a good idea. Later I wanted to go back and swallow that comment quicker than the martinis I guzzled. As television anchor Kimberly delaGarza, I made factual statements all the time. This was pure commentary.
I punctuated my proclamation by piercing the air with the plastic pink spear from my martini. “If I had a full-sized one of these, I’d run it through the prick. Damn lying weasel.”
“Awfully messy, all that blood.” Delia shook her brassy blonde curls. She twisted red lips, puffy from a recent collagen injection. “I wouldn’t want him bleeding all over my new imported rugs.”
I dropped my plastic weapon. Blood didn’t appeal to me either. “Good point.”
Delia and I sat at the end of the black marble bar, partaking in our once-a-month martini ritual. Halfway between my beach-front townhouse in the south bay city of Mira Loma and Delia’s rambling mountainside mansion in Malibu, Geneva offered a casual atmosphere and chic California cuisine served in an airy dining room or shaded patio. Delia and I seldom ventured beyond the bar with floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a breathtaking view of the Pacific Coast.
During the week, Geneva was a crowded lunch spot for Hollywood power players. On weekends, only locals visited before sunset. We sat alone at the bar. Two couples occupied separate tables near the windows.
I sipped my second drink, but I was in a mood to line ’em up and knock ’em back. My insides were wound tighter than a stopwatch. Thank goodness Delia let me vent my anger toward that ungrateful, lousy SOB.
“How about this?” I swirled the liquid at the bottom of my glass. “We shoot him in a dark alley and bury his body in the desert. There’s plenty of open land outside Palm Springs.”
“Too much work.” Delia studied her bright red nails. “All that lifting and digging.”
“Fuck!” I tossed back the rest of my drink and slammed the glass on the bar.
The loud crack caught the attention of a young bartender polishing glasses a few feet away. “Do you need another, Miss delaGarza?”
Even though we frequented Geneva, I didn’t know him. Felipe, the usual bartender, refilled our drinks before we re-ordered. This guy required Delia’s instructions to perfect our second round. Blond, blue-eyed and big shouldered, he resembled dozens of bartenders awaiting a call from Hollywood.
I hadn’t given my name, but the recognition didn’t surprise me. My face was plastered on billboards and buses from Santa Barbara to San Diego. “James Kent and Kimberly delaGarza, the TV8 news team you can trust at 6 and 11.”
Lifting my glass, I flashed my best anchor smile. “Why not?”
Delia patted my hand. “I’m paying today. You deserve special treatment.”
“Special” was what Rick Wells used to call me. Before last weekend. Before he transformed into a weasel by admitting he’d been seeing someone else. Someone half his age. My lips pressed together as my fists clenched. He’d broken up with me after ten years. Ten fucking years! For that, the jerk deserved to die, didn’t he?
My gaze caught sight of the ocean in the mirror behind the bar. It appeared to wink, ready to help. “Let’s rent a yacht and shove his sorry ass overboard. No body, no blood. We can feed the sharks.”
Delia cocked a waxed brow. She’d been listening to my tirades for the past week. She didn’t look surprised by this deadly turn in my thinking.
The bartender placed fresh martinis on the bar and Delia lifted her glass in a toast. Gold bracelets jangled against her tanned wrist. “To the end of Rick the Weasel.”
Sliding a fresh olive into my mouth, I nodded and bit it. After a couple of vicious chomps, I swallowed and flicked my hand as though swatting away a pesky fly. “Poof. Gone!”
The bartender hadn’t moved, watching me but giving no indication he’d heard our morbid conversation. “Is the drink okay?”
Delia took a sip and winked a cobalt eyelid. “Perfect! And keep them coming. We’re trying to decide the best way to kill a guy and get away with it.”
The towheaded bartender drew back as we burst into delirious giggles. “Why would you wanna kill someone? Miss delaGarza, you’re like, ya know, queen of L.A. news.”
I laughed harder. Today I felt like an evil queen.
“Boyfriend troubles.” Delia wrinkled her nose, made perfect by Dr. Chou in Beverly Hills. She looked from side to side, as though eavesdroppers lurked behind the potted plants. “Don’t tell anyone, but the Queen got dumped by her boyfriend.”
I glared at her. “Let’s tell the whole damn town.”
“You’re the one planning to kill him.”
I couldn’t face the bartender. I didn’t want to witness his attitude sliding from awe for the TV Queen to pity for an old lady dumped for a young chick. It happened all the time in L.A.
“What’s your name, kid?” Delia loved introducing herself to bartenders and waiters and bringing them into our conversations. Exactly what I didn’t want today.
“Toby. I’m filling in for Felipe.”
“Good to meet you, Toby. I’m Delia Lindsay and you know Kimmie.”
I sneaked a peek in his direction. To my surprise, his look of admiration hadn’t diminished. I rewarded him with a queenly smile. “It’s a pleasure meeting you. I hope you keep watching TV8.”
His head bobbed like an eager puppy. “I’m thinking of going into broadcasting. Maybe you can give me pointers.”
Ah, the real reason for his adoration. Ambition. Before I could respond, the outer door opened, drawing his attention.
I lifted my drink, wishing I could leap into the clear liquid and emerge devoid of feelings. The worst thing was I didn’t know what I felt—sadness, betrayal, hurt, anger? Emotions swirled inside me like a mixed drink.
We couldn’t kill Rick, but plotting his demise felt better than feeling sorry for myself. Rick claimed he was going to marry his Gen X or Gen Y babe. Whatever “Gen” she was, she wasn’t part of our “Gen”.
“I may be forty-three, but I look damn good in a short skirt.” I smoothed my thigh-high skirt, and stretched to show off my legs and new Dior sandals. Brushing away a drop of liquor that splashed onto my low-cut top, I studied the hint of cleavage visible over a rounded neckline. “And at least my boobs are real.”
I was getting wound up. Yanking off the Hermes’ scarf that held back my shoulder length hair, I tilted my head forward, shaking it. “This black hair is natural. Look for one damn white hair.”
“Calm down, babe. I’d give anything for your smooth skin and cheekbones that look so great on camera. I’ll bet you haven’t gained five pounds since college.”
I winked at her. “Dad’s tall, lean genes and Mom’s perfect skin. What can I say?”
“Bitch!” She slapped my arm in a playful gesture. “I could spend thousands and you’d still look better.”
Delia confessed to only the nose job and minor plastic surgery, but I suspected she had spent thousands. She just wouldn’t admit it.
“My point is that it’s all real.” I retied the scarf.
She eyed me over the top of her glass. “Be honest. You won’t miss Rick. You haven’t loved him in years.”
“Maybe not, but didn’t you hear? I’m Queen of L.A. TV. This is no way to treat a queen.”
“Unless you’re Henry the Eighth.”
I picked up a plastic pink saber and whacked at the air. “Off with his head.”
“Rick treated you like a queen. What about the jewelry he gave you? He doesn’t want anything back?”
My fingers toyed with his most recent gift—a gold pendant with diamonds forming two entwined hearts—one of a kind, according to the jeweler. “How could such a sweet prince turn into such a royal prick?”
“You know what your problem is?” She studied me as though I was a piece of flawed jewelry. “You don’t take life seriously. You see it as scenes from a movie.”
“I deal with reality at work. My personal life should be a fairy tale—peasant reporter rises from covering high speed chases and brush fires to anchor queen. It’s like a royal court adventure, where I destroy the young pretenders to my throne trying to stab me in the back. Paula’s gone, but now there’s Gwen, the latest Twinkie.”
Delia bowed her head. “I’m certain you will vanquish her, Your Anchor Highness.”
We laughed, but I did feel like a Queen. Royalty in designer suits with a three-story castle on the beach and a Mercedes convertible serving as my carriage. The Queen ruled from her anchor chair, bestowing millions of loyal viewing subjects with knowledge of the day’s events.
I swiveled on my barstool-throne. Beyond the windows, the afternoon sun painted golden slivers of light on the empty patio courtyard and turned the ocean into a glimmering spread of undulating azure crown jewels. What a magnificent June afternoon—the sort that made me glad I ruled in Southern California. A perfect day for the Queen to lick her wounds by planning the murder of that traitorous backstabber, Count Rick the Weasel.
When he was Rick the Debonair, he fit perfectly into my court. I smiled at Duchess Delia the Trustworthy. “You have to admit the jerk looked good in a tuxedo. He was a great date for parties.”
“He throws great parties. He should have planned events instead of buying that wine shop.”
I’d miss Rick’s parties. They provided the perfect opportunity to hold court—evenings filled with exotic fare and great wine from his personal stock.
“His final party for me was a doozy.” It sounded like a weekend fit for a queen—luxury hotel suite with ocean view, dinner by candlelight, a hot night in bed followed by a leisurely breakfast on the balcony. Then the party came to a crashing finale with one last proclamation: “I’ve found someone younger.”
Frustration washed through me as I drained my glass. How did these things disappear so quickly?
“You
need fresh tuxedo material.” Delia tapped a nail on the bar to get Toby’s attention before turning to me. “When was the last time you were without a guy?”
I couldn’t remember. I’d been dating since I became a teenager and my older sister’s boyfriends flirted with me.
“What about that guy you co-anchored with last month?” Delia asked. “Didn’t he send flowers?”
“Brad Singer? He sent them because I was helpful and professional.” I batted my eyes for effect but shook my head. “I don’t like the gossip that goes with dating coworkers.”
“What about that cop you were dating when you met Rick? Isn’t he still single?”
“I don’t know who you mean.” My pulse quickened but I hated that thoughts of him still made me react. Now there was a worthy king—except he preferred being a commoner.
“Don’t give me that! Suave as George Clooney, sexy as Brad Pitt. Built like a superhero. Want me to call and invite him to a party?”
“You’re going on your South American adventure next week. There’s no time for a party. Besides, I dumped him for Rick. I’m sure he’d love to hear the Weasel has now tossed me over.”
“Hank Patterson!” Delia waved her bejeweled fist in triumph. “Cute as hell in uniform. I bet he’d look fine in a tuxedo.”
“You wouldn’t catch Hank in a tuxedo, and he’s beyond uniforms. He’s chief of police in Mira Loma.” I ignored the warm surge that his name sent through me and changed the subject. “I’d rather see Rick in a tux stained with blood. Maybe I should spring for a hit man. Where do you find one? Hire-a-thug-dot-com, 1-800-killers?”
“I’m sure Walt knows shady characters. You should see the guys he brings to the house.”
Before I could pursue her comment about her husband’s friends, Toby arrived with fresh drinks. “I hope this is okay, Miss delaGarza.”
“I’m certain it is, Toby.”
He watched as I took a sip, eyes anxious.
“Perfect.” I winked at him.
Toby grinned and blushed like a thirteen-year-old page boy.
“Say, Toby, do you own a tuxedo?” Delia nudged my knee under the bar.
I shot her a fierce look. She’d been setting me up since we met as college freshmen. I’d never liked it.
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