Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “You’re well known, and we looked up the engagement announcement. His fiancée’s family is big money. What about going to your mom’s?”

  I’d called her while we waited for the search warrant, but she had seen the news.

  “Poor man. He could be so nice sometimes.” Her lukewarm reaction was no surprise. She’d labeled Rick self-centered and fake from the first. “Como them Ken dolls, pretty but plastic.”

  I shook my head. “I’d rather not put her in the line of media fire. She’d invite them in for cookies.”

  “And the rest of your family?”

  “My brother has a house full of kids and my sister and I have never been on good terms.” Nancy would think I deserved any bad thing that came my way. We’d been competitors from the moment her first boyfriend flirted with me.

  “So where to?” Reba asked.

  “Rodeo Drive. Those cops didn’t let me take anything but the clothes on my back and my wallet. I need makeup and clothes. I have no idea when I can get into my house or if I want to, given those TV trucks lined up outside. I refuse to be smuggled in and out.”

  “Unfortunately, I have to get to work.”

  “Then take me to the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. I can stay there, and they’ll get me a rental car.”

  Reba threw me a startled glance, but I met it squarely.

  “If I’m going to end up in the Big House, I’m living it up in the meantime.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sunday, 5:30 a.m.

  Waking up at dawn is unusual for me. Years of getting off work at midnight have made me a night owl. Maybe it was Rick’s untimely death.

  Or the thought of police prowling through my home, touching my things.

  Or the fact someone else was under my roof while I tossed and turned in a strange bed at the Four Seasons Hotel.

  Whatever the cause, I was awake. With a sigh, I rose and paced my suite like a caged tiger until the walls closed in. Jerking on the capris and sweater I’d bought at Neiman Marcus the previous day, I took an elevator to the lobby. A sleepy valet jerked to attention as I approached the door and made short work of getting my rental Jaguar.

  I had no idea where I was going, but the instant I turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard, I wanted to be at the beach. Rose-tinted clouds feathered the western sky above the dark gray of the ocean as I parked near Venice Beach. The area was deserted except for seagulls and I stepped onto the sand, letting morning mist envelop me.

  The scent of the sea and the cry of seagulls hit me like a slap. And reminded me.

  Rick Wells was gone. Forever.

  Suddenly, he wasn’t the Weasel.

  He was Friend, Lover, Romantic Fool, Steady Companion for ten years. I ran across the sand, fighting the drag on my pumping legs, forcing myself to move until I reached the damp edge of the water. A sob clogged my throat.

  Rick was gone. Rick, who made up names for me like Gorgeous Goddess, TV Diva, Princess K or Pumpkin. Rick, the Charmer, who showered me with flowers, trips, and jewelry. Removing my shoes, I walked along the ocean’s edge. Tears streamed down my face as time blurred my vision.

  I was Kimmie D, sitting at a rickety table in a beachside café that smelled of fried shrimp and beer. Scribbling furiously in a reporter’s notebook, I crafted the beginning of a story. As a man walked by, the wobbly table tilted. My cup of Diet Coke sloshed over its rim, and a quick hand grabbed it. I looked up into a pair of laughing brown eyes.

  “Whoops. Wouldn’t want to ruin that beautiful suit. St. John?”

  I glanced at my navy suit. I paid a bundle for it, but considered my wardrobe an investment in my future. It shocked me that a man would know the label, and I examined him. He was tall with a face carved for the big screen and a tan that beach boys would envy. I pegged him for a wannabe actor in his black polo shirt and khaki shorts.

  “My name is Rick Wells. Where have I been all your life?”

  I reached for the cup and accidentally knocked it out of his hand. Liquid splashed over me. He turned wonderfully efficient, producing a handful of napkins. Unfortunately, the drink drenched my notebook and left me with a soggy page of unreadable notes for the story about to air live.

  From the door, my videographer called, “Five minutes, Kimberly. They need you for a tease.”

  With dripping notes in hand, I approached the lighted area outside the shack. “What am I going to say?”

  “Wing it,” my new acquaintance said. “You know the story, right? Tell it instead of reading it.”

  I wanted to throw the notebook at him, but the cameraman handed me an earpiece so I could hear the anchors. I lifted the microphone and the words for the tease slid out of my mouth. As the station went to commercial, the sound of clapping hands rang out.

  I whirled around. “What the hell do you know about live television?”

  “Only what you’re going to teach me.” With a sly grin, he sauntered over and dabbed at my jacket with a napkin. “Still a few smudges there.”

  I knocked his hand away, dropping the notebook, and he kicked it away.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  His reply was a wink. “Show me your stuff, beautiful.”

  “Stand by,” the cameraman warned.

  I lifted my shoulders and took a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t use an expletive with a live microphone in my hand.

  “If you pull this off, I’ll buy you dinner at the restaurant of your choice,” he added.

  Pointing the mike at him, I smiled. “You’re on, buddy.”

  James was anchoring, and his deep voice came through my earpiece. “...small storefront businesses could be wiped out by the decision. Kimberly delaGarza is in Santa Monica with the story. Kimberly?”

  Damned if the guy wasn’t right. The absence of the notebook freed me. I knew the story and it poured from my lips. I would never read directly from a notebook again.

  As I removed the earpiece, he approached. “Where am I buying you dinner?”

  “The most expensive place in town,” I retorted.

  “My type of place. I’ll call you.”

  I didn’t expect to hear from him, but the next day when I arrived at work, a bouquet of roses sat on my desk. The card held another surprise.

  “Here’s the name of my cleaner. I’ll pay the bill. If it won’t clean properly, we’ll go shopping and I’ll buy a new one. Loves ya, RW.”

  While I was still reeling, my phone rang.

  “Kimberly?”

  I knew the voice immediately. “Mr. Wells, are you rich?”

  “Nope, but I will be. Where am I taking you to dinner?”

  I named the most expensive restaurant I’d uncovered and he didn’t flinch.

  “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up in a limo.”

  “You’re a certifiable nut.”

  “Absolutely. And getting more deranged at the thought of seeing you again.”

  That was how it started. All fun and promise.

  “Damn you, Rick,” I whispered into the soft beach breeze. “What the hell happened?”

  As I looked inland I realized I stood a block from where we met. This was almost the same spot where we ended our first date, picking seashells in the glow of a full moon.

  Spying a shell, I picked it up. The tide was out, and I walked across the damp blanket of sand to the edge of oncoming, rippling waves. What a magical time those first days had been. Small gifts or flowers appeared on my desk. Rick’s treatment was in direct contrast to my souring relationship with Hank. Our dates ended in arguments. Rick sought only to please me.

  Even Delia couldn’t believe my good fortune. “Hang onto this guy. I wish I’d met him first. He makes me tempted to forget our bargain.”

  The bargain was that we’d never poach on each other and whoever met a guy first had unconditional rights to him. Del was between husbands, and I was plenty glad I’d seen Rick first.

  He wasn’t rich. His liquor stores did okay financially, but he had a big
ger dream—a specialty wine shop. Together we set out to pursue the future. My reporting gig evolved into a midday anchor job while Rick sold his stores to buy a wine shop. His increasing contacts and my growing popularity resulted in invitations to more prestigious parties. Rick was a major hit on the cocktail circuit, offering special bottles of wine or using his expertise to get good deals.

  Delia’s second husband helped Rick move his shop to a location near the beach, where he catered to wealthy clientele while I took over on the main anchor desk. We were a dream couple, but content to keep single, separate lifestyles.

  What changed? Why had he chosen to leave me for that anorexic girl?

  The ending had been a surreal disaster movie. I played the role of happy vacationer, relaxing over breakfast on the veranda of a resort in the fictional shadow of a dormant volcano. Rick was the meek scientist who knew danger lurked.

  He calmly announced the initial warning. “I’m thinking of getting married.”

  “You have someone picked out?” I barely looked up from my newspaper. Marriage had died as a subject years ago.

  “I think so.”

  I emitted a forced laugh, the tourist ignoring rumblings in the distance. “I hope it’s not soon. We have a ratings period in July and Delia’s leaving town for a month.”

  He cleared his throat. “Not us. I mean, not me and you.”

  My stomach took a sudden drop, a shudder from the volcano or a boulder plunging down the side. “You’re thinking of...you getting married?”

  He submitted the first scientific fact. “I’m over fifty. If I want a family, I can’t wait and she wants children.”

  “She...” The volcano began to steam. “Does this mean you’ve been seeing someone else?”

  The scientist revealed his research in a soft voice. “Well, yes.”

  The steam began to flow, pouring out. “And you’re serious? Enough that you want to marry her?”

  And then came the undeniable truth, uttered in a matter-of-fact way. “We set the date...”

  Eruption!

  “You son of a bitch!” I flung the paper at him. It fluttered like falling ash. My stomach boiled with inner fire.

  “I didn’t know how to tell you...”

  Flames shot up. “Was that what this weekend was? An expensive Dear John?”

  “This has been our spot when we need to talk.”

  He was lucky the ensuing blast didn’t sending him plummeting from the balcony.

  I didn’t want to recall the fiery argument that burst as I dressed. Or the grief that spilled like magma as I packed. Or the cold fury that congealed like hardening lava as I drove off.

  For the past few weeks I still burned with anger, but now as I gazed out at the ocean, I realized I felt hollow inside—cleaned out as a volcano left with an empty crater. I squeezed the shell in my hand until sharp edges bit into my fingers just so I could feel something.

  Then I reared back and flung the shell toward the ocean.

  “Goodbye, Rick,” I shouted into the mist.

  Chapter Nine

  Monday, 8:00 a.m.

  Who killed Rick Wells?

  I’d been trying not to think about that question, but as I sat in the dining room at the Four Seasons, prepared to meet my new criminal attorney, I forced it to the front of my consciousness. What happened after I left?

  The theory I’d developed was that one of the street people from the beach had come in. Had he locked the door? Had I left it open? That led to troubling questions. Could I have saved him if I’d stayed? Would I have ended up a victim too? I shuddered. I didn’t want to think about that.

  Movement at the door drew my attention. Oliver Nichols marched through the room with the force of a sledge hammer. Even the eyes of those at nearby tables who normally ignored fame turned. From press conferences I knew he stood 5’4 but the sureness of his stride elevated his stature. His narrow, refined face carried a pleasant smile as he glanced around, nodding from time to time.

  Elegant and fastidious, he wore a charcoal Armani suit with a red silk tie and matching pocket kerchief. His white shirt looked like it could stand on its own. Thinning brown hair was tinged with gray at the sides and looked so natural, he probably had it done that way.

  I’d heard his speeches in court, laced with southern witticisms, watched his blunt news conferences on numerous courthouse steps, but I wasn’t prepared for the high-powered aura he displayed in a one-on-one setting. As he grew closer and his eyes fastened on me, I felt like I’d been skewered by twin high voltage brown lasers.

  He took my hand into both of his as he sat across from me. “Miss delaGarza, it’s good to meet you. May I call you Kimberly?” He spoke with a drawl, squeezing my fingers with a firm grip.

  “Certainly, Mr. Nichols.” No invitation to call him Oliver.

  A waiter arrived out of nowhere, filling our cups from a silver coffee pot. Nichols ordered a bowl of fresh fruit without opening the menu.

  He removed a legal pad and Mont Blanc fountain pen from his briefcase and leaned toward me. “Tell me what you need. I’m at your service.” His tone was pure southern gentility, like he was performing a favor, though I knew his bill would be hefty.

  I explained my predicament and as he asked questions, the drawl transformed into a buzz saw of words. He scribbled on the pad, his pinky ring—with a diamond the size of a small marble—flashing as it caught a ray of sun. As we finished, it occurred to me he’d made one omission.

  “You didn’t ask if I did it.”

  “Darlin’, that isn’t important.” He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. If snakes could smile, that would be how they did it.

  “It is to me. I didn’t do it.” I tried to keep my voice from becoming huffy.

  His tone dripped honey and he gripped my upper arm and squeezed it. “Well, that’s fine. You keep saying that.”

  Wow, he didn’t care if I was guilty. I could have beaten Rick to a bloody pulp and it wouldn’t matter. As long as I paid, Oliver Nichols would fight to keep me out of jail.

  I didn’t know if that was good.

  ****

  Monday, 10:00 a.m.

  I didn’t want to be at the Mira Loma Police Department, sitting on a hard metal chair inside a drab cubicle of a room. Were they trying to kill people with the chairs? Too much time on this backbreaker and people would confess to anything.

  To my right, Oliver opened his briefcase and removed a fresh legal pad. “This is all a formality. You’re here to give a statement, but if they ask anything I don’t want you answerin’, I’ll interrupt. If there’s anything you don’t want to say, look my way and I’ll stop ’em.” He put his pad on a gray metal table and sat back.

  The small, sterile room closed around me. Was this what a jail cell was like? I stood and began pacing. To our left was a horizontal mirror. Was it a two-way mirror? Were people behind it watching?

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, in case someone was back there. “I was returning his belongings. If that bat was the murder weapon, it would have my finger prints. It had been at my house for months. I’d hardly wear gloves to return it. If I had used it, I would have wiped it clean, right?”

  He held up a hand. “Perhaps we should postpone this until you’re in a calmer frame of mind.”

  “Can you blame me for being agitated? I don’t like to be kept waiting, and my maid says police made a mess of my house.”

  His responding glare was like being pinpointed by a searchlight during a prison getaway. Not good to make the lawyer angry. I resumed my place on the torture chair and smoothed my pale yellow suit. The slim-fitting ensemble hugged my figure and the pencil skirt was slit halfway up the front of my thighs. I tweaked the pink-and-yellow silk scarf at my throat and tapped at my hair. I might be seething inside, but I wanted to present a perfect picture, from my pinned up hair to my purple pumps and matching Prada purse. P for Poise.

  The door clicked and Callahan entered. He nodded at me and introduce
d himself to Nichols.

  “This is a formality,” he began. “I hope you understand that we may repeat some questions we asked earlier. Please bear with us.”

  “Is Lieutenant Torres joining us?” I asked.

  “Not this morning.” He settled his large frame onto a metal chair, scraping it across the tiled floor. Glancing at the mirror/possible window, I wondered if Torres watched us behind it, preferring to gauge my reactions in private.

  In a monotone, Callahan explained the session was being taped and began with simple questions like name and address. I felt like I was already under arrest—a prisoner being grilled by the hardened cop in a film noir whodunit. I was ready for the overhead fluorescent lights to transform into a harsh spotlight pointed at my eyes.

  I imagined Torres and a squad of detectives behind the mirror. Were they hoping I’d fall apart? Did they expect me to be coy, ala Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct? Were they waiting for my legs to cross? Sorry, I was wearing underwear. No one could see anything anyway. My legs were under the table.

  Could Hank be behind the mirror? Maybe I should sit sideways and provide a good view of the legs I’d bragged about to Delia.

  “Tell me why you were at the wine shop so late,” Callahan began.

  Swept up in my thoughts about Hank, the question caught me off guard. I stammered before repeating the original answer I’d given him and Torres.

  “Why didn’t you do it the next day?”

  “He’d been calling me every day, demanding I return his crap. I wanted to get rid of it.”

  Beside me, Oliver shifted. I glanced at him and saw his knitted brows. He gave a small shake of his head. I winced, realizing how hard I’d sounded. This guy had been late on purpose. He was trying to rattle me.

  “Were you angry about having to come by that late?” Callahan asked.

  Enough letting this guy get to me. I was dressed to play “cool customer,” and that’s what I was going to do.

  Summoning my best anchor smile, I lowered my voice, the one I used to soothe viewers. “It was no big deal. I often stopped by after work.”

  The questioning progressed in a boring pattern of earlier questions mixed in with a more detailed explanation of Friday night. How long was this going to continue? The detective was repeating questions. Then he asked something new.