“No hot date on your night off?”
Lindy turned bright red. She sank onto the chair across from me and pressed her hands between her knees. “This guy asked me to dinner tonight, but I don’t have anything to wear unless I go home. Do you need me to stay? Are you going out? I saw the suit on your bed...”
“I got that out for you, actually. Do you want it? It’s two years old, but it’s classic. You could wear it to meet that guy.”
Her eyes widened as they lit up. “You would give me that? It’s beautiful.”
I feigned indifference. “It’s too small for me, and I wanted to give you something for helping me. I’d like you to do something else in return.”
“Anything!” Her eyes were vibrant and thankful.
“I want you to pretend to be me when you leave. I think we can pull it off if you put on the suit and wear one of my dark wigs. Hell, I’ll even throw in a Fendi bag. What do you say?”
Her face crumpled into uncertainty. “The press will know it’s not you when I get in my car.”
It wasn’t the press that concerned me. “You can borrow mine and we can swap cars tomorrow afternoon. Reba’s taking me to Rick’s memorial, so I have to go to the station.”
She tried to keep from smiling, but I could see her excitement. By the time she left in my car, wearing my suit and wig, I felt good about my efforts at subterfuge. I donned a blonde wig and dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket. Pulling a baseball cap low over my eyes, I went out to her Toyota. If anyone was following me, they should have gone after my Mercedes. The street was empty.
This was one trip I needed to make alone. Keeping a careful watch on the rearview mirror, I turned her car in the direction of the ocean and my meeting with Toby, the Blackmailing Bartender.
****
Mira Loma Pier, 7:00 p.m.
Toby waited at the end of the pier, staring at the ocean, a light breeze ruffling his blond hair. I surveyed the people near him before approaching. An elderly fisherman in a gold cap fidgeted with his line. A portly Hispanic man and pregnant woman huddled around three poles while a child danced around them. Farther down the pier two lone fishermen leaned over poles in the water. My footsteps thumped on the wooden planks as I walked toward Toby.
His head jerked up and he stared at me in confusion before recognition dawned. He moved forward, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. “Hello, Ms. delaGarza.”
I put my finger to my lips and approached with caution, looking from one direction to the next, trying to see if anyone turned when he called my name. Could I be recognized? I was taking no chances. I wore dark glasses, even though the sun was sinking low at the edge of the ocean. The cap hid a portion of my face and I pulled the collar of the jacket up around my neck.
Toby’s smile switched from pleased to crestfallen as I snapped my fingers.
“Let’s hear the recording,” I demanded. I didn’t like this situation. I should have let Hank handle it. But if the police heard that audio…
Toby glanced around, as though he feared someone might overhear. “It’s on my phone. I left it in the car.”
“You were supposed to bring it.”
He leaned toward me, voice lowering. “Did you bring the money?”
This time it was my turn to waffle. “I wasn’t going to bring it out here. Let’s walk back to the parking lot.” What would he say when he found out I didn’t have the money? Hopefully I could stall for a few days. Mainly I wanted to hear how much of our conversation he’d recorded.
“Are you certain we can’t resolve this some other way?” I asked as our footsteps thumped on the wooden pier.
He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. “Like what?”
“Didn’t you say you wanted to be a sportscaster? I might be able to help.”
He stopped walking. “You would do that? Even after what I did?”
“You haven’t done anything yet.” I made the offer out of sarcasm, but I sensed interest. Removing my sunglasses, I faced him, forcing false sincerity into my smile. “Maybe we need to talk this over.”
“I would do anything to be a sportscaster...” His eyes were intense. Definite interest.
I rushed on, punctuating my words by putting my hand on his arm. “Think of it, Toby. I pay this money and it’s over. Do you know how much our sports guy made last year? Twice that much. Not to mention network deals. All you need is an introduction to a top agent and someone who believes in you. Do you know who Evan Flynn is?”
His eager nod was no surprise. People pursuing broadcast careers knew Evan’s name.
“He’s my agent.” I squeezed his arm. “I could get you an introduction.”
His grin reminded me of an eager puppy. Even his mouth hung open and I expected him to pant. Would he go for such a simple solution? Maybe I wouldn’t have to spend a cent.
“The studio crew at the station can make an audition video. I’ll take it to Evan and recommend you. He trusts my judgment.”
“That would be awesome.”
This was almost too easy, and momentarily I regretted taking advantage of him. I leaned forward. “Just give me your phone. I’ll get you a new one—the latest model—and take care of everything else.”
His lips twitched and his nose wrinkled. “I don’t know. I need...”
“You need what? To think about the opportunity of a lifetime?” Somehow I knew if I didn’t get a commitment from him, he would change his mind.
He looked away, kicking his toe at the pier. “I need to think. I’ll call you later.”
Before I could react, he turned and ran, full speed as though I was chasing him.
Chapter Seventeen
Wednesday, 3:00 p.m.
Rick’s memorial service. Ugh. Why had his sister chosen to hold it so soon? In a graveyard chapel, no less. His body hadn’t even been released by the coroner.
I sat at the end of the third row, trying to convince myself people weren’t staring at me. No matter where I looked, I found eyes focused in my direction. They quickly shifted when I caught them watching. I lifted my chin high, though my muscles were tense as rubber bands. Thanks to my damn colleagues in the media, people knew police considered me a “person of interest”. That silly phrase translated in big red letters to SUSPECT.
What were they thinking?
“There’s the black widow”?
Were they watching for emotion? Hoping I’d break down? I should have worn a dark veil, something long and flowing from a stiff brimmed black hat. Something very 60s-ish. I had chosen an elegant charcoal Prada suit with a light blue scarf around my neck. I’d skipped going to my regular hairdresser to save money and swept up my hair into a fancy knot that I feared could fall apart at any second. I kept touching it, hoping it remained in place.
Maybe coming was a mistake. No, I belonged here as much as anyone. Maybe I hadn’t loved him at the end, but I was closest to Rick in his final years. I belonged as much as that skinny Bobbi the Barbie doll in her frilly pink dress and oversized hat in the front row between the silver-haired Pilgrim—her father—and the Pixie from Geneva.
Who wore neon pink to a memorial service?
And what was the deal with her father? He helped me at the police station, though he knew knew who I was. Weren’t we figuratively in opposite camps? He told Delia at Geneva that he was meeting his sister, probably the Pixie. Today her petite figure dripped black from her tiny pillbox hat to her giant onyx jewelry.
Rick’s older sister, Jennifer Roberts, was also dressed in black. She sat in the front row on the other side of the aisle, leaning stiffly against her husband, a grim look on her narrow face. No love was lost between us, though I’d never understood why.
In the row behind them sat that financial rat, Carl Edwards, and while I recognized the petite, curly-headed woman beside him, I didn’t recall her name. Didn’t she work for Rick from time to time? Several of Rick’s employees filled out the row. The only person I knew by name was Darryl Young, the assistant manager.
Who were all these people? The chapel was filled to overflowing. Some faces seemed familiar though names escaped me. I wished Delia was here. She would have known everyone. I still hadn’t heard from her and I missed her like crazy, especially today.
Reba fidgeted next to me, craning her neck to see whoever came in the door. At least she dressed for the occasion in a black tunic over her leggings. Even her mules were muted—a fuzzy mix of black and brown feathers.
I almost decided not to come, but that would have fostered questions about why I hadn’t shown. Could it mean I was guilty? I knew people said that because I was avoiding the press. Somehow I managed to remain stoic as Jennifer, Carl, and Darryl gave memories of Rick, and the minister conducted a solemn ceremony.
Reba pressed her fingers against my arm as the service concluded and the crowd began filing toward the front door. “You okay, babe?”
I offered a small smile. “Iron lady. Thanks for coming with me.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Reba tilted her head. “Look at Vincent and Evan chumming it up over there.”
“They’re probably betting on whether I did it.”
“Of course you did it.” Peter sauntered up beside us, flashing a wide grin. The gangly reporter embraced me like we were buddies.
I accepted the disgusting hug and pasted on a false smile. “You’re a real pal, Peter.”
“The reporters have a pool going on how long it takes the cops to arrest you,” he added with a wink.
Reba punched his arm. “Aren’t you here to do a story?”
“I can only paint a verbal picture, since they didn’t allow cameras inside. Besides, Kimberly knows I took ‘no’ in the pool.”
“Right.” I didn’t believe him. He would cheer if I got arrested.
He scanned the crowd, face turning serious. “Quite a turnout. Movers and shakers, couple of stars, athletes. Even shady characters.”
“Shady?” I twisted my head, feeling the knot on top of my head shift. The instant we got into Reba’s car I was taking the damn thing down, even if I’d sprayed it to high heaven to get it to stay. I should never have attempted this on my own.
Peter tilted his head to his left, his eyes sliding in that direction. “El Patron.”
“Who?”
He repeated the gesture. “Nice old mob guy. Mexican Mafia. Retired to an estate in Malibu years ago, one step ahead of an indictment. He’s become respectable, a philanthropist. But I hear El Patron still takes bets and can get you anything you want—if you know what I mean.”
I couldn’t imagine Rick knowing anyone like that, but most of these people were regular customers. I followed Peter’s gesture until I located an older man, short, slight and dark with graying hair. He wore a black blazer over an open sport shirt.
The muscles bunched in my stomach. I was horrible with names, but I was good at remembering faces. He and the short blonde woman with him had been at Geneva the afternoon Delia and I got drunk. He’d frowned at me when we laughed loudly over breaking the martini glass.
Patron meant boss in Spanish, but this guy didn’t look dangerous. Did he recognize me? As if on cue, he looked my way. He nodded, hawk-like eyes performing the same cool appraisal they had at Geneva.
Peter shifted, tapping my arm. “Hey, Kimberly, let’s do a quick interview. I’d love to get your reaction.”
“Leave her alone,” Reba ordered.
“Can’t fault a guy for trying.” Peter whirled and disappeared into the crowd.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Reba said. “Ready to go?”
Through the front door I saw cameras lined up at the edge of the sidewalk. I knew what they wanted—a shot of me leaving. Even Reba wanted me to make that journey so our camera could catch it. My legs refused to move and I looked around for a way out.
“I need to give my regards to Jennifer, Rick’s sister, swing by the ladies’ room and then I’ll be ready to go, okay?”
Reba studied me and glanced at her watch. Impatience vibrated from her. “Do whatever you need to do. I’ll meet you outside.”
Drawing a deep breath, I approached Jennifer, who stood near the door accepting condolences.
She stiffened when she saw me. “If you say one word or try to touch me, I’ll slap you.” She turned away and folded her arms, closing up like an armadillo.
A knot formed in my stomach. This was no time to bring up past battles, but perhaps this was her way of dealing with grief. I moved to her husband, Ian, and held out my hand.
He took it with a sad smile. “Thanks for coming, Kimberly.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Like hell!” Jennifer’s voice shook as she swung toward me. Red spots formed on her cheeks.
“Jennifer, please.” Ian took his wife’s arm.
“You don’t belong here. Not after what you did to him.” Her voice was rising and several people turned in our direction. Ian stepped between us, and I hurried away. This was not the time to protest my innocence.
Determined not to let on that her vitriolic remarks disturbed me, I pulled my face into a pleasant expression, the one I wore when listening to my co-anchor ramble. I needed to get away before the mask fell. I searched for an alternate exit and froze. Hank stood along the back wall, scanning the crowd.
His glance met mine and I started to wave. Too many people lingered. What would they think of me waving at the police chief? That I was seeking preferential treatment? My hand dropped.
I spotted a sign for the ladies room and stepped toward it. As the door clicked shut behind me, I drew a deep breath and realized I wasn’t alone. One of the stall doors was closed and whoever was inside blew her nose. Well, at least I’d managed a partial escape.
A quick glance in the mirror over the sink reflected a composed Queen. Only misty eyes betrayed emotion, even if my insides shook. I drew a deep breath, fighting to get a firmer grip on my feelings, then the door behind me opened.
Bobbi the Bimbo stepped out, eyes widening when she spotted me. She flipped back the wild mane of blonde hair. Her big hat was gone, and the pink dress glowed in the garish light. Her eyes were red-rimmed and a surprising surge of sympathy ran through me. So young to be left at the altar.
Better to be civil, I decided. No need for Showdown: The Sequel.
“How are you?” I wanted to say I was sorry, but weren’t we both sorry for losing Rick? The girl had lost him to death. I had lost him to her.
She approached the vanity counter, slender face rigid, pointed chin jutting forward. “You’re pathetic,” she said in a shrill voice.
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes were hard blue spots. “You think no one knows about you? That you’re nothing but a frigid bitch?”
I wasn’t often caught off guard, but this threw me. This was Rick’s memorial service, not the proper venue for a renewed bathroom brawl. With no Duchess Delia and Bitchy Pixie reprising their co-star roles, this would be a horrible sequel. I resolved to keep calm.
“You think Rick didn’t tell me about you?” she spat. “He said you’re cold as ice.”
Had Rick discussed our sex life? Or was she looking for a reaction? He hadn’t considered me frigid the last weekend we spent together. It sickened me to recall how loving he’d been until the final morning. And he’d been engaged to her!
I drew up my shoulders, playing controlled Queen in Charge to her Bad Mannered Debutante. “This isn’t the time. Besides, he wouldn’t discuss our personal life...”
“He told me exactly how demanding you are.”
Hot sparks of anger ignited my blood, and my fingers curled into claws. Maybe I should tell Bobbi the Bimbo that Rick called me “Hot Latin Mama” that last weekend.
Drawing a deep breath, I shook off the temptation. Rick the Weasel had lied to the girl as he lied to me. Let this sad sequel fizzle instead of sizzle. I turned away and flung my new Valentino bag on my shoulder in a sweeping motion. The Queen would make a grand exit.
“You
bitch!” the girl screamed behind me.
I whirled around. The girl had been repairing her lipstick and my large bag accidentally made her hand slip, carving a long red slash across her cheek.
Stifling a laugh, I started to apologize but she responded by flinging a tiny red lambskin bag at me. It hit my fancy hairdo with a soft thud and fell to the floor. Was this the plot for The Sequel? Memorial Service Smackdown?
A basket filled with cotton swabs and wrapped tampons flew at me, catching the side of my head. Luckily it was light but the stainless steel tissue holder that followed looked dangerous. I deflected it with a forearm. That damn thing hurt!
“You’re nuts,” I cried as it flew back toward the girl like a returning tennis ball, catching her on the other cheek.
She recoiled and lifted a hand to her face. When she pulled it away, we both stared in horror at a smear of blood. A small trickle appeared below a thin slit on her cheekbone.
“I’m sorry.” I was, though I wanted to laugh at the result of her tantrum.
The girl’s face contorted and she shrieked.
I reached for tissues that floated to the counter to hand her but she grabbed a ceramic vase and heaved it toward me. It missed my head, though cold water splashed me as it flew over my shoulder. The crash behind me was loud as gunshot, and an explosion of broken glass showered me. She’d busted the damn mirror! Talk about bad luck!
Before either of us could react, the door flew open. Shocked faces stared in.
“She hit me!” she screeched, waving her bloody hand toward me.
Chapter Eighteen
The outright lie stunned me but only momentarily. The wave of gasps beyond the door stirred me into action.
“Get real, Bobbi.” I drew myself up and enunciated my words slowly in my most controlled anchor voice, gesturing at the mess around me. “Since everything came in my direction, it’s obvious that you threw the childish tantrum along with this debris. I merely defended myself.”
I could imagine what the onlookers were thinking. She was the more sympathetic figure with lipstick smeared across her blotchy face on one side and a purple welt forming on her other tear-stained cheek above the cut.
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