Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “We shared a bank account and an accountant, who never bothered to ask if it was okay for Rick to take out money whenever he wanted. I guess his wine shop was in trouble.”

  His gaze skewered me and he wiped his lips with his napkin. “That changes things. Did he owe anyone else?”

  “I didn’t even know he had a money problem. Rick always had plenty of cash. Now it appears I was funding him and didn’t realize it.”

  “Who owns the wine shop now? Did he have a partner?”

  “Me.”

  “Shit.” He exhaled and put down his napkin, shaking his head. “That’s not good. Money. That’s the sort of thing that makes you want to hire a hit man. Did he have insurance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmm. The insurance is probably in both your names if you’re part owner. So if the shop’s in financial trouble, why wouldn’t you have the hit man torch the shop so you could get insurance money? Do you have a good alibi?”

  “No. See?” I laughed, but it sounded as nervous as I felt. “I haven’t thought of any of these things. I am not a good criminal.”

  He resumed his attack on the cottage cheese. “I’ll bet you couldn’t even plan a murder.”

  My breath quickened audibly and I put down my fork. “What if I did plan it. For fun? And someone overheard me?”

  He drew back, a frown slashing across his lean face. “That’s not good either.”

  “What if they have audio of me making such a plan?”

  His quick shake of his head made me feel a little better. “I wouldn’t worry about a recording. These days anything can be doctored so police might not even listen to it. I’d worry more about whoever made the recording if they heard you. That’s a witness to a threat.”

  So I might not have to pay for the audio? Would Toby want the same amount not to talk to police? I debated telling Sam about Toby but decided against it. I didn’t want to compromise him. He might bend rules, but I doubted that extended to withholding evidence.

  “Are you trying to solve it yourself?” he asked, waving a bony hand at me. “I know you reporter types. You think ’cause you can look up information and hang around crime scenes, you know everything.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. Like you said, I don’t know anything about planning a murder or digging up evidence. Thanks to Rick helping himself to my money, I can’t even afford to hire a private investigator.”

  He stared hard across the table at me and I could sense his displeasure, though he didn’t say anything. He wiped his hands on his napkin and dropped it on the table.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  Impatience laced his voice. “Come on, girl. You’ve been a reporter. You could do it if you had to.”

  “But why? They’ll find the person. I didn’t do it, so I’m not worried.”

  His blue eyes blazed across at me. “You know how many crimes go unsolved? How many innocent people are in jail?”

  I had done a series the previous year on an innocent man who spent years in jail. I gulped. What if they didn’t find the killer? If my name became tarnished, my career as Queen of L.A. TV was over. I’d forever be known as the woman who got away with murder. Memories of the shredded letters I received ran across my brain. “You murderous bitch…”

  “You think I should try to find out the truth myself?” I asked.

  “Not a bad idea. Who’s your attorney? Maybe he has a PI.”

  At the mention of Oliver Nichols, he grunted. “That guy won’t try to solve anything. He’d rather use a clever way to get you off so he gets plenty of press. I can find you someone who works cheap.”

  Sam was right. I needed to make something happen myself. No one else was going to prove my innocence. Torres considered me the main suspect. Did that mean he was ignoring other leads? Could the real culprit escape while I ended up on trial due to circumstantial evidence and Oliver’s desire to hold press conferences?

  “What should I do?”

  “Find a way to turn the investigation in another direction.”

  “How?” Damn, I missed Delia. She’d always been the more devious . She would have come up with a plan immediately and provided money to hire someone. “I’m not sure I’m able to handle this on my own.”

  His hand slapped the table. “What the hell’s happened to you, girl? Fourteen years ago I remember you sneaking into a murder scene to get a story. Now you’re afraid to dig to save your own skin? I expected you to already be looking into it. I was gonna give you my ‘damn you reporters’ lecture and then say go for it!”

  The Kimmie D he’d known had been a determined young reporter, a tough Warrior-ess ready to battle everyone and everything to succeed. When I ascended my anchor throne and transformed into Queen Kimberly, things changed. People wanted to please me so everything was done for me. All I had to do was point from my pedestal and people ran off to do my bidding. Now my pedestal had collapsed like a falling elevator. No one was going to do what I demanded, much less listen to a request. I was on my own. A Queen without her army. And my battleground skills were long gone.

  Cue movie music here—a sad orchestra swell as the camera closed in on a tear at the edge of my eye. I wasn’t going to cry, but I could feel the camera pulling back on me, a sad pathetic figure in a stained suit with her stiff hair in disarray, huddled in a bright orange booth.

  “You’ve become soft,” Sam chided, making me feel smaller. “Like a damn marshmallow. Where’s the gumption of that girl I used to know?”

  Feeling uncharacteristically low, I didn’t know how to answer, and we finished eating on a low key level. While Sam stopped to pay, I walked outside to call Lindy to make arrangements to get my car. Our normally unflappable assignment editor Kent sounded frantic when he answered.

  “Is Lindy around?” I asked.

  “Lindy?” he shouted into the phone. “Didn’t you hear what happened?”

  A tiny flicker of dread ignited inside me. “No.”

  “Someone ran her off the road last night. She’s in the hospital.”

  Nausea threatened to overwhelm me, bringing back up the cottage cheese and strawberries. My fingers trembled. “What happened?”

  “When she didn’t show up for work today, we started calling around and found out no one knew where she was. Apparently her roommates didn’t think anything about her not coming home because she’s staying at your house. We tracked her down at the Mira Loma Hospital. Hit and run, they say.”

  “What about the car?” I asked, feeling cold all over. My Mercedes!

  “I don’t know.”

  Then I realized how callous I sounded. “Is she going to be all right?”

  “I think so. Gotta go. Hey, do you know anything about that fiasco at the chapel?”

  “Uh, no. Thanks for the information.”

  I clicked off the phone. My already topsy-turvy world was going around again, like a ball rolling down a hill. My knees began to shake and my ankles felt wobbly. I spotted a metal bench outside the door and slumped onto it.

  Was Lindy’s close call an accident? Or a deliberate attempt on her? Chills slithered up and down my spine. She’d been driving my car, wearing my clothes, purposely dressed to look like me. Had someone tried to kill me and ended up hurting that innocent girl instead?

  Footsteps sounded behind me and I jerked my head up. Seeing Sam saunter toward me was a relief.

  “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

  I attempted to stand but found myself tottering and he took a firm hold on my arm.

  “You’re trembling. What’s wrong?”

  I tried to lick my parched lips though my tongue felt dry. “Someone ran one of our producers off the road last night. She was driving my car…pretending to be me.”

  Shock stiffened his face and he pulled me back down onto the bench. “Maybe you better tell me about this.”

  In halting sentences, I explained having Lindy disguise herself as me. I didn’t reveal exactly why I’
d done it, providing instead details of my fear that I was being followed. I even told him about my Sunday night chase. Stream after stream of guilt washed through me as I spoke. Finally I put my hand to my face as a final shudder snaked through me. “Oh, God, I don’t want to go home.”

  He squeezed my shoulder in a comforting touch. “Then don’t. Come to my place. They can’t know where you are now, right?”

  “I don’t think anyone saw me leave with Hank.” We looked up and down the peaceful street. A few were cars parked along the curb, but none were black SUVs or gray sedans.

  He gestured with his head and I followed obediently, though my feet protested in my stiletto heels. The Jimmy Choos looked great but they weren’t made for walking long distances.

  “Where are we going to find a cab?” I looked around desperately, wanting to get under cover. What if the person was cruising the streets looking for me?

  “No cab.” He stopped near the corner—a bus stop. Huh? When was the last time I’d taken a bus? Back in the days when Kimmie D could only afford public transportation?

  Before I could protest, a bus lumbered to the curb.

  “I don’t have change.”

  “I got passes,” Sam announced.

  As I waited to step onto the bus I caught a glimpse of the side. A familiar logo winked at me. “Catch up on the events of the day. Join us at 5, 6, and 11 on TV8, the news team you trust.” Slogan only, no anchor pictures or names. Damn. They hadn’t wasted any time.

  Feeling empty as a deflated balloon, I followed Sam aboard and grabbed hold of the hand rail as the bus lurched onto the street. He found a seat and I slid in next to him. This was like a nightmare. Surely I’d wake up and Rick wouldn’t be dead. I wouldn’t be a suspect. My public wouldn’t hate me. People wouldn’t be following me.

  And I sure as hell wouldn’t be riding a friggin’ bus!

  The interior smelled of sweat mixed with a faint scent of urine. Or maybe that was the guy in the dirty plaid jacket in front of us. I met Sam’s gaze and he winked.

  “This isn’t you, is it?” he said in a teasing tone, tugging at the lapel of my suit.

  “Well…”

  He chuckled. I could imagine him telling the story to his son and how much Hank would enjoy knowing I’d had to take a bus.

  Sam lived in a hilly Glendale neighborhood north of the 134 Freeway with palm trees lining the neatly kept streets. His home was a Moorish style bungalow with a large arching window in front. I followed him inside to a pleasant, bright interior. White walls, high-beamed ceilings, and tiled floors gave the living and dining rooms a spacious feel. The furniture looked chosen for comfort and had seen lots of wear. He led me into a small family room that bordered a tiny kitchen with a cramped breakfast nook in one corner. Despite its gentile shabbiness, everything was neat and orderly.

  “Maybe I should go home. I don’t have any clothes. ”

  He waved an impatient hand. “Don’t worry. Besides, I need company. Let’s talk about this case some more. I want to know who might be following you, besides police.”

  We hadn’t said a word as we rode over on the bus. Now I could see concern etched on his weathered face. I sighed heavily. “One of the guys at work said it might be the killer. You know, maybe I saw something that night and didn’t realize it.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “Bingo. Haven’t you thought of that?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  He made a disgusted sound and pointed at a chair. “Sit down. I’m going to get a notebook. I want to write this down.”

  I took off my jacket and sank onto a plush overstuffed chair. Heavenly. Yes, I was definitely replacing my stiff, uncomfortable furniture. I shook my head. I needed to stop thinking about comfort. Someone injured Lindy. Someone who thought it was me. Maybe she tried to get away from him as I had done on Sunday or maybe I’d angered him with my silly car chase?

  Fear clenched my fists into tight round balls. Drawing several deep breaths, I practiced my yoga breathing. Somebody was making my life dramatic. And scary.

  Sam marched into the room, carrying two notebooks and a jar of pens, face flushed with determination. He handed me a notebook and kept the other for himself.

  “Let’s go through this.” His tone was all business as he settled into the chair opposite me and pulled a pen from the jar. “I want to hear everything about the night Wells was killed and everything that’s happened since.”

  “You’re going to help me?” This was better than hiring a private investigator who would cost money I didn’t have. As an ex-cop Sam would be a great asset. He could think in terms of cops and robbers. Good guy versus killer.

  “If I have the info, I can help the PI.”

  I held up my notebook. “What shall I take down?”

  “You keep that. After we finish, if you think of anything else, write it down.”

  As I watched him talk, I found myself smiling. He looked nothing like the haggard man Hank picked up outside the hospital. Color tinged his gaunt cheeks and a sparkle lit up his blue eyes. He was excited. Did Hank know how much his father needed company and a purpose in life?

  “Did you see anything strange when you arrived?” he asked. He made sporadic notes in the notebook while I recited my story. Unlike Callahan and Torres, he insisted I keeping going through it, over and over, making me describe everything more than once.

  Finally, the monotony and repetition made me protest. “Why do you keep asking the same damn questions? You’re not even taking anything down anymore.”

  He tapped the side of his head. “I want to see if you remember anything else. Sometimes when you go through a story again, you’ll remember more details. I’ll print this and you can read it. Maybe it’ll spur more memories. Now tell me what’s happened since that night. Everything.”

  I went through my steps for the past week, omitting my trip to meet Toby. I even told him about my clash with Bobbi in the bathroom.

  As we concluded, he tapped the pen to his chin. “This is a good start. After I print this, I’ll call around to see about an inexpensive PI. I want you to think about Wells’ enemies and write ’em down in that notebook. We’ll come up with our own suspects. Maybe you’d like to get settled. You can stay out in the little house. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

  He pointed through a sliding glass door to a small building behind a tiled patio. “It’s an old garage I turned into a playroom for the grandkids. Got a couch, daybed, TV, bathroom, even microwave and fridge. They stay out there when they visit so they don’t get on my nerves. It’ll give you privacy. If you need food or anything, there’s plenty of fresh fruit in the kitchen. No booze except wine because they say it’s good for the heart.”

  I was thankful for the offer of a place to stay. As I walked out to the little house, I thought about how far down I’d come in the past week—from driving a Jaguar and staying in a deluxe suite at the Four Seasons to riding the bus and sleeping in a converted garage in Glendale.

  How far the Queen had fallen!

  Chapter Twenty

  I paced around the guest house, nerves on edge. I started to gnaw on a nail and stopped. How long had it been since I’d vanquished that habit? I couldn’t start again. I couldn’t afford a manicure to fix it.

  What the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t stay here long. The place was smaller than my hotel suite. It was basically one big room, containing a sitting area with a TV and electronics console, built in shelves with books and games and a long counter with a small refrigerator and microwave. The bathroom had a miniscule shower and the bed was a twin pull-down from the wall.

  I dropped onto a chair and picked up the notebook and pen. Sam wanted a list of Rick’s enemies.

  Me, but I knew I was innocent.

  Delia, but she had an alibi since she’d left the country that night.

  Who else might want to kill him?

  Unknown burglar? I wrote that down.

  I stared at the sheet, but nothing more came
. Did Rick have enemies? What did I know of his business? I’d never paid attention to that part of his life. I’d been interested only in “us”.

  I turned the page. Before night arrived, I was going to need night clothes, fresh underwear, pajamas, maybe a robe, slacks and a top, and probably sandals. That list flowed from my fingers into the notebook. I made another list for toiletries before I took out my phone and called a boutique I frequented in Pasadena. I trusted the manager to pick out things in my style if I gave her the items I needed. She agreed to get a courier to bring over my order and offered to send him by a nearby department store for cosmetics and a drugstore for other items. I added on a tote bag and winced when she announced the total price. Oh, well, Carl, that lowlife accountant, would have to figure out a way to pay my bills. It was my money, right?

  With all my orders in, I went back to the main house to see how Sam was doing and get his address for the courier delivery. He sat with a laptop on his knees in the family room. He set the computer aside as I entered and reached for my notebook.

  “Whatcha got?” He stared at the list of clothes and fixed me with a puzzled frown. “What the hell is this?”

  His hard, accusing glare reminded me of my freshman college English professor who called me in to tell me that my paper and Delia’s obviously had been written by the same person. After a half-hour meeting with Delia he agreed to give us C’s.

  If only she was here to explain my list. I shrugged. “I need some things if I’m staying. I called a boutique in Pasadena, but I have to call back with your address.”

  He slapped the notebook on his thigh so hard I jumped. “Missy, you better stop screwing around! This ain’t no fuckin’ garden party! This is serious!”

  As chastised as a six-year-old, I chewed my lower lip. “I did start a list.”

  He turned the page. “Burglar? It would have been robbery since he was present. You should know that.”

  I wrinkled my nose. Journalism 101 and now I’d flunked that too. “Sorry. But I don’t have any other ideas. I don’t know if he had enemies.”

  He scribbled something in the notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s the address. Call your damn dress lady. I’ll pour us a glass of wine and then we’ll read through these notes again and see if there’s anything else you remember.”