Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “Rick was a techni-phobe. He did most things, like take orders, by hand. I fought to get him to switch from a Filofax planner to a Blackberry and he only recently got a smartphone.”

  “What we need to do is to go through the wine shop. Do you have a key to the place?”

  “No, and now that Jennifer controls things I doubt she’ll give me one.”

  He peered at me over the top of his glasses. “You’re part owner. That counts for something whether she likes it or not.”

  “Wouldn’t the police have taken anything of interest?”

  “They might have missed something that only you could peg as important. They’re looking for the obvious. We need to look beyond that. How are your skills of observation?”

  The question made me smile. “I can tell you the exact way to pick out a copy of a designer dress.”

  The fierce frown that washed over his face reminded me of Hank, though it was an older version. “You better take this more seriously, missy.”

  His displeasure had an equal effect as his earlier praise, but in the opposite direction. Lurching to my feet, I walked to the sliding glass door and yanked it open. As I stepped onto the patio, I took a deep breath, pressing my lips together.

  Hank’s granite expression at the police station haunted me. I once described his blue eyes as dreamy warm pools I’d like to dive into. But they were hard as polar ice today. I’d have cracked my skull if I had tried to jump into them.

  Why did his words hurt so much? Was that how he saw me? Sam said that Hank had loved me, but I doubted anything was left of those feelings. Maybe they were dead when we broke up and that was why he let me go so easily.

  “Do you think I’m a pampered princess?” I asked, turning to Sam.

  He was staring at a notebook, deep in thought. As my question floated through the door, his head jerked up like a deer startled by a sudden sound. “What?”

  Not revealing the cause of the argument, I related portions of my battle with Hank. “He called me a pampered princess who lived in a fantasy world.” The words stung as I repeated them and Sam seemed to recognize my pain.

  He stood and walked over to me, placing a gentle hand on my arm. His smile was as warm as Hank’s glare had been cold. “Why shouldn’t you be a princess?”

  “That’s how I’ve always felt—special. The bartender at Geneva called me a Queen.”

  His chuckle was as soothing as scotch. “Okay, a promotion.”

  “Good things happen to me. Even Delia teases me about my good luck. I’m like a star in my own private movie. Is that so bad?”

  Sam’s lined face grew thoughtful. “It can be, especially since your luck is for shit right now. From here on, if you come up with a movie scene, think crime dramas. This ain’t no romantic comedy.”

  A gavel rapped sharply in my head. I could see myself standing at the defense table in a nicely cut blue suit. Vera Wang, maybe. No! Enough about the clothes! I thought of a judge in a severe black robe with eyes as hard as Hank’s facing me from the bench, reading the verdict:

  “Regarding the count of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant, Kimberly Rose delaGarza, guilty.”

  The gavel rapped.

  Was that how it happened?

  I shivered, blinking away the offending image. I didn’t like the thought of a courtroom thriller. Not if I was the person standing at that defense table. It didn’t matter what designer suit I chose to wear. My next outfit would be an orange prison jumpsuit. I hated jumpsuits. And my mother said I looked horrible in orange. What kind of shoes would I wear? Nikes? Keds? Certainly no Manolo Blahnik.

  Maybe I should forget movies. I turned to Sam as the sidekick to his Sherlock Holmes. Except I wasn’t even a good Dr. Watson. “What’s next, boss?”

  He waved at the board and held out a dry erase pen. “Let’s go through these names. Maybe we can come up with more on why they should be suspects.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tackling Rick’s books after Sam left was tedious. I had no idea what I needed to find. Most of the clients were initials and the writing wasn’t Rick’s.

  Wait! He had a bookkeeper who handled store accounts. I found the name in tiny script at the bottom of a page—Betty Arguello. How could I have forgotten her? I needed to put her name on my list.

  Across the room, the board now listed more motives next to suspects. I grabbed my black marker and added “Betty A” to the suspect list. Under motive I wrote, “embezzling?” It was as good as anything else.

  Like my notebook, the board was appropriately color-coded, but was also geared toward suspect level. Names in red denoted strong suspects, like Carl. I’d originally written the Brookings in red, but Sam insisted I change them to black—a second tier of suspects—since we had no motives beyond speculation.

  He had been confused by “mob guy,” until I explained El Patron. As a former LAPD officer, he knew the name but agreed with Peter that the old guy was no longer in business. At least he provided a name—Benito Dominguez.

  Delia and Walter’s blue names pulsated on the board. I felt guilty even listing them. I pasted neon stickers beside their names with their alibi: “On a plane to South America.” Once we verified they were on the flight, we would erase them.

  My gaze swept back to Betty’s name as I recalled what she looked like and the last time I’d seen her—the woman sitting beside Carl at the service. A suspect? Probably not. I’d seen her at the store a few times. Her clothes were out of an Ivy League boutique—sweater sets and pleated skirts. Her coffee-colored hair was styled in short, permed curls. She wore low-heeled pumps and no make-up except for burgundy lipstick.

  Maybe I should call her. She could answer questions about Rick’s finances. Why was the shop in trouble? Or was it? I had only Carl’s word. She would have information on day-to-day operations. I found her phone number written on the inside of one book. I got no answer and didn’t leave a message.

  Was there another way to decode the names in the books? I should have kept Rick’s Filofax. All his clients were listed in that fat black notebook. It sat on my desk for months after we transferred the information to his Blackberry. I’d had the Blackberry too. He’d thrown them aside as easily as he replaced me with his new bimbo. Both had been packed into one of the boxes I returned. Jennifer would have his new phone with current contacts. Would she care if I took the old phone or notebook from the shop?

  ****

  Saturday, 10:00 a.m.

  My visit to Betty set into motion a terrible day. The small, tidy woman greeted me with a glum expression. She wore a fitted floral vest over a white cotton blouse and tailored slacks. Her only jewelry was a thin gold bracelet with diamonds dotting every few links and a gold chain that peeked from the inside of her blouse. Her short hair curled tightly around her round face.

  I made the drive to Burbank keeping a close watch on my rearview mirror. No one appeared to follow me as I drove up the 405 and crossed into the San Fernando Valley. I offered to pick up Sam, but Hank wanted to play golf. Sensing Sam’s excitement at the unusual invitation, I assured him I’d be fine on my own.

  “I’m not sure why you wanted to see me,” she said in a clipped tone, sitting very straight behind a wood veneer desk. Her office was in a converted garage that extended from a neatly tended bungalow in western Burbank. Despite being half a foot taller, I felt like she was looking down her wide nose at me.

  I ran my tongue over my strawberry lip gloss, uncertain where to start. This was a different kind of interview than I was used to. I needed information, but wasn’t certain what I needed to know.

  “You worked for Rick a long time.” I used my anchor smile, hoping to relax her. “You knew his business dealings better than anyone except Carl.”

  She seemed to weigh each word as she spoke. “I kept track of transactions for the store. Carl saw to Rick’s personal finances.”

  “You know how the store is doing, if it’s in financial trouble.”r />
  Her eye lids fluttered and a tiny crease formed at the center of her brow. “The store turns a profit every month, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I kept my expression blank, not wanting to show surprise. “Carl says the business is having problems. How can that be true if it’s profitable?”

  She fixed me with a pointed dark-eyed stare. “Maybe you need to ask Carl.”

  Indeed. The scrawny accountant was looking more suspicious. I had only his word that Rick took my money. What if he took it along with Rick’s profits? It could add up to a motive for murder.

  “Why would you care about the business anyway?” Her voice rang with sudden impatience. “His sister assured me she wants me to remain working.”

  It was my turn to stare her down. “She isn’t sole owner. I own half.”

  Surprise flared in her eyes. “Who said that?”

  “Carl. Why would he lie?”

  Her enigmatic demeanor returned and she flashed a polite smile, but I sensed something sinister. “Why would anyone lie to you?”

  I drew a quick breath. Definitely sinister! “Is there something you know?”

  “Rick was my friend, thoughtful, sweet.”

  Her tone alerted me to a deeper current to this stream. The woman never liked me, but this was more calculated. She never socialized with me and Rick. At store functions she seldom came near us. Her gaze ventured to a picture on her desk. The framed snapshot was of Rick and her at a Christmas party. His arm was slung around her as he grinned at the camera. Her eyes were on him and the look was anything but that of a good employee. Holy shit! Had she been secretly in love with him?

  “Rick liked you,” I offered in a soft voice.

  Her placid face swiveled back to me. “I know.”

  How had Rick shown friendship to her? Had she demanded more and he refused to provide it? I could hardly wait to scribble “spurned lover” on my suspect board. Her name might even turn red.

  “I’m not sure why you wanted to talk to me.”

  “I’m visiting people who knew him, whether or not they were important.” Okay, so I was being catty. “I need to find out who killed him.”

  Her brows arched in accusation. “Really?”

  This inscrutable act began to perturb me. “You think I did it? Why would I?”

  “We both know why.” Her voice filled with sarcasm. “Are you visiting all his women? What do you hope to gain?”

  His women? Hello! I leaped to my feet as her words crashed over me like the cracking of a vase on my skull. “What are you saying? You were his bookkeeper. That was all.”

  Her steady stare refuted that. “You spent years with Rick, but you never knew him.”

  My heart thudded and rage threatened to crush my chest. “Rick was loyal to me.”

  Again, that disturbing flatness filled her black eyes. “If you question all his women, you’re going to learn a lot more than you want to find out.” She leaned forward and a pendant that had been on the end of her gold chain slipped out of her blouse.

  My gasp was audible. “Where did you get that?”

  Her fingers flew to the pendant with the entwined diamond hearts, much as mine had that first time I battled the Bimbo. The store clerk claimed it was one of a kind. Rick demanded I return it and now it was around her neck.

  Her dark eyes flashed with triumph. “I think you know. He gave it to me the day before he died. Do you want to read the card that came with it?”

  I whirled away and stomped out, gasping for breath.

  Oh, hell, oh bloody fucking hell!

  Had Rick been more than a liar and thief? Had he also been a cheat? How many women were there in his life and were they all laughing at me?

  Or was one of them the killer?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Betty’s nasty charge that Rick was seeing others reverberated like a banging gong as I drove back across the city.

  How long had he been fooling around?

  When had the damn prick had the time?

  Were they one night stands?

  If he’d been with his bookkeeper the week before he died, that had nothing to do with me. If anything, it improved motives for Bobbi and her father. Had the Pilgrim discovered Rick’s infidelity and killed him?

  I pulled into the parking lot of Margo’s, a trendy restaurant, with my mind buzzing. I didn’t want to take Lindy to lunch, but I hated to cancel because of the yucky sensation in my stomach.

  She sat hunched on a bench in the waiting area, dejected eyes on the floor when I entered. One arm protectively covered her other arm that remained wrapped. She sprang up like a jack-in-the-box when I entered. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  “Sorry I’m late.” I tried to smile but my face refused to cooperate.

  The hostess greeted me with polite recognition, then picked up menus and led us to a table with a view of the Sunset Strip. Margo’s nestled on a hill overlooking West Hollywood. I recognized well-known faces at other tables, but this was the sort of establishment where you didn’t acknowledge them. At least no one would acknowledge me either.

  “You need to wear brighter colors,” I told Lindy after we ordered iced tea. I needed to think about something other than what had happened in Burbank. “You have beautiful skin, but that color makes it drab.”

  She wore a pale yellow sundress that was too light for her fair complexion. She didn’t look like the fearless race driver Hank labeled her. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Maybe we can go shopping someday.” Maybe when Delia returned, we could take Lindy on a shopping expedition as a reward for watching my house.

  The waitress delivered our tea and leaned toward me, speaking in a low voice. “I’m so sorry about Mr. Wells. He was such a wonderful man.”

  The words sliced through me, reopening my wounds. I studied the woman. “Vicki” was stenciled on her black plastic badge. She’d waited on me and Rick several times. In fact, thinking back, we normally sat in her area. How well did she know Rick? As she retreated, I yanked open my napkin with barely disguised violence, making the thick material snap.

  Lindy bent across the table. “Are you all right?”

  My anger spilled over and I slammed my fist on the table, making the silverware jump. “I’m fine. It’s Rick the Weasel! I found out the prick was fucking around. And not just with Bobbi the Bimbo. There were others.”

  Her small mouth formed into an O. “What a fucking bastard!” She clamped her hand over her mouth and looked around hastily, but I laughed.

  “My mom says I cuss too much,” she admitted.

  “Mine too.” I took a gulp of tea, put it down and signaled the waitress. “I’ve decided I’d rather have a martini? What about you, Lindy?”

  “Sure,” she replied with her bobble-head nod.

  For the next two hours and over several martinis, I told Lindy about Rick the Weasel.

  “I should have figured it out when he told me about Bobbi. That should have been a warning. How could he be so damn sneaky? How could I be so fucking clueless?”

  Lindy shook her head, hair swinging like a limp brown curtain. “Men are fucking rats!”

  Was I so isolated? I knew what Delia would say. I ignored anything that didn’t directly affect me. We were both self-centered. That was why we meshed so well from the first moments of friendship. We focused on our own immediate needs, whether it was getting a boyfriend, dumping one, or buying an outfit for an upcoming occasion. In many ways, I was a Pampered Princess, just as Hank said.

  ****

  My home phone was ringing as I walked in the door, but it stopped before I reached it. I hit the return call button, but the number came up as “private”. No message, but that had been happening a lot, even though I’d changed my number. My phone showed three calls and similar hang ups. All had “private” as the call back number.

  I was still mildly buzzed, but I wanted to get back to my investigation. I had downed cup after cup of co
ffee while waiting for a cab for Lindy. The caffeine jolted me awake as I drove home and sparked a sudden realization. While Betty’s claims hurt, they opened up a new line of suspects.

  Retreating to the office, I wrote her name in bold red letters on my board. Maybe he gave her the pendant as a goodbye present. When he broke off with her, she went bonkers with the bat. She looked mean enough to do it.

  I perused names of women on the list with a new purpose—Rick’s cheating heart. I turned Bobbi’s name red and wrote “caught him cheating” under motive. I did the same with the Pixie and the Pilgrim. Either might murder the bastard to save Bobbi from marrying a philandering bum.

  What other women could I add? Thalia, his big-breasted masseuse? She hadn’t been on the list, but I added her, along with Vicki, his favorite waitress from Margo’s. Who else did Rick flirt with? Well, everyone. He played the role of Mr. Charm wherever we went. He’d even taken Reba and Gwen to lunch when I’d been unable to get away.

  I shuddered as I thought of Gwen. She would rub an affair in my face, but to admit even a one-night stand might make her a suspect. She told police about my threat against Rick, probably even about my ripping up his pictures. Did that mean anything?

  What about Paula Gardner? She flirted with him so much Rick and I argued over his attention to her. I scribbled down both names. Damn Rick. I never questioned his devotion, not when he showered me with gifts. What was he giving everyone else?

  ****

  Sunday, 7:00 p.m.

  The sight of Hank Patterson standing outside my door was a complete shock. Given his vicious words the last time we spoke, he was the last person I expected to visit me.

  He shifted when I opened the door. “We need to talk.”

  I was as off guard as the first time he’d come, but I opened the door wider, beckoning him inside. “Please come in.”

  Following him up the stairs, I steeled myself for whatever might be ahead. I was in no mood for a confrontation, though I feared one might be possible. I was meeting Sam in the morning to give him a report on my session with Betty. Hopefully Hank hadn’t come to put an end to that endeavor.