Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “Welcome,” he said, beckoning me inside with a bow.

  “Good evening.” While I presented him with my best smile, I had to force down the butterflies that set flight in my stomach.

  “I’m so pleased you came over.”

  I stepped into the hushed surroundings and felt like I’d exited the stadium for another world. Unlike our station accommodations with its two rows of padded seats and outdoor carpeting, this box was triple in size and offered three spacious rows of individual leather loungers. The Dodger-blue carpet was so soft and thick I wanted to shuck my shoes. Tinted windows shut out the outside world when they were closed—like now—leaving us in a private, hushed atmosphere. No odor of beer or brats in here! The place smelled of money.

  As far as I could tell we were alone. “I thought Adrienne was here.”

  “She’s a typical Dodgers fan. Two innings and she needs to beat the traffic. May I offer you a drink? I mixed a pitcher of martinis.”

  “A good martini is always heavenly.”

  He walked to the back of the booth while I settled into a seat. We were alone, except for thousands of fans who could turn binoculars onto this booth at any moment. How much did those tinted windows hide? I knew of at least one audience member who might be checking.

  Miles approached with two glasses and handed one to me. “To the Dodgers.”

  I joined in the toast. “Since they’re down five to one, here’s to a rally.”

  Miles sat beside me, his handsome face growing serious. “I’ve been hoping for an opportunity to talk with you.”

  My head seemed to nod of its own accord. “Me too. I never got a chance to thank you for helping me at the police station.”

  He tapped my knee with a light fingertip. “I wanted to thank you too, but circumstances kept interfering.”

  “Thank me?” That surprised me.

  “Let me apologize for my daughter. I know Bobbi can be high-strung, but she didn’t mean to hurt you at the memorial service. I wanted to thank you for not telling police about her outburst. That was a difficult day for her.”

  “For me too.” I tried to sound meek, rather than sarcastic.

  “This ordeal has been overwhelming, and as I said, she is high strung.”

  I recalled my glimpse of her in the john that day at Geneva. She’d reminded me of a temperamental thoroughbred.

  When I didn’t reply, he gestured at my glass. “How’s the drink?”

  “Very good.” I tipped my head toward him in approval. “And I’m a martini connoisseur.”

  He chuckled, a low sound that sent strange vibrations through my middle. His blue-gray eyes held me. “So I noticed. You were enjoying yourself that first day I saw you.”

  Had he seen me fall off the barstool? I cringed at the thought.

  As though he picked up my negative vibrations, he tapped my knee again. “Let’s focus on something more pleasant.”

  “Such as?”

  His bright eyes pinned me with a laser beam. “You. I want to get to know all about you.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Me? Was he serious?

  “I want to know what you like to do when you’re not bringing me the latest news. What do you do when you’re off duty?”

  “Besides drink?” I raised the martini that was starting to blur my vision.

  His laugh rumbled through the room. “Were you and your friend celebrating? She said something about going to Rio?”

  I explained Delia’s trip and gave him a summary of the long years of friendship beginning with the days of Kimmie D and Delia Burnett. “We used to play games when we met new guys, giving them false names. Like I would be Kara, and she might be Debor-AH. Not Deborah, but Debor-AH.”

  “I should be happy I got your real name,” he said with a chuckle.

  “Only because you knew who I was,” I admitted, thinking of that first day I saw him. Sudden melancholy gripped me and tears stung my eyes. “Damn…”

  “What?”

  “I miss Delia. I wish she’d come home.” I drew a jagged breath and lurched to my feet. As I stumbled toward the steps, he caught me. He lifted me to my feet and for an instant he held me with powerful arms. He smelled of expensive, exotic cologne. His soft sweater brushed my cheek. He felt like…oh, hell…Rick.

  I pulled away. “I better get back to my friends.” The stairs swam before my eyes, but somehow I made it to the top step. He was right behind me.

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be forward. I thought you needed comforting.”

  I held my head down, afraid to look up and see pity. I didn’t know why sadness had swamped me. “I’m being silly.”

  “No.” His low voice was comforting. “You’re being human. May I take you to dinner tomorrow night? Let’s talk when we’re not sitting in the middle of a fishbowl.”

  “Sure.” I rattled off my new phone number and scooted out the door, fearing he might touch me again. Brad met me as I hurried through the milling crowd.

  “I’m ready to go home,” I said. “Do you mind telling the others? I’ll wait at the car.”

  ****

  Thursday, 7:00 a.m.

  The ringing of my cell jerked me out of a sound sleep. I fought to brush away grogginess. What made people think I was awake at this hour? I blinked my eyes open to check the number. Sam. He launched in without preamble.

  “I guess I don’t have to tell you how fuckin’ stupid it was to make those comments to the news. I ain’t answerin’ questions from anyone and if you tell them I’m helpin’ you, I won’t do it anymore.”

  “What time is it?”

  “I’ll call you later, if you haven’t been arrested.”

  His anger was understandable. I’d admitted someone was helping and it could bring unwelcome attention if news people learned his name. Hank would be furious. Why hadn’t I realized that before opening my big mouth? My phone rang again. Didn’t anyone sleep in?

  “Good morning, Kimberly,” a gentle Southern voice said. “This is Oliver Nichols.”

  I pushed my hair back from my face. My head hurt as though someone was yanking on my hair. Had I had that much to drink? I felt horrible. And I had a bad feeling about why he was calling.

  “Yes, Mr. Nichols?” I cleared my froggy throat.

  “If you say one more word to anyone without my permission, you can find another attorney.” All trace of Southern gentility vanished. His voice grew hard as a rapping gavel. “I am your attorney. Any statements come from me or through me. I don’t care how many friends you have in the media. When I work for you, you do as I say. I won’t put up with shenanigans. If you can’t live by my rules, then let’s cut the cord and you can go right to jail.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Nichols…”

  The phone clicked. What a crappy way to start the day. I might as well face it. Crime drama wasn’t my thing. Where was my historical romantic life?

  A shower didn’t help, and I couldn’t face the thought of staring at that damn board. I couldn’t even go out, since my repaired Mercedes wasn’t being delivered until noon. I called the one person who might cheer me up, even though I had no idea what time it was in Brazil.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Delia rasped.

  I was too pleased to hear her voice to care if she complained. “My life is falling apart. I needed to talk to you.”

  “Oh, baby, what is it?” Sympathy replaced irritation, soothing me like a warm bath.

  In halting sentences I let her have it all, unloading everything, including Sam’s anger and Oliver’s tirade.

  “You should have told me this from the beginning, you nut. You need my help. As usual. I’ll see what kind of connections I can get and be home in a few days.”

  Pangs of guilt struck me immediately. “I don’t want to interrupt your trip. I just needed to vent. I can get through this.”

  “You’re horrible in a crisis when it’s personal. Give you an earthquake or fire that affects othe
rs and you’ll go on the air and calm the world. When it’s your own mess, you fall to pieces without me.”

  Her lecture was as painful as Sam’s because I feared she was right. “Things aren’t all bad. I might have a date.”

  “What?” She squealed like a teenager. “With who?”

  “Miles Brookings. The Pilgrim guy from the bar.”

  Her gulp was so loud I feared she might choke. “He actually called?”

  “It’s not that simple. He’s the Bimbo’s father. I’ve run into him a few times.”

  “Now you’re going my route? Trophy wife? That’s what I need—your sexy ass for competition.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think so. Besides, you have Walter.”

  “I’m ditching that idiot. But he doesn’t think much of your Pilgrim. When I mentioned I met him, Walter said the guy is known for shady deals.”

  Shady deals? That sounded promising. “Like what? Can you ask Walt?”

  “He’s hunting elephants somewhere. I can’t reach him.” Disgust rang in her voice.

  “I don’t think they have elephants down there.”

  “Whatever,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t care. I’m ready to go home.”

  “Don’t do it just for me. I need to do things on my own sooner or later. I might as well start now. Give me your phone number so I can call if I need you.”

  “You just did.”

  “I mean the place where you’re staying.”

  “Call my cell.”

  “What if it isn’t working?” I persisted, not wanting to be left without a connection again.

  She sighed. “I’ll have to get it. I’ll call you later. Will you be around?”

  “I may have dinner with Miles, the Pilgrim.”

  “Don’t forget condoms…just in case.”

  Recalling his gentle touches, I gulped. Would he put a move on me?

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Delia asked with a delicious giggle.

  “He probably has his own supply. Custom made.”

  We hung up laughing. She could do so much to raise my spirits. I looked toward the stairs, but couldn’t face my board or Rick’s ledgers. I needed a day off. Slumping on the sofa, I turned on the television and tuned to a news channel.

  A cool blonde in a sleeveless shell read headlines. She needed my mother’s fashion advice. The fuchsia blouse and thin white arms did nothing for her. An unflattering photograph of me jumped out behind the woman’s helmet hair.

  “Did she do it?” the caption read. The screen split into two people—Joe Higgins, a former assistant district attorney, and Paula.

  “Oliver Nichols won’t discuss a reward or comment on Kimberly’s latest interview,” Paula said, “I understand he has threatened to quit.”

  Higgins glared into the camera, shaking his head. “She’s her own worst enemy.”

  “Do police have any other suspects?” the anchor asked Paula.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “This reward offer is her attempt to pretend she didn’t do it. How many guilty people make that sort of offer?” Higgins added.

  “She claims to have hired a private investigator, but we haven’t been able to discover who it is.” Paula’s voice rang with skepticism.

  “And you won’t!” I shouted at the set and hit the off button. I might as well have a “guilty” sign pasted on my forehead. Could I get a fair trial if I was arrested?

  My cell phone buzzed and I grabbed it. The caller ID showed “caller unknown,” but I hit the talk button, hoping it was Delia. Wait until she heard about this lynch mob.

  “Kimberly? I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  I’d never heard the voice on the phone, but I knew it immediately. Miles! My heart skipped and I patted my hair into place, as though he could see me.

  “I’ve been up for a while,” I said, trying to sound awake.

  “Good. I wanted to confirm dinner tonight.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Thursday, 7:00 p.m.

  Miles picked me up in a black Jaguar convertible, opening my car door. He looked very handsome in a charcoal Armani suit with a crisp white shirt and pale blue Gucci tie.

  I’d put my day to good use and visited Nanci’s Nail Nook, my hairdresser, and my favorite boutique in Beverly Hills. I’d managed to find just the right dress in deep green to go with my favorite pair of gold stiletto Manolo Blahnik sandals. The day cost three thousand dollars, but I could make that up in profits from the wine store.

  The dress was form fitting—I wouldn’t be eating much in it—with a low cut top that outlined my cleavage. It ended above the knee and one side had a slit that ran halfway up my thigh, allowing me limited movement. As I slid into the car, I showed a flash of leg to get his attention.

  Given the way his brows shot up, I knew he noticed.

  “We have dinner reservations at Marcel’s,” he said as he climbed into the car.

  I knew of Marcel’s. Very swanky, very A-list with Hollywood power brokers, but I’d never been there. I smiled in delight. This was the life I knew.

  The restaurant maitre’d greeted Miles as though they were old friends. We were guided through the dimly-lit, hushed room to a high-backed booth along the wall, a location that provided the ultimate in privacy. Martinis arrived as we were seated. Had Miles ordered in advance?

  I took a sip. “Mmm, the way I like it.”

  “I got your special recipe from Geneva.”

  That surprised me. He had taken time to learn that little detail? Had he been talking to Toby? What else had he discovered?

  “I thought Toby quit.”

  “Felipe,” he said with a warm smile. “I’ve known him for years.”

  I breathed easier. That made sense. I’d known him a long time too. “Delia and I adore him.” Such polite chitchat. Was that how we were going to spend the evening?

  “And Rick Wells?” he asked.

  I nearly choked on my olive. “Don’t even ask.”

  His chuckle soothed me. “I have a feeling we share the same opinion of Mr. Wells.”

  I turned to him in surprise. “He was marrying your daughter.”

  He looked away, studying the room, handsome face growing grim. “Bobbi is old enough to make her own decisions, but that doesn’t mean I approve of them.”

  “I thought you had business dealings with him.”

  Blinking rapidly, he turned to me. “Why would you think that?”

  So much for conjecture. “I’d heard…”

  He shook his head, gray eyes studying me. “There are people you know from the get-go that you cannot trust. I had him figured the moment I met him.”

  I chewed on my lip, fighting to keep disappointment from my voice. “I guess I was the only one who couldn’t figure him out.”

  He grunted and brushed my hand with his fingers. “No, you weren’t. He was a charmer with the ladies. I watched him weave a spell around Bobbi that no one could penetrate. He even charmed Pamela.”

  “Pamela?” Was this someone else for my board?

  “My sister. I think you met her at Geneva. Wells could make women believe anything he wanted.”

  Ah, the Pixie. “You didn’t approve of the wedding?”

  “There would never have been a wedding.” His tone turned hard as brick.

  I summoned my best poker face. How far would he go to stop the wedding? “Rick’s death must have been a shock to your daughter.”

  “I was in Canada at the time and Bobbi fell to pieces. I wish police could understand she’s high-strung, but she could never be violent enough to commit a physical attack.”

  A wave of shock surged through me. I was so focused on me I hadn’t considered who else police might investigate. She was on my list out of spite. “Police consider her a suspect?”

  “Seems that way, but I made certain they knew she could have been a victim herself.”

  Huh? Then it hit me. The broken glass! I kept quiet, not wanting to bring attentio
n to it.

  “It occurs to me we need to trust each other,” he added.

  “Why?” Could he hear my heartbeat quicken?

  “I know Bobbi didn’t do it, but I’m not certain about you.”

  I had to stifle an audible gulp. Prickles of fear ran along my skin. “You think I…”

  His smile was steady, and those laser eyes zeroed in on me. “If you did, I won’t find you less fascinating. You’ve done me a favor. You might say, I owe you, and as I’ve said before, I like being in debt to beautiful women.”

  My mouth was dry and I knew better than to moisten it with my martini. This man required I stay sharp. “I didn’t...”

  “You put a broken glass in his car.” His voice was flat but his hard eyes defied denial.

  Oh, hell! I grabbed my drink and took a sip before answering. “How...do you know?”

  His head tilted forward and his lips twitched into a smile. The gray eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief. “I saw you and your friend. I heard you giggling about Wells. I figured you didn’t know Bobbi was driving the car.”

  My forehead tingled, or maybe it was the martini.

  “Your secret is safe. I used it to show police someone might be after Bobbi. I want them to think she’s been threatened, so I took it directly to Patterson. Don’t worry, I washed off any prints.”

  I avoided his eyes. I couldn’t admit Hank knew the truth. “Why do we have to trust each other?”

  “I need to trust that you won’t do anything again, and you need to trust that I won’t reveal the source of that glass. Now why don’t we order dinner and drop the subject of Rick Wells? The man is gone, and I don’t give a damn who killed him. The sooner he’s forgotten, the better for both of us.”

  I don’t think I tasted a bite. I ordered, chewed and swallowed, but my mind was a swirling mess. Our discussion topics were light and inconsequential. Who can think when they’ve been accused of being a killer and told it didn’t matter?

  I fell asleep on the drive home—too much good wine and those wonderful martinis. He opened my car door and took my house keys from me to unlock the door.

  “Would you like me to come in and make certain everything is all right?” he asked, peering inside.