Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “Isn’t Sunday your night at Geneva?” I said with a smile.

  His lips drew out in a straight grim line. “I don’t think I would have gone there anyway. It wasn’t the place to be tonight.”

  “It’s good any night.”

  He put down his sandwich and winced. “A kid from there died last night. Well, not quite a kid. He was a bartender who used to work there. You probably know who he was. Big blond guy named Tony or something like that.”

  A chill ran through me and my voice shook as I spoke. “Toby?”

  “Yeah. Someone found his body in an alley in Santa Monica. They’re thinking it may have been a case of hit and run.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I dropped my sandwich and realized I was weaving back and forth like I was drunk, or maybe the room was wobbling. I wasn’t certain which it was. “I didn’t do it.”

  He started to smile. “Of course not. I was with...hey, Kimmie, you’re white as sheet. What is it?”

  I leaned my head down against my hand. “Oh, God, Hank. Are you sure it was Toby?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  The room seemed to blur and I reach over and clutched his arm. “We need to talk.”

  The sandwiches were forgotten as I slumped in my chair. He pulled his own chair around and sat in front of me.

  “What is this all about?”

  I could not look at him as I haltingly blurted out the blackmail scheme and the plans to meet Toby the previous night. “Now the car is missing and the money with it.”

  “Did you tell the police it was in there?”

  “What was I supposed to say? Please find my car because it has my blackmail money?”

  He ignored my hysteria. His voice was quiet, measured, the good cop. “He didn’t show?”

  “No. I waited an hour on the pier before I went back and found my car gone.” I could feel his gaze on me, but I couldn’t look up. I didn’t want to see accusation.

  “Was that why you were so jumpy when the phone rang last night?” he asked.

  “I thought it might be Toby, calling to tell me he was going to the police.”

  Hank stood, running his hand through his hair. He was going to go bald at this rate.

  “I didn’t do it,” I repeated. I stared at Hank’s hard handsome profile. It showed no emotion. Mr. Police Chief at his finest. When he didn’t reply I continued. “You don’t believe me? You can’t think I would do something like that. Hank…”

  Silence was his reply. He stood still as a statue with his hands on his hips. I knew the technique. I used it myself sometimes. If you didn’t say anything, the other person would rush on, rambling until he or she said what you wanted to hear.

  “Toby was a nice kid. You don’t think I’d deliberately run over an innocent kid.”

  He tilted his head sideways, finally speaking. “He wasn’t that innocent, not if he was blackmailing you.”

  “He hadn’t done anything so far.”

  “And he won’t anymore.”

  “Hank, I could never run someone over! On purpose?” Had Delia and I talked about running over Rick? Was that on the recording? I could barely remember what we’d said that Saturday. It seemed so long ago. Hank’s thoughtful gaze remained skewered to me and I tried another tack. “Have you forgotten how upset I got when I ran over a squirrel? I cried, remember?”

  “That squirrel never tried to hurt you.”

  “Neither did Toby. That’s why I never told you or Sam. I was dealing with it.”

  “By paying him off.” He bit off the bitter words. “But your car got stolen. How convenient. Was that what you were going to tell Toby?”

  “I didn’t know the money was gone until later.”

  “What about the recording?”

  “It…it was on the cell phone. And I don’t know where it is,” I replied.

  ****

  Hank left moments later and I ate my sandwich because I was starved. When I finished, I looked around the deserted room. What should I do now? Maybe I needed to go upstairs and see Sam. See if he had any ideas. What were we missing? I thought about how he’d looked as I left him—gaunt and thin in his faded hospital gown, but eager to help.

  Tears stung my eyes. He’d been hurt trying to help me. Like Lindy. And Toby and Betty were dead. Hell, this was my fault. I was putting people in danger. And I didn’t know why.

  Enough!

  I was on my own. Time for the Queen to stop calling on others. Time for the Queen to become her own Warrior.

  I walked to the front entrance of the hospital. Damn! I didn’t have transportation. I’d taken a cab over, figuring Hank would provide my ride home. Now I didn’t know if I wanted to go home. Maybe I should spend the night in a hotel.

  A cab pulled up in front of the hospital to drop off a fare and I flagged it down. I gave him my address, trying to figure out my next step.

  My phone rang as I settled into the back seat.

  I answered quickly. Static came across the line. “Delia,” I shouted hopefully.

  “Walter…” came the broken voice.

  “Oh, thank goodness. Can I talk to Delia?”

  The line crackled again and I only heard bits of his reply. “not here...she didn’t come...” More crackling and then the welcome word, “home” came across the line before it went dead.

  I drew a sigh of relief. She was coming home! No wonder she didn’t answer her cell. She probably had it turned off. Did that mean she was in the air?

  “Oh, Delia,” I whispered. “Thank you!”

  At home I walked inside feeling like I was dragging the weight of the world. I sat at my desk and stared at the chart filled with sticky notes and comments. Had one of them killed Rick, Betty, and now Toby? Who? And why?

  I opened Rick’s ledger, hoping something might jump out at me. It flipped open on its own to a page in the D’s. I hadn’t gotten that far yet. I stared at Betty’s tiny precise writing. B. D.

  One page showed huge payments ranging anywhere from 10 to 25 thousand dollars, totaling more than $300,000 in the past six months.

  B. D.? Benito Dominguez? Did the old man order that much wine? Or was this the secret money laundering deal Sam had mentioned as a possibility?

  I opened the invoice folder and searched until I found the section with last names starting with D. None matched the ledger. I went back to the beginning of the files. I’d been through the invoices beginning with A and hadn’t seen anything to resemble that large amount. I went to the B’s and there it was—a series of invoices for wine with large totals that matched the ledger. The invoices showed no indications of vineyards or what wines were ordered, and all the invoices were in Rick’s handwriting.

  Oh, hell. This was it.

  There was no name at the top of the invoice pages—only those damned initials B. D. scribbled in Rick’s handwriting.

  Benito Dominguez?

  I looked at the board and Miles Brookings jumped out at me. B. D. Brookings Development? Why hadn’t I noticed that? Maybe he hadn’t liked Rick, but he hadn’t been averse to doing under-the-table business with him. Or perhaps he didn’t want his daughter marrying his favorite money laundering machine. Where did Miles get all his money? But wait, there had to be more. A few hundred thousand a month was pennies for a man like Miles.

  Picking up the personal file, I opened it and thumbed through letters, clippings and notes. Many were from me. The damn thing looked like it was years old. Then my skin turned cold. “We’re on for this weekend. Call me tomorrow. Love you, Bridget D.”

  The letters were in a floral scrawl, nearly faded on the page.

  I thought about Sam’s comments about seeing a note from some woman thanking Rick for a wonderful week. Also signed B. D.

  Bridget. I knew no one name Bridget. Or was that a pet name for Paula perhaps? It would be like Rick to give her a funny name, much as he once called me Pumpkin or Diva.

  My phone buzzed and I grabbed it and smiled when I saw Hank’s name. Maybe t
hey’d found my car! No, it was more likely he wanted to come over to talk about Toby. Or send Torres.

  “Hey, Chief,” I began, hoping he’d called to apologize for being so cold at the hospital, but he cut me off.

  “I’m probably going to be fired for this, but you need to call your lawyer immediately. They found your car.”

  I didn’t know if I felt relief or fear. “Oh, hell, with the money?”

  “No. With the bartender’s cell phone.”

  Shivers ran through me. “Torres is going after a warrant?”

  “No. Santa Monica is. They found blood on the dented front bumper. A preliminary test shows the same blood type as Toby. They’re going for a DNA workup. But there’s more. That gray car you asked about belonged to him, and his name is on your phone records.”

  I trembled with fear. “Hank, you know I didn’t do it. I was with you last night.”

  “Which is why I’m calling. Call your damn lawyer.”

  I hung up, not knowing where to turn. I was getting so close to figuring this out, but if police arrested me, they wouldn’t pursue my ideas. My car with Toby’s blood? Someone had stolen it and used it to kill him.

  Someone wasn’t trying to kill me.

  They were out to get me.

  I studied the names on the wall, putting my name into the equation with Rick, Betty, and Toby. What was I missing?

  Time! I needed time!

  I needed to work through this puzzle, but I had no time before police banged on the door with their damned warrant and a set of handcuffs. Using my phone, I took another picture of the big board and yanked off all the sticky notes and stuffed them, my notebook, and the personal file folder into a canvas tote bag along with my laptop. I needed to get out of here before police arrived.

  I had no opportunity to pack a bag. Reba and I had once joked about what we would take if we were one of those viewers warned that a wildfire or flood was approaching and they needed to evacuate.

  Now the Queen faced instant exile. What to take? The answer was simple—the crown jewels. I grabbed my Louis Vuitton train case from the hall closet and filled it with all the pouches and boxes from my safe. If worse came to worst, I could hock the shit. The Queen might need financing for her war on evil prosecutors. As I started to close the closet door, I stopped and grabbed a handful of folded Hermes scarves. They were light and could provide an easy source of cash in second hand shops.

  I started for the door and stopped. I needed a disguise! If police announced they were looking for me, the Queen could be easily spotted.

  Not Kimmie D!

  In the office, I grabbed the cranberry USC hoodie Sam used to sit outside in the evening. I also put on my Dodgers baseball cap, pulling it low on my forehead. As I headed for the door, I caught sight of my makeup case that Reba had sent over from work. That might come in handy. It held enough cosmetics to transform me into anything from a sixty-year-old woman to a Hollywood hooker.

  Burdened with my limited valuables and my new Fendi bag slung over my shoulder, I race-walked down the driveway and peered out onto the street. No sign of police and no unknown cars. Still, I felt conspicuous until I reached the end of the residential street and walked onto a main thoroughfare.

  Traffic rushed by me and I realized I wouldn’t find a cab in this area. I couldn’t afford to call one and wait. Police might spot me. A bus with a TV8 logo rolled toward me. It slid to a stop across the street and I waved frantically at the driver. Minutes later I was headed out of town.

  I sank onto a seat on the nearly deserted bus, smiling at the image I saw reflected in the window. Who would ever look for the Queen here? But where was I going? I had no destination. I needed to call Oliver, but that would keep until I found a place to hide.

  Where the hell was Delia? When was she getting back? She could…it hit me like a light. Her home was secluded. And I had her key! I checked my ring and it was still there, glistening in the glaring light of the bus, providing the promise of a safe hideout.

  The bus traveled north along Sepulveda Boulevard and I sat back on my seat, clutching my tote bag with its precious cargo. With a long trip facing me, I drew out the notebook which still held my original suspect list.

  Looking over the list again, I went through motives and alibis for each person. I mentally checked off Delia, since her name remained on the list, though her motives were as strong as anyone. She’d been angry over Rick’s treatment of me and according to police, he owed her and her husband money. But she and Walter had their alibis.

  Betty’s name was next, a sad reminder of how stupid some of my early theories had been. She’d become a victim. Sam said her death was a crime of passion. Who would want her dead? And why?

  Miles had been opposed to his daughter marrying Rick and had probably given Rick money, but he also had an alibi and no reason for hurting Betty. Unless she knew something? Or maybe he’d been angry about that pendant and arranged to have someone kill her while he was out with me?

  Bobbi the Bimbo had a nasty temper and had been angry over the pendant. She’d have a good reason to kill Betty and she’d love to see me in jail. Maybe she was following me and saw Toby hanging around my car. Hell, maybe she’d even had a thing with Toby. She visited Geneva too.

  Paula Gardner was possibly having an affair with Rick and might have been as angry as I was over his breaking off with her. What if she’d gone to talk to Betty and they both discovered the other had been screwing Rick?

  But why kill Toby?

  Carl Edwards might have taken Rick’s money and he’d worked with Betty. Maybe she refused to hide or keep silent about the money problems. Again, there was the Toby problem.

  Senor Dominguez could be booking bets for Rick, but I didn’t see any connection he might have with Betty. Unless it had to do with those big payments that perhaps she also discovered. He might even have heard my conversation in the bar with Del and might know Toby was blackmailing me. He could have had Senor Z “take care” of the bartender and arrange to place the blame on me. Perhaps that was even the reason the Senor had been following me.

  Ken Gardner was the only person who owed Rick money, but I didn’t see any connection to Betty or to Toby.

  What about Darryl? Maybe he knew something about the money situation.

  And what about the mysterious Bridget? Was she lurking out there somewhere?

  The bus shuddered to another stop and I realized we had reached Malibu. A lighted strip of restaurants caught my eye. I’d need to catch a cab to take me up into the hills to Delia’s house and this was probably as good a place as any to disembark.

  Minutes later the cab pulled up to the Lindsay house. The exterior was dark, but lights showed through side windows. That was no surprise. They would have their lights on timers during their vacation. I paid the driver and got out of the cab. I’d make myself a drink, go through the notes and figure this thing out before calling Oliver.

  The key worked and I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped inside. A tall white saguaro cactus sculpture greeted me inside the door. Yuck! Why Delia didn’t redo this into a more current style was beyond me. I moved through the marble foyer into a whole world full of Santa Fe style pastel colors, big white-washed log furniture and huge Southwestern sculptures. I’d never liked the style Delia had chosen for her house any more than I liked what she had done to mine, but I welcomed it as my haven for now.

  A gasp sounded to my right and I whirled toward it.

  I stared in shock at Delia.

  Chapter Forty

  It was like a dream come true. I dropped my bags and stepped toward her, fearing she was an apparition. Wait, there was something different about her. I couldn’t quite place it, but while the eyes belonged to Delia, her face looked different. It didn’t matter. Delia was home, and my heart swelled with such joy it hurt to breathe.

  “Del,” I squealed, glee spilling over as I rushed toward her. “When did you get back?”

  To my surprise, she retreated be
hind a heavy white-washed log chair. “I was about to call you.”

  I paused at the edge of a sand-colored rug, sensing she didn’t want me to come any closer. As she shifted, her hair parted, revealing small flesh colored bandages. I spotted others near the corners of her chin and at the edge of her hairline. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  She didn’t reply, tilting her head toward me. Her face looked smooth and nearly flawless and the truth hit me like a smack to my own face.

  “You had your face done!”

  Delia finally spoke, her thick lips barely moving. “This is the third time. You’ve never noticed before, have you?”

  “You told me you did liposuction and botox sometimes and about the boob and nose work, but that was years ago.”

  Her sudden laugh was mirthless. “Kimmie, you’re so clueless sometimes.”

  I shook off the deprecating humor as I’d been doing since college. “I’m so glad you’re here. You wouldn’t believe the latest chapter in this never ending saga. Hank tells me they’ve got an arrest warrant out for me. Hell, I’m officially a wanted woman.”

  Delia didn’t smile at my shaky laugh. “What are you doing here?”

  A new predicament occurred to me. “I was going to stay until I can get this thing straightened out. Oliver is not going to do a damn thing if I go to jail, and Sam’s in the hospital. I’m on my own, babe, and I better not stay. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

  This time she did smile, though it was crooked and strained. “That doesn’t sound like the Kimmie I know. She lets everyone else do the dirty work.”

  “No more. I’m becoming self-sufficient. Hell, I’ve been figuring things out. I’ve almost got it solved.”

  She blinked. “You do? Do you want help?”

  “I’d love it,” I squealed. Then I shook my head. “No. You’re my dearest friend. I can’t get you in trouble.”

  “At least let me pour some champagne and tell me what you’ve got.”

  I checked my watch. I needed to think, and Delia’s clever, devious mind might come up with answers. “Okay, but I can’t get silly. I need to keep my wits about me.”