Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  “I’ll get the Dom.”

  She walked out of the room and I retreated to the foyer. I picked up the bag with my laptop and hooked it up to my phone to download the latest picture of my chart. Perhaps as I explained it, something new might occur to me.

  I frowned at the small size as the picture came up on the screen. “Hey, Del, can we use Walter’s computer? I can’t see my chart.”

  “Sure,” she called back.

  Walter’s office was across the foyer and I walked over and turned on the light. The wood paneled office reminded me of an old fashioned men’s club, with its heavy furniture and rich wood. Unlike his business office, his home desk was cluttered with papers, and drawers hung open. A Chanel clutch bag sat on one side of the desk.

  I turned on his computer and hooked up my phone. Delia returned with two crystal glasses filled to the brim and a bottle of Dom Perignon tucked under her arm. She handed me a glass.

  “To the return of the dynamic duo,” she said with a laugh, and we clinked glasses.

  The champagne was icy and slid down my throat in a welcome journey. Champagne, my best friend, and my bag of jewels. What more could I ask for in what might be my last few hours of freedom?

  “Tell me who you think did it?” she asked, leaning over to study the chart on the computer screen.

  I stood back and stared at the color coded list and began giving her the lowdown.

  “First someone had been giving Rick lots of money. I’m not sure why, maybe for gambling or keeping the shop out of hock. I’m not sure what that means, but here are my suspects.”

  “Miles Brookings?” she said with a laugh. “Bobbi? Benito Dominguez?” She turned and blinked at me. “None of them makes sense...”

  That was when it hit me. Just like Sam said it would. My clever board with all its cute colors and all those motives had not computed. And for one very good reason. One name flashed in front of my eyes.

  “The killer’s not on there…” I said, choking.

  She blinked. “What? Then who did it?”

  “Bridget. The mystery woman who was going to Vegas with him and…giving him all that money…”

  She began to laugh and waved a red tipped finger to me. “Of course!”

  But something else hit me too, and it chilled me to the bone. “I can’t get over your face,” I said. “Did you have that done in South America?”

  “Hell no! You think I’d let some foreign quack fuck with my face?”

  Tears filled my eyes. The shock was so swift, so painful it was as though I had been shot. The other woman—Bridget D. When we were in college we made up names to give to guys. Cute names. Like Gidget or Danielle. Or Bridget? My made up names often used the initials DK, the opposite of Kimmie D. She would be BD instead of Delia Burnett.

  My hands began to shake and I turned away, dropping my glass on the desk. The heavy crystal didn’t break, but the champagne spilled, dampening my sweatshirt and as I reached forward, my hand hit the bottle and liquid spurted over the desk top.

  Delia cursed. “Damn!” She hurried from the room to get towels.

  Frantically, I looked around. Now what? Could I be wrong? I reached over and grabbed her small clutch bag and stuffed it inside my hoodie as she appeared from the adjoining bathroom with a wad of towels.

  I walked past her to the bathroom. “Excuse me a minute.” With the door closed, I reached into her purse with fumbling fingers. I didn’t know what I was looking for—maybe proof about when she’d returned home. Or left.

  The purse was heavy and I touched something smooth and hard, something metal. I wrapped my fingers around the cylinder and pulled, watching in stunned amazement as my gun emerged.

  I unzipped an inside compartment, feeling around, fearing what else I might find. I opened a tiny coin purse with shaking fingers and stared inside. My breath caught. A tiny diamond pendant glistened inside. My pendant—the one taken from the neck of Betty Arguello.

  “Kimberly?” Her muffled voice came through the closed door.

  I jumped, closing the coin purse and stuffing it back into the Chanel bag. I slid the gun into the back of my jeans, much as I’d seen people do on TV.

  Fighting nausea that threatened to overwhelm me, I walked out to confront Rick and Betty’s killer. Summoning every ounce of acting skill I’d ever possessed I tried to keep a straight face. Could she have run down Toby? Yes. It explained how my car had been stolen so easily. Delia and I had keys to each other’s house and cars.

  Delia, who was always taking spa weekends, or maybe they were trips to Vegas with Rick.

  Delia, who had not gone to South America. No wonder she would never leave a hotel number.

  Delia, who knew my every move.

  Delia, who believed in retribution for betrayals.

  Yes, it all added up to Delia.

  Okay, I’d solved the damn thing. Now what? What came next? Well, it was a mystery, right? Next came the acknowledgment and the fight where the killer tries to do in the heroine.

  Wait! Not if she didn’t know I had it solved. I would drink champagne until the confession was made, pull out the gun and call Hank. It sounded so simple. I might have slid into a movie mystery scenario, except there was too much at stake. I needed to keep my mind clear. No time for Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes. I needed to focus.

  Delia had cleaned up the mess. She waved at the computer screen. “Fuck that. Let’s get fresh champagne and talk this out.”

  We walked back to the living room, the gun jabbing my lower back. Was the damn thing loaded? What if it shot off my ass? I couldn’t sit down. While Delia poured fresh drinks, I paced the room, touching the various pieces of large Santa Fe furniture, the beige and pink sculptures of Native American chiefs, large white pots filled with dried plants. I couldn’t live here, even if the furniture looked plush and comfortable.

  “You’re a terrible detective,” Delia said, coming back into the room with a new bottle of champagne. She handed me a full glass and poured one for herself from the bottle. “I’ve already figured this out. How are you going to find Bridget? That’s not her real name, right?”

  A burst of air blew past my lips. Was she going to admit it?

  Our eyes met and we both recognized what the other knew. We’d spent too many years together when we didn’t need words to communicate.

  “Why?” I asked, putting down my glass. “That’s all I want to know, Del, why?”

  Her laugh was pure Delia, but to me, it suddenly sounded evil. “Oh, Kimmie, I’m going to miss you. Maybe we need to figure out someone to pin this on.”

  The thought hit me. Maybe that was...no... The last few weeks had been hell. And someone had been trying hard to make it look like I did it. I was beginning to understand why she might kill Rick. Even Betty and Toby. But why would she let me take the blame? My oldest, closest friend, BFF, willing to let me take a murder rap. The Queen, stabbed by her most favored Duchess.

  “Why?” I repeated, fearing a massive breakdown. The woman facing me was evolving into a stranger. This new face was not my gal-pal.

  “Can’t you guess?”

  I didn’t want to. But there was something I needed to know. “How long were you sleeping with him? The whole time?”

  She shrugged, showing no remorse. “You knew he was a stud. Why did you think he’d be faithful? Yes, he spoiled you, but that was guilt. You’re so damn self-centered, you sucked it in like it was your right. You couldn’t imagine anyone preferring another woman to you.”

  Her voice had taken on the cruel note I often heard her use on others. I’d taken her denigrating remarks toward me as joking, but were they?

  “Do you hate me that much?” I asked, my throat dry.

  The thick unnatural lips tightened. “I don’t hate you. You’re my best friend.”

  “You’re not my friend if you let me go to jail. Was Toby an accident? We can go to Hank. He knows Toby was blackmailing me. He’d understand if he was doing the same to you. Why did you
have to hurt him?”

  “Toby saw me following you at the pier that night, so I took him on a ride to Santa Monica. And it’s not my car with blood on it. No one will ever prove I did anything.” Her laugh was demonic, maniacal. Mrs. Danvers with the house burning down around her in Rebecca.

  “Hank knows I didn’t do it. He was with me that night.”

  “Like you were with Miles the night Betty died?” She shook her head in disgust. “Why is it you can always get a man whenever you need one?”

  “Why did you kill her? Jealousy?”

  “Hell no. I knew he fucked around. She knew about me. That was your fault. All your poking around. She left a message after you talked to her, that she was going to tell you about me. She’d figured out I was using a phony account to give him money.”

  “The BD account.”

  “And she had that necklace. He used my account to buy the damn thing, but he gave it to her instead of returning it. She was so damn cool about it.” Her stiff face contorted in rage as her voice rose to a raspy shout.

  Her deranged anger only made me calmer. “Now what?”

  The familiar eyes in the unfamiliar face flamed. “I have a gun in my purse. Your gun. The one I took from Sam. It’s the gun that killed Betty. I was going to plant it in Paula’s car. If I don’t use it to make your death look like a suicide, I may still do that. So it’s your choice. Would you rather drink champagne filled with drugs or blow off your perfect face?”

  Neither choice excited me. I smiled. “The gun is no longer in your purse and I’m not telling you where I put it.” I eyed the glass of champagne. It had tasted different than the first one, and I’d barely touched it. I reached out and knocked over the glass. “Oops, I’m so clumsy.”

  Again that incredible anger ran across her face, but now there was something else I’d never seen before. Hate? Contempt? It frightened me more than the anger.

  “I’m not letting you beat me this time,” she said. “The damn Queen is dead. Even if I have to kill her myself.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Oh, hell. Here came that final scene. The fight to the death. Mano a mano. Senor Zapato wasn’t going to save me this time. No one knew where I was or that she was home. The gun was in my pants, but I didn’t know if it was loaded and I couldn’t afford to let her know I had it. I wasn’t even certain I could remember how to shoot it.

  “Beat you?” I repeated, looking around for a way out.

  “Everything goes your way,” she said. “You get all the breaks. In college you got the guys and grades. Then you ended up with a great job, making tons of money. Everyone knows you.”

  Her bitterness overwhelmed me, but maybe we could talk this through. “Del, you have money. You’ve always had more money than me.”

  “Their money!” She spat the words like a curse, ending my hopes for a sane resolution. “You do whatever you want. Redecorate your house anytime you want. Buy your own jewelry. Take vacations you want. I have to beg for everything. Plastic surgery? Not unless he approves! Jewelry? Only on special occasions. And what vacation does he want? A damn primitive safari!”

  Her pleas were sad, but so superficial for the damage she’d caused. Three people dead and another two injured.

  “Is that what this is all about? Because he wanted you to go to South America?”

  “No. It’s about begging. Begging for what I want, while you snap your fingers, you worthless piece of shit! Walter is so pissed he’s filing for divorce. I told Rick if he was so damn eager to get married, he should marry me! I knew him better than anyone! I was the one who saw his faults, but I didn’t care. I still wanted the fucker.”

  “So you went to see him that night instead of getting on the plane…” I prompted. Damn, why didn’t I have a recorder or Toby’s cell phone?

  “It was our chance. We could take Walter for every penny and be together.”

  A wild look entered her eyes, but I didn’t want to hear any more. It was time to end this tragedy. I no longer knew this woman.

  “I’m going to call Hank.”

  Disbelief flared in her eyes. Her hand came up and she flung her champagne glass at me. “You will not win this time! I’m not going back into the single world and be forced to compete with you again.”

  I dodged the heavy crystal glass and it bounced off the sculpture beside me, tipping the glass back toward her and drenching her in champagne. Laughter burst from me. “How could you forget I’m charmed in these catfights?”

  “This isn’t one of your comedy movie games,” she declared. “You’re going down, bitch.”

  Had she felt this way all along? I spotted a clay Navaho vase I’d urged her not to buy because it was overpriced. Picking it up, I waved it at her. “Your decorating taste sucks, and I’m replacing my damn hard sofa.”

  “You’ll never see it again. And don’t you dare break that! It’s an original. Put it down, you overrated Prom Queen.”

  “Prom Queen? What happened to Queen of L.A.?” In defiance, I flung it onto the carpet as she let out a little cry. It didn’t break, merely chipping so I ground the dull red clay into the pure white carpet. “I’m not afraid of you. And I’m not as helpless as you think.”

  I kicked the remains of the vase against the marble pedestal of a ceramic statue of a Mexican bullfighter and bull. The vase exploded, and one of the pieces flew up to lop off a horn of the ceramic bull.

  She picked up the shard of the horn and approached me, waving the sharp point like a dagger. “You can’t do anything without me. You’ve bounced around like a fucking puppet, and I was pulling the strings. I’m so damn tired of you and your perfect cheekbones. I’m going to chop up your face.”

  I backpedaled, flashing a teasing smile. “If you cut me, I’m going to bleed all over your expensive carpet.”

  “It’ll be worth it. I’ve always had to think things through, and you smile and get your way. Now you’re going to jail or the morgue. I don’t care which.” She waved the horn at me again and this time the jagged ceramic brushed my wrist.

  Pain raced through my arm as a long scratch filled with a thin line of blood on my forearm. I lifted a Kachina doll that sat on an oversized end table and as she lunged at me, I used it to smack the horn out of her hand.

  They crashed to the floor, bouncing. While she whirled away to find a new weapon, I reached around for the gun.

  “Hold it, Delia!”

  She stared at it and laughed. “The damn thing isn’t loaded, you idiot.”

  I aimed it at a bullfighter ceramic. “Let’s just see.” I pulled the trigger and the deafening blast stunned me as the statue exploded. My next shot blew up a huge pottery floor lamp. I meant to swing the gun back to her but the second shot jerked the gun from my hand, and it hopped across the carpet out of sight.

  “You bitch,” she screeched.

  I searched frantically for the gun. Where the hell had it gone? Fearing she might find it first, I ran for the front door, but as I reached it, she grabbed me from behind, knocking me to my knees. My head jerked back in pain as she pulled at my hair.

  “I’m going to rip your dyed hair out,” she cried, though we both knew it was untreated.

  Reaching back with my nails, I caught skin. “And I’ll rip off your phony face.”

  She released me with a shriek, but as I dived toward the door again, a hand caught my foot. Reaching out, I hefted my Louis Vuitton train case and spun around, socking her on the head. She grunted and clawed at the bag, grasping the latch and flipping it open. Silk scarves fluttered out along with a jeweled cascade of stones and gold that bounced on the marble floor.

  “You bitch!” I screamed and bent forward to scoop up wayward rings and necklaces. She yanked up a long strand of pearls and lassoed me like a cowboy, pulling me to the floor as she tightened them into a choker around my neck.

  Gasping for air, I fumbled around, trying to find a weapon of my own. Something pierced my hand, and my fingers grasped a large filigree brooch. I p
lunged its sharp pin into one of her hands.

  “Ow!” she yelped, releasing her hold as I repeated the motion.

  Free from her grasp, I crawled toward my purse to get my cell phone, gathering up more jewelry along the way. I needed every weapon I could find.

  “When you’re dead, I’m keeping all this.” She gasped for air.

  “When you’re in jail, I’ll send you pictures of me in the latest fashions,” I retorted.

  Delia caught the pearl noose again and yanked, but this time the strand broke, showering us both with pearls. “Rick didn’t love you!” she screeched. “He was using you.”

  “All he wanted from you was your money!” I scrambled to my feet and reached for my purse. “And he spent it on bookies, bets, and other babes.”

  She huddled on the floor, tears streaking her mascara into a long black line down her swollen cheeks. An ugly welt from my scratch cut across her stretched face.

  I turned toward the door, ready to make my escape, but my foot came down on a pair of errant pearls and the soles of my shoes spun, plunging me back to the hard tile. My breath whooshed out.

  Laughter rang around me, and she flopped on top of me, straddling me. I ripped at her silk blouse, hearing the pleasing tear of material as it fell away from her shoulders. She slapped me hard across my face, stunning me.

  “Do you know why I hit him?” she asked, her strange face filled with rage. “He wanted me to talk to you. He said he never realized how hurt you were until that night. He wanted me to get you to forgive him and take the fucker back!”

  She slapped at me again, but I jerked my head to the side and her hand smacked the marble floor. The crack was as painful to hear as her howl of frustration.

  I twisted out from under her and reached around me for any sort of weapon. My hand came into contact with my makeup case and I opened it and began pulling out small compacts and cases and flinging them at her to keep her at bay. Beige powder showered her, and I heard her curse and blink as it got into her eyes. I fired loose eye shadow compacts at her, dotting her face and hair with brown, blue, and green, but I wasn’t doing much damage except to make her look like an artist’s palette.