Blues at 11

by Rebecca Grace

  In desperation, I flung the entire case at her. It caught her on the side of the head and I used the time to find my Fendi bag. I groped inside it for my cell phone, but as I pulled it out, my hand stung with pain. She’d taken off her pumps and whacked my hand with a stiletto heel, sending the phone skittering across the tile.

  I struggled to get to my knees, but a sudden hissing filled the air and my eyes stung and grew blurry. The scent of hyacinth filled the air.

  “You bitch! That’s my new French perfume. Four hundred dollars an ounce. I had to special order it.”

  “You can spend eternity with it. I’ll spray it on your casket for you,” she screamed.

  I reached out blindly, grasped a shoe and hurled it at the sound of her voice.

  The clunk told me it hit home, but I still couldn’t see where she was. I rubbed my eyes, but the more tears that flooded them, the worse they felt. The smooth feel of silk jerked my hands down, trapping me. A tight pull wrapped my arms around my upper torso. I kicked but she was knotting the silk. Through my blurred vision I recognized one of my scarves. She’d used it to tie me up.

  I kicked again, but something heavy and blunt smacked me across the head and stars crossed my closed eyelids. Tears streamed out of my eyes, and I blinked them open. She was removing her bra and as I kicked, she caught my legs and tied them up with her bra.

  “Delia, stop this. Let me go.” We were both breathless. Neither one of us had been going to the gym recently.

  “You’re going to hell,” she said between shallow gasps of breath. “Tell Rick I said hello.” She got to her feet and began to gather other scarves that littered the foyer.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to tie you up and hang you from the rafters with your scarves,” she said in a gleeful tone. “Poor miserable Kimberly is going to commit suicide rather than go to jail. Obviously you were throwing fits. Look at how you tossed your jewelry around. I’ll go away and come back tomorrow to find your cold, dead body.”

  “Sam will never believe it.”

  “He will when he reads your suicide note. Remember how I used to copy your writing when we were in school? I’m going to leave a lovely note,” she said with a maniacal laugh. “You’re even going to admit to killing Rick.”

  Would Sam believe it? “He knows I didn’t do it.”

  “Everyone else thinks you did! It’s been so damn hilarious. I was scared to death until I heard they were blaming you!”

  Tears wet the back of my painful eyes. These were emotional tears, not the tears I’d shed over the sting of the perfume. I looked up at the high wooden rafters that crisscrossed the large living room. How was she going to manage to hang me? Was this how my life ended? In a colorful catfight to the death? Done in by a bright array of Chanel eye shadow pots, Dior blushes, and Hermes scarves? Rubies, diamonds, and emeralds winked in the sunlight at me like they shared a giant secret.

  No, as I wriggled, I realized one hand was coming free. My gaze moved back to her to make certain she wasn’t noticing, and my stinging eyes focused on the statue of a cactus by the doorway. If I could get to that…

  I inched my way across the tile. Her attention remained on tying the scarves. By the time I had reached the statue, my whole arm was free. I wrapped it around the base on the statue and yanked. It rocked, but did not fall and the noise alerted her.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, leaping to her feet as it rocked again. Delia dropped the scarves and moved toward the cactus. “Shit!” she cried as she stepped on an open pin. She reached out to catch her balance and caught hold of the rocking statue. Her weight carried it to the floor and she landed with a thud as the statue shattered on top of her.

  I crawled to her limp figure. Her pulse was strong, but she was out like a light.

  “I told you that decor was sooo last century,” I said, taking in a deep gulp of air.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Hank handed me a cup of coffee and sat beside me. I perched on a low stone wall along the entry to Delia’s house.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  I shrugged, not certain if I would ever feel good again. I thought I’d known Rick and he cheated on me. I thought I knew Delia and she hated me. I wasn’t even certain I knew myself.

  Hank touched my scratched face with a long finger. “You need to go to the hospital and get checked out.”

  I leaned toward his hand and a tear escaped my eye. My eyes no longer stung , but tears still threatened every couple of minutes. For weeks I’d lamented Delia’s absence. Now it would be pretty permanent unless I wanted to visit prison.

  “She hated me. All that time, she wanted a way to get even with me.” I looked at him for answers, but saw no emotion in his clear blue eyes. “You hated me too.”

  “I couldn’t hate you. I don’t think she did either. She was jealous, plain and simple. She saw money, position, status. For a time that was all I saw.” He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed it. “You can be a hard woman to know, Kimmie.”

  I drew in a deep breath. Was I? “They said she’ll be okay.”

  “She has a bump on the head, bruises from getting smacked with various objects and getting tied up with your scarves. You fight a mean battle, lady.”

  I smiled ruefully. “I wasn’t sure how else to keep her tied down until you got here.” That had been one of the hardest things to do. Ignoring her pleas to untie her and pretend it was all a grand joke. Before long, we’d be laughing at Geneva.

  Now there would be no more Geneva. I could never go there again—not without thinking of laughing with Delia or Toby’s adoring smile the day he met us. I glanced toward the house where police still came and went.

  “They’re picking up your jewelry. I’m surprised you didn’t stay to watch,” Hank said.

  I’d forgotten about it. Strange that it didn’t matter anymore. “It’s insured.”

  “You gonna be okay?” His finger traced a line on my cheek.

  “That’s the same thing Sam asked.” He’d sounded so pleased when I called to fill him in on how I’d worked it out and managed to capture Delia.

  “And?”

  Tears clouded my vision. It was difficult to lose someone and yet not lose them completely because you never knew them. That described both Delia and Rick.

  “Do you suppose they would have caught her?” I asked.

  Hank’s face was grim as he nodded. “There are partial fingerprints on top of yours on the bat. That was the reason Torres held back from arresting you. I have a feeling they’ll be hers. We may have witnesses who can identify her outside Betty Arguello’s house and leaving the pier in your car with the bartender. There’s more I can’t tell you, but I’m confident we can build a case.”

  I was curious about the evidence, but I wasn’t going to press him. I’d put his job in jeopardy too many times. “Is that what you told the reporters?”

  He chuckled as a smile slid across his face. “Something to that effect.”

  “So it’s over? I can go?”

  “TV’s down the road.” He pointed at the towering microwave poles at the edge of the property.

  I glanced at my watch. “They have live shots at 11. And they’ll probably be back for the early morning news.”

  “Do you need me to drive you out of here?”

  Emotion caught in my throat, clogging it. The offer from Hank was not something I expected or deserved. Well, maybe deserved. His officers made me look guilty. Yet if I had kept them informed of all I was doing or handled this differently, maybe they would have caught Delia sooner. I’d given her the non-existent alibi.

  My phone beeped and I looked down, recognizing Alan’s number. Hank got to his feet.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

  I clicked on the phone and said a quiet hello.

  Alan’s voice sounded cautious. “Hey, how ya doin’, kid? I got Reba at the scene in case you feel like talking.”

  “Looking f
or a lead?” I said, fighting back tears.

  “You’d be all over it if you were here.”

  How many grieving widows had I shoved microphones at over the years? How many family members had I tried to get to talk? Would I ever look at victims the same way again?

  “So what do you say?” he asked.

  “Maybe later. I don’t think I’m allowed to speak right now. It might prejudice the case.” No one had told me that, but it sounded good.

  “Sure, I understand. Got a statement at least?”

  “Oliver will send one.”

  He sighed. “I’ve told Vincent I want you back on air as soon as you’re ready. I warned the SOB that I’ll go to the carpet over this. Gwen’s moving out of your office and the seat is yours whenever you want it.”

  I held my breath, my throat closing. The Queen’s throne awaited.

  “I mean it,” he continued. “Vincent knows how valuable you are. The numbers slumped the last two weeks.”

  “I don’t know. Rick left me part of his wine shop. I might get out of the business and run that.”

  “Now, wait a minute, babe. We got a contract here...”

  My phone beeped and I rang off without a reply to go to the next call, expecting Oliver or Adrienne. Miles Brookings surprised me.

  “I wanted to let you know how sorry I am for the way I acted the other day.”

  “No problem.” It seemed so long ago.

  “I’ve learned Brad Singer took the picture and released it. He was playing a vindictive game and I’m sorry I let it affect me. May I buy you dinner to make up for being a boor?”

  I looked up as Hank emerged from the house. Ten years ago I faced a decision between Rick and Hank. Miles reminded me of Rick. He babied women, spoiled them…

  I snapped off the phone as Hank approached.

  “Where are you headed now?” he asked.

  “Home. Then I may join the family in Mexico. I don’t spend enough time with Mom. It’s like we don’t know each other anymore. You ought to do the same with Sam. He misses you.”

  He stared at me for a second and then nodded. “Yeah, I know. This case has taught me a lot of things.”

  “Me too. Like I need to get to know myself better.”

  Hank leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, grasping my hand. “I might want to do that too, Kimmie.”

  I squeezed his fingers as I stood. Kimberly delaGarza was no longer Queen. She’d become Warrior Princess, crime solver, crusader for justice. When it was time to jump back into my romantic comedy dreams, Hank Patterson would be where I started. Miles was rich and handsome, but Hank was real. I smiled, realizing there was nothing phony about it. I felt happy all the way to my toes.

  “Why don’t I drive you home?” he asked.

  “I was thinking of taking the bus. It’s a good place to think.”

  He tapped my nose, a playful but intimate touch. “Why don’t we think together?”

  My pulse quickened as I looked at our joined hands and nodded. Why not?

  A word about the author...

  Rebecca Grace is an award winning former broadcast journalist who spent 30 years working in television newsrooms in Denver, San Diego, Seattle, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles. She writes romance, mystery and romantic suspense for The Wild Rose Press, Inc. She is also a writing instructor and coach. Her most recent work is a romantic suspense novel, Dead Man's Rules.

  www.rebeccagrace.com

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  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.