A Dead Daughter (Jessica Huntington Desert Cities Mystery Book 3)

by Anna Burke

  “I’m sorry, Jessica. You’ve been through a lot. It's just that I don’t handle the tension...” He must have caught another look from Jerry because he did not finish the sentence. “Sorry Jessica, sorry Frank, no offense.”

  “None taken. It’s been over three years since Mary ‘switched teams,' as you put it. I’m over it. But I keep my promises, too. You might have to put up with more tension since Jessica and I still have a lot of things to sort out. At least for a few more years I have kids at home, so it’s not just me I have to think about before getting involved with a woman. Especially one as stubborn, uppity, and exasperating as our friend here, no matter how lovely and beguiling she can be.” Frank leaned over and tousled Tommy’s hair as Jerry had done earlier. Jessica felt herself go all mushy inside. They did have a lot of things to sort out, but, damn, the man knew how to make it seem worthwhile.

  “It’s okay, Tommy. I’m not the only one in this room who’s stubborn and exasperating. In fact, I believe that our friend here was about to tell me, once again, to cool it. Do I look like I could get into trouble like this?” Jessica asked, holding up her arm with the bandaged hand. Free, for the moment at least, from an I.V. The other was still in that sling made to support her arm and shoulder, allowing little movement.

  “If it were anyone else but you, I’d say not. Your inner Joan of Arc has you ready to believe you can take out bad guys with both hands tied, so why not with one in a sling?”

  “That is just not true, Frank Fontana.” She thought about that moment when she went toe-to-toe with the gun-toting psychiatrist. “Okay, I shoved him first. The scumbag had a gun pointing right at me.”

  “Sheesh, that’s what I’m talking about! Look, this is getting us nowhere. Besides checking on your well-being I stopped by hoping to get the low down from you about what happened up there. Pop and his guys will be here, in an official capacity, to ask for a statement any time now. I’d like to hear it myself, off the record since I have no role in the police investigation. It’s more than idle curiosity, though, since you have had me playing ‘consultant’ on your investigation into Libby Van Der Woert’s trouble with her parents.”

  “Consultant, woohoo,” Tommy hooted. That’s a fancy term for our Cat Pack snooping activities. I like that!” The Cat pack was the name she and her friends had adopted for themselves when, like a herd of cats, they had wandered about during their first murder investigation. Less glitz and glam than the 60s “Rat Pack” that hung out in the Palm Springs area, their strange little band had forged a bond about as strong as that between Sinatra and his chums. They even had a Frank of their own.

  “I should remind you Tommy, about the risk of being too nosy—you know that old thing about curiosity and dead cats. And please don’t paw the air or hiss. It just makes me feel worse about anything I do that encourages you to go on with this amateur sleuthing.”

  “Well, we’re not all amateurs, Frank,” Jerry said. “I’m a card-carrying P.I., and it is the way I make a living.”

  “I’ll remind you that Jerry works for me, at the firm... most of the time, Frank. Okay, often anyway. And, I might add, Tommy’s on the payroll along with Kim Reed, as Jerry’s assistants. So I suppose that leaves Bernadette and Laura as the amateurs because Peter’s a pro too.”

  “Don’t forget about Brien. Are you going to make a case that his barroom bouncer training qualifies him as a pro? He thinks he’s ‘muscle,’ but I sure hope, for his sake, he doesn’t give up his day job.”

  “Now, Frank Fontana, don’t pick on my poor pool boy. He’s not even here to defend himself. For your information, Peter has taken the guy under his wing, hoping to give him a little security training to go with that well-intentioned brawn of his.” Frank’s mouth popped open, but no words came out.

  “Brien and Peter? Are you sure about that?” Frank still seemed incredulous when he spoke.

  “Yep! Brien has been doing ride-alongs, and. he’s taking a course to get the basic training he needs for a California Guard Card. I guess Peter’s company does that thing—offers training certified by the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services.” Now Jerry wore a befuddled expression, too.

  “What?” Jessica asked. “That’s it isn’t it Jerry—BSIS?”

  “Oh yeah, you’ve got that right. It’s just that I’m about as surprised as Frank about the ride-alongs. Brien gets on Peter’s nerves. I can’t imagine them in the same car together for long without an incident.”

  “Brien gets on everyone’s nerves. Even our sweet, patient St. Bernadette gets pushed to the point where I think she’ll take a rolled up newspaper to him. He’s like a big, hyper dog underfoot. But he means well, and Peter’s of the opinion that discipline and training can do him a world of good.”

  “Woof, woof!” Jerry and Frank both glared at Tommy. “Nothing wrong with discipline—in the right hands.”

  “Oh stop it. These guys will sign you up for obedience school, too, if you keep that up, Tommy.”

  “Promise? Do I get to wear a collar?” Tommy asked, panting like a dog. Jerry blushed and rolled his eyes at Tommy’s antics. It was Jessica’s turn to be puzzled.

  “Now I’m lost, Tommy. What are you babbling about?”

  “Shades of grey, Jessica, what planet are you on?”

  “Oh yuck, you too, Tommy? We’ve spent the last fifty years trying to get women out of bondage, way over fifty shades of it and one hyped book makes it chic to put them back in it. Not to mention all the effort that’s gone on to try to help people sort out the boundaries between sex and power. There is nothing sexy about being bound, Tommy. I know what I’m saying—my wrists are still sore from my latest stint in ropes, see?”

  “Speak for yourself. You know for me, Jessica, it has nothing to do with women. But, point taken. Maybe you need to stop with all the whipped puppy stuff.” Tommy stared at the floor with a sad look on his face—feeling sorry for himself most likely after being scolded. Ten seconds later he made whiny puppy sounds, grinning as he settled into a chair nearby. Jessica felt her embattled nervous system getting riled up.

  “Don’t make me tell Bernadette about you, Tommy.” That shut him up. He believed that the saintly Bernadette possessed special powers. “She’ll call forth the hounds of hell. Then what will you do, Smarty Pants?” Jessica said, as she turned her attention back to the matter at hand.

  “Gentlemen, I’ve had about all I can take for one afternoon, speaking of tension and getting on people’s nerves. I love you all. I mean that in the truest sense of the word—Cat Pack esprit de corps and all of that. As you can see, Frank, I am doing fine. If you will all shut up for a few minutes, I will give you the rundown on what happened with Libby. After that you can all go, so I can get my beauty sleep. Since Bernadette isn’t here, I will call Nurse Andrews and we’ll see what an empowered woman can do without any props.”

  Jessica spent the next twenty minutes going over, once again, what happened the day before at the top of the tramway. Frank asked several clarifying questions, but otherwise, the men in the room kept silent. Jessica told the story in a more coherent way this time. That didn’t mean it made more sense.

  “So here’s the big picture: Carr was treating both Libby and Shannon and Carr was up to no good,” Jessica said, concluding her account. “What kind of ‘no good’ still isn't clear, although at least some of it involved an inappropriate sexual relationship with Libby. Even if Libby has evidence of an affair, I find it hard to believe he’d kill her because of it. That means there's more going on. Given Libby’s rambling, it must be related to Shannon Donnelly’s disappearance. I don’t have a good feeling about that. Libby said all Carr wanted was the money. Does that mean he was coercing Shannon into giving him a cut of money she was trying to get out of her parents? While sexual indiscretion isn't a crime, blackmail is. If he was blackmailing women for a share of their ill-gotten gains, and Libby or Shannon had proof, that might be a motive for murder. Libby seems to know what happened to Shannon, so maybe
that's why Carr planned to kill her—me too, if he thought Libby told me about Shannon. I'm not sure where the red devil fits into all of this. Argh! You guys are right. I'm too worn out to figure this all out. I need to back off.”

  “Jessica, that's not surprising. You are fortunate to have survived that ordeal. If I can believe that what you intend to do is take it easy, I’ll rest easier too, and I won’t go waving my badge at you. What’s the point of having this crack team of Cat Pack consultants if you don’t use them? What I propose is that you let us pick up the trail from here for a few days while you recover. I’ll run interference for you with Dad and his colleagues at the Palm Springs Police Department, to give you another day or two before they interrogate you. That also means that when they question you, they get the whole story. No shielding Libby out of an over-developed sense of loyalty to her parents. If you care about them you’ll give the police every shred of information even if it raises suspicions about their daughter.”

  “It’s a deal, Frank. Thanks for giving me a little more breathing room. I sure would like to know whether that blue suitcase exists and what’s in it. Maybe the Cat City police have enough on Libby as a suspect in Donnelly’s disappearance they can get a warrant to search her place in Los Angeles.”

  “If you tell Hernandez what you’ve learned it might make that happen. That’s presuming they haven’t already done it. Or maybe Pop and his guys can get someone to do it. It’s likely Libby’s a suspect in Carr’s death whether they charge her with murder or manslaughter.”

  “Unless they decide she acted in self-defense, Frank.”

  My point is, Jessica, here’s another chance to let the process run its course while you get back on your feet.”

  “I hear you, Frank. There are all these little snippets of conversation with Libby that pop into my head at odd moments. Little details that nag at me. Like, how did the press get hold of the idea that Carr was treating Libby? That’s confidential information, so how did it get into the hands of the press?”

  “A good question, Jessica.” Jerry took out the small notebook he always carried with him and made a notation in it. “We’ll track down the reporters and ask where that information came from. Don’t hold your breath about getting a clear answer though.” Jessica leaned back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

  “Did I tell you it hurts to talk, you guys? If I suck in air the wrong way, I pay a penalty. My body is telling me to back off, too, Frank.”

  “Good! Not because you’re in pain, Jessica, but you’re paying attention to the messages your body is sending you. It’s a lovely one, and worth the attention. I can vouch for that.” He smiled, affection softening his dark brown eyes—and shyness stealing over him at the words he had just spoken. This more vulnerable version of Frank Fontana was the one she found irresistible. Kind and thoughtful, he often expressed care and tenderness toward his children and parents, displaying a depth she couldn’t remember ever having seen in her ex-husband. How odd she had not noticed, until too late, that Jim’s relationships with others were shallow and self-serving.

  “Well, it is the only one I’ve got,” she said as their eyes met.

  “Get some rest, Jessica.” Visibly relieved when she nodded in agreement, Frank moved closer. He picked up the flowers he had set on the bed next to her and dropped them into the water pitcher on a tray beside her bed. Jessica must have looked askance.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take full responsibility with Nurse Andrews. I’ll ask her to bring you more water on my way out, promise.” With that he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. The sensation provoked a different set of messages from her body. Not one of them told her to back off.

  Jessica watched the man leave the room, swagger in his step as he went off to battle with Nurse Andrews. Jerry and Tommy followed after planting friendly smooches on her face. They said something as they left, but her mind was too full of Frank Fontana to process what they said.

  “Don’t tell me that’s not foreplay!” Tommy hollered from the doorway, a devilish grin back on his face.

  Jessica drifted into a dreamy state. Nurse Andrews entered the room with a fresh pitcher of water. The nurse poured a cup of water and offered it to Jessica along with pills.

  “Your friend said you’re feeling some pain, Jessica. It’s time for your afternoon meds so this should do the trick. If not, let me know and I’ll call the doctor for you. He made me promise to take good care of you.” She smiled, for a moment, before the sight of those flowers in the water pitcher wiped it away. Picking up the old pitcher, she put the new one in its place. Jessica thought she heard the nurse utter a quiet harrumph as she found a spot in the room for Frank’s flowers. That Frank kept his promises was another striking difference between him and the well-heeled heel she had married. As she drifted toward sleep she reveled in pleasant memories of another promise Frank had kept.

  In August, Frank had cooked Jessica one of the best Italian dinners she had ever eaten. A peacekeeper in the family, he had been at his Irish mother’s side when his Italian grandmother and aunts taught her to cook all the Fontana family favorites. Not the kind of meals they had eaten in Italy, but the meals that had become customary in U.S. Italian immigrant households. The centerpiece of the meal was pasta. Spaghetti, cooked al dente. Then covered with salsa di pomodoro simmered, for a long time, to add depth to the rich tomato flavor. Chianti, garlic and fresh herbs, enriched the sauce. Frank served small meatballs on the side. They were made from a mix of ground beef, veal and pork, flavored with a hint of nutmeg besides parsley, garlic and parmesan cheese.

  Frank called the appetizer that began their meal bagna cauda. It was similar to the crudité featured with many restaurant meals. Crusty chunks of bread, blanched asparagus, cauliflower, and carrots set out with a warm dip. A luscious concoction of salty anchovies, garlic and olive oil, blended then warmed. Not a fan of the anchovy, Jessica had been dubious when he described the ingredients as he placed the fare in front of her.

  “My effort to keep up with trends in Italian cooking,” Frank had offered, as he set a tiny bowl of mixed olives beside the bagna cauda. The olives were warm, and laced with sprigs of rosemary, crushed red pepper, and lemon zest.

  “Oh my God, Frank! This is to die for!” Jessica had exclaimed after tasting the bagna cauda.

  “I won’t tell Bernadette you said that. I want her to continue to like me.”

  “Frank, what are you saying? The only thing you have to worry about is getting recruited to step in and help feed our little Cat Pack.” Their group had added new members during that awful summer. Not just Frank Fontana, but Kim Reed, had joined their ranks. When Jessica met Kim Reed she was the office manager for a prime suspect in their investigation into Kelly Fontana’s death. Kim had been helpful in determining who killed her dear friend, Tommy’s sister and Frank’s cousin.

  “This is an experiment for both of us,” Frank had said, breaking into Jessica’s reverie. A note of anxiety was in his voice as he placed a side dish of Artichoke Gratinata, next to the hand-painted earthenware pasta bowl containing her spaghetti. His face lit up with delight when Jessica let out a little sigh after tasting a bite.

  “This is amazing, too, Frank. Keep on experimenting!” she said before stuffing another bite of the delicious food into her mouth. Not very demure, but what the hell, she had thought as she savored the crispy bread crumbs atop warm artichoke hearts. The dish melted in her mouth.

  “You know the way to a woman’s heart...” she mumbled between bites.

  “I sure hope so” Frank said, a flirty grin on his face. “Can I ply you with more of this obscenely delicious wine you brought to share?” She nodded as she continued to shove food into her mouth.

  Thinking about that night now, it wasn’t just the food that had captivated her. True, the meal added a sensual quality to the evening. As did the 2001 Corison Kronos Vineyard Cabernet that Jessica had brought to the table. A perfect addition, the wine was vividly aromatic, cas
sis-scented, and had dramatic color and legs in the glass. It rolled over the tongue with grace, bursting with flavors of dark cherry and oak. One of the last bottles she and her ex-husband had bought as a couple, her enjoyment was more evidence that Jim Harper was becoming a less painful part of her past.

  The companionship was welcome. Not all of their get-togethers were fraught with tension and disagreement. Their meal had been a leisurely one, uninterrupted by Frank’s kids, Evie and Frankie. They were with their two moms for the weekend. Mary, Frank’s ex, had remarried. Her new wife was a cop and former co-worker in the Sherriff’s department. Frank had his own healing to do from a marriage that had come undone when he discovered his wife and colleague were having an affair.

  The thing that Jessica found most touching about that whole evening was the care that Frank had taken with the meal. The man worked endless hours as a homicide detective with the Riverside County Sherriff’s department and had two kids underfoot much of the time. He and his ex-wife shared custody, but they spent most of their time with Dad while school was in session. That he had planned and shopped and cooked such a splendid dinner had called that old adage to mind about the connection between food and love.

  They had taken their dessert, vanilla gelato covered in a light, lemony sauce, out to the back patio at Frank’s home in Perris. Sixty miles east of Rancho Mirage, the evening was cool by desert standards, and offered a welcome change. So did Frank. His eagerness to please, and apparent openness, was a pleasant change from her ex, who had grown more self-absorbed and remote before their marriage ended.

  Jim Harper had seemed so right. He had money of his own when they married, so she believed money would not come between them. Wrong! Jim wanted more. His insatiable lust for more had, at some point, become an overwhelming drive, almost obsessive. As she learned the hard way, that lust had extended beyond money, to encompass other prerogatives of a master of the universe—including a trophy wife straight from the big screen. The second Mrs. James Harper was a double-D pinup girl to adolescent males everywhere, many disguised as adult men. All of that weighed down upon her as she sat with Frank that night, and as she thought about it again after he sauntered out of the hospital room. It was still too soon to take their relationship further.