He lowered his head for a beat, and I felt his sadness. “It was my fault,” he finally said. “I—I met someone else and—” He broke off.
“And she found out?” I finished.
He nodded. “But it was a mistake. I tried to apologize, but she wouldn’t forgive me. I didn’t see her for years. When she called me a few months ago and needed my help, I didn’t hesitate.”
“What about Sean? Did you see him much?”
“I didn’t even know about him.” His gaze dropped to the desk. “When I saw him, I—I—” The glimpses of emotion he’d shown slowly faded. “I couldn’t believe she never told me.”
After having kept Sean a secret for so long, why would Emily have introduced him now? And if he’d cheated on her, why would she have come to him, of all people, for help? “What about your daughter?”
“What about her?”
“Why’d you set Emily up in the same house with her?”
“Emily came to see me, said she was having a hard time making ends meet. She’d lost her job, was struggling with some—” He cleared his throat. “—some personal issues.”
“And Mary?” I asked, silently thanking God that Lucy wasn’t unleashing her bad cop anger again.
“She’s a student.” He gave a proud smile. “Pre-law.”
So Mary was following in her dad’s footsteps. “Have you told Mary about you being Sean’s father?”
He shook his head. “I only told—” His expression froze and then took on a touch of remorse. “No, I told no one. I wanted Mary to know, but I didn’t want to hurt her, I thought if they got to know each other…”
Lucy was right. The man was attractive, and there was an underlying charm about him. The way he held himself. The line of his shoulders. There was almost a familiarity about him. I liked him and actually wanted to believe him, but Bad Cop Lucy was back. “You said she came back and asked you for help. Did she need money? Child support?”
He shook his head, but Lucy kept on. “She took a risk having you meet Sean. You could have fought her for custody. And you might have won.” She sucked in a quick breath and glared at him, accusation in her eyes. “It’s way more convenient for you that she’s dead, don’t you think? Once paternity’s established, and if you want him, Sean will be yours.”
He shook his head, looking indignant. “I would never take a child from his mother. I set her up in the house. I offered to help her. She wanted—” He stopped abruptly. “As I said, she had some personal issues.”
“Right,” Lucy said. “Her other son and the tattoo.” His mocha-colored face paled, and Lucy rattled on, spitting out the words. “Did she want your help as a lawyer? Did it piss you off that she wouldn’t take you back after you betrayed her?” Her face lit up as if she’d had an epiphany. “Did you try to be with her again? Did she reject you? Is that why you killed her?”
“Clarice!” I jumped up and grabbed her arm, giving it a hard warning squeeze. “Back off,” I murmured, and Lucy stepped back, letting me take the lead. “What she means,” I said to Bonatee, “is that we have to look at all possible scenarios.”
He rose slowly. “I did not kill Emily.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Clarice here always suspects the worst.” I threw in a small laugh, hoping to lighten the moment, but it flopped. Emily was still dead, after all, and Bonatee hadn’t forgotten that little fact.
“You said she was in the river?” he asked.
“Near the marina off Garden Highway,” I confirmed. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” And I was. The hum of emotion in his voice was real. Whatever Emily’s motives for contacting him again had been, it seemed clear to me that Bonatee had seen it as another chapter in their story. Or a chance for a rewrite.
Or maybe it was just the rose-colored glasses I wore. I wanted to believe that Emily had known love at the end of her life, and that Sean’s father was the one to offer it.
“What have the police concluded?” he asked.
Lucy jumped back into the conversation. “We’re asking the questions, Mr. Lawyer Man—”
I stared at her. Mr. Lawyer Man? Where was she getting this stuff?
“I don’t buy your story,” she said, marching toward him, skirts flowing. “I know your type. All smooth jazz and shit. You could convince a girl that the sky is green with all that sweet talk and charm. You want us to believe you loved her, but she didn’t want your love.” She shook her head. “Tsk, tsk.”
I could see anger pooling behind Bonatee’s tiger eyes. “She was the mother of his child, Clarice,” I said, trying to signal Lucy so she’d lighten up.
She bunched her fists. “But cheating is never, ever okay. Shoulda kept your pants zipped—that’s what I say. A cheating man is enough to drive plenty of women postal. Poor Emily. She did the right thing by just walking away.”
Bonatee’s face turned stony.
“Clarice,” I said as sweetly as I could, “we’re trying to find out who killed Emily, not judge Mr. Bonatee’s personal life.”
“We’re done here.” Bonatee was at the door in three determined strides.
No! No! I channeled all the good cop I could. “Love doesn’t always fit in a tidy little box, Clarice.” I squeezed her arm again and smiled sweetly at the lawyer. His shoulders seemed to tremble under his suit. He looked like a volcano, bubbling and ready to erupt. I decided to quit while I was still ahead. “Thank you for your time.”
He opened the door, standing stiffly alongside it.
I had one more question to ask. “Emily’s personal issues… did they involve her older son and how he died?”
“From a tattoo,” Lucy threw in.
He stared her down. “People don’t die from tattoos.”
“No, but they can die from infections.”
“The kid had a bad heart,” he said. “No one was responsible for that. I encouraged her to let it alone.”
Lucy scooted back into the office and plopped down on the leather chair, her back to us. “He’s dead. And now she’s dead. Is someone responsible for that, or should we just let that alone, too?”
He let the door close and came around to face her. “Emily wanted someone to take the blame for Garrett’s death. She had circumstantial evidence, but nothing empirical. She wanted me to help her sue the tattoo artist, and I talked her out of it. End of story.” He picked up his phone and dialed. “Now, we’re done. Or if you prefer, I can have security escort you out.”
“We’re going,” Lucy grumbled as we left the office. I grabbed our shopping bags and followed her to the elevator. Lucy’s bad cop persona had come on with a vengeance. What the hell was behind it?
I heard the faint ring of my cell phone from the depths of my purse. Something in there must have been knocking against it to lower the volume. Damn, I had to find a way to set the ringtone so that didn’t happen. I dug for the phone, adjusted the volume back to HIGH, then flipped it open.
“Lola!” An hysterical Chely was on the other end of the line. “We’re running out of time! Help!”
Her voice sent a jolt of guilt through me. I’d been seriously slipping with cousin duty. Only four days till the quinceañera. I racked my brain. When was I going to have time to help? “It’s okay, relax,” I said, taking a deep breath myself. “What do we still need to do?”
“Flowers. The party’s Saturday, and we don’t have the flowers!”
Flowers. I could make the time to order flowers in between hunting down Emily’s killer. “Don’t worry. I’ll pick you up in the morning, and we’ll take care of it.”
Chely breathed a trembling sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
“Be ready at eight thirty. Don’t be late.”
“I will. I mean I won’t. Eight thirty.”
A hunched woman shuffled past us in the hall, her flannelclad arm brushing mine. A tickling sensation shot up my spine. “Gotta go, Chely. See you in the morning.”
I shoved my purse and phone into Lucy’s arms and took off after the wo
man. She turned at the end of the corridor. “Muriel!” I yelled.
“Where are you going?” Lucy called after me, but I couldn’t take the time to answer.
I rounded the corner and came to a hard stop. The corridor was empty. One by one, I threw open office doors. I received a slew of surprised stares from the people inside. “Sorry,” I said before hurrying on to the next door. Each time, I came up empty. There wasn’t an old woman wearing flannel anywhere.
I found the stairwell door at the end of the hall. I flung it open, half expecting a phlegm ball to come flying at me, a straight shot from Muriel’s lungs. Nada.
Muriel had no big stake in Emily’s life (that I’d found) and there had to be other women in Sacramento who wore flannel, right? Was I losing my edge?
I walked back to the elevator. Lucy’s defiant stance—hand on her hip, one Birkenstocked foot flung out, and her head at an angle—didn’t escape me. She hadn’t liked being left behind. “Where’d you go?” she said, a bad cop snap still lacing her voice. “I’m supposed to be your assistant today.”
“I thought I saw someone… .” I pushed away the paranoid nagging feeling that I was being followed by a flannelclad prune, picked my purse up from the ground where she’d dropped it, and turned on her. “I was supposed to be the bad cop.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “Why would you be the bad cop? I’m a housewife with a truckload of suppressed frustration to draw from. You’re going out with Jack tonight. You have stripper shoes in your bag that you’re going to put to good use.” She wagged her finger at me. “You’re too happy to be a bad cop.”
“You’re delusional. I am always ready to do my job, stripper shoes or not.” I looked at her Stevie Nicks outfit. “You seriously think you look tougher than I do?”
Her gaze flicked to my stomach. “You have a girly belly button ring.” She flattened her palm against her chest. “I was going for the tattoo.”
“You didn’t get the tattoo,” I reminded her.
“But I would have if your cover hadn’t been blown.”
I rolled my eyes, not believing it for a second. Frustrated housewife or not, Lucy was still a sweet California girl who wouldn’t permanently ink her body on impulse. “If you say so. But next time, I’m the bad cop.”
She bobbed her head, her sun-streaked blond ponytails dragging up and down over her shoulders. “Right. Like tonight with Jack.” She grinned, a little wickedly. “Do you think he likes games? Oooh, I bet you’d have a good time being bad with him, Lola.”
I bet she was right. I momentarily forgot about Bonatee, another Muriel sighting, and the ache in my navel. Only a few hours till the date. Did Jack have handcuffs, or should I bring mine?
Chapter 13
W ow!” I did a double take at Reilly when she met me at the entrance to Club Ambrosía. She’d put a bright red wash through her hair—bye-bye blue—and had on a gold shimmering dress with a deep plunging neckline. Even with four-inch heels, she still couldn’t be more than five foot six, and she wobbled as she stepped up on the sidewalk.
“Do you like it?” she asked, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“It’s flashy. I like the hair.” She’d swept it up into a tight ponytail and stuck beaded combs here and there to add sparkle. As if she didn’t stand out enough.
“I don’t look as good as you—Lola!” She leaned forward and peered more closely at me. “What happened?”
Apparently lip gloss doesn’t work miracles. Luckily my scraped-up arm and leg were covered by my outfit. “It’s nothing,” I said. “Just a run-in with some gravel. You look amazing. Ready?” She nodded, and I guided her by the elbow. “Come on, then. I’m ready to dance.”
Inside the club, I looked around. Twinkling white lights crisscrossed the ceiling and framed each archway. Parquet flooring and sections of Mexican tile lent an old world rustic look to the setting, while strobe lights gave it flair and disco ambience. ¡Fantástico! My heart pounded in anticipation of a night of dancing as much as from the impending appearance of Jack Callaghan.
At eight o’clock, there was a salsa instructional hour. The band leader was a blond Colombian woman named Soledad who had a heavy Spanish accent and an hourglass figure. She went over the steps for salsa and merengue. Reilly and I staked out a table with my lacy black shawl and her gold lamé purse; then I shepherded her onto the dance floor to help her learn the basics.
I led—the best choice, since I knew my way around the dance floor and I had a good three inches on Reilly. Not to mention I needed to hold her up. Despite my best efforts, her feet buckled under her after the first series of steps, and she hobbled off to the table to await the arrival of her prince.
Who needed a partner? With my arms cocked at the elbows, I let the Latin music seep into me. My body began swaying, my hips rotating, my feet and the drum-heavy rhythm in sync.
“Lola!” I heard my name screamed from the bar and searched the dark club. Someone waved both hands overhead and called again. “Lola! ¡Ven! It’s Coco!”
“Socorro?” It was! It had been months since I’d seen her. I gestured to Reilly that I’d be right back and headed to the bar.
“Coco.” I kissed her on both cheeks, laughing and wiping away the brick red lipstick marks I’d left behind. She looked at my swollen and scraped lip, and her eyes widened. “It’s nothing,” I said quickly, stopping her before she could ask me what had happened. I changed the subject. “What are you doing here on a Tuesday?”
“It’s my night off.” She swayed to the music, her second-skin jeans and skintight white top not leaving much to the imagination. “Who are you here with?”
“Antonio, a girl I work with, and—” My eyelids spontaneously fluttered. “—an old friend.”
She leaned her skinny butt back onto her stool and dropped her voice. “Uh-huh. What old friend? Dime todo.”
Coco and I went way back. All the way to elementary school. She knew Jack, knew about how I’d spied on him, and I wasn’t sure she could separate the high school boy she’d remember from the man he’d become. Heck, I was having a hard time separating them, though it was getting easier. “You remember Jack Callaghan?”
She almost fell off her chair. “¿Quién? Jack Callaghan? The guy who went out with every single cheerleader in high school? The same big spender who took all the chicas to the levee?”
Well, when she put it that way… Still, I put my hands on my hips and defended him. “He’s all grown up now, Coco. He’s smart. And nice.” And damn hot.
She looked over my shoulder, and I turned to see what had caught her attention. Antonio and Jack stood on the edge of the dance floor. My heart skidded to a halt and, I swear, an electrical charge passed between us because Jack turned and looked at me as if there wasn’t another woman in the room.
I smiled then caught Antonio’s eye and gestured toward our table. He saw Reilly, and the next second flashed me a you’re so going to pay for this look—which, of course, I chose to ignore. At least her hair wasn’t blue tonight. He had to be grateful for the small things.
“That’s him,” I said, turning back to Coco.
She fanned herself with her hand. “El es buenísimo, pero don’t let him being gorgeous make you stupid, Lola. You did that already. Does the name Sergio ring a bell?”
“You can’t even compare them, Coco. And I’m just here to dance.” Or at least that’s all she had to know about.
She stood up and caught me in a hug. “Okay, then—whatever you say. Go for it, chica. Have fun.”
“Gracias,” I said, smiling bigger. “Do you want to join us? Who are you here with?”
“My cousin, Lupe, and some of her friends.” She cocked her thumb down the bar at a row of women dressed to the nines. “Maybe I’ll hook up with you guys later.”
“Good to see you,” I said, and then I headed back to my table and the tall, gorgeous man who was waiting for me. Be still my heart.
They all greeted me at once.
“Lol
a,” Antonio said through gritted teeth.
Reilly stood and grabbed my arm. “Thank God you’re back! I’m so ready to dance.”
Jack’s gaze was glued to me and slid down my body. My pulse kicked up. “You look amazing.”
I just said the same thing to Reilly, but the way Jack said it to me filled me with longing. I shook my arm loose from Reilly and handed her over to Antonio. “Tonio, Reilly. Reilly, Antonio. You remember each other, right? Bailan. Dance. Right now.”
I turned away from them and gave my full attention to Jack. He looked damn handsome himself in a short-sleeve black pseudo-guayabera and gray pants. Thank God for Advil. It hadn’t killed the pain of my navel completely, but had deadened it more than enough to be able to dance with abandon. And that’s what I was going to do. All night long. With Jack Callaghan.
Soledad’s lessons were over, and the band was in full salsa mode, the rhythm pulsating and hypnotic. I took Jack’s hand and led him to the dance floor.
When he slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me against him, I knew I was in trouble. Dancing salsa wasn’t the solution to lust. It was more like a catalyst.
My new shoes had done the trick; my lips were within kissing distance of his, and it took every ounce of self-restraint not to let them meet. Get a grip, Lola. You’re here to dance. Let him make the first move. I wrapped one arm around his shoulder, he took my other hand in his, and we moved together in a slow rhythm like we’d been partners forever.
He led and I followed, and after a minute I pulled away—as much to get myself under control as to ask, “Where’d you learn to salsa?”
The corner of his mouth curved up, the faint indentation of his dimple skimming his cheek. “I went to just about every wedding, baptism, and first communion your family ever had when we were kids, remember? Some things you never forget.”
Then he slipped his arm behind my back again and spun me around. A shiver shot up my spine as his hand skimmed my stomach then settled back on my hip. Facing him again, I laced my fingers behind his neck, looked into his smoky blue eyes, and rocked my hips under his touch. I wanted to close my eyes and throw my head back. To feel him drag his mouth along my neck. To slide my hands down his sides.
Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola Page 17