Hex on the Ex

by Rochelle Staab

  Nick strolled into the yard in his boxer shorts, with the garden hose in his hand and his fingers on the nozzle. “Ready?”

  “I’m not taking my clothes off.” I dropped my voice to a whisper so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “Let’s have some wine and enjoy the night air.”

  “Put down the wine and towels, Liz.” He aimed the nozzle at my feet.

  He moved toward the steps, teasing me off the porch with tiny squirts of water. I let out a nervous, frightened giggle. He grabbed the towels from me and tossed them on a lounge chair. Another squirt sent me dancing over the grass with wet toes.

  “Give me the wine,” he said.

  I backed away. “No.”

  Nick came toward me and snatched the bottle out of my hand. When he turned to put it on the porch step, I darted across the lawn to hide under the lemon tree by the back fence.

  I made three good strides before he blasted me with cold water, soaking the back of my clothes and hair. I stopped and turned. “You are going to be so sorry you did that.”

  “I don’t think so.” He drenched the front of my shirt this time. “What are you going to do to me now?”

  “Use my secret weapon.” I tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear.

  “And what’s that?” He aimed the nozzle at me.

  I pulled the soaked pink T-shirt over my head and tossed it across the yard. With my eyes fixed on Nick, I flicked my bra straps off my shoulders, reached behind me, unhooked the clasp, and let my bra drop to the grass.

  He relaxed his arm with the nozzle at his side.

  Unzipping my jeans, I lowered them inch by inch over my hips, my knees, and then stepped out of them. I snapped the side of my panties with my thumb. Nick moved closer, watching me. As soon as he got within reach, I seized the hose from his distracted grip and backed away, opening the nozzle full force over his body. He wrestled the nozzle out of my hand with water spurting over both of us. Dancing under the moonlight, we laughed until we couldn’t breathe.

  And though I didn’t win the backyard battle, the peace treaty we negotiated in my bedroom was worth the effort. He left at midnight.

  My alarm went off at five-thirty. I reached across the nightstand and hit snooze. Ten minutes later, I hit snooze again, this time vaguely aware I should climb out of bed and get to the gym for a shower before Stan and his crew arrived at the house, hopefully with my new tub.

  Erzulie nudged me before the second snooze went off.

  “Okay, okay. We’ll get up.” I shut off the alarm and crawled out of bed. After I brushed my teeth in my wreck of a bathroom, I pulled on my gym gear, threw some clean clothes into my backpack, and trotted downstairs. The dim gray light of dawn crept through the living room windows, illuminating my half-empty bookcase. I have to pick up that last box. Even though the rooms upstairs were stacked with unloaded cartons of clothes, I wouldn’t be happy until the rest of my books filled up the bookcase. Somehow that simple accomplishment represented progress.

  I got to the gym, left my backpack in a cubbyhole, and looked around. Tess power walked on a treadmill. A few familiar faces from yesterday worked out on machines. I didn’t see Kyle.

  Earl the trainer strolled over to the cubbyholes in a red muscle shirt sculpted tight to his skin. He nodded in greeting then pulled a smartphone from his cubbyhole, scrolling and typing with his thumbs.

  “Hey, Earl. Where is everyone? Where’s Kyle this morning?” I said.

  He shrugged. “He called me at four-thirty and asked me to open the gym for him. I guess he partied hearty last night. He’s coming in later. Was he supposed to meet you here?”

  “No. Just curious. It seems empty in here today.”

  “Too hot to exercise,” he said.

  Tess waved hello as I climbed on the treadmill beside her. “Did you have a good time at the baseball game last night?” she said.

  The baseball game. Right. My backyard and bedroom romp with Nick blanked my memory of Jarret’s disastrous game, Kyle’s beer shower, and Laycee’s brazen attitude.

  “The Dodgers lost but my family had fun.” I programmed the treadmill and as I began my warm-up, glanced through the cardio room window to the studio in back. “No Gretchen this morning? I saw her at the game.”

  Tess scanned the room. “Huh, she’s not here. I didn’t even notice. That’s a first. Was she with a guy last night? I’m curious who she’s dating.”

  “No guy. She was with one of the female members from here—the streaked blonde who rode the elliptical in front of us Monday morning. I don’t know her name.”

  Tess laughed. “You’ll get to know everyone. Streaked blonde? Maybe you mean Gloria? Did she have an attitude? A little full of herself?”

  “Let’s say she exuded self-confidence. Works out with a trainer with a shaved head?”

  “That’s Gloria. Comes here about three or four times a week. She works in television doing something that requires her I’ll-snub-you-before-you-snub-me defense.”

  “To be fair, I didn’t talk to her much.”

  “Don’t bother,” Tess said. “Gloria wears a nasty vibe like a designer label.”

  I felt honored to be on Tess’s good side. “Another psychic read?”

  “You didn’t pick up on her prickly aura? She doesn’t warm up to women. I’m surprised she and Gretchen are friends.”

  “They seemed like they were having a good time together last night at the game,” I said.

  “Go figure. Did you run into Kyle there?”

  “Literally. I backed into a full cup of beer he held while I talked with Laycee.”

  “So is he dating Miss Atlanta or what? What’s her story?”

  “Lonely housewife.” I cranked up my treadmill speed to avoid answering in depth.

  My late rise set me back a half hour. I finished my workout and shower with an impossible five minutes to make it to Jarret’s before he left at eight for his morning run. But aside from rushing to meet Stan at my house on time, I was in no hurry to see Jarret. Knowing him, he would be hung-over and cranky after drowning his loss on the mound.

  Kyle still hadn’t come to the gym by the time I left. I wondered if he spent the night with Laycee. Wouldn’t surprise me. Both of them were users. Both had agendas. How fitting they found each other. How sad for her husband, who thought she came out to visit me.

  Traffic moving west on Ventura Boulevard crawled along at a stop and start pace again. I made the turn off Sepulveda Boulevard into Royal Oaks a little past eight-thirty, driving along the deserted streets through the tunnel of trees toward Jarret’s. I turned into his driveway, drove up the hill, and parked at his garage door. Just in case he was home, I rang the front doorbell. No answer.

  I went to the garage and tapped 0118, Jarret’s birthday, on the security keypad. The door rolled up and back, exposing the carless garage. I crossed to the door in back and entered the kitchen.

  His blender pitcher and a glass sat in the sink, both filled with cloudy water and remnants from Jarret’s morning power shake. Two half-empty glass flutes along with two empty bottles of champagne stood at the end of the counter. So the party came home with him last night. I checked myself. None of my business. The quarter-folded cardboard box labeled “Liz books—3 of 4” waited for me on the cooking island. I lugged the heavy carton to my car, closed the garage door, and left.

  At the bottom of his driveway, I made a fast left turn past the middle-aged woman walking a tottering black-and-white spaniel along the street. The neighborhood busybody whose name I never remembered. The day Jarret and I moved in, she knocked on our door holding up Neighborhood Watch pamphlets, and then attempted to wheedle her way into the house. The day I moved out alone, she rang the bell with a petition to ban parking on our street, casually asking if we were leaving. I viewed her as my personal hello, good-bye committee.

  I stopped at the corner to turn, and saw her wave through my rearview mirror. I made a half-hearted return wave then sped off. I needed to get home to let Sta
n in. And the unpacked box on the passenger seat preoccupied me. Deep down, I knew filling my bookcase wasn’t important—I wanted complete closure from my old life. No more leaving boxes behind. Jarret and I would be better friends after a clean break.

  The traffic was still ugly when I reached Ventura Boulevard. I opted to go straight up Sepulveda and get on the 101 Freeway East, a risky decision in the no-win morning rush. Wrong move made too late. The jammed freeway crept bumper to bumper, too slow to hope for a break, and I was too trapped to worry. I tried Stan’s cell without luck and left a message. My dashboard clock hit nine as I passed the Laurel Canyon ramp and took the 134 split south to exit at Tujunga Avenue.

  Stan’s new Ford F-150 white pickup sat in my driveway. He and Angel perched on the open tailgate under the blazing morning sun, both bare-chested and smoking. They stood, crushing their cigarette butts on the cement as I parked and got out of the car.

  I spread my hands. “I’m so sorry. I got stuck in traffic. Did you get my message?”

  “No worries, honey. Angel and I caught some rays while we were waiting for you. It’s going to be another hot one today.” Stan rolled a white T-shirt over his head. “Your tub should be ready for pick up tomorrow, princess. Soon you’ll be soaking in a bubble bath.”

  “Hallelujah. You just made my day.”

  “I live to see you smile,” Stan said.

  I chuckled, doubtful. Stan might live to see guys on Santa Monica Boulevard smile, but I was pretty sure Stan lived to see me write him a check at the end of the week. I opened the passenger door of my car and reached for the box.

  “Let me help you, Miss Liz.” Angel took the carton off the passenger seat and followed me up the brick path to the porch.

  “You can set the box on the floor by the fireplace. Thank you,” I said, following them in.

  Erzulie waited in the center of the living room floor to greet me. At the sight of a man with a box heading her way, she jerked back, did a fake to her right, then swerved to her left, doing a low belly scramble around the sofa and into the den beyond the living room.

  Though I was eager to get to work on emptying the box, my rumbling stomach had another idea. My lone Dodger dog at the game was my last meal.

  Stan dropped his toolbox at the foot of the stairway, and then started back outside.

  I stopped him at the door. “I’m going to run over to Aroma for breakfast. Do you want me to pick up some food for you and Angel? Lattes? Croissants?”

  “No, thanks, we caught breakfast on our way and had coffee while we were waiting for you. We’re good. You go. I want to get to work,” he said.

  “Running over” in L.A. speak meant getting in my car and driving the four blocks to Aroma, the popular café nestled in Tujunga Village amid artsy shops, yoga studios, and restaurants. With luck, I’d find a parking space nearby. Given a miracle, the line outside wouldn’t be too long.

  After I circled the block twice, a space opened in front of Two Roads, a sixty-seat local theater down the block on Tujunga. Only four people waited in line outside Aroma. Before long I sipped a creamy latte, people watching while I waited for an Aroma Panini to be delivered to my sidewalk table.

  Just as the waiter set the plate of focaccia filled with scrambled eggs, cheddar, tomato, avocado, and smoked bacon on my table, my phone rang. I checked caller ID. Area code 404—Atlanta. Ugh. Laycee? She had the nerve to call me after last night? To tell me she aced her audition? Despite my dislike for the woman and a strong wish to forget I knew her, I could still recite her cell phone number from memory. And it wasn’t the number on the screen.

  Curious, I slid the unlock bar on the screen to answer.

  “Liz? This is Forrest Huber. Laycee’s husband.”

  I eased back in my chair. “Forrest, it’s been a while. How are you?”

  “I can’t find Laycee. Do you know where she is?”

  Damn her for using me as her excuse.

  “I don’t. I’m sorry. She doesn’t answer her cell?” Laycee wore her cell phone like a lifeline. She may have been born holding one.

  “No,” he said, clearly irritated. “I haven’t heard from her this morning. I tried her cell several times. She’s not at the hotel. I thought she was spending the day with you. Are you meeting her later?”

  I closed my eyes and sighed, reminded again of Forrest’s possessive hold on Laycee. It would be so easy for me to blow her cover. Such great revenge to tell Forrest his wife lied to him, that she was probably running around somewhere with Kyle or auditioning for a reality show. I really wanted to tell Forrest his cheating tramp of a wife would be the last person I would spend my time with. Forrest didn’t deserve being the target of my wrath, however. So why upset him more?

  “I saw Laycee yesterday…” I hesitated. If I mentioned last night’s ball game, he might ask for details. “…morning. She said she’d call me though I haven’t heard from her today. If I do, I’ll tell her to contact you right away.”

  “Please do.” The distance between Atlanta and Los Angeles didn’t temper the annoyance and suspicion in his voice. He hung up without saying good-bye.

  I ate enough to satisfy my hunger then called my answering service. Three messages came in overnight—all hang ups. Rare but not unusual. My outgoing office message instructs clients to leave a message or, in emergencies, hang up and dial 911. Occasionally one or two hang ups preceded a call, a day or two later, from a nervous new client seeking an appointment.

  My next stop was at Ralph’s Market on Ventura and Vineland for supplies. Then, with my trunk loaded with milk, coffee, fresh fruit, and cat food in every fish-related flavor, I headed for home to face the task of emptying boxes.

  Seeing my old tub in Stan’s truck bed encouraged me. Progress. I carried the bags into the house and put away the groceries. As I finished stacking cat food by label color in the pantry cupboard, I heard my cell phone ringing in my purse in the foyer and went to answer.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oh, thank God you’re all right.” She sounded breathless.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Turn on your television. Hurry.”

  My stomach clenched, unnerved by the urgency in her voice. I ran into the den and picked up the remote. “What happened, Mom? Are Daddy and Dave all right?”

  “They’re fine. You’re alive. Beyond that, I don’t know. Just turn on the television.”

  “What channel?” I fumbled with the buttons.

  “Any channel.”

  The TV flickered on. A headline flashed across the bottom of the screen:

  BREAKING NEWS: WOMAN FOUND DEAD AT HOME OF DODGER PITCHER.

  Chapter Six

  The brunette reporter spoke into a microphone from the middle of the upscale residential street. Behind her, I saw the iron fence bordering Jarret’s house and driveway. I increased the TV volume and sat on the den couch, watching the screen in a stupefied daze as Mom fired off questions over the phone.

  “Should we call Jarret? What if something happened to him? Should we call your brother Dave?”

  Onscreen the reporter said, “We don’t have a confirmed victim name or further details. The West Valley Division captain will make a statement at noon. This is Shazia Kapoor for Channel Seven Eyewitness News. Back to you in the studio, Jim.”

  “We have to call Jarret,” Mom said. “Maybe we should go up there. Do you know who—”

  “Slow down, Mom. What else did you hear on the news before you called me?”

  “I was watching The View. I was about to turn off the set and start preparing your father’s lunch when the news—”

  My shoulders began to twitch. “Details, Mom. What did the news report say?”

  “They led with the story about the dead woman in Jarret’s house. Dear God, I panicked. I thought of you and ran for the phone. I thought maybe you were with him. Thank God you’re all right.”

  “Sit down and breathe. I’m fine. You’re fine. Keep the news on and see if you can learn a
nything else. I’ll try to reach Jarret,” I said.

  “Call me back.”

  I fell back into the cushions, my mind spinning with worst-case scenarios. Did Jarret have it in him to kill someone? My instincts told me no. He had a temper but he never resorted to violence, especially toward women. Not possible. Was the woman an intruder? Did Jarret walk in on a robbery? I dialed Jarret’s cell and got voice mail, and then tried his home phone number and got an answer on the sixth ring.

  “Yeah.” The raspy voice belonged to Ira Ryback, Jarret’s sports agent.

  “Ira, this is Liz. I just saw the news on TV. What’s going on up there? Is Jarret all right?”

  “He’s a freaking nervous wreck, but he’s alive,” Ira said.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone broke into the house this morning and murdered a chick in the bedroom.”

  My breath hitched. I was at Jarret’s house hours ago. Alone. “What time? Was Jarret home? Who was the victim?”

  “Some woman he brought home last night. He left her asleep in his bedroom and went out for his morning run. He got back home, found her dead, and called me to come over. We notified the cops when I got here.”

  “He called you and then waited for you to arrive before he dialed 911?”

  “I told him to wait for me. He sounded too shaken to cope with the authorities alone.” Ira added carelessly, “The woman was already dead from stab wounds.”

  Jarret had sat at home with a dead or dying woman, waiting for his agent to make the twenty-minute trip from Beverly Hills to Encino before he called for help? I shook my head in disbelief, though well aware of Jarret’s tendency to panic in an emergency. His cocky attitude and self-assurance only applied to situations under his control. He left the remainder of his major decisions up to Ira, the slick business lawyer and promoter who protected Jarret’s assets and career.

  “Do you know the victim’s name?”

  “Laycee something.”

  My stomach flipped. “Laycee Huber?”

  “Yeah. Don’t tell anyone I told you that. The police have to notify her family before they release her name to the press. Listen, I need to get off the line. Jarret is with a detective, and I don’t want him talking too much without me. I’ll tell him you called.”