The closer Mina got to the place the harder her heart clamored in her chest. Buddy sat up straight on the seat, ears back, making whimpering sounds. And then the oh-so carefully rehearsed plan blew up like an overinflated balloon.
The boyfriend’s motorcycle sat in the exact spot Mina had planned on parking the Chevy. That wasn’t the only unexpected twist. Door A was wide open, well, more than open. It appeared half off the hinges, and furniture and clothes were scattered on the ground, outside the door.
Mina slowed the car and rolled down the window just as the boyfriend rushed out and headed for the shining bike. She could tell he was muttering and didn’t seem to have noticed her or the car. Not until Mrs. Somer came hollering and apparently chasing after the man.
What was she screaming? Mio Dio. Dear God, was that a gun she was waving around?
“You want your stuff? I’ll get you your stuff, starting with the gun and a bullet. Where do you want it? In your head?” She held the gun with both hands.
Mina prayed there weren’t any bullets in it because by default, as she aimed at the back of the boyfriend she was also aiming directly at Mina who sat in the idling car parallel to the motorcycle. The boyfriend and Mrs. Somer noticed her at the same time. He smirked. Mrs. Somer stopped. She was so close that Mina could see the woman’s eyes get bigger and bigger, then the screaming changed pitch and tunes, and the gun redirected to the Malibu.
“You, you…” Was all Mina heard that made sense. Sort of.
Hard to understand since Buddy’s barking covered most of the screaming, but Mrs. Somer stepped closer.
Mina knew she had to get out of there. Her whole being begged her to. Move, now. Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t shift gears, and Mrs. Somer was so close Mina finally understood clearly the words erupting from her mouth, or perhaps her conscience.
“You’re dead. You’re dead. You can’t be real. I saw you under the car. You’re dead. Stop tormenting me.” The boyfriend and the motorcycle where the only barriers between the crazy woman and Mina. He stood there unmoving except for eyeing Mina and Mrs. Somer and possibly trying to figure out how he could get out of there without getting hurt.
Too late. Mrs. Somer pointed the gun directly in Mina’s direction, and Mina saw a flash of light, heard glass shatter, showering her in sharp slivers and piercing pain on the left side of her face. After that, everything turned fuzzy yet loud and searing.
* * *
SHE SAT IN the ambulance, depressed. The young EMT insisted she keep calm and go willingly to the emergency room. Everything had happened so quickly. Her heart kept hoping for Diego Moran to appear on his black Harley and whisk her away to a place without pain, without orphans and lost dogs, a place where true love cured all ills. Whatever the ambulance technician gave her must have been working. She no longer shook or blabbered about Mrs. Somer finally going to jail after she loudly described how dead Isabel Cordero was when she left her there alone under the Malibu, being crushed by the car’s tires.
Mina could swear the woman said that Lizabeth killed Cordero. Lizabeth, her two-year-old little girl. A mother without a conscience or a heart.
Amid the flurry of activity on Mariposa, Tom told Mina the gun belonged to the boyfriend, a felon out on parole. Buddy was okay. The bullet that grazed Mina’s cheek had shattered the passenger side window, but thankfully that was the extent of it.
"Very lucky," Tom said.
All Mina wanted to do was close her eyes and go to sleep. Her fingers touched the mountain of gauze on the side of her face—at least that’s what it felt like. The ambulance was ready to leave for the hospital. Why was the back door still open? What were they waiting for?
A black sedan arrived in a squeal of tires and stopped feet from the back of the ambulance. De Fiore? He rushed out and headed straight for where Mina sat, groggy and frankly annoyed by his presence. Nowhere to hide. He marched up shaking his finger at her.
Ah, dear Dan De Fiore, so predictable.
Before speaking he exchanged glances with the EMT who said, “She’s going to be okay. May need a stitch or maybe not, not sure.”
Her brain worked just fine, her mouth not so much. Must be the shot, and the blob of gauze or whatever was stuck on half her face. She caught the detective checking out her orange outfit, three sizes too big, and her glossy hair too. He kept shaking his head. There was so much she wanted to say, but all she did was roll her eyes.
“I should have known,” De Fiore spit out. He wasn’t happy.
Like she cared.
“That’s why you weren’t answering my phone calls. I should have known. Vintage Mina Calvi, of course.” He turned to the EMT. “Go ahead. Take her to the hospital and thank you for giving me a chance to see her.”
The young ambulance technician helped Mina lie down on the gurney as De Fiore closed the doors of the emergency medical vehicle. She closed her eyes; the vehicle moved ahead slowly. Mission Accomplished.
TWENTY-SIX
WET SAND CLUNG to her bare legs. Her body rested on the thick beach towel she had purchased long ago when she still believed in the power of youth and the magic of love. Or maybe it was the other way around. It didn’t matter now.
Hole-in-the-fence, her forever favorite beach. The hole had been fenced off years ago, and Mina couldn’t remember the last time she'd come by, if only for a stroll at low tide. With the grey sky and the early morning hours, the only brave souls were locals, mostly older folks walking a dog or small groups of friends on a daily jog. The doctor had warned her to keep her face away from the sun, so this was perfect. The cut in her cheek stopped throbbing days ago, no stitches needed, and even the smaller cuts on her arm had healed.
But a Band-Aid for her heart and soul had yet to be invented.
The surf, constant and predictable, once a source of comfort, was now a cold reminder of her loneliness. What a long, endless week it had been. Some kid had captured a picture of her wearing Silvia’s uniform, being pulled bleeding from the Chevy.
That started the media circus. A bonanza for the Furry Friends Foundation, a curse for her desire to stay out of the limelight. After the second day of people in and out of the shelter and trying to crash the gate of her home to go snooping around the Ritzy Cats B&B, the decision was made for Mina to take a few days off.
Officially she needed some well-deserved rest to recoup from her injuries. But liar, liar, pants on fire, echoed in Mina’s head every time she heard that excuse. De Fiore called. Asked her not to believe a thing the newspapers would be writing about the incident on West Mariposa and the arrest of Somer Carr. Carr was her last name?
She'd read it anyway, every single word. According to Somer Carr's story, late on that December evening she'd begged Isabel Cordero for a ride, telling her Lizabeth was sick and she needed to get her some medicine. In reality she wanted to meet the man who supplied her with illegal OxyContin.
When they'd approached the meeting place she made a scene saying Lizabeth needed air, was throwing up. Isabel stopped the car, and at that point it became confusing.
Mrs. Somer claimed Cordero wanted to take a look at her front tire while Mrs. Somer was trying to unfasten her seat belt. Somer felt her dress soaking up the wet spot on the seat and became upset. In her haste to get out of the car she thought she may have pushed Lizabeth against the steering wheel—she didn’t remember. But as they got out of the car from the driver’s side to meet the approaching dealer, the Malibu had started to roll. She claimed she screamed and heard Cordero also screaming.
The dealer refused to get out of his vehicle, so she hopped into his car with Lizabeth, and they left. She assumed Cordero may have been under the tire, but wasn’t sure.
Ah. Mina remembered distinctively what Somer had screamed as she shot her. “I saw you under the car. You’re dead.”
Simon and Leo were never mentioned by name, probably due to their ages.
The story didn’t say a thing about the other Carr woman. According to De Fiore, the
author/grandmother had hired a pricey defense lawyer and claimed her daughter was innocent for reason of temporary insanity. Mina felt so sorry for Isabel Cordero who'd died such an unnecessary death doing an act of kindness. And she couldn’t think of poor, poor Lizabeth and Simon and Leo… all the children, the real victims.
Clouds began to scatter, and the sun announced its arrival by putting a new shine on the waters of the Pacific on this lovely Saturday morning. Mina got up, brushed the sand off her skin, and crossed the PCH to get to her car.
She was almost home when it hit her; Saturday, the Saturday.
Tonight was the dinner/gala when the winner of the best no kill shelter in Orange County would be announced. Oh, Mio Dio! Depressed or not, she couldn’t be a no-show. Why hadn’t someone reminded her, why? They had reserved a full table, that part she remembered. Linda booked the table way back so that they could all sit together.
What was she going to wear? How dressy was it? She needed a haircut something fierce. Who was coming? Would she drive herself? What about Millie? Everyone involved with the shelter had decided that the snafu with the shooting and the arrest was the thing they'd need to tip the scales in their favor.
If she missed it they would never forgive her. She parked her car in the garage and rushed inside. Like at this point rushing could make a difference. Get real, Mina, and get your head out of La-La Land.
Her cats were in the kitchen, pacing. Did she remember buying cat food? Her stress level rose. The pantry, maybe she had some in the pantry. While rummaging through her kitchen she caught a glimpse of a red light blinking on her landline. Now she remembered turning off the ringer, when? She had seven missed calls. But she did find the cat food.
Aye. Every call was in regard to the dinner and the awards. The oldest one was from De Fiore, apologizing for missing the event, wishing her luck, although he felt in his heart she would win, with or without luck. Sweet.
The other calls were all from Linda, Leigh, and even Sky. Time to make herself some coffee, grab the phone, and start apologizing. She glanced at the gleaming espresso machine in the middle of the kitchen table. By now it had become part of the décor, and she called it Diego Espresso, and caught herself talking to it. But she made her coffee with the old five-cup brewer she'd bought on sale years ago at Walgreens for $12.
Was Diego trying to tell her she made lousy coffee? Never mind that, first things first, tonight’s dinner.
So she dialed Millie and found out that Tom would be escorting her and one of the volunteers from the shelter would cat sit for the evening.
Next she called the shelter, and there was no hiding the fact that everyone was excited about the event. Everyone but Mina. They had to be seated by seven o’clock. Sky was bringing her mother. Mina liked that idea, so she wouldn’t be the only one without a male escort. And everyone she spoke to insisted it was cocktail attire. Great.
By midmorning she was upstairs opening and closing drawers, moving around hangers to see if maybe she had a dress or a fancy top she’d forgotten lurking about somewhere.
In Margo’s old bedroom she did find one of those gizmos her roommate used to put in her hair to make it look curly. Didn’t seem too complicated. Hey, what could she lose? She brought the plastic box and the pink curlers back to her bathroom.
No matter how many times she shifted through her closet she always came back to the same dress. The red Valentino she'd purchased for that ill-fated party, the night that Kalinda lost her legs. It gave her goosebumps just thinking about it. She couldn’t possibly wear it again—it would be bad luck. Except no one would know because she never told Margo and Gino about the dinner.
Not that it mattered, they had a restaurant to run, and Saturday night was one of their busiest nights. The only other people who knew about the dress were Kalinda and Diego. Both—whereabouts unknown. She remembered Diego telling her how much he liked that red dress on her. She tried it on; strapless dresses just weren’t her thing. Made her feel exposed, vulnerable. And with the evenings still on the colder side, bound to catch a cold. Back to searching the closet. By noon Millie called again. Roger didn’t want to take his car, something about pet transportation. Anyway, he had rented a private limo and offered to give Mina a lift to the event since her home was on the way there anyhow.
Great, one less worry.
“Mina, he said it’s a black limo.” Poor Millie, why wasn’t Roger calling himself? “Keep an eye out for it, around six, or six fifteen. Don’t be late because he’ll still have to pick up Linda. I’ll see you there.” She hung up before Mina had a chance to ask what she’d be wearing.
By three o’clock she'd managed to get everything figured out. She'd wear the red dress with a short black jacket she’d owned forever; part of a suit except the skirt had a broken zipper. She sat at her makeup table and began to roll her hair on the curlers. Not as easy as she thought… especially with Houdini sitting near and looking at her without a blink.
She hadn’t heard the limo, but she looked out her kitchen window, and there it was. Mina grabbed her black evening clutch and headed out the door. A last glance at the mirror to see the horrible hair job. Made her look like a grown-up version of Shirley Temple, minus the dimples.
The car idled just outside the gate. The driver, an older man with uniform and hat—seriously Roger?—rushed to open the limo for her.
She bent a little to get in, noticing his polished black shoes first, and anticipating a funny remark regarding her hair, she said, “The groomer messed up,” and balked at his hand tucking a curl behind her ear.
Then she looked up to meet Diego’s eyes, soft and blinking at her. “Bella.” He found her mouth. She couldn’t move, lost in a state of lusty bliss. Then the car moved, and she fell into his chest, inhaling his familiar scent and telling herself if this was a dream she never wanted to wake up.
In the fleeting game of light and darkness of the speeding car he searched her face. “Are you all right?”
Am I all right? Oh, the shooting. She nodded. Still trying to make sense. He kept her close to him, then did a peculiar thing, felt for her left hand and interlaced his fingers through hers, hesitant. “How is the espresso?”
She heard the words, didn’t understand the tone. “Huh, well, I don’t know.”
He let go of her hand. He was concerned about the espresso machine performance?
“You did get the espresso machine, right?”
She wished she hadn’t.
Wanted kisses not coffee-tasting quizzes. “I did. I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work, so to answer your question, I don’t know how the coffee would taste because I never assembled the thing.”
He bristled a little. “What did you do with it?”
“Nothing. The main piece, shiny, and with buttons is sitting on my kitchen table. I named it and have long conversations with it, but no coffee.” She could tell he was chuckling by the way his body throbbed against hers.
“What did you do with the rest, the smaller boxes and—”
“N-o-t-h-i-n-g. I left them in the main box, in the pantry, I figured if Gino comes around… I know, I’m sorry, really. It’s a nice espresso thing. Millie reminded me that it may cost more than a diamond ring and…”
Chuckling? No, he was roaring, laughing so hard she was sure the driver must be wondering what she was doing to the poor man. Tickling him to death?
“Millie said that?” She nodded in the dark. “That Millie—a diamond ring.” More laughing. “And you’re sure you didn’t open the rest of the boxes?” He laced his fingers with hers again, no more laughing, held her against his heart. “It's okay, bella. We’ll open the rest of the boxes together, and I’ll stay until you can make your own perfect espresso.”
And suddenly she knew that those neglected little boxes might be hiding something more interesting than the recipe for a perfect espresso. “I’m a very slow learner,” she said lips to lips.
* * * * * * * * * * *
ASPEN
Dear friends and readers, the dog in the above picture is the real Aspen, the rescue from Home Fur Good, the inspiration for my story.
I met Aspen while working an adoption event. He was quiet and well behaved. He sat next to the handler the whole time, watching the world around him, with those sad, sad eyes. And yes, he did have marks of old buck shots on his back. It was a windy afternoon and we were outside, by a mall. At some point I took him for a long walk, trying to keep myself warm. After that he seemed to want to sit or stand close to me. When it was time to pack up, the van from Home Fur Good came to get the dogs and suddenly Aspen didn’t want to go and kept hiding behind me, and begging with those sad eyes. After the van left I was so heartbroken I couldn’t function. Ended up walking around, crying my eyes out until I was calm enough to drive home. Couldn’t get the dog out of my mind, and no, at this stage of my life I cannot adopt a pet. Lucky for both of us, he quickly found his wonderful, loving forever family. Still, I had to write about him.
This is for you, Aspen, or whatever your name is now. For you and for Home Fur Good, the greatest rescue shelter I’ve ever had the privilege to work as a volunteer.
Thank you for reading our story, I would be grateful if you could post a review, and thrilled if I hear from you, [email protected].
If you feel like reaching out to the shelter, here is their link, www.Homefurgood.org remember, they survive on donations alone. Most of the dogs they save are pulled from the E list, euthanasia.
As always, mille grazie and ciao for now
Sniffing Out Murder (Mina's Adventures Book 7) Page 16