by A B Plum
“I took an hour when I hit town and got a lay of the land. After living in LA, I don’t think I’ll get lost.”
“Not a chance.” His dry tone made her smile.
Less than an hour later, Ryn accepted the mug of coffee Elijah offered her. “This stuff smells strong enough to bend spoons.”
Elijah chuckled. “Learned to drink it strong in grad school.”
A PI with a grad degree in what? Ryn took a sip and waited for him to confirm her hunch he’d attended Stanford.
He changed the subject. “I may have a lead on your beach boys.” He moved around the kitchen with the confidence of Julia Child, managing the omelets, bacon, and whole-wheat toast in perfectly timed movement.
“I’m impressed.” Ryn stirred four heaping teaspoons of sugar into her coffee. “But … I think finding leads in Stone’s murder is more impressive.”
“First things first.” He removed a half-gallon of freshly squeezed OJ and refilled his glass. “You don’t want these geeks blowing your cover up here—or suing you for ten gazillion dollars once they figure out who you really are.”
“The money won’t do me any good in Stockton.”
“You won’t go to Stockton.” Elijah set down a plate piled with the bulging omelet and four slices of bacon, laying two buttered triangles of toast on either side of invisible equator. He set his own plate next to hers. “You’ve got a top-notch lawyer—an oxymoron, I know—and a world-class PI working for you. And … you didn’t kill Stone Wall.”
Chapter 15
Elijah’s statement of support caught Ryn off guard, and tears suddenly filled her eyes. Unwilling to let him see her cry, she mumbled excuse me and jogged to the bathroom. Tears … a woman’s prerogative.
Not a prerogative she’d ever exercised with Stone. Only wimps cry. No matter the circumstances.
She scrubbed her eyes, but unshed tears blocked her throat and clogged her nose. She splashed her face, letting the rush of water muffle her sobs. Head down, face buried in her hands, she sobbed, her mind replaying the image of her tormented wails as she dug the hole for Beauty’s body in that frozen ground.
God, what was wrong with her? She should be happy someone believed she was innocent. Elijah—he wasn’t just someone. He was an experienced PI. Smart. Objective. If he believed her, hope became possible.
Finally, she stopped crying. Out of tears, she figured and turned off the faucet. The gallons of water failed to reduce the swelling around her shrunken, bloodshot eyes. She blew her nose and Astrid appeared in the bathroom, weeping into a wad of damp tissues. “… scared to death that crazy will come back and kill me and Niels in our beds, too. Can’t we return to Copenhagen tonight?”
Ryn searched the medicine cabinet for eye drops without finding any. She’d talked to Danny about Astrid. He’d talked to Jericho. The cop remained adamant. He nixed their leaving the country and ordered Danny to stop pushing or Ryn could come back to Orange County on the next plane. Hard-ass.
When Ryn called Astrid, the young woman cried non-stop for half an hour.
And she probably looked like a princess, Ryn thought, refusing to look at her reflection again. Her corneas felt like Brillo pads. The good news was she’d stopped crying. Elijah must be wondering why an innocent woman lost all control.
She found a pair of wraparound sunglasses in the dresser and put them on. She’d worn them to Lavender’s service. Stone had sniped she was a wimp.
As soon as Ryn stepped back into the kitchen, Elijah picked up where they left off. “Danny believes you’re innocent, too.”
“Glad to hear it.” What would he believe if I confessed I put him on the list of Potential Killers? Grateful for the sunglasses, Ryn resumed her seat, grasping the counter’s edge so she wouldn’t fall off. God, she was exhausted.
Elijah bit one of his toast triangles in half and used the other half to scrape up the last of his omelet. “But who gives a damn what Danny and I think? Until we find the killer, what Danny and I believe isn’t important. We’ve got to find proof of your innocence pretty damned quick. The cops believe it’s just a matter of time before you break down and confess.”
Ryn’s heart thudded against a rib, but she reached for her glass of orange juice. “It’s not as if I made Jericho chase me across the I-405.”
“Huh?” Elijah cocked a brow and then laughed. “Be careful ever mentioning OJ—even obliquely. California’s finest will never forget that debacle. And why’d you dredge up that old history?”
“Watching reruns of the event 24/7 for the past six months.”
“Twenty-four seven?”
“I exaggerate. Stone was obsessed with that white Bronco scene. He was working on a song about it. He thought the cops came off like fools. For once, we agreed.”
“I’d say so do most cops. No race card this time, but Jericho has no intention of letting the media ambush this case. So, let’s find him the killer and let him enjoy his fifteen minutes of fame.” Elijah laid his fork and knife across his clean plate and studied Ryn’s untouched omelet. “You know,” he said, “I’ve learned a few things in my life.”
Something about food, I’m sure. Since it didn’t make sense to antagonize him, she pasted on her listening face and swiveled away from the blob of congealed cheese under one corner of her omelet. “Give me the benefit of your wisdom.”
“Unless you have to go without food, you should eat. Things usually look a whole lot worse on an empty stomach. Plus, a little protein fires those little gray cells more efficiently.” He tapped the side of his head with an index finger longer than her leg.
“What are you—a closet dietician?” The crisp bacon, blotted dry, had the appeal of a dead tree branch. Her stomach clenched as the constant, dull ache in her lower back foreshadowed first-day cramps.
Elijah ignored her question. “You like raisins?”
“Yuk. I’d rather eat bugs.” Daddy had taught her that over Mama’s protests.
“How about cinnamon and hot oatmeal?”
“They’re okay.” Whine. Whine. Whine. “If Jericho has his way, I’ll be eating bread and water in Stockton. Oatmeal sounds great … without the raisins.”
She managed a spark of energy to amp up her low-wattage smile.
“Give me five minutes.” Elijah picked up her plate, carried it to the sink, and placed a cup of water in the microwave. “As the youngest of six kids, I sometimes had to fight to get enough to eat. Especially after I started growing.”
“Did your siblings ever win?”
“If I let them.” He grinned and poured hot water and oats in a pan without measuring either ingredient. “I was always bigger than your average basketball player. I was smart. Stayed away from drugs. Got a first-class education. Quit practicing corporate law five years ago to take care of my mother. By then, I had a lot of money, and I was bored with contracts and daily legal crap.” He set a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of her. “How about you?”
“I never went hungry.” Her stomach hollowed out, but she made a hole in the middle of the cereal and filled it with cream. The grayish sides absorbed the liquid like a sponge.
“Still don’t know how you got through grade school without eating raisins.”
A snapshot of Mama exploded. “My mother tried to give me everything I needed—or wanted.”
“Don’t think my green fingernails mean I’m jealous,” he said. “I wanted a Schwinn bike for my tenth birthday and got five pairs of new socks.”
“I admit I was spoiled.” Ryn blew on the cereal and avoided meeting Elijah’s eyes. “Drugs didn’t appeal to me, either. But I drank too much in college. After my mom died, I became a workaholic instead.”
“I’ve often wondered if I have Puritan DNA.” He ran a hand over his short, nappy hair.
Aware his self-revelations made it easier to talk, she stirred the oatmeal. How much did she want to tell him? “Not long after I met Stone, I sold my computer business.”
“I read you taught him to use
computers to compose music. That he thanked you for making that CD go platinum.”
She smiled at the memory of their first CD. “Working with him in the beginning was a twenty-four-hour high.”
The clink of Elijah’s fork against a plate reminded her where she was. “The last two years—well, I’m sure Danny’s told you about our fights. I should’ve left Stone a year ago—before his mother died.” She shoveled in another spoonful of tepid oatmeal.
“Danny said he took her death pretty hard.”
“Yes.” Ryn poured more cream into her bowl and lowered her head like a starving wolf.
Elijah concentrated on another piece of toast but really threw looks her way as if waiting for her to keep talking. When she didn’t take the hint, he took his dirty dishes to the sink.
“I’ll leave these for a few minutes. I need to show you something.”
Ryn’s stomach turned over. The condemned ate a hearty meal.
He returned, reached under his Stanford sweatshirt, and pulled out a newspaper folded in thirds. “Let’s go get more comfortable.”
Numb all over, Ryn ordered her feet to move.
Elijah called over his shoulder, “It’s not a summons to the gallows, okay? It’s a gossip column—from my favorite rag, The Inquiring Enquirer.”
As soon as her backside touched the sofa, he handed her the newspaper. A yellow circle highlighted the short paragraph: A reliable source reports spotting Ryn Davis, prime suspect in the fatal shooting of Stone Wall, dining last night at the posh and intimate Beauséjour in Los Altos. The titian-haired Miz Davis and her debonair male companion closed down the popular restaurant. Luckily, we stopped the presses to bring you this scoop. Remember, it’s not against the law for a murder suspect to eat a very expensive dinner.
Ryn re-read it twice. “Is it on Twitter? Or Facebook?” She fought the urge to scream.
“Not yet. I’d expect it any time. Which is why I want to find your Beach boys before they see your picture out there in cyberspace.”
“Dammit!” Ryn smacked her palm on the sofa’s arm. “I should’ve cut my hair. Or brought a wig from home. I have half a dozen.”
Elijah inched forward on the sofa and planted his palms on his knees. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. I always forget the difference between hindsight and insight and foresight.”
“Thanks, but I’m thinking maybe you should handcuff me to the nearest bedpost. I’m too stupid to go out by myself.”
Need a few more ego strokes, Ryn? Stone’s taunt rattled in her ears.
“I don’t agree about your being stupid, and neither am I. For my satisfaction, who was your debonair companion?”
Damn, damn, damn. Ryn clamped her jaws locked. She didn’t want to get Jack Kent involved in this mess. He’d been a good sport and fun dinner partner. The tilt of Elijah’s head said he’d long ago mastered waiting.
Ryn shot him a brittle smile. “Okay, here’s another example of my stupidity. I spilled Chinese takeout all over him last night as he was getting out of the elevator.” She stopped. Unblinking, Elijah regarded her with the patience of a sphinx. “His name’s Jack Kent. He lives on the second floor. He’s a nice guy. I forgot to mention he should be careful about appearing with me in public.”
“What planet’s he been living on not to recognize you?”
“Believe it or not, I wondered that, too. He says he’s a workaholic. Doesn’t watch the news. Probably wouldn’t recognize Stone Wall from The Rolling Stones. I had to arm wrestle with him to go shopping this afternoon to replace his clothes I ruined.” Anticipating a negative response, Ryn crossed her arms over her chest.
Hands steady, Elijah picked up the folded newspaper and made a production of tucking it under his sweatshirt. The muscles around his eyes tightened—the only indication his gut was probably clenched.
He opened his mouth, but she interrupted. “I’ll wear dark glasses—they’re better than FBI agents wear. With my hair up under my baseball hat, no one will recognize me. I’ll slump—so I don’t stand out in a crowd.”
Elijah tugged his earlobe. “I could preach. State the obvious. But why? You’ve already figured out every reporter in the Bay Area is on alert. The lack of headlines doesn’t mean you’re not news.”
“Should I expect to see you lurking in the shadows?”
He stood and stretched for the cathedral ceiling. “If you see me, call Danny. An alien has invaded my body.”
He was trying to relieve the tension, and she took her cue. “Got it. And I promise I won’t take out anyone who gets in my face. I won’t indulge in verbal potshots. Or smash any cameras. Or interact with anyone but Jack Kent and the sales clerk at Nordstrom.”
“And I’ll check under all the rocks for The Beach Boys. Every tabloid in the country would love to have their version of what happened when you came unglued.”
“What if I say I was defending myself?”
He exhaled. “I’d say forget it. They’ll play the victim game to the max.”
“I wish I could say I saw one redeeming quality about them, but I’ve met too many guys like them in the music world. The hurt to their egos exceeds any physical pain I inflicted.” Did Elijah hear the bitter note in her voice?
“All the more reason I need to find them. Figure out how much they want to soften their bruised egos.”
He managed an adroit segue that his ego would stand up to doing the dishes and made a move for the kitchen. She protested, pushing him toward the door, and giving him the time she and Jack Kent were going to Nordstrom. She definitely needed some down time. Maybe she’d even catch a nap.
The kitchen cleanup took ten minutes. When she started the dishwasher, she wasn’t sure if she was already asleep. Maj padded after her and crawled up on the bedspread. Sinking into the pillows, Ryn closed her eyes and told herself to relax her feet, her toes, and her ankles. She imagined walking a white beach in Baja, walking alone in warm sand at twilight. Her mind drifted away. Toward sleep.
When the landline next to the bed screamed, she and Maj jumped like puppets on short strings. Despite the adrenaline surge, she was clumsy—ready for flight—knocking the receiver off the hook as she lunged for the phone.
Hands shaking, mind racing, she grabbed the receiver and croaked, “Yes?”
Her heart was thumping so hard she didn’t, at first, hear the breathing on the other end. Before she could slam the receiver in the cradle, a harsh, asexual voice taunted, “No one’s ever going to believe you’re innocent, bitch.”
Chapter 16
“Go to hell!” Ryn hurled the phone on the floor.
Maj shrieked, leaped over Ryn, hit the floor, and scuttled under the bed.
Ryn’s heart thundered in her ears, but she kicked the comforter harder and harder, out of breath, yelling, “You’re a creep, ya creep.”
Maj growled from her under-the-bed cave.
“Maj?” Ryn softened her voice, gave the comforter a final kick, and planted her feet on the carpet. Ignoring the stab of pain in her lower back, she fell on her hands and knees, peered under the bed, and slipped back to the mansion.
Had she explored under the guest bed for the bottle of melatonin?
She definitely hadn’t gone near the king bed with Stone in it. Jericho claimed his forensics team hadn’t found it anywhere in the house. Her mind traveled from room to room. Maj hissed and brought her back to the penthouse.
Tail wrapped around her orange and white body, Maj snarled.
“Come out of there, you coward. This family isn’t big enough for two scaredy cats.” Ryn stretched her fingers to within an inch of her cowering feline.
Somehow, Maj managed to push backwards a millimeter and returned Ryn’s cajoling, cursing, and whispering with flattened ears and dilated eyes.
Across the room, the drone of a busy signal indicated the phone was off the hook. How had anyone ever found the landline number and associated it with her? “Too bad. Too. Damned. Bad.”
Ryn smashed her chee
k and shoulder against the side of the bed and walked her fingers under the bed. For her effort, razor claws sliced the back of her hand.
“Owww.” She rocked back on her heels and sucked the wound.
The buzz on the phone line added a surreal touch to the situation. Why do I even have a landline?
She lurched to her feet. A familiar stickiness clung to her underwear. Before she fully realized what was happening, bright red blood was sliding down her legs. Swearing, she grabbed a pillow, stuffed it between her knees, and hobbled to the bathroom. She yanked open the lavatory door and jerked out the package of Kotex. She dropped the pillow. Unzipped her shorts. Let them pool around her ankles. Blood covered the shorts’ pale-blue crotch and the back of her white panties.
“Shit, shit, shit.” One more gift from the gods. She wet a washcloth, cleaned herself up, and stepped into the shower—her third one for the day.
The pounding water helped focus her thoughts. Over the past fifteen months, her periods had gone from bothersome to barely manageable. If this period was like the past five, she’d be racing for the bathroom every forty-five minutes. Stone hadn’t understood her lethargy and moods. Why are your hormones suddenly wacko?
A girl thing, she’d snapped, wanting to slap him. She’d stomped out of the room, slammed into the guest room, and fell asleep, wanting him to come and apologize. Never happened, of course.
Her GYN, Susan Lewis, had been making some noises about a hysterectomy. The fibroids were only going to grow. Since Ryn didn’t plan to start a family, she ought to consider improving the quality of her life.
Reluctant to step out of the shower’s warmth, Ryn wrapped herself in a long robe and padded back into the bedroom. Maj raised a lazy head and meowed—as a sign Ryn was forgiven and might be allowed an afternoon snuggle. Call Jack. You don’t need an excuse. Tell him you have a hangnail and can’t go shopping.
Feeling light with relief, Ryn picked up the phone—still beeping busy—and hung up the receiver. Guess this is why I have a landline—to call Jack Kent. She fished out his card. She didn’t distrust him, but only Danny, Beau, and Elijah had her cell number. Nothing with Jack had changed his need to know that info tidbit.