I looked young and stupid. He looked proud. Or maybe he was just photogenic.
Sighing heavily, I opened the April books. After a few minutes, I realized I was seeing not the numbers but the list on the violet paper. In my mind’s eye, I saw the names again. Three men and seven women. I knew about half the names because they were in the news on a regular basis—doctor, lawyer, Indian chief (politician)—or they were friends of friend (such as Delia). Of the five remaining, I knew three because I’d worked at his shop. They were an heiress to a salsa fortune, a sister to a past president of Mexico, and the owner of a feminine-products manufacturing company. That left only two who were a mystery. I reached for the yellow pages to see if it could be that easy and was just thumbing through to find the first name when my telephone rang. It was eight-thirty.
“Transformations, more than meets the eye,” I answered automatically. I hadn’t been paying a receptionist for long, and I was still the best one so far. I was dying to be stripped of the title, but I doubted Sherlyn would be the one to do it, since it was her fourth day in a row to be late to work.
“May I speak with Miss Reyn Marten Sawyer?”
“Speaking.”
“Ah, Miss Sawyer, I was informed you were early to work, and I’m thankful that information was correct. I was a little apprehensive.”
“Yes?”
“My name is Rita Gibson. I was retained by Mr. Ricardo Montoya to represent his estate.”
“Yes?”
“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Montoya had no living relatives—”
“None he cared to claim, anyway,” I clarified.
“Yes, well.” She cleared her throat. “I will be planning the memorial for him. Or, I should say, I will be carrying out his instructions for his memorial.”
“I see.” Of course. It was just like Ricardo to plan his own funeral. “I’ll do anything to help.”
“Good thing, too,” Rita Gibson said. Was that a hint of a chuckle in her voice? “Since you’re required to.”
“Required to?” I felt my hackles rising. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how much of this Mr. Montoya apprised you of.”
“Try none.”
“All right. He’s left a list of detailed instructions for his funeral and burial, including scripts for the eulogy. You are the only one who will be speaking who isn’t a hired actor or priest. Mr. Montoya must have thought highly of you.”
Ha. “I still don’t see how I am required to do this?”
“If you don’t speak at his funeral, then you won’t get your inheritance.”
“Inheritance? What inheritance?” I had a funny prickly feeling at the back of my neck. Zorita couldn’t have been right. Ricardo had been joking. This was all a nightmare.
“You really don’t know?” It was the first time she really sounded like this whole affair was giving her a headache. I could hear her asking herself, Why can’t some people just write a normal will, give their money to those who expected it, and be tucked away neatly in the ground? I might have appreciated Ricardo making his attorney reach for aspirin first thing in the morning, except that the whole affair was giving me a bigger headache. Rita Gibson had regained her frosty professionalism and moved on. “Mr. Montoya left all his salons to you, albeit with extremely detailed provisions on how they should be run, but first you have to speak at his funeral. Or you don’t get anything. Not even his firstborn child.”
“What did you say?”
“I’m just quoting what Mr. Montoya wrote in the will. That’s how he put it: ‘If she failed to perform said requirements, she will get nothing, not even my firstborn child.’ ”
“He doesn’t have any children,” I paused. “Does he?”
She was about to lose her patience with me. “As I told you, Miss Sawyer, he told me he doesn’t have any family.”
“Okay.” Was this whole thing Ricardo’s idea of a joke, or was he trying to tell me something. I wouldn’t ever consider myself his best friend, but I couldn’t name anyone he was any closer to. The vice president of Ricardo’s Realm, Inc., would be a natural choice, but Ricardo always told me Gerald made a wonderful soldier and would fail as a general. Gerald was a man made to take orders. Was he giving me the salons because he thought I would make a great general or because he knew I had an insatiable curiosity and he wanted to invest my emotions in finding out who killed him? By now, I’d convinced myself Ricardo knew he was a marked man.
“Mis Sawyer?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“Yes. Take your time.”
As if I needed a lot of time to grease the wheels in my dull, nonlawyer brain? She only wished. “When did Ricardo write this will?”
“He redrew his will about a month ago.”
“What did the old will say?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Can’t fault a girl for trying. That’s one thing I promised myself when I turned thirty: never be afraid to ask a question. It’s amazing the information you can get that way. I’m constantly surprised at the questions some people answer. Sometimes all it takes is changing some words. “And you can’t tell me who might have been a beneficiary in the old will who was cut out of this current will?”
“No, I can’t.” Did I hear some grudging respect in her chilly voice? Maybe I was imagining it. I wasn’t imagining the tinkle of the bell on the front door. Sherlyn must finally have deigned to grace the place of employment with her presence. “Miss Sawyer, as you are the sole beneficiary of Mr. Montoya’s will, I don’t see a need for a formal will reading. I do need you to sign some papers following the memorial service. As for the salons, I will inform the vice president, a Gerald Akin, of the contents of the will. He will report to me until you sign the papers. If you anticipate that this information will be difficult for him to accept, we can arrange a joint meeting…”
Gerald and I always got along great. In fact, I bet he probably spent the last twenty-four hours popping Tums at the speed of light at the thought of having to make all these decisions himself. “No, I think Ger will be okay with it. He’s not going to lose his job.”
“I’ll let him know of your intentions. But you understand you can’t make any decisions until you deliver Mr. Montoya’s eulogy and you sign these documents. This is a company worth—”
“Whoa.” I put up a hand. As if she could see it. Maybe it gave my voice more authority. “I don’t want to know.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want to know how much the company is worth.”
“B-But—” I’d finally rendered Ms. Gibson speechless.
“But nothing. I have enough rattling around in my head without those numbers.”
“That’s very strange, Miss Sawyer.”
“This whole thing is strange, Ms. Gibson. And I intend to get to the bottom of it.” I unbuttoned my pocket, removed the violet paper, and smoothed it out on the desktop. “I’m going to find out who killed Ricardo and why, before I sit on any corporate throne.”
“Oh, dear.” Wow, maybe she did care. “Please don’t do that until you’ve accepted ownership of the salons.”
She did care, all right. About herself and the pain in the ass the paperwork would be if I got killed and she had to track down my heirs.
“Listen, I said, as she was no doubt already searching her lawyer brain for some obscure statutes that would apply to the death of an heir before the transfer of property. “If you would be so kind as to get me copies of the scripts of the actors so I won’t be repeating all the wonderful things they’re going to say about Ricardo in the service, I’d really appreciate it.” Truth is, I really wanted to see if there would be any more clues in what he had to say about himself. I was honestly considering not speaking at the funeral. I’m that perverse. I hated it when people manipulated me, even from the grave. I might have relayed this information to Ms. Gibson, but it probably would’ve given her a heart attack.
“Of course.
I’ll have them messengered over immediately.”
“You don’t have to be that quick about it.”
“Yes, I do. The service is today at four o’clock.”
“Why so soon?” I squawked.
“Ricardo’s stipulation was that his memorial would take place within forty-eight hours of his death.”
“But wasn’t he Catholic?”
“You’re his friend, you should know that,” she snapped. Maybe she was human after all. Not very, though, because she got herself back under control again. “The service is at a nondenominational church. The burial will take place privately and separately after the body has been released. That can take a while in a case like this.”
“Okay.” I sighed. What else could I do?
“And if you’d like, when it is convenient, you can have your attorney contact me regarding the dispensation of the will.”
If I’d like? She’d like, that was for sure. She’d rather do the lawyer-speak thing with her own kind than have to translate it all to me. I almost told her to forget it, until I remembered the attorney on the list Zorita gave me. I could call him on the pretense of looking for a recommendation for an attorney. What a great excuse to weasel information out of a weasel. “I’ll do that,” I told her.
“One more thing,” she said. “Ricardo’s instructions are to tell you, ‘I’ve made two mistakes. The first was the best thing I ever did. The second was the worst thing I ever did.’ ”
“What!?”
“That is a direct quote. That was the last thing I was to tell you in this phone call,” she said, and hung up before I could ask more.
Huh?
I stared at the receiver in my hand a few minutes before I replaced it. Grabbing the frame in front of me, I stared at the photo of Ricardo, hoping to see the key to all this in his eyes. If he’d felt threatened, why hadn’t he told me? Why hadn’t I probed his odd attitude the night he died instead of pelting him with sarcasm? Why hadn’t I rushed right over when he called in the middle of the night, instead of going back to sleep?
What the hell was I going to do with Ricardo’s empire? I didn’t want it. That might seem crazy, but I always liked to do things the hard way. My goal in life was to make a name for myself, and I couldn’t do that by taking over a company emblazoned with someone else’s name, built on someone else’s blood, sweat, and tears. Money didn’t interest me nearly as much as success did. Well, I’d do a Scarlett O’Hara and think about it tomorrow. It wasn’t mine yet, anyway.
“You’re a big help,” I told Ricardo’s image as I moved to put it back.
“Seems to me you’d be a little more grateful to the man who’s made you a millionairess.”
The frame slipped out of my hands as I spun around, sending it flying against the wall.
Jackson Scythe was leaning against the doorjamb of my office, arms crossed smugly across his chest, unsmiling, laser beams turned on high. This was a man who relished the sneak attack. He didn’t even flinch with the shattering of glass.
“Seems to me you’d be a little more polite and not eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.”
“Seems to me you’d know that eavesdropping is Chapter Four in the detectives manual.”
“Very funny.”
“Is that your default comment when your brain can’t catch up with that mouth of yours?”
“Only with you. I’m trying to make you feel better about your complete lack of good humor.”
His lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. Just barely but enough for me to know I’d hit a nerve. Was he a little sensitive about his hard-ass attitude? I’d have to file that one away in his list of vulnerabilities. A list of one. He probably already had a list as long as his arm of mine. I can’t help it that I’m easy to read.
“You think you’re going to get away with it?”
“With what? Insulting you? Well, I was hoping—”
“With killing Ricardo Montoya and walking away with his multimillion-dollar fortune.”
I started laughing. A combination of lack of sleep, the shock about the will, and the repeating vision of Ricardo lying there with the brush sticking out of his back had made me semihysterical. Or maybe it was the overly serious way Scythe had delivered the accusation, like he’d stun me into confessing right then and there. Or maybe it was the absurdity of the notion—of me killing my mentor to walk away with something I didn’t want.
Whatever the reason, I couldn’t stop laughing. Scythe had gone from ominous to bumfuzzled in two seconds flat.
The bell on the front door tinkled. “Reyn? Reyn Marten Sawyer, is that you?”
“Back here,” I sputtered, and struggled to compose myself. I recognized the soprano as one I’d heard before, but I couldn’t place whom it belonged to.
Wedge heels clunked down the hardwood. I swallowed another laugh that rose in my throat. Scythe, having recaptured his menace, glared. The broad, smiling face of number eight on my violet paper list peered around Scythe’s right shoulder.
“Reyn, is there any way on God’s green earth you could squeeze me in today? What with—”
“Of course,” I cut in before she could let on she was one of Ricardo’s clients. “How about right now?”
Scythe’s eyebrows drew together in frustration.
“Ms. Janice Hornbuckle, meet Jackson Scythe.” I introduced then, knowing my next comment might just send him flying. They shook hands. “Mrs. Hornbuckle owns My Mother Earth, maker of feminine-hygiene products.”
“Really?” I could see a flash of panic in his eyes.
“Oh, yes, young man.” She turned back to me, excited. “And Reyn, I can’t wait to ask your opinion about a new product we have under development.”
That did it. Scythe ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry to have to leave you ladies.”
I decided to ignore the sarcastic inflection he put on the last word for my benefit. I didn’t mind. I’d gotten rid of him. Hee hee. I almost started chortling again, until I saw his laser beam catch sight of the violet paper on my desk. Damn. I’d forgotten it was right there in plain view. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward it, eyes narrowing.
“Oh, that? A recipe a friend passed along.” Well, I wasn’t lying. It was a recipe of sorts. Recipe for finding a killer, right? I coolly tucked it in between hairstyling books on the shelf.
“A new recipe. I’ll just have to stop by for dinner, then, won’t I?”
“You won’t.”
“I will.”
Mrs. Hornbuckle’s head bobbed back and forth between us like a tennis ball on match point.
I smiled suddenly. “Great. Make it a little early, so I can give you a hair trim first to thank you for all your kindness.”
The panic flashed again. Before he mouthed a smile that didn’t even get close to his eyes. He made a visual pass over my hairstyle. Okay, so the asymmetrical bob wasn’t my most flattering style ever, but I figured it would grow out. Story of my life.
“A trim won’t be necessary,” Scythe forced out.
“Oh, of course it will. You really need your hair cut. It’s starting to curl around your ears and cover that sexy neck of yours,” Mrs. Hornbuckle put in with a wink.
I could see Scythe fighting the urge to look into the mirror to check out his sexy neck. Gag. What a big head.
“See you tonight.” I pulled a pair of scissors out of my tool cart and tested their sharpness with my index finger. Shaking his head slightly, Scythe turned away and let himself out.
Janice Hornbuckle looked at me over the top of her wire-rimmed eyeglasses. “I’m so relieved we finally got rid of him. I have something important to tell you.”
sixteen
I SILENCED JANICE WITH A FINGER TO MY LIPS AND stalked over to the front door. I didn’t trust Scythe. I could imagine him making sure we heard the door shut while still standing in the foyer with his ear pressed against the wall. I guess it takes a sneak to know a sneak. I ducked behind the ficus I kept in the c
orner of the lobby as I saw a Crown Vic, with Crandall at the wheel, make a U-turn on Magnolia and head west. I swear, I could feel Scythe’s gaze burning through the dark-tinted windows of the sedan. Where were they off to now? I couldn’t worry about it right now. I had a hot one in my salon chair.
“Coast is clear,” I told Janice as I strode back into my room. I motioned to her naturally wavy hair, which she wore surprisingly long—to her waist. It made me think of peace signs and tie-dyed shirts. “What do you need done?”
“Just a trim, Reyn. It’s the same style I’ve had for fifty years. I do hope I can start coming to you now that Ricardo is in another dimension.”
Like the Twilight Zone? I fought to keep my face neutral. “Of course you can. If you’d like a regular appointment, we can work you into my book after we’re finished.” I threw a smock around her shoulders and ran my hands through her fine salt-and-pepper hair. Her style was unusual for a middleaged CEO dressed conservatively in khaki trousers and white silk blouse. It would take me ten minutes to trim it, if I stretched it out. “Let’s go ahead and wash and condition first.”
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