Divas, Diamonds & Death

by Elizabeth Ashby

  Lilly walked up to the table. "What can I get you?"

  "Another Rum Runner for Ms. Ramirez, please. I'll have a Blue Moon."

  She looked at me. "Blue Moon sounds great for me too."

  Lilly gave us a thumbs up and turned away.

  "Sabrina—"

  "Yes, James?" She leaned forward on her elbow.

  "The police have been looking for where Carlos might have been staying, but they haven't had any luck."

  "Mm-hmm." She batted her eyes, but it didn't have the same effect as it did when she was wearing the lashes.

  "Something in your eye?" I asked.

  She glared at me before lifting her chin and turning her attention back to Triple J. "Yes, go on," she cooed.

  "We were wondering if maybe he told you," Jimmy said.

  "No. He didn't tell me where he was staying. As broke as he's been for a while now, I'd be surprised if he could have afforded to stay anywhere around here."

  If he was as broke as she thought, I agreed with Sabrina. Most accommodations in and close to Danger Cove went sky high in the summer due to all the tourists.

  "So he might stay somewhere out of town then," I said. "Somewhere cheaper."

  "Exact-actly," she said. Her words were beginning to slur, and I wondered if we'd lose her even before she had a chance to imbibe that third Rum Runner Lilly had just brought to the table.

  "Yes, somewhere really cheap." She put heavy emphasis on the word really as she lifted her glass up and held it there. "But enough about him. To us, James." She waited until Jimmy John reluctantly lifted his glass and lightly clinked it against hers. Then she said, "Of course, Carlos would have never booked a room anywhere under his own name."

  Jimmy John and I both perked up and leaned in at the same time.

  "He wouldn't?" I asked.

  She took a long suck on the straw before answering. "Back when we were married and he managed me…" She stopped and rolled her eyes. "Ironic, isn't it? Manage me—that's what he tried to do anyway. Yep, that's what he tried to do with everyone—manage them. What a crud he was."

  Crud. Hmm. Was that a word Castilians used often?

  She shook her head then and might have been a little sad, but that could have been the alcohol. What I was hearing was a lot of bitterness, bitterness that might even have extended to hatred. Hatred enough to kill—especially if he'd taken her beloved Rosie?

  She took another sip of the Rum Runner before continuing. "Carlos always used a fake name when we stayed anywhere. You know, so I wouldn't have to deal with paparazzi or exuberant fans. Or maybe it was so he wouldn't have to deal with creditors. Who knew with him."

  "And I don't suppose you remember what that fake name was, do you?" I pressed even closer. This was important to me. If we could find where Carlos had been staying before he was murdered, we might find a clue as to who killed him. We were floundering, and so were the police. The less they could get on somebody else, the more they'd be looking at Jimmy John.

  "Remember it? I'll never forget it. The first name was Charlie—you know, for Carlos?"

  I seared it into my brain. "Charlie," I said. "He made reservations under the first name Charlie."

  She took another long pull on the straw. Her eyes were closed, and she was weaving a little.

  I looked at Jimmy John in panic. She was on her way out.

  He got it too and reached across the table and took hold of her hand. "Sabrina," he said loudly. "Sabrina, look at me."

  She opened her eyes, well, sort of. I wasn't sure she wasn't half-blind at this point. The third Rum Runner was over two-thirds gone already.

  "Yesh, Jamezzzz?"

  "The last name? Charlie was the first name, a translation of Carlos." Jimmy said slowly.

  She nodded.

  "And the last name. What was the last name?"

  She giggled. "He was such a jackasshh," she slurred. "Seemed like forever that every month I had to sign a friggin' check for the mooch. Every month. But that period of time ran out, and he was on his own. But not Carlos, nooooo." She swayed to one side, seemed to catch herself, then swayed to the opposite side before finally centering. "Thought he could blackmail me and get away with it, you know. Thought I was just gonna stand by and simper and let him ruin my life and my reputation. He had another think coming. That's for sure. I sent Evan to talk to him. Evan." She hunched her shoulders and rounded her arms in the classic pose struck by body builders everywhere. "Didn't hear much about blackmail after big old Evan went to see him."

  She snickered and looked up at the ceiling before continuing. We just let her rant. "Yep, Carlos was a fool. Always thought he was the great Latin lover. Silly man. I never put much store in that Latin lover thing, you know." She winked at Jimmy John and rocked back against the seat.

  He pulled on her hand again.

  "Latin lover?"

  "Yep." She hit the Rum Runner one final time before adding. "Romeo. Thought he was this great Romeo."

  I couldn't take it anymore. "What the heck was the name, Sabrina? Tell us."

  "That's it. Romeo. He always made our room reservations under the name Charlie Romeo."

  With that her eyes rolled up, and she pitched forward, her forehead landing with a thud on the table.

  "Now there's something you don't see every day," Jimmy John said.

  I cocked my head to one side to get a better angle on Sabrina's face. Her mouth hung open, the skin of her neck was slack and crepey, and a slick of drool was pooling around her chin. "Uh-huh. Not quite like the femme fatale we've seen before, eh?" If she'd been hoping Jimmy John would cart her off to some romantic spot and get it on with her, she'd pretty much blown it. I made a note for Lizzie's Rulebook: When planning a seduction, ease off the Rum Runners—at least a little.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When after a couple of minutes had passed and Sabrina hadn't woken up, I went out to the parking area and tapped on the driver's side door of the black SUV.

  Evan had appeared to be catnapping, but his head jerked up, and he looked around. "What?"

  Rosie sat in the passenger seat. She wore a little harness that was hooked into the seat belt. She snorted a greeting when she saw me, or it might have been a complaint. Vader would be sad he'd missed a chance to see her. And she looked adorable in a pretty little bright pink sweater, her toenails painted to match. Hmm, he was morose enough. Maybe I wouldn't tell Vader I saw her. It would just bring him down.

  It was hard to be in love. My own relationship had been heavy on my mind.

  "Evan, you might want to come inside and get her," I said. "I think she's had three drinks too many."

  A look of concern passed over Evan's face. Then he reached for Rosie and gently put her into the canvas carrier beside him. "Stay here, Rosie. I'll be right back with your mom."

  He got out of the car and hurried into Smugglers' Tavern.

  "Oh, no," he said when he saw Sabrina sprawled out across the table. "Oh, Rina." With one huge hand he gently cradled her head and eased it back off the table. With the other, he took a napkin and wiped the drool off her face.

  Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him, smiling. She lifted her hand and pointed. "There he is. Good old Evan. Always there when you need someone to clean up the mess you've made. Thanks, Evan."

  His eyes never left her, but it was obvious his words were directed to us. "How many drinks did she have?"

  "Three that we know of," Jimmy John said.

  "She's kind of a lightweight." Evan bent and wedged his shoulder against her, slipping one arm around her waist. He got her up and sort of on her feet and headed out. "I'm sorry you had to see her like this," he said.

  Jimmy John shrugged. "Hey, most of us have been three sheets to the wind at one time or another. Nothing to be ashamed of."

  "I know," Evan said. "But she will be mortified that you specifically saw her this way, Mr. Jones. It would be kind of you not to make a big deal about it."

  Jimmy's eyes narrowed, and he nodded
slowly. "I wouldn't think of it, Evan." Then he added, "She's lucky to have you, you know."

  Evan nodded curtly and then hauled Sabrina out the door.

  I turned to Jimmy John and blinked my eyes several times. "So now that we've made a sloppy drunk out of a big TV star, what's our next step?"

  He pulled out his wallet and laid a couple of twenty-dollar bills on the table. For the undrunk and uneaten offerings Lilly Waters had brought. "Time for a little old-fashioned legwork."

  * * *

  We'd gone back outside and gotten into Jimmy's old truck. It was a 1986 Chevy he'd bought from Henry Atwell back eleven years ago when he retired from the network. Between the rust and the flaking spots, it was light blue. But Henry had taken excellent care of the working parts when he had it, using it to haul his woodworking projects. The truck was as reliable as Jimmy himself and ran like a well-wound pocket watch because he took care of it like it was one. I couldn't count how many times I'd seen him head and shoulders under the hood tweaking things. That's what he always called it, "Just tweaking things." To get me to value and respect the things I owned, he always made it a point to set a good example, saying, "Jimmy John's Rulebook: Anything worth keeping is worth keeping nice."

  It was three o'clock and the summer sun was still high in the sky or would have been if a rainstorm hadn't blown in with thunderclouds that blotted out the beautiful sunshine. The highway grew slick in the driving rain, and the going was slow. We'd driven south of town a ways along the coastal road to a couple of roadside motels—budget-friendly but quaint—sort of like the Bates Motel, only not creepy. The clerk there had been anxious to help but couldn't since Carlos or Charlie hadn't stayed there.

  The second place on down the road consisted of freestanding cabins—more like a motor court than a motel. It looked like something straight out of the 1950s but was immaculately kept up.

  The sign out front didn't say anything except: Cheap & Clean Motel. The first cabin was larger than the others, and the sign in the front window said: Office. No Vacancy. We parked and ran in under umbrellas, which we shook off on the porch once we were sheltered beneath the overhang. The solid door stood open behind the screen door, and the sound of a television came from inside.

  We walked in. No one was in the front area, which consisted of a couple of lawn chairs in the corner in front of a bar-height counter. A desk and chair were behind the counter.

  An open door led to a back room where someone was evidently watching Dr. Phil.

  Jimmy John tapped the top of the call bell. The volume went low on the TV as the sound of someone's feet hitting the floor was followed by a loud grunt. A large woman came through the open doorway. She was tall, maybe as tall as five eleven, and sturdy. I'd have guessed her to be in her sixties. She wore a pair of house slippers and black leggings with a baggy tunic over them. Her face was pleasant under a Beatle-like mop of short grey hair.

  "Hiya," she said, smiling. "Looks like a shower blew in, don't it? We could use the rain to cool things off, don't you think?"

  "Sure," Jimmy John said.

  "Folks," she went on, "I'm real sorry, but we're sold out for the night. But if you head inland to the interstate, there're a couple of places over there with rooms. I just checked 'bout twenty minutes ago for another family."

  "Thanks," he said. "But we just have a few questions if you don't mind."

  She took a second to size us up, and then she scratched the end of her nose. "Questions?"

  Jimmy showed his credentials from the Cove Chronicles. He was more a stringer these days than anything else, but his ID nearly always worked if he wanted to get in someplace or get people to talk to him. The hotel manager eyed them and nodded.

  I'd Googled Carlos Ramirez, found an old photo, and screen-saved it to my phone. We showed it when we asked about Charlie Romeo. I handed him the phone.

  "Have you seen this man?" Jimmy John asked. "Might be registered under the name of Charlie Romeo."

  "Sure," she said. "He's here. Haven't seen him for a few days, but he hasn't checked out yet. Why're you asking?"

  I took in a breath to say that he'd been murdered, but Jimmy interrupted me smoothly with, "He's the ex-husband of a TV star, Sabrina Ramirez. You know, the Critter Communicator?"

  "Oh, yeah," she said. "He is?"

  Jimmy nodded. I did too. "Over at the Cove Chronicles we've heard he might be involved in a scandal, and we thought it might make good reading. Or maybe even TV, you know, like TMZ?"

  "I might be on TV?" Her eyes lit up.

  Jimmy John shrugged.

  "How can I help you two?" she asked.

  "I don't imagine you could let us have a look around his room, could you?" It was my turn to be part of this charade. "Maybe he's left something in there that would help us out."

  She opened a drawer and snatched a key. "Come with me."

  Sharing Jimmy's umbrella, she led us across the courtyard to the number three cabin. "What kind of scandal is it?" She spoke loudly to be heard over the pounding of the rain on the umbrellas.

  Jimmy didn't answer for a minute, but when he did it was brilliant. Completely and utterly noncommittal, yet it said absolutely everything. "What kind of scandal, ma'am? Why the Hollywood kind, of course."

  She caught her breath. "Oh my goodness gracious." And she doubled the pace.

  The cabin was simple and tidy. Two double beds with a nightstand between them. A small flat-screen TV on the wall. A dresser with one of those tiny little coffeemakers with Styrofoam cups, instant coffee, and powdered creamer. And that was about it. The bathroom was clean and just about as nondescript as the room. Jimmy headed for it and went in, opening the medicine cabinet and checking the zippered shaving kit on the edge of the sink.

  I went to the nightstand and opened the drawer: a couple of loose receipts and an iPad. One of the receipts was from the livestock supply store at the edge of town. It itemized a small wire kennel and a bag of pig kibble and was dated two days before Rosie had been taken. The other was a receipt from Gino's Pizzeria for Sunday night for a full order of Pesto Penne Primavera. I snapped pics of both with my phone.

  Carlos Ramirez had drugged me and stolen little Rosie while I was down and out. Sabrina was right. He was a cockroach.

  "Jimmy? You might want to come and take a look at this."

  "What did you find?"

  I handed him the receipts. He looked up from them. "Carlos was definitely our pignapper." He looked back down and spotted the iPad, picked it up, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  The motel manager hovered just inside the door. She kept looking behind her. "Should you be doing that?" she asked as Jimmy turned on the iPad, which was thankfully not password protected.

  "It's the way we get the scoop," he said and winked at her.

  That seemed to satisfy her, but she was obviously still nervous about it as she stepped outside on the tiny front porch where she'd be close enough to be in on the caper but far enough that she wasn't an actual participant. Out front, she shifted from foot to foot as she rubbed her hands together nervously.

  Inside, Jimmy John and I checked through Carlos's emails, hoping against hope to find some conspiracy or evil threat against Carlos. And in a way, we did.

  There was a series of emails from Paco Ramirez, Sabrina and Carlos's nephew—emails full of hatred and vitriol for something Carlos had done to ruin Paco's parents' lives. Paco went so far as to blame Carlos for the death of his sister-in-law, Paco's mother.

  "Tino mentioned that Paco and Carlos argued over something like this on Sunday at Sabrina's motor coach. He said Paco even attacked his uncle."

  Jimmy looked up at me. "Attacked him?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, there was some serious bad blood between those two." Jimmy John went on. "Listen to this email from Paco accusing Carlos of deceiving his brother, who was Paco's father, then taking every red cent from Paco's parents. Evidently the strain caused the death of Paco's mother. And this is verbatim from the email
: If there's any justice on God's green earth, her death will be revenged. An eye for an eye, Uncle."

  "Whoa." I said. "Is that a threat?"

  The manager stuck her head in the door. "Sure as heck sounds like a threat to me."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After assuring the motel manager that if there was any TV coverage of this so-called scandal, her name was certain to be mentioned, we got back in the truck and headed back north into town.

  The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained, leaving the forested two-lane highway along the coast pure and crisp and cool, like I always imagined it had been when Lewis and Clark had first made their way into this part of the country. I never ceased to revel in the many shades of my little part of the world. I didn't want to leave the splendor of the great Pacific Northwest any more than I wanted to leave everyone I loved. The idea of relocating to a different part of the country once I'd been licensed to practice wasn't really any more popular with me than it was with those who loved me.

  I sighed as we hit the northern edge of town and turned off onto Craggy Hill.

  "Penny for 'em," Jimmy John said.

  "Just thinking about what's going to happen when I finish school."

  He sounded philosophical. "Thought that subject was off limits. Or is it just off limits for me and Tino?"

  "I can't help but think about it," I said. "It's not like I have the money to finish any time soon, but eventually…well, you know. What am I gonna do?"

  His voice was kind and understanding. "You'll do what you need to do. That's one thing about you, Lizzie. You always seem to know what needs to be done—what's good for you, and what's good for everyone else, too. You're smart that way."

  "Thanks, Jimmy John. But I'm not so sure about that. I've managed to get myself in a situation where the job I've worked years to train for may carry me away from everything and everyone I love." Emotion rose in me and caught me by surprise. I caught a ragged breath.

  "At least you have a choice to make, little girl. There's lots of folks who—"