Who Killed Rudy Rio?

by Lee Bellamy

  Jay wrote out a check and signed his name. "Here you are, Reece, fifty-thousand dollars." With a wink at me, he ripped out the check with a flourish and slid it across the desk. "As promised." He tucked his pen into his uniform pocket, tapped it lightly, and reached for the mug of coffee brought by Tish.

  Barnicut's swift fingers eagerly claimed the check, stroking lover-like across the Fifty thousand and 00/00. "Happy to be of service. Holly gets half, as agreed. Sorry about your wife."

  I said, "This is so sad for you, Jay."

  "Hey, you got to roll with the punches." Jay sat back loose and easy in his chair. He sipped his coffee and ruefully shook his head. "You know, the ironic part is I would have forgiven her. If she'd come to me and said, 'I blew it, I'm pregnant,' I'd have given her a hard time, you bet, then I'd have told her, 'Honey, you made a bad mistake, but it's not the end of the world. We'll have that baby and it'll be mine. Just don't do it again.'" He shrugged, adding reflectively, "Everybody's human. I've made enough mistakes in my own life. I didn't expect her to be perfect."

  "Too bad she didn't realize that," said Perez.

  "Yeah. She tore it when she murdered my mother." Jay's face tightened. "Some things you don't forgive."

  I asked, "What do you think will happen to her?"

  "They'll convict her, sentence her to death probably, but they won't execute her, this being bleeding heart liberal California. She'll go to prison for life and so will Bill. Someone will adopt the kid." Jay set down his coffee mug extra firmly. "Won't be me."

  I was wising up fast. "You're going to be all right, aren't you? I've a feeling this won't ruin your life."

  "Absolutely not." He peered at me intently. "We only walk this way but once, honey. You women think you've got to sit around and weep. For what? Knock me down, I get up quick and get on with my life. Anything else is a waste of time."

  Suddenly I felt better. If ever there was a man who meant exactly what he said, it was Jay. I thought of my depression that Sunday afternoon at the zoo. Maybe I should apply a little of Jay's philosophy to my own life.

  Barnicut jumped into the conversation. "I'm not clear on a couple of things, Holly. You were getting threats?"

  "Yes, on my car phone. I didn't recognize the voice, but I know now it was Bill. When Velia told him she was pregnant, he freaked...well, they both did. He made those calls to scare me off."

  "Son-of-a-bitch really blew it," Jay remarked. No anger. He could have been discussing a tennis game. "Bill was my friend from way back—my Las Vegas buddy. The guy was down and out when he came to Fresno and asked me for a job. Just like Rudy, he'd been in and out of jail a dozen times. I was planning to bring him into the business—give him a fair-size chunk of Champions' Trailers. Just work for me for a while, I told him. Show me you can keep your nose clean."

  "That's why he was so panicked," I explained to Barnicut. "He wanted that partnership badly. He'd have done anything to keep Jay from finding out he'd—" hastily I searched for a tactful phrase "—uh, had a relationship with his wife."

  "Call a spade a spade," Jay told me, "the word is screwed."

  Barnicut asked, "Holly, those threatening phone calls—why didn't you say something? They didn't bother you?"

  Somehow I knew he'd ask that. "I was not scared, Reece, if that's what you mean. I wanted to handle them myself."

  "I don't get it. You didn't suspect anything about Velia's...problem, did you? Crystal's disappearance is what you were investigating. So why did Velia go after you?"

  "Would you believe, because we're both Agatha Christie fans? That first time I visited Velia, I noticed Agatha Christie's Murder in Three Acts lying open on her couch. When I merely commented on it, Velia looked nervous—guilty almost. Well, I thought, some people are embarrassed to be caught reading such non-literary stuff. Her reaction seemed a little strange, though, and I tucked it away in the back of my mind. Then yesterday it dawned on me: Velia got the idea for using nicotine poison straight out of that Agatha Christie mystery. After she killed Nevada, she suddenly realized that I, Christie fan that I am, might remember the murder method in that book and put two and two together. That's when she put Bill up to phoning those threats. Talk about two-faced! Velia did a great job convincing me she was desperate to find Crystal—"

  "When in reality," Jay interrupted, "she and Bill were in a panic, trying to get Holly off the case."

  Perez spoke again. "Sounds like their dike was breaking and they were running around like crazy trying to plug up the leaks."

  I nodded. "At the end, Velia was a woman obsessed. She'd poisoned Nevada...shot Rudy...anything, anything to keep her secret. She even sacrificed her own sister, although—sounds strange—she really did love Crystal."

  "You're right," Jay agreed. "Lord, I can't tell you the many times over the years Velia tried to help her."

  "But when Crystal became a real threat, Velia didn't hesitate to get rid of her."

  Barnicut asked, "Why?"

  "Crystal still loved Jay and Velia knew it. She was afraid that if Crystal discovered she was pregnant, she'd tell Jay in a minute—a second! Velia wasn't sure exactly how much Crystal knew. Maybe she'd talked to Rudy, or to Tyler, and they'd leaked some of the truth. So Velia was just petrified that Crystal either knew about the pregnancy or would soon find out. What it boils down to is that Crystal was just too dangerous to have around, so when Velia saw Crystal cozying up to Jay at the funeral, she decided Crystal had to go."

  "And how easy," Jay remarked. "All she had to do was lift the phone. The minute she called Sereno, Crystal's fate was sealed."

  Barnicut asked, "Jay, has there been any word?"

  "No, and there won't be. Crystal's history. Someone might discover her bones scattered in the desert someday. Don't count on it."

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, a single shaft of morning sunlight burst through the ersatz jungle outside, beaming a bright circle onto the carpet. I fought a battle with myself, trying hard to concentrate on the tiny dust particles floating in the light, trying not to picture Crystal's gruesome end. The silence lingered. The others must be thinking, too. Finally Barnicut asked me, "Who do you think shot Tyler?"

  "The police think it was Bill," I answered, happy for the diversion, "although he hasn't confessed yet. Tyler knew the truth, so he was their biggest threat." I turned to Jay. "Did Velia know Bill planned on killing Tyler?"

  "I'd prefer to think she didn't—that she wasn't the complete monster—that she might have had some hesitancy about—" Jay paused as the words seemed to stick in his throat "—killing my only son." A vein stood out in his temple. Not without a struggle did he get his indifferent expression back on his face again.

  He left soon after, saying goodbye in his jovial, out-going way, standing ramrod straight, shoulders square—still the awesome hero in his uniform. "So long, Reece...Gil." His eyes twinkled when he looked at me. "So long, Holly Keene, Private Eye. Thanks for your help. Without you, I might never have found out about Mother. Tyler's fine. I leave tomorrow, thank God. After all this I'll be glad to get back to camels and sand."

  I got up and gave him a hug—an impulsive gesture I don't often make, but he was headed for one of the most dangerous spots in the world. Such broad shoulders, I thought when I put my arms around him, what a solid chest. "Good luck. We'll be thinking of you every day."

  He beamed me a special smile, gripping my upper arms with bear-like enthusiasm and holding me at length. "I'll e-mail you, Holly." His admiring gaze swept over me, intimate as that moment in his bedroom, when I sat on Velia's pink settee. "When I get back, I'll call you. We'll do dinner."

  "Fine." How flattering to discover he liked me. Surprising, too. How could he think of other women so soon?

  As if he'd read my thoughts, he said, "In case you're wondering, Velia no longer exists for me. From this moment on, I'll never speak her name."

  "That's hard to believe."

  He smiled, if rather faintly and wryly, and softly ans
wered, "Oh, yeah? Try me." He touched his hand to his cap in salute and was gone.

  After he left, I glanced at Perez and caught a brooding expression of displeasure. Only for a fleeting moment, though. It quickly disappeared, and the usual devilish spark returned to his lively dark eyes. "Nice work," he told me, raising his coffee cup in his own salute.

  Barnicut swung his feet up and reached for his cigarettes the second Jay was gone. He awarded me a grudging little smile. "It appears you've solved your first case, Holly. I'll tell Tish to cut you a check for—"

  "Twenty-five-thousand dollars," I finished, loud and clear. Just hearing those lovely words roll off my tongue made me suddenly feel great. Now I could pay off all my bills. I could rent an apartment for Ashley and me. And maybe, with what was left, I could...

  "Won't buy you your own agency, though," Barnicut continued, "if that's what you're thinking. Not even close."

  "What makes you presume—?"

  "Don't even think it. You can't quit B & P yet—" here came his jeering little squint "—much as you'd like to."

  Dammit, he was right. I still had the name: Holly Keene Investigations, and the logo underneath: Tracers of Lost Loves, but it would be a while. "Oh, is that right?" I asked of Barnicut, an inane question, but I needed time to think. Should I keep on with B & P? I pondered, my gaze slowly swinging from one to the other. Arrogant, stingy Barnicut—charming, outrageous Perez. Such unlikely partners, and yet, for some unfathomable reason, they worked well together—a perfect mesh of brains, arrogance, daring, brashness, and whatever else it took to run a successful detective agency.

  Could I handle them? Perez maybe, if there were no more kisses, if we were strictly business from now on. But Barnicut, that jerk-of-all-jerks? Impossible, unless... Perez's words came back to me. Just every now and then I make a point to let him know he can't fuck with me. Hey, that would work.

  "Work for B & P? Maybe. I'll let you know." I scooped up my purse and got to the door. I flashed a carefree smile and bestowed them a wave, wiggling my fingers. "So long, Gil. So long, Barleycorn."

  When I got to my car, check in hand, Perez was right behind me. "Great exit, Keene," he said, "I am so impressed."

  "Well, you ought to be."

  He leaned a hand on the roof of the car, watching while I fumbled in my purse for my keys. "Where are you going?"

  "To my ATM to deposit this check. Then I'm going home and pay off all my bills. Visa and MasterCard don't know it yet, but this is their big day."

  "Guess you'll be all hot to trot for Jay Champion now."

  I clicked my remote at the car door. "Quite possibly."

  "Checking a dozen times a day for his e-mails."

  "Two dozen."

  "Dammit, Holly."

  Surprised by the edge in his voice, I looked up. He was scowling. "I like you better when you're funny, Perez."

  "Shit," he said through tight lips, and walked away.

  I felt awful driving home. Why had Perez been so rude to me? Didn't he know I was kidding about Jay Champion? Then it occurred to me that I, in my wild delight over the money, had just acted like—yes, I had to say it—the jerk-of-all-jerks myself. Of course, I was thrilled by Jay's attention, but I could never take the man seriously. With his "honey" and "my dear" and his talking-down-to-women attitude, he was way too old-school macho for me. Guess I hadn't made that clear to Perez, though.

  I was on 41, circling around the McKinley curve, when I reached for my cell to call him. Then I thought, no! and pulled my hand back. Then I thought, but I want to, and reached again. I dialed the office and Tish put me through.

  "Hi, this is me," I said. Such a clever line.

  "What did you want?" Tough guy. Going to play it cool.

  "Well...I'm not sure what I want. I just feel bad that you walked away mad."

  "You noticed? I'm surprised. You were so frigging carried away with the big hero."

  "Jay is not...he's not my style."

  "What is your style?"

  "Good question." Passing Manchester Shopping Center at Shields—zipping along—I checked the speedometer. Slow down, you're going seventy-five. "I'm just coming out a divorce, Gil. How am I supposed to know what's my style?"

  "Face it. It's not me."

  My heart hurt, just hearing him say that, but I had to agree. "I know." Watch it! You're getting heavy-footed again. "Your father doesn't like me, for one thing."

  "What does that mean?"

  "You think I can't figure how 'stupida rubia' translates?"

  Silence for a moment. "I don't recall your mother rolling out the welcome mat for me."

  "Not true. She was very polite to you."

  Big snort. "Oh, yeah. She figured I was there to mow her lawn."

  "My mother is not a bigot."

  "Oh? How would she feel if you dated a black?"

  "That's not fair."

  "An Hispanic?"

  "Really—"

  "A white guy with a deep tan? What's her cut-off shade?"

  Passing Shaw. Check the speedometer...eighty miles an hour. Foot to the brake again. "Do you realize I'm about to smash up the car talking to you?"

  Silence... a long, long silence, and then, "Tomorrow's Saturday. Let's take Ashley to the zoo."

  "Why, that's...that's...a good idea."

  "One o'clock," he said and hung up the phone.

  * * *

  Who Killed Rudy Rio?

  A Holly Keene Mystery

  by

  Shirley Kennedy

  Desert Sky Publishers

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Copyright © 2011 by Shirley Kennedy

  Contact: desertskypublishers@gmail.com

  ISBN 978-0-97692-381-7

  Chapter 1

  Fresno, California

  Reece Barnicut laid my resume on his neat teakwood desk, centered it precisely, and snaked his manicured index finger down the front page. "So you're Holly Keene and you're looking for a job." He peered up at me with close-set eyes.

  "Yes." I refrained from adding, desperately looking for a job.

  The gaze he flicked at my chest was a waste of time. Today all the good parts were covered up, modestly hidden beneath a high-necked white blouse and a navy, dress-for-success, Adolfo suit. My blonde hair, which I usually wear long, loose and kinky, was woven into a dignified French braid atop the back of my head. "Have a seat," he said, his voice nasal. His thin lips had yet to crack a smile. "I can only spare a minute. I usually don't see people without an appointment."

  I'll bet he didn't, except when someone determined like me walked into his outer office and practically demanded to be seen. The receptionist had caved in. "Thanks for giving me the time."

  I checked him out as I sat down. Fortyish, five-feet-eight or so, maybe 150 pounds, wearing a three-piece suit and an elegant red silk tie. The spiffy outfit didn't help. Barnicut was about as unappealing as a man could be, with thick-lensed glasses, the beginning of a paunch bulging beneath his tailored vest, a narrow, sallow face roughened by old acne scars, and pinched cheeks that made him look as if he'd sucked on something sour. A strand of hair hung dark and lank across his forehead. On Tom Cruise it would look sexy. On Reece Barnicut it looked like he lost his comb.

  "So why'd you come here?" he asked.

  "Barnicut & Perez is one of the best detective agencies in the valley—" My eyes focused upwards and behind him to the rows of credentials and diplomas that festooned his wall. I took an extra moment to study them. "—so I wanted to discuss with you the possibilities of working here." That bullshit said, I crossed my navy pumps, dropped my matching leather bag to the floor, and rested my hands palms-up on my lap. I regarded him squarely—your quintessential well-poised applicant—confident, relaxe
d, well-fed. A person who didn't really need a job. Which, of course, was true. I could always be a bag lady down on the mall.

  Barnicut's attention returned to the resume. "Hmmm," he went on, his finger still snaking, "graduated U.C. Berkeley, 2003."

  "With a degree in criminology," I supplied.

  "Yes, I can see that. And you worked at Sierra Electronics Corporation down in L.A., 2003 to 2008." The pointy part of his upper right lip lifted, almost imperceptibly. "Why'd you quit?" It was an accusation, not a question.

  "I got married in 2005. My daughter, Ashley, was born in '07. I went back to work for a while, then decided to stay home with my daughter, just while she was so young." I gave him a reassuring nod, signaling clearly that never would I surrender to domesticity again. "We decided, my husband and I, that we could swing it financially."

  "And did you?" Up went that pointy part of his lip again.

  "No. We're getting divorced." That hadn't come out right. "We're getting divorced for a lot of reasons, not just finances."

  "Too bad. But a pretty girl like you, uh—," he flicked his eyes to the page, "Holly. You'll find somebody else."

  "I'm not looking for a man. I'm looking for a job."

  "Hmmm." Barnicut's finger reached the pièce de résistance of page one. His bushy black brows arched in surprise. "You've got your private investigator's license?"

  "That's right."

  "New."

  "I passed the exam in December."

  "How many times did you have to take it?"

  "Just once." You bozo. But no wonder he was asking. The State of California Bureau of Collection and Investigative Services gives a killer P.I. exam. It's in the same league as the one the lawyers take to pass the bar. I nearly became a hermit, cramming day and night for months in order to pass. I would not, however, share that tidbit with Reece Barnicut.