I started to pipe up and say Orlando wasn’t that new. I’d noticed those dark, smoky eyes of his in a movie about Oscar Wilde, and it was already out in the video store. But Mr. Delaney wasn’t pausing for a second.
“Our favorite to work with so far has been Steven Spielberg. Can you imagine? I’m handling the camera rigging, right next to Spielberg.”
Jane Delaney piped up. “Yeah, you’ll see our names, right there in the credits. Watch for it. His newest film hits the theaters next month.”
Yeah, like I want to sit in the theater an extra twenty minutes after the show just to see your name in print. I don’t think so. But I smiled when she looked my direction.
“And,” said Rick, “we’ll be on location in Santa Fe on a new action-adventure shoot for the summer. My sister’s coming to stay with the kids this time. We’ll be put up in the crew housing.”
Which is probably some old motorhome or trailer out in the middle of the desert in the summer heat. Call me unimpressed.
One of the twins tripped on the leg of a wrought iron bench and started screaming, which gave Gram and me the perfect chance to break away.
“Would you like to drive on the way home?” she asked me as we stowed our few shopping bags in the trunk of her solid old Ford sedan.
“Whatever.” Yes!
“Boy, that couple sure can go on,” Gram said as she sank into the passenger seat. “That whole world of movie people seems so superficial to me. Do they honestly think actors and big-name directors are going to be their friends? Neighbors and family—those are your real friends.”
I knew it was another of her not-so-subtle life lessons, so I put on the appropriate face and thought about my date tonight with Brad. I hoped she didn’t notice I was ten over the speed limit as we headed down Lomas. A song from the background music at The Gap kept running through my head.
“The little girls are cute, though, don’t you think?”
I continued to hum as I diverted my attention back to what she was saying. Oh, the little twins. Yeah, sure. They were okay, as kids went.
“Brad asked me out to a movie,” I said.
“On a school night? Huh-uh. You know the rule.”
“It’s not really night. It’s an afternoon matinee that starts at five. We’d be home by seven-thirty.”
Actually it didn’t start until after six-thirty and there was no way I’d come directly home anyway. We were going to grab a Bob’s Burger first, and then would probably hang out with some friends after. She wouldn’t like it but, shit, I’m seventeen and she can’t treat me like I’m ten anymore.
She gave a sigh of resignation, which I recognized as her way of deciding this was one battle not worth fighting.
“If you’ve got your homework done.”
“I do.” Mostly. I’ll finish the history essay during English in the morning.
Of course, the movie went late and the friends bailed, so it was Brad and me making out and drinking rum and Cokes in his car for an hour. Gram surely noticed my lipstick was completely gone and my hair a tousled mess when I walked in at ten. She didn’t say a word, just went around and locked the doors and went into her bedroom. On the kitchen table sat a glass of milk and plate of homemade cookies. I felt bad. Not bad enough to go apologize to her, just bad enough to finish off the milk and cookies.
The next morning at school, my head pounded and I swore off ever taking another taste of rum. Topping it with a heavy snack had been a mistake and my stomach was rebellious. When I got a note in homeroom that my guidance counselor wanted to see me, I almost turned the other way in a desperate attempt to flee school. But I didn’t. The consequences at home weren’t worth it.
“Charlotte, hello,” said Mrs. Reynolds. “Come on in and have a seat.”
I complied, mainly because I was rather shaky on my feet. All I remembered of this woman was how we’d had a few meetings my sophomore year, after my parents’ plane crash. She’d done her best to assure me that life had to go on, the school would make allowances for my trauma, and the best way to handle it was to get on with it and concentrate on my work. I basically blew it all off.
“As you know, we like to meet with each graduating senior and talk a bit about your plans for the future. I see you’ve applied and been accepted to UNM for the fall term.” She was reading from a manila folder on her desk. “Have you thought about what you’d like to major in?”
I went blank. Other than freedom from my surrogate grandmother, I hadn’t thought much about my future at all.
“Many students have plans in place. Others have no inkling,” Mrs. Reynolds said with an indulgent smile. She’d read me like a book. “For those who haven’t already expressed an area of interest, we like to give some ideas. I notice here on your transcript, and from the standardized tests you’ve taken, that you have very strong math skills.”
I do? Right offhand, I couldn’t say what grade I’d earned in any class for two years. My general impression was that I was barely holding my own, although I supposed the university wouldn’t have accepted me if I was a total failure.
She continued. “Have you considered a career path in accounting?”
Chapter 8
Freckles and I walked to our little neighborhood park, the one where Stacy and I used to meet. I unclipped the dog’s leash and tossed a tennis ball across the grassy space.
Elsa’s comment about the teenaged twins had put me back in the world of my own high school days. Unlike a lot of friends who remembered high school as a time of dances, football games and singing in the choir, my experience had been completely overshadowed by the loss of my parents, the uprooting of routine during my life with Elsa, and spending too much time in the world of lies and deceit that kids create when they start hanging out with the wrong crowd. The counselor who’d suggested accounting classes had no idea how decisively she had set me on the right path.
Back to the twins. I decided I would start paying more attention, see whether it seemed Elsa’s observations had any merit. She may have turned into the neighborhood busybody, but she’s far from senile. I thought back to what she’d told me so far. The parents had been away for awhile now, most likely on one of their movie jobs.
The girls were apparently living at home alone, but they were eighteen or nineteen years old—I’d done the same at that age. I realized I knew little else about them. Were they in college, did they have jobs, did they have a lot of friends? I had no idea.
I must have thrown the ball a whole lot more times than I realized. Poor Freckles was beat. She had taken the ball off to the side and now she was lying in the cool sand beneath one of the swings.
“Okay, baby, we can go home.”
The suggestion revived her and she trotted over to me. I snapped the leash on once again and stuffed the ball in my pocket. We retraced our route and I caught myself staring at the Delaney house as we passed. One of the girls came out and noticed me. Oops—caught spying.
She said hi, I said hi. She wore a skin-tight black mini dress, impossibly high platform shoes and her blonde hair hung straight as a plank to the middle of her back.
“How are you girls doing?” I asked. “Elsa Higgins says your parents have been away. Everything going all right for you two?”
“Oh, yeah. We’re fine.” She turned her attention to the phone in her hand and started thumbing a message to someone as she walked toward her driveway.
“Okay, well … good.”
So, there you have it. They’re fine. I wasn’t sure whether I’d spoken to Zayne or Clover, and wasn’t at all sure she remembered how, long ago, I had babysat the two of them. Anyway, I could now report to Elsa next time I saw her, although I had a feeling this was exactly the response she’d already received when speaking with the twins.
The girl paused beside the blue sports car and looked up at me. I realized I’d stopped in front of their house. I gave a little wave and yielded to Freckles’s tugging at the leash. The car didn’t start moving until I’d re
ached my own yard, which seemed a little strange. Normally those girls got in, threw their cars in gear and raced out of the neighborhood. I took a moment to get mail from our box, glancing back up the street as I did so. The red car was still in the Delaney driveway.
I supposed I could walk over there and ask the other girl a question or two, but wasn’t that putting me in the same busybody mode as Elsa? And, frankly, I had plenty of other things going on in my life right now. It wasn’t my place to insert myself into someone else’s family situation.
To underscore the point, Drake pulled into our driveway just then and Freckles bounded toward him. As soon as his truck came to a full stop I dropped the leash and let her run to greet him. He got out and bent over to ruffle her ears and speak to her in baby talk.
“So, your customer seemed happy with the photos he got,” I said.
“Yeah, he did. Depending on his editor’s feedback, he may want to go again in a few days. And we earned several hours of flight revenue even though the job was close to home.” He stepped onto the porch and pulled me close. His flight suit smelled of jet fuel.
“We’re just back from a walk,” I said. “How about I feed this kid while you shower and then we’ll meet at the gazebo with some wine and cheese?”
I puttered around the kitchen as Freckles scarfed down her kibble as if it were a race to finish. In a short time I had a small platter of sliced cheese, salami, some olives and an assortment of crackers. I was rummaging for the wine opener when Drake came in, wafting the scent of his favorite soap, a vast improvement over jet fuel.
“Shall we open the new bottle we bought today?” he suggested, taking over the duty.
I carried the food plate and some napkins outside. “Better bring light jackets,” I called out when he opened the back door.
Once the sun goes down in a desert climate the temperature can drop dramatically. And our shady spot chosen for summer appeal had not exactly warmed much during the day. I slipped into the fleece jacket he brought me and took my wineglass from him.
“Here’s to a possible new venture,” he said, raising his glass to touch mine.
At my puzzled look, he added, “The little cabin? I’m serious about checking it out, finding out who owns it.”
“It could be a great little getaway. As quickly as we can get there by air, we’d both be handy to our businesses if need be.” I made myself a stack of cracker, cheese and olive.
“And a fun project,” he said, sitting back in his cushioned chair and staring up at the gazebo’s ceiling. “I really enjoyed making this little retreat for us.”
We finished our light dinner and sat bundled in the blankets I retrieved when I went back for the rest of the wine. The day’s events kept playing through my head, starting with the discovery of the cabin and going through our sighting of Bobby Lorrento at the wine festival. The woman I’d spoken with at the wine booth had been very certain Lorrento was with someone other than his wife. I could call Ron and report, but the evening was too pleasant to bring his investigation into it. The news could wait for morning.
Chapter 9
I arrived at RJP Investigations around mid-morning, the late start being my little reward to myself for finishing the taxes yesterday. My plan today was to assemble file boxes for the year’s accumulation of receipts, bank statements and other yearly crap the IRS makes us keep. The storeroom would now give up the oldest box to the shredder and add this new one to the collection. Another of those dreary, drudgework tasks only a financial person can love.
Freckles had ridden with me today and she parked herself in the square of sunshine on the Oriental rug in my office. By the time I’d pulled a batch of folders from my desk drawer, the dog was stretched out in tummy-up bliss.
All that ended the moment a loud crash sounded downstairs. Sally screamed.
I pictured the front door flying open and banging against the potted rubber plant beside it. Was that a tinkle of broken glass, or did I imagine it?
Freckles ran to the top of the stairs, barking like twenty-five pounds of vicious wild killer.
“Who’s been talking to my wife?” demanded a booming male voice. Fee-fi-fo-fum.
Between barks from the dog I caught hints that Ron was on the phone in his office and Sally’s voice sounded cowed in a way I’d never heard her before. My first instinct was to reach under my desk for my purse and get my hands on my Beretta.
When I looked up, Ron had appeared in his doorway. I tucked my pistol into my waistband when I saw he was already armed.
“Well?” demanded the voice.
Sally stammered something, and I caught sight of my dog racing down the final few steps preparing to launch herself at the intruder.
“Freckles!” I shouted. But the dog was deaf to the sound of my voice and clueless about everything but her mission.
Ron pointed his Smith & Wesson toward the ceiling as he took the stairs one at a time. I was only a couple of treads behind him. We reached the bottom and got our first real look at the situation. Sally stood behind her desk, her normally tan complexion so white her freckles stood out like a constellation of brown stars across her nose. A large man faced her. When she glanced around him toward Ron, the man spun.
It was Bobby Lorrento.
Wow—he sure seemed a lot bigger in the confined space of our office than he had yesterday from a distance in the open air market. I made a grab for my dog’s collar but she eluded me.
“You! You been puttin’ ideas in my wife’s head.” Lorrento stared daggers at Ron.
A quick assessment showed the football player didn’t seem to be armed—well, with anything other than his two huge fists. Ron lowered his weapon but I noticed he kept both hands on it. His voice was cool and modulated as he went through the motions of getting Lorrento to introduce himself. As if we didn’t know.
Still, it was a good move on Ron’s part. The man calmed by about three notches on the anger scale.
“My wife, Marcie, she’s been talking to you,” he stated, his voice rising again.
Ron nodded. “I’ve spoken with her.”
“So, are you the s.o.b. who told her she ought to sell my Super Bowl rings?”
Ron’s gun hand fell limply at his side. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The little bitch took my rings to a pawn shop! All three of ’em—I can’t believe it. My rings that I earned at the Super Bowl. Three winning games!”
Freckles was circling Lorrento’s legs with evil intent in her eye, and I figured the last thing we needed was a dog-bite charge leveled at us along with his other accusations. I edged past Ron, got the dog by her collar and led her upstairs where I sent her to her crate with a cookie for her bravery.
“Look, Mr. Lorrento,” Ron was saying when I came back downstairs. “I don’t know anything about your Super Bowl rings, other than the fact I enjoyed like hell watching those games and seeing you win.”
The belligerent manner dropped another two notches.
“Can we talk in here?” Ron asked, steering Lorrento toward the conference room.
Sally let out a shaky breath, although she didn’t take her eyes off the two men. “Should I call 911?” she whispered to me when I got close.
I gave a tiny shake of my head. Things seemed to have calmed down quite a bit. I edged closer to the open door where the men had gone.
“I’ll tell you Marcie hired us to find out if you were cheating on her,” Ron said.
I noticed his body language showed he was ready to run, if the response proved to be a negative one. Ron isn’t cowardly, but he’s no fool either, and now in his mid-forties he’s not looking to be taken down by a pro ballplayer.
“Marcie hired you?” Lorrento scratched his head. “Well, that’s just stupid. She knows I cheat. I’ve had girlfriends all along. We players travel … we got needs … The wives get treated pretty damn good with clothes and jewelry and great big old houses. Now she wants more?”
This guy could not be serious
. I felt my jaw clench.
“Are you familiar with a company called Innocent Times?” Ron asked.
Lorrento shuffled a little, giving away the answer.
“Look, I don’t care what kind of arrangement you and your wife have, whether she agrees with your version of this story or not. I was hired to do a job and I started to look into it.”
The athlete tensed up again. “My rings …”
“You’re sure she pawned them? Do you know which shop?”
“Yeah, that’s how I found out. I found this ticket.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket.
“So … you go down there and retrieve them.”
Did it really take a rocket scientist to figure this out? I chafed at the conversation.
“Them things are worth, like …” I could see him trying to figure it out.
“Look,” Ron said, “just go down to the shop and see what they want for them. They probably gave Marcie a fraction of the real value. As far as your relationship, I can’t tell you what to do there. She was my client. She’ll have to decide what she wants to do.”
I noticed Ron said she was the client. Personally, I hoped it meant he intended to resign from the case and this particular dysfunctional couple.
With his ticket in hand, Bobby The Bomb headed toward our front door, which hung a little crookedly on its hinges. At least, thank goodness, the leaded glass insert hadn’t shattered.
I watched him walk away and get into a jacked-up truck with huge tires that sat at an angle in our driveway. It started with a rumble and was soon out of sight.
“Well, that went swimmingly,” I said with a grimace toward the door. “Do you now have a clue why I don’t like us taking these cases?”
Ron ignored me and walked over to examine the door frame. “Some longer screws ought to fix it.” He went toward the kitchen and I heard the back door open and close. He would get his toolbox from the shed out back and spend his afternoon fixing a problem that hadn’t needed to happen. Sally and I exchanged a look. Men.
Alibis Can Be Murder Page 4