Drop Dead Lola

by Melissa Bourbon

  Chapter 3

  I was a doer. I liked to be moving, preferably outside, which wasn’t always advisable in Sacramento. August could be a bitch with day after day after day in the triple digits. But it was April, just seventy degrees with clear blue skies. It was the perfect afternoon for a run, or a picnic, or a stroll through McKinley Park’s rose garden. But sometimes PI work meant a lot of sitting, especially when you were at the beginning of a case, like I was now.

  Reilly was in charge of office supplies. Her desk was really a table, which housed the only desktop computer in the small firm. She had a carousel organizer. In the different compartments were Sharpies in every color of the rainbow, as well as a selection of her favorite fine-tipped pens. Everything else she kept neatly organized in the filing cabinet behind her desk.

  She had left early for the day, slipping out while Marnie Haskell had been telling us about her son, so I was left to my own devices to set up a file on the Philip Haskell investigation. I knew the brown file folders with top fasteners on both the front and back panels were in one of the filing cabinet drawers, along with the standard INTAKE form we used for every client. What I didn’t know was which drawer. Based on prior observation of Reilly, I suspected they were in the bottom. No one was here to observe me, so I didn’t actually have to feign ignorance, but I did it anyway so I could look at the contents in the other drawers sin guilt.

  I started at the top and worked my way down, having a flashback of the last time I searched a filing cabinet. It had been in the basement of a club and I’d somehow managed to glean some information that had led me to solve a case. The drawers of Reilly’s filing cabinets, however, revealed nothing of interest. By the time I was done, all I’d discerned was that Reilly was an incredibly organized woman. The sections in the top drawer were labeled A-J, with the brown folders identified by the last name of the client tucked neatly in each section. The second drawer held the reports for clients with the last names K-R. The third drawer was for the remaining letters: S-Z.

  I crouched down and looked in the last drawer. As predicted, it held a slew of brand new brown file folders, copies of blank INTAKE forms, reimbursement sheets, goldenrod envelopes, and letter sized envelopes. This was the supply drawer. I let my fingers dance over the contents of the drawer in case something else was tucked away out of sight, but there was nothing else to be found.

  I sat back on Reilly’s spinny office chair, propping one elbow on my forearm, pinching my chin with my thumb and index finger. In a different time, I could have been the female model for Rodin’s The Thinker.

  What I knew: Reilly had been doing some work on the side for Manny, including watching his child. The child I’d had no idea even existed until fairly recently. What I didn’t know: Did Reilly have any upcoming babysitting jobs for el jefe, and if so, when and where? Because…inquiring minds. I wanted more information about Manny’s child. Annoyingly, Reilly was keeping a tight lid on this chisme, but I was not above snooping. In fact, snooping was a particularly honed skill of mine, so given the opportunity, you know, bring it on.

  An idea occurred to me. I stood suddenly, Reilly’s chair shooting back on its casters. On the Berber carpet, it didn’t gain any momentum, however, so it rolled to an anticlimactic stop. I slid open the top drawer of the filing cabinet. I went straight for the Cs and immediately found what I was looking for. Reilly had affixed a neatly printed label with the equally neatly printed name CAMACHO on it. Not as in this was a Camacho and Associates file, but as in Camacho was the client.

  I yanked it out, tucked it under my arm, quickly grabbed a brown folder and INTAKE form from the bottom drawer, and hurried back to the conference table. I slid the CAMACHO file into my bag. Perusing it would have to wait for later. I’d return it in the morning and no one would be the wiser. Other than me, that is. I’d be the wiser, specifically about secret goings-on here at the PI firm.

  For now, I sat at the conference table with my yellow notepad in front of me. Twenty minutes later, I’d finished recording the information Marnie Haskell had given us on the INTAKE form and I’d started a case board, adding the little we knew to the white board I’d designated to the Haskell investigation.

  I stood back, considering it. Where to begin? Manny’s approach was always to form a hypothesis as soon as you were able, then work to either prove or disprove it. Right now I didn’t have anything close to a hypothesis, other than Marnie Haskell’s belief that her son had been killed. Based on her information, I really only had Philip’s girlfriend/fiancée or the friends Philip played baseball with as a potential place to start. At this point, one was as good as the other. With each person from Philip’s life that I met, I’d get a better sense of who the man was and if anything—or anyone—had a hand in his death. I fished a coin from my bag, designated HEADS for Gemma the girlfriend, TAILS for the guys Marnie mentioned by name.

  The coin landed on HEADS. Gemma Ramsey it was.

  It was nearly five thirty by the time I’d finished doing some preliminary background research on Philip Haskell. It hadn’t revealed anything Marnie Haskell hadn’t already told me. When I was done, I pulled up the number I’d gotten from Mrs. Haskell and dialed.

  The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. No matter how many times I added myself to the DO NOT CALL registry, I still got unwanted robocalls. If she were like me, she wouldn’t answer a call from an unknown number. But then, after the fourth ring, she did. Her voice was tentative as she said, “Hello?”

  “Hi. Gemma? My name is Dolores Cruz. Marnie Haskell hired me to look into the death of her son Philip. She gave me your contact information. I hope it’s okay that I’m calling?”

  The line was quiet for a good ten seconds. For a moment, I wondered if she’d hung up on me. Poor girl. If Marnie Haskell was right and Philip and Gemma had been about to get engaged, Gemma’s whole world had turned upside-down. “Yeah, it’s fine,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

  As easy as it would have been to have this conversation over the phone, that was not how I liked to operate. I wanted to see Gemma’s expressions, to read her body language. “I’d like to come talk to you,” I said, hoping she’d be game. “Would tomorrow morning work?”

  Her voice became instantly wary. “Why?”

  “Like I said, I’m looking into Philip’s death. His mother—”

  “Marnie’s not thinking straight,” Gemma said. “Philip…hung himself. What’s to look into?”

  I’d already thought about how much information to give out to the people I talked with. There was no need to hold anything back. Marnie seemed pretty open about expressing her theories, whether or not anyone else agreed with them. “She seems pretty convinced that someone else may have been involved. She asked me to investigate.” I paused, giving her time to digest. “So, does tomorrow work?”

  She gave a heavy sigh. “Yeah, it’s fine.” She rattled off an address. “It’s a hair salon. The Style Studio. Can you come at eight thirty before I have any clients?”

  I pumped my arm. It was a place to start. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 4

  My mother, Magdalena Falcón Cruz, was one of five girls born to Iván and Nieves Falcón. From my mother’s four sisters, I had twelve cousins. Chely and Frankie belonged to Marina, who was closest to my mother in age. They were the youngest and had grown up under the care of the older sisters, Emelia, Elodia, and Roselia. Leti was twenty-four and engaged to a gringo, something that my aunts and mother had all been able to overlook. Mark Landry was good to Leti, and that was enough for them. I’d never quite been able to figure out why the family didn’t hold Leti’s romantic life under the same harsh scrutiny they did mine, which was a frequent topic of conversation. Most likely it was the fact that Leti was still under twenty-five, whereas I was pushing thirty. That put me at almost over the hill in the eyes of my family, well on my way to becoming a spinster.

  Basically t
here was no rhyme or reason to the logic of the Falcón women, except they all seemed to agree that me being a private eye was not something to aspire to. One of these days I hoped they’d start to see all the ways I was helping my fellow mankind.

  Okay, that might be a little lofty. All I really wanted was for them to respect me and the line of work I’d chosen. Nice dream, Lola, I told myself, knowing full well it would never happen.

  I pulled up to the house. Mami’s kitchen was always the first stop before heading upstairs to my flat. I could always count on grabbing a snack, whether it was a fresh flour tortilla, crunchy chicharrones, or a bowl of nopales salad. But today the backdoor was locked and the kitchen was dark. Where was everyone? I wondered, but a moment later it came to me. Leti’s wedding was just a few short weeks away. My mother was probably at tía Roselia’s helping with the table centerpieces or putting the final touches on the menu plan. I’d been hoping for more than a snack tonight, but there was no food to be had and I knew my refrigerator upstairs was bare. There would be no fried pork crackling or cactus salad for me, and certainly nothing heartier than that.

  I trudged up the outdoor staircase that led to the flat I shared with…no one. Antonio had just moved into his own place downtown, so it was just me and my boxer, Salsa. I let the dog outside. She’d been cooped up all day. I stood at the railing, looking down at her as she charged around the yard, taking the turns at full speed and kicking up dust at each corner.

  What to do, what to do. I could stay here, but I’d confirmed that my refrigerator held next to nothing. If I wanted to eat something other than rice or pasta, I needed a plan that didn’t include staying home. My options were to go to a restaurant, but that meant footing the bill for the meal and I was counting my pennies. I wanted to be like Antonio and find my own place.

  I could drop in on tía Roselia and see what they’d whipped up for themselves while they wedding planned, but I eliminated that option right away. If I set foot in my aunt’s house, I’d be roped into God knows what. I loved my cousin, but filling little bags with dried beans and tying them to ribbons to hold the helium balloons was not how I planned to spend my evening.

  Going to the market was a possibility, but that required shopping, paying, putting the groceries away, then, and only then, cooking something. I was starving now; in an hour, I’d be on the ground completely out of steam.

  The only other reasonable option was to head to Abuelita’s, the family restaurant. It was a risk, because I could be tapped to wait tables, or bus, or fill in wherever there was a gap. My stomach growled. Pues, it was a chance I had to take. The food was outstanding, free, and I could sit in a table and do what I’d been dying to do all afternoon: peruse the CAMACHO file I’d pilfered from Reilly’s filing cabinet.

  Ten minutes later, I secluded myself in a corner booth in the back of the restaurant. My cousin Frankie was waiting tables and had hooked me up with a basket of warm tortilla chips, spicy salsa, the creamy jalapeño dip we’d recently started serving, and a frozen margarita. Oh yes, coming to the restaurant had absolutely been the right decision.

  I sipped my drink and tried to pace myself with the chips as I opened the file. It wasn’t set up like a typical client folder. No INTAKE form. No meticulous notes, reports, or billing statements. What there was, however, was the photograph of a little girl. The same little girl I’d seen Reilly sitting with in the extended cab of Manny’s truck. The picture showed me the details I hadn’t registered from afar. When I’d first seen her, I’d placed her at about ten years old. Looking at the photo now, I thought she was closer to eight. She had a lighter version of Manny’s warm olive skin tone and honey brown wavy hair. My attention was drawn to her sweet rosebud mouth and light hazel eyes. They reminded me of…they were the spitting image of...

  Dios mío, it couldn’t be.

  Could it?

  They were Sadie’s rosebud lips and hazel eyes.

  Before the thought had even solidified in my mind, I snatched up my phone, swiped up, hit FAVORITES, and dialed Reilly. She answered on the third ring. “Miss me, Lola?”

  “Yeah, um, listen, Reilly,” I said, suddenly realizing that I needed to be careful about how I phrased my question. I didn’t want to give away the fact that I’d snooped through her files, although technically they belonged to Camacho and Associates. The cabinet hadn’t been locked. In my mind, that meant the contents were fair game.

  “What’s wrong, Lola?” Reilly’s voice rose an octave. “Is everyone okay? Your family? Antonio?”

  That was sweet. Even though she’d been with Neil Lashby for a few months, she still had a soft spot for my playboy brother. “He’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

  She heaved an audible sigh of relief. “Phew! So what’s—” She gasped, and I could almost envision a lightbulb going off over her head. “Do you need me for a stakeout? I’m totally in!”

  “No! Reilly, no,” I said. “I’m just sitting here at Abuelita’s—”

  “Is your brother there?” she interrupted, a little breathless.

  “Reilly, you’re with Neil. You’re not supposed to be thinking about Antonio.”

  She pshawed. “I’m taken, Lola, but I’m not dead. I’ll always have a special place in my heart for Tonito. We shared waffles at Denny’s at two a.m. That is something I’ll always remember.”

  It was my turn to sigh, but my exhalation stemmed from remembering that night at Club Ambrosía and dancing with Jack Callaghan. My gaze moved back to the picture of the little girl and got back on track. “I’ve been thinking about the work you’ve been doing on the side.”

  “For el jefe, you mean?”

  Did her moonlighting extend beyond Camacho and Associates? “Yep, for Manny. I have a question for you.”

  “Would that I could answer the question you have for me, but I’m sworn to secrecy, Lola. No can do.”

  And apparently she was taking that oath very seriously. Damn. I went to plan B. “Okay, how about this. What if I guess, then you can just, um, grunt if I hit the nail on the head. Deal?”

  A guttural sound came from the other end of the line, which I took to be a grunt, which I took to mean, Okay!

  I forged ahead before she could think better about betraying Manny’s trust, ignoring my own part in the duplicitous interaction. Inquiring minds, and all that. I really did need to know. “Remember that time I went into Manny’s office and—”

  “Do I remember?! You described it so well, I actually think I saw it myself. Sadie riding Manny like a racehorse. It’s imprinted on my memory.”

  I grimaced. Much as I wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen it, the sight of Manny sitting on his chair with Sadie straddling him was imprinted on mine, too. It was an image I’d never be able to unsee. “I was remembering when I saw you with that little girl in the back of Manny’s truck—”

  She hmm’d. “You’re doing a lot of remembering today, Lola.”

  I grunted. She’d hit the nail on the head. “Well, Antonio moved out and my place is too quiet. So I came to Abuelita’s and—”

  “And started investigating el jefe.”

  She couldn’t see me, but I nodded in agreement. “This is what happens when I have too much time on my hands.”

  “You should be with Jack,” she said.

  She was right, I should be. “He’s busy,” I said, although the truth was, I didn’t know what he was doing. I hadn’t heard from Jack since he’d left Camacho’s to take Marnie Haskell back home, and we hadn’t made any plans for tonight.

  “Yeah, my Neil’s busy tonight, too. Hey! I’ll come join you. I could use a margarita and some girl-talk.”

  All the better. If Reilly were here in front of me, I’d be able to read her expressions and get the truth out of her. Thankfully, the reason I’d called seemed to have slipped her mind. “I’ll have a marg waiting for you, chica,” I said.

  I heard
Reilly arrive at the restaurant before I actually saw her. Her voice rose above the sounds of forks clinking against plates, laughter, and conversation. “I’m meeting someone,” she said. “Lola Cruz. My best friend. I’m meeting her here?”

  I quickly slid the CAMACHO file folder into my bag. I turned, ready to stand so I could go meet her, but by the time I turned around, she was already in front of me. She was wearing the same jeans, tunic, and flats she’d worn at work. The gray tint of her hair had a stronger lavender glow in the dim lighting of the dining room. It worked for her. Reilly was truly one of a kind. She was fiercely loyal, insanely sweet, and enticingly zany. Neil Lashby better be thanking his lucky stars that he’d garnered her affection.

  Frankie came up behind her, the frosty margarita I’d ordered for her clutched in one hand. He’d turned into a good waiter, delivering people and drinks as if he had nothing else to do. Which was completely untrue. I’d spent the years between fifteen and twenty-five working steadily at Abuelita’s, and I’d put in plenty of hours since then just filling in; there were always at least ten things to do at once. Frankie was a natural. He made it look effortless.

  He scooted away as Reilly slid into the chair opposite me. “Perfect timing,” I said, waving my hand over a plate of extreme nachos, mini chicken flautas, chips with queso blanco, and my dad’s special avocado crema. We wouldn’t need to order an actual meal, but who was I kidding? I already had my eye on the enchiladas and taco combo.

  She took a sip of her drink, then asked, “Whatcha doing?” From the way she narrowed her eyes, I wondered if she’d caught a glimpse of the folder I’d pilfered from her filing cabinet sticking out of my purse. But then her face returned to normal and I realized it had been a mini brain freeze.

  “Doing a little background,” I said. Mentirosa, I scolded myself before reminding myself that it wasn’t technically a lie.