She nodded, her expression turning serious. “On your case? That poor woman. Marnie, right? She was really broken up.”
That she was. “Jack went to school with her son. It’s hard to get your head around the idea that someone your age, that you knew, is now dead.”
Reilly helped herself to a flauta. She took a bite, then held her fingers in front of her mouth to ask, “Do you believe her? Was the accident not really an accident?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m meeting up with the victim’s girlfriend tomorrow. Maybe that will shed some light.”
Reilly cupped her hand under the flauta as she took another bite. “You’re doing so good, Lola. Manny’s really impressed.”
I’d been piling nachos on my appetizer plate, but my head snapped up at her words. I wanted to find out the scoop about Manny and she’d just provided the perfect segue. Not to mention the compliment. “You think so?”
She plopped the last of the fried tortilla into her mouth, nodding emphatically. “Definitely!”
I couldn’t resist asking for more details. “Did he say something?”
“Not to me directly, but I heard him talking about you.”
My spine crackled to attention. “Talking about me to whom?”
One of her eyes pinched. “Um, I think it was Sadie?”
“You think?”
She threw up her hands in surrender. “Fine, it was Sadie. Definitely Sadie.”
Reilly knew stuff. Stuff she hadn’t told me. I propped my elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Why was Manny talking to Sadie about me?”
She flattened her palms on the table and her eyes flicked this way and that. Nerves? Did she think Manny was lurking behind one of the potted plants?
“Reilly?” I said her name slowly, prompting her to give up the goods.
“Oh my God, Lola, he’ll kill me if I tell you, but his secrets…they’re giving me ulcers. Ulcers! I’m way too young to have ulcers! I shouldn’t even know what an ulcer is, for crying out loud.”
“Calmate, amiga. It’s going to be fine.” She’d said secrets. Not secret, singular, but secrets, plural. Manny had multiple secrets and Reilly was his confidant? “You are too young to have holes in your stomach, Reilly. And Manny shouldn’t put you in that position. So tell him you don’t want to be part of it anymore.”
“But their little girl. I like taking care of her. Plus I think she needs me, what with S—”
She broke off suddenly, clamping her mouth shut. I registered every word she’d said. Their little girl. I conjured up an image of her. Light olive skin. Rosebud mouth. Sandy hair. Petite.
Petite.
My brain hiccupped. Manny was tall. Over six feet. But his daughter was itty-bitty. Which meant the girl’s mother had to be petite.
Their little girl.
The memory of me walking into Manny’s office hit me like a freight train in the dark. Hijole de la chingada. “Oh my God, Reilly, it’s not…it can’t be. Tell me…oh no…” Even though I’d suspected just this, my head felt fuzzy inside. “Is…is Sadie the mother…? That’s her daughter? Their daughter?”
Reilly didn’t need to say yes. The way her eyes bugged and her jaw dropped answered the question. It was true. Manny and Sadie had a child together.
My skin felt hot and my head felt like it might explode.
Manny and Sadie…had a child. Together.
Which meant—
“Are they married?” I asked with a gasp.
Reilly dropped her head to her hands. She rubbed her temples with her thumbs, as if she were trying to massage away a splitting headache. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“Reilly…?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Are they married?”
“Uh uh.”
I watched her closely. She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “But they were married?”
She dropped her forehead to the table with a thunk, her voice nothing more than a faint muffle. “Mmm-hmm.”
My head felt like an inflating balloon stretched beyond capacity. Sadie was the mysterious ex-wife? Ay dios mío. Suddenly Sadie’s irritation whenever Manny spoke to me in Spanish, or when he showed up with Tomb-Raider girl Isabel, or when he asserted his authority with the business or his directives made sense. What would I learn next? What else was Reilly keeping under her hat?
Sadie always, always questioned him. If they were divorced, why would he tolerate her insolence? A better question might be, why on earth did they even work together? There’s no way I’d work with my ex unless—
The answer came to me in blast. I pressed the heels of my hands against my forehead. “Dios mío, she’s a partner in the business, isn’t she?”
Reilly bolted upright in her chair, lifting her head until her eyes met mine. “W-what?”
“Why else would Manny put up with her, and why else would she stick around after a divorce to work with him?”
The color drained from her face. Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “No one is supposed to know that, Lola. You can’t know that.”
If I weren’t so flabbergasted by the realization, I’d have patted myself on the back for my stellar detective skills, never mind that it took me quite a few years to figure it out. “It’s true, then? Sadie owns the PI firm with Manny?”
When she’d walked into the restaurant, Reilly had looked like she was on top of the world. Now she clearly wanted to be anywhere else but here. “It’s true,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “But Lola, it’s totally a secret. You cannot—CANNOT—tell either of them that you know.”
Reilly was the chisme queen. “Give me the 411, then,” I said.
She looked at me in a way that said she wasn’t sure if she could trust me.
I leaned halfway across the table, pleading with my eyes. “I won’t breathe a word, Reilly, but come on. Pony up. I figured this much out. You can’t hold out on me now.”
She heaved a loud sigh, then took a healthy swig of her margarita. “Fine, but this is between you and me. Neil doesn’t even know.”
Oh, wow. She was keeping secrets from her main squeeze—for Manny and Sadie. That had to be weighing on her. Reilly was not the most clandestine person in the world.
I made the sign of the cross, pressing my thumb and index finger together before touching them to my forehead, sternum, left shoulder, then right, ending on my lips. “Swear.”
She considered me as she downed the rest of her drink. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”
I flagged Frankie, beckoning him. “Dos mas, por favor,” I said, holding up my nearly empty glass. A spattering of salt still dotted the blue rim. I licked it clean before handing it to my cousin. “And a combo plate. Enchiladas and tacos, and frijoles de la olla. And guac,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows, his gaze scanning all the appetizers still on the table between Reilly and me. “Hungry, eh, Lola?”
“Starving, so andele!” I ordered, cringing at how like my grandfather I sounded.
After Frankie scurried away with our empty glasses and the decimated nacho plate, Reilly gave me a good long stare.
“What?” I asked.
She waved her hand over the food, then at me. “How do you eat like this and look like that?”
My gaze swept over the food. I shrugged. The truth was, I fluctuated between size eight and ten. I practiced Kung Fu, although not as often as I used to, or should, I ran once or twice a week—usually—and did yoga occasionally. It was enough, for the time-being, to keep my body where I wanted it. I had no desire to be rail thin. Like that America Ferrera movie, real women had curves, baby. I loved mine. “Good genes, I guess.”
“I want your genes.”
“Reilly,” I said, leaning toward her again. “You have great genes.”
“I think yours are better.”
“Not better, just different.” Reilly’s different was magnetic. With her Crayola colored hair, lime green VW Beetle, and straight from JLo’s closet wardrobe, she was one of a kind, and I loved every original hair on her head.
She grimaced and shrugged, but picked up another flauta.
“So tell me. Manny and Sadie? How long have you known?”
She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. I couldn’t tell if she was buying time or practicing her etiquette. Either way, she didn’t answer. She took another bite and did the napkin thing again. Frankie returned with our second round of drinks.
“Reilly,” I prompted after he’d ambled off to deliver a basket of chips to another table.
“He’s going to kill me if he finds out I told you.”
“He’s not going to find out,” I said. “This is just between you and me.”
She glugged down some of her margarita, wiping the salt remnants from her mouth with the back of her hand. So much for her dainty manners. Her eyes had turned glassy. She was not a big drinker and it showed. I’d have to cut her off after this one and keep her here for a good long while if she had any hope of driving home.
Her words slurred slightly as she spoke. My god, but she was a lightweight. “I didn’t wanta do it,” she said. “I’m an office assistant, not a babysitter. But Lola, how do you say no to el jefe?”
I tilted my head to one side and gave a little shrug. She had a point. Saying no to Manny Camacho wasn’t easy. His dark eyes boring into me—er, you—to anyone—was intimidating as hell. “He asked you to babysit his daughter?”
Her head bobbed in an inefficient nod—shake—nod. “Take her to the dentist. Take her to her ballet class—”
“She goes to the dentist and she takes ballet?” Oh wow. Manny was really a father. A dad. He suddenly seemed more like a normal person and less like the Mount Olympian God he projected. Did she call him daddy? Or papi? “What’s her name?”
“Mmm, I don’t know if I should tell you that,” Reilly said, her expression perplexed.
“Why not? I already know everything else.”
She seemed to consider this, her mouth twisting with the effort. “I guess,” she finally said, drawing the word out.
Frankie reappeared with my combo plate. Steam ribboned up from the piping hot enchiladas, tacos, rice, and small white dish filled with simmering pinto beans. Antonio had tinkered with the recipe and had started adding small chunks of bell peppers to the pot, along with the garlic, onion, and a dash of cumin. I’d decided it was a good addition, although I hadn’t shared that with him. No need to inflate his ego more than it already was.
Frankie cleared away the empty flauta platter, brought us a clean dinner plate to share the meal, and left us to our conversation. I promptly deposited half the food onto Reilly’s plate, passed it to her, then dug into the half I’d kept. “Her name?” I repeated, holding my fingers in front of my mouth as I chewed.
“Quetzal,” she said.
I repeated it to myself. Quetzal. Quetzal. Quetzal. Quetzal, as in the colorful bird native to Mexico, or Quetzal, as in a derivative of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent from Aztec and Mayan mythology? It was mysterious, but then Manny’s daughter should have a mysterious name. Something basic would never do.
“It’s a big name for a little girl,” I said.
Reilly nodded her agreement. “She’s a pistol, just like Sadie.”
“Hopefully without the mean streak,” I said. Saying Sadie had a mean streak was like saying Antarctica was a little chilly. Sadie Metcalf, formerly Camacho, could be downright vicious. Much as I hated to admit it, though, she did have some redeeming qualities, too. She’d helped me with my first big case, first by identifying some of the key players and then by being backup for me when I hadn’t even known I needed it. Like every other person on the planet, she was complicated—not all bad, and not all good.
Quetzal was a pistol. Just like Sadie. Sadie and Manny had been married. They co-owned Camacho and Associates. Dios mio. I was living a vida loca.
Chapter 5
Bright and early the next morning, I was on the road heading to what Sacramentoans called The Pocket, a suburban area south of downtown and bordered by I-5 and the Sacramento River. I took the Florin Road exit and a few minutes later, I pulled up in front of The Style Studio. It was in a strip mall which housed a dry cleaner, a nail salon, and a donut shop, which pretty much described the businesses in ninety percent of the strip malls in Sacramento’s bedroom communities.
The sign hanging in the window read CLOSED, but Gemma was expecting me so I tried the door. Locked. I cupped my hands over my eyes and peered through the glass. A light was on in the back and I thought I saw a shadow move across the floor. I knocked. A second later, a figure appeared and strode toward the door. She was a few inches shorter than me—maybe five foot four or five, had ash blonde hair, which she’d pulled back into a ponytail, and was dressed down in jeans and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt that was probably from Target. I stepped back while she unlocked the door, then pushed it open. “Are you the detective?” the young woman asked, giving me a once over and raising one eyebrow skeptically.
“That’s me.” I handed her one of my business cards to show her I was all on the up and up and to instill a little confidence in her.
She fisted her hand around the card as she stepped back and held the door open for me. Her face was drawn and pale. “Come in, I guess,” she said, looking about as thrilled as she sounded.
“Nice place,” I commented, wanting to break the ice. The salon was narrow and extended back the way a shotgun house did. Everything was shiny and clean. The walls were mirrored and there was a total of three black styling chairs on one side. The opposite wall held shelving filled with high end hair products. A hallway led beyond the main room to what looked like an office, a restroom, and a door at the end leading to the back parking lot. The row of hooks on the hallway wall held an assortment of salon capes, a sweater, and a zipped-up garment bag. “Do you own it?”
She closed her eyes for a second before sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling through her open mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Philip, um—” She regrouped, inhaling again, then blowing out her grief-ridden air. “Phil helped me start it up, you know, because he already had his own business. He knew exactly what to do.”
“Well, it looks nice,” I said. I scanned the menu of services on the glossy card at the front desk.
“Waxing, color, cuts, men, women, facials. You name it, I do it.”
I noted her use of the word I instead of we. Only one state of California cosmetology license hung on the wall. I’d never seen a salon with just one beauty professional. It felt odd to me, but all the clues led me to believe that Gemma Ramsey ran a solo operation. “Is it just you here?” I asked to confirm my hunch.
“Yeah, for now. I wanted to get all the kinks worked out before I rented out chairs, but I found I kind of like just being on my own. And right now, I can’t even think about bringing in someone else.”
“Because of Philip’s death?”
She looked toward the ceiling, giving her head a little shake. Her lips pressed together and she blinked her eyes, clearing away her bubbling emotions. “I—I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”
My gaze fell to her left hand. She absently twisted the small diamond on her ring finger. I started. “Are you…were you and Philip engaged?”
She nodded, her face collapsing. She fluttered one hand in front of her. “I’m sorry. I thought I could do this.”
I put my hand on her back and guided her to one of the stylist chairs. She sat, putting her elbow on the arm and using it to prop up her head. I sat in the chair next to hers, spinning it to face her. “I’m sorry about your loss,” I said.
Her nostrils flared as she drew in another breath. She sat up straight and ran her fingers from both hands
under her eyes. “Thanks.”
“Gemma, I don’t want to take a lot of your time. Marnie Haskell hired me to find out if someone else was involved in Philip’s death.”
Her bloodshot eyes met mine. “I know that’s what you said, but I don’t…I don’t understand.”
“She seems to think he was involved in something that might have resulted in his death.”
She stared at me. “Involved in something? What does that even mean? He was an electrician. He was going to be my husband. He was just a normal guy.”
“Did Philip do any drugs?”
She hung her head. “He smoked pot sometimes. Not much anymore, though. The police, they’re doing a—what do you call it? Toxicology?”
A lot of people didn’t consider marijuana a drug, and it was legal in California now. If the police thought Philip had drugs in his system, odds are they weren’t talking about cannabis. I moved on. “And his business? It was good?”
She nodded.
“And you were happy. Engaged.”
Again, she nodded. “We hadn’t even told his parents yet. He was going to surprise them.”
Which supported what Marnie Haskell had told me. “Was he going to tell them that night?”
She nodded. He never got the chance.
That led me to the next obvious question. “Do you think he killed himself?”
She hung her head and her shoulders heaved. “I don’t know.” And then she choked on her words. “I don’t know.”
Gemma played with the ring on her finger. “You were together a long time?”
She dried her eyes and looked at me again. “Five years, minus a few breaks. To be honest, for the longest time I didn’t know if he was really in it for the long run. I thought we were going to split up for good, but then suddenly he asked me to marry him. Out of the blue.” She paused for a second to keep her emotions in check. “I think he kind of surprised himself when he asked me. We went to buy the ring together after.”
“He was moved in the moment,” I commented. “I think that’s pretty romantic.”
“I guess so. It didn’t feel romantic at the time, but yeah, in hindsight, I guess it was.”
Drop Dead Lola Page 4