Murder Under the Italian Moon Page 5

  From where we sat at Cannon's restaurant, the lights of the boats out at sea looked like fireflies on a sultry summer night. Below us, spotlights flooded The Pilgrim's main mast. The ship was a perfect replica of the vessel that brought Richard Henry Dana into the harbor in 1834. Dana Point had been named after him. We were looking at the same waters, from the same cliffs.

  "You weren't very hungry, were you?" Larry asked.

  I turned away from the harbor.

  "Don't talk much either." His fingers brushed mine.

  The busboy poured the coffee then left.

  "We—I love this place. I haven't been here in a while." I took a breath and then stirred my coffee, avoiding his gaze. I'd mentioned Nick at the beginning of the meal, which made it hard not to think about him.

  "It's a great spot."

  "I like the food." I stopped just short of confessing he was my first date in over two years, and I worried I'd say or do something wrong. He leaned toward me. The flickering candle threw his face into shadow. His lashes flirted with his tanned cheeks every time he blinked, and he stared at me. The warmth of his hand covered mine. I couldn't think, couldn't move.

  The busboy came back to our table. "More coffee?"

  I pulled away and turned my head. I stared at our reflections on the glass wall. We looked joined, as one. I sat back, and we were two again. He didn't let go of my hand. I breathed quietly. Could he hear the racket my heart made beneath the shimmering of my pink silk blouse?

  "How was fishing?"

  He blinked in response. "Fishing?"

  We looked at each other. I nodded, aware my question killed the mood.

  "Fishing—of course—fishing." He drummed his fingers on the table. I waited. The bill came. He pulled out his wallet and put down a credit card. "We never made it out of Parker."

  "We?" I immediately hated that I needed to know who the other half of that equation was.

  "My buddy and I. Steve is a detective with the Parker Police Department. We go back a long way. He was with the Orange County office. Anyhow, I got there yesterday morning. We loaded his Bronco and were ready to take off when they called him in. A drowning case just below the dam. Some kids found the body. I wasn't sure this was the kind of conversation you would have enjoyed with your meal."

  "I'm fascinated. Was it an accident?"

  He shrugged. "Nah. Apparent suicide. She left a note."

  "A woman?"

  "Some local. The family has a history of mental instability. Steve knew them. Her brother is in a mental institution. Sad case. We decided to postpone the trip. I drove home. He went to the office to fill out the transfer papers."

  "Transfer papers?"

  "The body—pardon me, the victim had to be taken to Tucson for the autopsy. How did we get on this subject?" He shook his head. "Let's go." He stood and helped me from my chair.

  Outside, a dark sky and a mild night set the tone. We paced, waiting for the skinny teenager to bring Larry's Mercedes around. I couldn't hear or see the ocean from Cannon's parking lot, but I breathed in the brine.

  Larry's profile was an interesting series of strong lines and precise angles. A strand of hair fell onto his forehead. I reached to brush it back but caught myself. He seemed familiar with the streets. I sensed he studied me from the corner of his eye as much as I studied him.

  The teen brought the car around.

  "Nice car."

  "Thanks."

  "New?"

  "Yes."

  How could he afford this kind of car on a detective's salary?

  "You're wondering how I could afford it."

  I nodded, heat rushing to my face as we got in.

  "I won the lottery."

  What? I couldn't see his eyes and his voice wasn't giving me any clue. Was he joking?

  I laughed. The tension was getting to me.

  "What's so funny?" He looked straight ahead.

  I searched for an intelligent reply but couldn't think of anything to say while the sound of my laughter filled the car.

  "Twice a week, every Saturday and Wednesday, someone wins the state lottery. Not always the grand prize, but there are other winners."

  "Larry, you don't look or act nouveau riche. It's as if you were born into it." When did he pull to the side of the road and stop the car?

  The way he looked at me had me gulping for air. Bathed in the amber glow of the dashboard, his eyes held on to mine. Without a word he reached across me and touched something on the car door. My seat hummed and began to recline. He leaned, pressing my shoulders against the soft leather of the seat, his lips on mine, his tongue probing my mouth. My head felt empty, as if a giant vacuum had sucked out my brain, and, with it, all my self-control. Through the light fabric of his shirt, the heat of his body warmed my breasts. And slowly, without logic, I relaxed, wanting more. He pulled me tighter against him, cupped my face with his free hand. His thumb stroked my neck, the tip of his tongue in my ear, circling, teasing.

  "Hmm." The sound escaped from the back of my throat. A whispery, husky response to his kiss. That was all I could get from my frozen brain while my body burned. My hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer, holding on to him.

  The heart is an organ of fire. The line from Ondaatje's The English Patient crossed my mind. Blood coursed through my body, and we were as close to spontaneous combustion as humanly possible.

  "Lella," he whispered, his mouth close to the nape of my neck, his breath putting goose bumps all over my body. "Lella." A little louder. Only my name. How long had it been since a man spoke my name in the darkness of a car? I couldn't handle the intensity. I pushed him away. He resisted at first then relaxed back against his seat and tucked his shirt in. I lay there a moment staring up at him. I sighed and raised my seat up.

  The engine must have been idling the whole time, because he simply shifted gears and the car began to move.

  We drove in silence. A silence void of uneasiness. I've always been amazed by the different meanings of silence. It could be emotionally charged or empty silence—nothing to say. Angry silence—after a fight. Anyway, it was never just silence.

  My body quivered, still under the spell. He held the steering wheel with his left hand. His right one cupped my knee. What would happen next? Should I ask him in for a nightcap? Or kiss him good night before getting out of the car? This was idiotic. I had regressed into puberty. Because of a kiss? Well, not just any kiss. That kiss was a promise, a beginning. We reached my gate. I clicked the control and the gate swung open. Larry kept his eyes straight ahead and his hand on my knee. I had to decide how to end the evening. Problem was, I didn't want it to end.

  Even with the lights on, the underground garage wasn't very bright. He slowed down when we reached the main entrance; the beam from the Mercedes' headlights shined on rows of parked cars. I recognized the familiar shape of the car sitting on the stall next to mine. A brown Porsche.

  Kyle's car.

  Dilemma resolved. The instant Larry stopped the car, I jumped out. With a quick "I'll call you, ciao," I strolled down the walkway. If he said something. I didn't hear him. The only sound came from my high heels clicking on the stones of the path leading to my front door. All the windows of my town house were dark. No lights. Strange. I unlocked the front door and stepped in. "Hello. Anybody here?" Silence. Where was Kyle? He couldn't have seen me in the car with Larry. What a relief. We'd never talked about the possibility of future dates. A conversation I dreaded.

  Something brushed my ankle. I jumped back, startled.

  "Meow." I turned on the light. "Flash, you scared me to death. Is Kyle here?" Smart Lella. A talking cat, right? I checked every room. Nothing, but his car was in the garage. Kyle must have gone out with friends. I could have asked Larry in after all.

  Upstairs in my room, I undressed. That kiss did a number on me, couldn't get it off my mind. Oh God, I didn't know Larry's phone number. Except for the police department, and he was technically still on vacation.

 
In the middle of my bathroom I stood, staring at myself in the mirror. Nuda come un verme. "Naked as a worm," my mother used to say. I cupped my hands under my breasts and pushed up. Hmm, much better. I could understand why women got breast implants and face lifts. Understand or justify? Maybe one of those Wonderbras would help. Get a grip, Lella. It was just a kiss. I put on my nightgown, got under the covers and turned off the light.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I was a little girl, my mother used to braid my long, straight hair into tight, intertwining strands. She pulled it back so tightly that from the front, it looked as if I had no hair. One scorching summer afternoon, Mother filled a wooden tub with cool water and let me play in it. An exciting new experience for me. My braids came untied. My hair fell on my shoulders and all the way to my waist. It was as if the hair took on a life of its own. My hair. Part of me, yet out of my control. Like my emotions. For most of my life I'd kept them tucked away, nicely intertwined in the hidden places of my soul. From the outside it appeared as if I had no feelings. It simplified my life. I could handle leaving home for a new country, loving Nick the way he liked it. His perfect little wife. A reflection of his expectations. A product of his wants.

  Last night's kiss untied my emotions like I had been dipped into a cauldron of desire. I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror, afraid all that mass of passion showed on my face. It was that concern about my feelings seeping through that kept me tucked in my bed instead of running to welcome Kyle when I heard the front door open last night.

  This morning the sun filtered through the drapes, creating new shadows on my old, familiar bedroom furniture. I looked at myself in the mirror before going to say hello to Kyle. I'd had vivid dreams all night, mainly starring Larry Devin. I wanted to make sure I didn't look too disheveled. Apparently all the changes took place in my head, since the face in the mirror looked just the same. Now I felt old and full of doubts. The more I studied myself, the more depressed I became. My nightgown looked frumpy and out of style. Just like my hair, and my lingerie, and—enough. Flash was giving me a look. She didn't care about my internal crisis. She wanted breakfast.

  I put on my slippers and quietly went downstairs. The open door of the guest room brought me to a halt. I nearly stepped on Flash. She jumped and ran with a loud meow. I peeked in. The bed hadn't been touched. Everything seemed just like the night before. Where was Kyle? Maybe he left his stuff downstairs and ran out to join his friends? I couldn't see a trace of Kyle ever being in the house. I knew I saw his car in the parking garage last night. I was absolutely certain. Flash's scratching at my ankles started to annoy me. Not a good sign. I fed her while the coffee brewed. I had just retrieved the daily newspaper from the front door when the phone rang. I hesitated, not recognizing the local number. Could it be Larry?

  It was Sabrina, from the mission. "Oh, Lella, I'm sorry."

  "Sorry about what?" I fought to control the stress level in my voice.

  "Haven't you heard about Ruby? It was on the news. Her house burned down last night."

  Not about Kyle. Relief and guilt battled for control. "Is Ruby okay?"

  "I'm guessing so. The news reported the estimated damaged to the house, but they never mentioned anyone dying. I got the short version while I watched Good Morning America. You know how they break for brief local news. I thought you knew."

  "I didn't read the paper yet."

  "I doubt it made the paper, since it happened quite late last night."

  "Maybe I should get over there. Thanks, Sabrina. Got to go." I hung up on her before she could say another word.

  I ran upstairs, got dressed and had almost made it out the door when the phone rang again. "Good Morning, Lella." Larry.

  With all the opening lines I had been rehearsing, I found myself tongue-tied again.

  "Lella? Are you okay?" He sounded concerned, but not too concerned.

  "I can't talk to you. Got to run." I hung up while cursing myself and my lack of social grace. I should have said, "I can't talk to you now." The way I had said it, it sounded like I didn't want to talk to him ever again. Great. I noticed Kyle's Porsche wasn't in the garage when I went to get in my car. Maybe he spent the night at a friend's house. Or got home late and left early this morning. I would call him later.

  I drove to where Ruby's house used to be. The streets of Nellie Gail Ranch were anything but deserted today. Lots of cars. The traffic worsened close to Ruby's place. The lookers were out en masse. It got so bad that I ended up parking my car on the side of the road and walking the last block. I saw workers busy installing a link fence around what once was Ruby's French chateau. The roof of the house had caved in. So had most walls. Only the brick chimney stood tall and straight, like a sentinel guarding the place. Part of the garage was left untouched, and you could see the charred remains of the Jeep. Mrs. Snoopy had described it accurately. If only that Jeep jammed against the garage door could talk. Yellow police tape warning people to stay away fluttered above the ashes in the morning breeze, along with the acrid smell of smoke lingering in the neighborhood.

  I wanted to talk to somebody, ask questions. The uniformed people looked like fresh arrivals, and the rest of the crowd hoped to catch the show. I knocked at Mrs. Snoopy's door. Seemed like an eternity went by before she opened a few inches, recognized me and stepped out, closing the door behind her. She wasn't going to invite me in?

  "Hi." She looked me over from behind her glasses. She wore a fussy dress, her hair was teased and sprayed and she had on full makeup. It was morning and she looked ready for a night at the opera.

  "What happened?"

  "Somebody burned the house down." Her response was matter-of-fact.

  "Arson?"

  I noticed the uneasiness. She avoided my eyes and readjusted her glasses. "I'm not supposed to discuss it. I already spoke to the police."

  "The police told you not to discuss this?"

  More hesitation. "Look, the lieutenant is on his way to see you and talk to your son. Ask him."

  "My son? What does this have to do with my son?"

  "Lieutenant Devin wants to talk to your son, the movie star."

  She said "movie star" with such disdain I felt blood rushing to my face. Her expression changed and a slight smile appeared, but her eyes focused somewhere past me. I turned and it all became clear. A van with the Fox News logo parked around the corner. They'd come to interview her. I realized she said Devin, Lieutenant Devin. My Larry was on his way to my house—not to pursue a relationship with me, but to question Kyle about his involvement with Ruby's house burning down? I turned around and started to jog to my car. Why didn't he tell me he wanted to talk to me? Because I didn't let him. And she said he wanted to talk to Kyle. Larry had never met Kyle. This added puzzlement to my confusion.

  I tried to process all the information, but my anger grew, and by the time my car crossed the gate to my townhouse I was in a pretty lousy mood. I entered the common garage expecting to find Larry's Mercedes taking up space. Instead, what I saw convinced me once again that life is never about what we anticipate, but rather about what we ignore. Right there, next to my reserved space, sat Ruby's Ferrari Testarossa.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My heels hit the path from the garage to my front door in unison with my heartbeat. Ruby, finally. Where could she be waiting for me? At the neighbors? She didn't have the keys to my place, she returned them. Could she have found a way to get into the house?

  Strange.

  I wanted to tell her about Larry, but first we needed to talk about Tom and the loss of her home, such terrible things. She needed a place to stay, of course. We would sit in the quietness of the living room, hug each other and exchange stories over a glass of Chardonnay. Everything would be okay. I opened the door wide and called out, "Ruby!"

  I heard someone moving around upstairs, running down the steps, then Kyle appeared, smiling. "Hi, Mom, is Ruby here?"

  "Kyle, you're here? I didn't see your car."

  He looked
at me, he seemed half amused, half apologetic. "About the car…"

  I could hardly contain my newly found eagerness. I wanted to talk to Ruby. Kyle could tell me where he parked later.

  "You did see my car in the garage." He dangled keys in front of my face. "A shiny Ferrari?"

  "You bought the same car as the Russells?"

  "No, I bought the Russells' car." He stared at me with those puppy eyes, waiting for a treat after a well-performed trick.

  I felt sick. I sat and put my handbag on the floor, not sure what to do next. I must have looked awful, because Kyle came over and kneeled next to me. "Mom, are you okay? What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost."

  "A ghost of common sense. How, why? Tom's car? Did you buy it before or after Ruby shot him?" Did I say that? Ruby shot him? What was wrong with me?

  "Ruby shot who? Mom, maybe you should lie down. You don't look too good." He helped me up from the chair and walked me over to the sofa. I let him lead me without arguing while my head reeled over this latest development.

  "Kyle, you do know about Tom, don't you?"

  He stared at me. I sensed his hesitation. He would choose his answer carefully, hoping not to say the wrong thing. He might be in his twenties, but he was still like a child reacting to his mother being upset with him. He didn't want to do or say the wrong thing.

  "Tom is dead and the Russells' house burned to the ground last night." What I lacked in bedside manner I made up for with straight truth. I watched Kyle's face change expression and color faster than a chameleon sitting on a rainbow. He collapsed next to me on the sofa. I could hear the furious beating of his heart. I watched his Adam's apple bob when he swallowed.

  "By the look on your face, I'm gathering the answer is no. You know nothing about anything." I thanked God for my self-control.

  Kyle kept staring at his shoes.

  "Kyle, Tom died a couple of days before I came back from Italy. I don't have many details. I'm guessing you didn't hear about it if you were in Palm Springs. It must have made only the local news. It was ruled an accidental death. Ruby reached for the gun Tom had been cleaning. The thing went off and hit Tom in the back of the skull. He died instantly. Here is my problem: I can't find Ruby. Do you know where she might be? When did you get the car? Kyle, where is your car?" Images of the Porsche parked in the garage the night before crossed my mind. I needed to let him talk. He rose and walked around the room. He looked like he was trying to work out the timeline for himself before telling me anything. I waited.