Willow said, "Yay!" in a tone so cheery Maggie began to have hope she would turn out to be a good retail clerk after all.
"But there's one thing we have to get straight right off the bat," Maggie said.
"What's that?" the girl asked, looking worried.
"The most important part of this job." Maggie nodded toward O'Riley's across the street. "What kind of pastries do you like?"
Chapter Seventeen
That evening, Maggie found Reese standing in Casablanca's living room, facing out the open door toward the sea.
"Explain to me again why we're doing this," he said. He had his back to her, and was brushing his hair smooth. He wore black trousers with creases so sharp they could cut you, topped with his favorite black Hugo Boss summer-weight blazer. "I hate these stuffy parties. Why can't I just mail them a check?"
He turned around, and they both gasped.
"You like?" he asked with a smile.
"You know I love purple," she said. A silk shirt peeked out from his open jacket, offering a tantalizing hint of the muscular chest beneath. The shirt was the color of a ripe plum, velvety and lush, and tempting her to run her fingers over it, though of course she resisted. The royal color set off the deep cobalt blue of his eyes and his golden hair. He looked very sleek and fashion-conscious, every inch the handsome celebrity, even with the wild beard. "You look great."
"You're not looking so bad yourself," he said with a smirk. He was checking out her shimmering gold Naeem Khan cocktail dress with an appreciative air. "I forgot how good you are at playing dress-up."
"Yeah, well, I had ten years' experience as a dutiful trophy wife whose only purpose was to stand around being pretty. I guess I can still pull it off." She patted her stomach. "Even if I had to let this out in the waist quite a bit." The dress was silk, with endless layers of sparkling crystals and sequins that rippled on her body as she moved. She turned in the dress, letting the layers of glittering fringe flow around her. "Not bad, huh?"
"Not bad at all, Magdalena." He took her hand and twirled her around, dancing to the tune of the ocean waves outside. "Why don't we stay home and make some beautiful music together?" he whispered in her ear.
She pulled back. "Nope." She broke away from him and went over to shut the patio door, locking out the ocean sound. "We need to go to this party."
He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Because I haven't had a chance to wear a dress like this in ages."
"You've turned me down every time I've asked you to come to a fancy soiree on The Row. What makes this dinky little cocktail party so important?"
"Just in the mood for fun, I guess." She headed toward the front door, her gold heels clicking on the oak floor.
He grabbed his keys off the table in the hall and followed her. "Right. A likely story."
Reese drove them to the party in his silver Spyder. That was a big deal, even for the few blocks to the downtown office of the migrant worker's charity. Reese hadn't driven with passengers in the car in the nearly twelve years since the horrible car accident that had killed his best friend and led him to give up drugs and clean up his life. All these years later, he was still working on staying calm with her in the car, but he did okay. Only his knuckles turning white as he gripped the Porsche's steering wheel betrayed how hard the little drive was for him.
When they pulled into the parking lot they found it nearly full. "I didn't expect so many people," Maggie said as they saw the upscale crowd milling around the entrance.
"You know the rich people in town, Maggie. They need a party every night or they'll die of boredom."
"And The Row is half-empty, so they're running out of party hosts," she agreed. "Heaven forbid they find something useful to do with themselves." The statement seemed to echo in the evening air after she said it, as she thought of Reese, and his search for purpose.
But he didn't notice the connection, just laughing at her comment and then gallantly coming around to the passenger side to hand her out of the car. That was helpful, since her cocktail dress was super-short, and she felt strangely awkward in it, no longer used to showing off like this.
Just outside the door to the building they were ambushed by the press. Abby was there with her little notebook and a camera to take shots of arriving bigwigs.
She wasn't alone. There was a cameraman from the local TV station as well, and one of those glossy on-air reporters looking for a scoop.
Maggie hung back while Reese did his thing. He could answer a question about the weather in a way that was charming and friendly, without actually telling you if it was sunny or raining outside.
When he finished, the TV reporter seemed satisfied, but Abby followed them into the party to get her own scoop.
She and Maggie stood back and watched Reese deal with the crowd who automatically drifted toward him to shake hands and say hello to the movie star in their midst.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Abby said. "I noticed Reese didn't tell that reporter why you came."
"We came because we were craving free cocktail weenies," Maggie said.
"Sure. You're looking for clues just like I am," Abby said softly, glancing around the crowded room.
"Clues?" Maggie asked, playing dumb.
"Come on, Maggie. I missed the scoop of the century when I left the barbecue an hour before the murder, and now I need to find an angle to report on. Help me out."
"I thought you were assigned to do a feature on the charity."
"I am. But I need an angle, a scoop. Something to write about so it's not just a boring press release."
Maggie nodded to the crowd. "It looks like they're doing pretty well for themselves."
"Yeah," Abby said. "Susan Gallegos' family spent twenty years cultivating patrons among the Carita elite. That's how they've managed to do so much good in the community."
"Really?" Maggie said thoughtfully. "They've got a good budget, have they?"
Maggie spotted Susan across the room. When they'd met at the barbecue, she and Maggie had both been wearing jeans. Now they both wore glittering cocktail dresses. Susan's was blue, and not nearly as short, but still showed her off as an attractive woman who seemed to fit in with this crowd. Maggie wondered if Susan felt as uncomfortable like this as she did.
"So what do you think?" Abby asked, and Maggie realized she hadn't been listening to her young friend.
"About what?" she asked.
"About my story idea."
"I'm sorry," Maggie said. "What's your idea?"
"I was originally planning to show the work of the charity by profiling Taiyari. How she'd managed to graduate from high school and get accepted to college, despite all the difficulties of her life working in the fields."
"That sounds good," Maggie said.
"But it doesn't work anymore. Not with her being a murderer. So now I thought I'd focus on the true-crime angle, and see if I can get a scoop on what went wrong to turn her into a killer."
Maggie stopped analyzing the crowd and turned to Abby. "Why do you think she's a killer?"
"Chief Randall gave an exclusive to the paper, and he said she is."
"He's been wrong once or twice," Maggie said dryly. "I'd wait on your story until we find out whether she's guilty or innocent, if I were you."
"So you do know something about it?" Abby asked eagerly.
"No," Maggie said firmly. "I don't." She saw Susan head toward a door that said PRIVATE. "Excuse me," she said to the girl, and headed that way.
Maggie knew many of the people in the room, and said hello and smiled, pulling out her old trophy wife skills to graciously make her way through the crowd without getting stuck in any long conversations. The people at the party were the usual suspects from The Row and the country club, the rich who swarmed around any time there was a chance for an open bar and a party where they could hang out with their fellow Carita elite.
This setting seemed odd for such a gathering. It was just a basic office, not luxur
ious or exciting at all. But maybe that was the fun for this crowd. Slumming in a mundane office gave them something different to do, a way to alleviate the eternal boredom of having it all.
Near the front door was the main open space where everyone was milling around. It must be the reception/meeting area for the charity. There were several old sofas and chairs pushed up against the walls, and a big table set up in the middle that held the catered finger foods.
Another cart had been set up to one side, with a bartender mixing drinks. He was seeing a lot of action, and the donations bowl at the bar was filling with twenties faster than he could mix cocktails.
Maggie kept circulating, smiling and chatting, but always working her way over to that PRIVATE door on the far end of the room. When she got there, the door was closed and no one was around. Susan Gallegos hadn't yet come back out, so Maggie frowned, wondering what she should do next.
Where Maggie stood were a couple of desks too big to move aside for the party. These were all cleared of papers in anticipation of the event, and stood bare, waiting for the staff to return to work.
Then she noticed the photographs on the wall.
On all the walls. Most of the partygoers ignored the pictures, but Maggie began to wander along the perimeter of the room to study them, still watching out of the corner of her eye for that PRIVATE door to open again so she could grill the charity head about what was going on.
Then she got caught up in the pictures and forgot her mission.
The pictures spanned many years, and many events. There were barbecues like the fatal one she'd just attended. There were protest marches with determined-looking attendees asking for safer working conditions. There were food banks and health care drives. And through it all, lots of people hugging and smiling at the camera.
Picture after picture, each illustrating the work of the charity, and the close bonds between the charity organizers and their clients.
There was a common thread in every single photo. Always a man in the center. Sometimes younger. Sometimes older. But always there. He was never looking at the camera. He was focused on his mission. On the people around him. On serving food, or teaching a workshop, or hugging a crying woman, or testifying before the city council.
Susan Gallegos came to stand next to Maggie.
"Your dad?" Maggie asked, and Susan nodded.
"This was his life work. I have to see it doesn't die with him. That's what all this is about." She glanced at the fancy party and the laughing people.
"He doesn't look like the cocktail party type," Maggie said with a smile.
"No. That was my mother's job, schmoozing with the rich Carita crowd. She held a lot of these parties over the years, and I'm trying to keep it up. It's our best source of donations."
"There aren't any pictures of her here," Maggie observed.
"No. She was always the one taking the pictures of my dad. Documenting his work."
They went back to the empty desks and Susan nodded to a photo in a walnut frame.
Maggie picked it up. It showed a lovely woman who looked a lot like Susan, wearing a pretty blue dress much like the one Susan had on, laughing while raising a champagne glass in a toast.
"She's beautiful."
"She was." She looked back at the wall of her father's achievements. "They both were. But in different ways. She raised the money, and he did the hard work out in the fields."
"Complementing each other," Maggie said. "You speak of them in the past. Have they passed away?"
"Yes."
"And now? You have to do the work of both of them?"
Susan nodded. "First my mother passed away. About five years ago, from a long illness. My dad was actually out in the fields when she died. He was organizing a boycott of a dangerous pesticide, and couldn't get home in time. I was the only one with her. It was… hard." Her voice cracked a bit there.
"I'm so sorry." Maggie patted her arm. "I am so very sorry."
Susan brushed it off bravely. "I'm fine. So then I helped my father. He was always out among the workers. So I went with him. It was the only way to spend time with him, really. I tried to fill the role my mother had, supporting him and running the office and the fundraising."
"But then he died?" Maggie said.
She nodded. "A couple of years ago. He just dropped, a stroke. From overwork, I think. He just burned himself out, always working. Never coming home or taking care of himself."
"And then you had to do it all. That must have been so hard."
She was staring at her mother's photograph. "No time for a personal life. No time for anything but the work." She shrugged again, not letting the weight of it press her down. "It's my parents' legacy. My dad's life work. I had to keep it going."
Maggie looked across the room, where Susan's assistant was chatting with a pretty young woman in a sleek pink dress. "When did you hire Donovan Cruz?" she asked casually.
"About a year ago. I needed to spend more time out doing my dad's work. So I had to find someone to run the office."
"I see," Maggie said in a disinterested way. "So he handles everything here. All the paperwork?"
She chuckled. "Yes. It's been a huge relief. There are so many forms to keep up with. All the tax reporting, accounting for donations and spending, all that. He majored in nonprofit management, and I hired him fresh out of college. He's a real find."
"I'm sure he is," she said. She gave Susan a big smile. Then frowned, wondering how to change the subject.
But Susan herself brought it up. "It's such a shame about Taiyari, isn't it?"
"It sure is," Maggie agreed. "A real shame."
Susan looked sad. "We really thought she was going to be a poster child for what this organization can do to help people." Then she looked sheepish. "That sounds horrible when I put it that way. Selfish of me to think of our work first."
"No, I get it," Maggie said.
"Of course Ethan Kirby's death and Taiyari killing him is a tragedy," Susan said. "I shouldn't be so selfish to think only about how it impacts the charity."
"It's understandable," Maggie said. She added in a carefully casual way, "and since you and Donovan were nowhere near the migrant workers' quarters, you didn't experience the shock of it the way I did. I understand how it doesn't feel as emotional for you as it did for me."
Susan looked a bit embarrassed. But all she said was, "yeah. Finding the body must have been a shock."
"What is it?" Maggie asked.
She shook her head. "Nothing." She glanced toward Donovan. "I know I said we were together the whole time. But I had to tell that cop when he grilled me. I didn't—I maybe didn't see Donovan every second of the time we were there."
"Oh," Maggie said.
"But it's nothing. The police said it's nothing. He just went to wash up, and I lost track of where he was for only a few minutes. The police are sure it means nothing."
The police may have been sure, but Maggie wasn't.
Susan turned the conversation to the weather then, so Maggie excused herself. "I better find my friend now."
"Just look for the crowd of fans," Susan said wryly, and Maggie laughed.
"That's how it always is," she agreed, and left Susan there.
But Maggie didn't head to where Reese was in the middle of a group, sipping sparkling water and masking his boredom with a polite smile.
She headed toward Donovan Cruz.
He was still talking to the young woman in the pink dress.
She didn't make it to her destination without interruption.
"What're you up to?" somebody said, and she turned around.
Chapter Eighteen
It was her snarky little ex-employee Abby, and she was looking annoyed.
"Nothing," Maggie replied automatically. "Just hanging out." She kept her eye on Donovan.
Abby didn't believe her. "Maggie, I know you. You haven't gone to one of these Richie Rich parties since you got divorced. Why did you come to this one?"
"You don't think the charity is a good cause?"
Abby raised an eyebrow. "Of course it is. It's a wonderful group, and if I ever get my profile of them written I will talk all about the great work they do. But why are you here? You don't have the money to donate to them. I know. It was hard enough for you to pay my minimum wage salary at the bead shop."
"Reese is the donor. I'm his plus-one."
Abby laughed. "Reese? He's even less interested in this kind of thing than you are."
Maggie still had her eye on Susan's assistant. "Tell me about Donovan Cruz," she said, very softly so no one nearby could hear.
"Donovan?" Abby said. "He's very nice. And a real crusader. I think this organization means a lot to him. He wants to save the world and all that stuff."
"I see," Maggie said.
"What are you thinking, Maggie?" Abby asked. "Are you investigating the murder? It couldn't possibly be Donovan. He wouldn't have a motive."
Maggie wasn't so sure about that. She could think of two right off the bat. But there were other people who were far more questionable. That farm manager with the hooded glares seemed very suspicious to Maggie. Even Taiyari's so-called friend Carmen had been evasive, and they only had her word that Taiyari was safe and not another victim. And, though it was hard to believe, Brian Kirby also had seemed caught up in the whirlpool of attention that surrounded Taiyari. He couldn't have killed his own son, though, could he?
Abby was watching her, clearly noticing the wheels turning in her head. "You know, this internship at the newspaper is only for one semester," Abby mused. "If I managed to get a big scoop, like, say, solving a murder mystery, I could maybe turn this into a real job."
"Do you want to do that?" Maggie asked trying to focus on the present conversation. "I thought you were majoring in pre-med."
Abby pushed her glasses up on her nose. "That was my parents' idea. I'm beginning to think investigative reporting might be mine."
"A journalist? Really? Is there any future in that?"
"There's more to life than money," Abby said. "But you're not answering my question. Have you found out anything about the murder?"
Maggie and the Hidden Homicide Page 11
