I dropped my bag on the table. “I thought I left the place locked up.”
“You should find a better place for your spare key. Burglars always check under potted plants. I needed a place to stretch out. My orthopedist wants me to elevate my leg as much as possible.”
Bernie, meanwhile, had extricated himself from under Stacy’s foot, placing it on a pillow at the end of the couch. She was wearing a sheer nylon support stocking that managed to be therapeutic and sexy at the same time. He stood up. I tried to avoid looking at him, but it was tough. At just a shade under six feet and solidly built, Bernie Aguilar was a fox, with the thick dark hair and the rich bronze skin of his Portuguese heritage. He had a full complement of facial hair, with a neatly trimmed beard and my favorite kind of mustache: thick and full but soft, so that it tickled just the right way when we—
“I have your statement if you’re ready,” he said. “Sounds like quite the open house.”
“You could say that.” I retreated to the kitchen, which was essentially the same room but separated from the living area by a scarred wooden counter. There was a saucepan simmering on the stove, and it actually smelled pretty good. I peeked under the lid.
“Vegetarian chili,” Stacy said. “Totally vegan. I figured you’d need a healthy meal after your long day. Besides, I seem to recall that takeout is your specialty.” She giggled in a way that invited Bernie to join her, but he didn’t. Maybe he was slightly less of a dog than I thought.
“Bernie, why don’t you join us?” Stacy added.
His dark eyes met mine. “Another time.”
She tilted her face charmingly. “C’mon, Aguilar, take a break from your sworn duty. Even the chief has to eat.”
He just shook his head with a little smile. In the pause that ensued, I felt a growing certainty that he was waiting for me to speak. So I said, “I’ll walk you to your car.”
That sounded abrupt, maybe even a tad rude, so I added, “To go over, you know. The report.”
He reached for his jacket, a light brown canvas Windbreaker, and draped it over his shoulder. “See you around,” he said to Stacy.
“I’ll be here.” There was a caressing tone to her words that I thought was entirely unnecessary.
I pushed open the door and stomped down the stairs. Bernie caught up to me and leaned in close. “Something bothering you?”
I suppose if I’d been more, well, normal, I would have said, “Of course something’s bothering me! I come home to find you with your ex’s foot in your lap. Why the hell wouldn’t that bother me?”
Instead I said, “Nope,” and kept walking.
We reached the street and my VW bus. Bernie steered me around to the street side of the van, its bulk between us and the house.
“I’m going to take a wild guess here,” he said, his fingers trailing down my arm. “You haven’t told your sister about us.”
“It may have slipped my mind.”
“You could have mentioned she was in town.”
“I’ve been busy.” I shook off his hand, which was sending signals to the wrong places.
His eyes, as dark and liquid as black coffee, looked into mine. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Do I look worried?”
He pinned me to the bus with his arms and leaned in close to my ear. “You look delicious.” His breath was soft and ticklish. He bit at my earlobe, and I suppressed a moan. This was all wrong. I was mad, dammit. His hands slipped behind my back and he pulled me into him, his lips tracing a path down my neck that left a trail of fire. Next thing I knew, my fingers were in his hair, then we were kissing, the blood thundering in my ears.
“Hey,” I said, breaking away with effort. “This isn’t fair.”
“I’ll tell her if you want me to.” His face was buried in my neck, muffling the words.
“No. She’s family. I got this. Really.” It would be a cinch, I told myself. I was making a big deal out of nothing.
“You’re the boss. I have a statement for you to read over. Why don’t we sit in my car?”
“No, let’s take care of it out here. I may have fleas.”
He burst out laughing. I scratched at my ankles as he fetched a folder from his car and extracted a sheet of paper, which I skimmed through. “This is fine.”
“Sign and date it at the bottom.”
I complied. “So who is—was she?”
“We haven’t made a formal identification at this time.”
“C’mon, Bernie, this isn’t a press conference.”
“You have a theory?”
I didn’t want to talk about the finger or how I might have taken a peek at the wedding ring. “No. Like I told your sergeant, maybe I’ve seen her picture somewhere. He seems to suspect me, by the way.”
“That’s just the job. He’s fresh off a big-city force. Don’t take it personally.”
“I’ll try.”
He tucked the sheet back inside the folder. “Meet me at Ramona’s tomorrow?”
“I’ll have to double-check my schedule.”
He touched my fingers to his lips. Didn’t the man realize I was already a puddle of lust?
“Call me,” he said.
Chapter 5
Stacy had managed to re-boot her foot all by her lonesome and was hobbling around my kitchen collecting bowls and silverware when I returned.
“You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” I said, meaning, Get out of my kitchen, my cabinets, my house.
“It’s no trouble. As long as I’m here, I might as well make sure you eat a nutritious meal once in a while.”
“I eat healthy all the time.”
“Hah.” She stirred the glop on the stove. “Hungry?”
“I just need to jump in the shower.” I grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and beat a hasty retreat to the solitude of the bathroom. After I’d peeled off my clothes and dropped them in the bag, I secured it with a twist tie and showered, working up lots of lather to smother any remaining fleas. Once I was back in my T-shirt and sweats, I dropped the bag on the back porch and joined Stacy in the kitchen.
“Dinner’s up,” she said, using a ladle, my ladle, to dish up a serving of brown stuff. She stuck a spoon in the steaming bowl and pushed it across the counter. “Bon appétit.”
I poked at the lumpy stew without enthusiasm. It looked like the stuff that tended to accumulate in the bottom of my vegetable crisper. “What’s in this?”
“Tomatoes, chili powder, lentils, pinto beans, garlic, onion,” she said. “It’s organic, low- sodium, packed with soluble fiber. You’ll love it.”
I tried a tiny taste. It wasn’t awful, but it needed something. Opening the fridge, I rummaged around and unearthed a tub of sour cream only a few short weeks past its “use by” date.
“That’ll go straight to the walls of your arteries,” Stacy warned.
“I’ll risk it.” I scooped the sour cream onto my chili and stirred it in, then tried another bite. “Hey, this isn’t half bad.”
“See?” she said, settling herself on a chair opposite me. “Great food doesn’t have to be all doughnuts and chocolate bars.”
“It helps, though.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Harley jumped up, got an eyeful of Stacy, and hissed. I brushed him off the table.
“I don’t think your cat likes me.”
“Give him time. Speaking of time, how, um, how long do you think you’ll be in town?”
“I haven’t decided. I expect Lars will call any minute and beg me to come home.” Lars had been Stacy’s Pilates instructor before she promoted him to bedmate and moved with him down to Marin to set up housekeeping.
I scraped the last of the chili from my bowl. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Have another helping. There’s plenty left. Enough for at least a week.”
“I’m stuffed. Couldn’t eat another bite.” My stomach seemed to be gurgling in a disgruntled way.
Another awkward silence se
emed imminent, so I cleared my throat. “Listen, Stacy, there’s something I—”
Doris Day broke in, singing “Que Sera, Sera” from The Man Who Knew Too Much. Stacy held up a hand. “Hold that thought. It’s Lars.” She took out her phone and punched a button. “Hey, baby. Let me call you back.” She hung up and slid off the stool.
“Sorry to leave you with the dishes, but duty calls,” she said. She hobbled to the door. I watched it close behind her. Then I turned the deadbolt.
—
There was nothing good on TV, so I hit the sack early, just after ten. Lying in bed, I longed for Bernie’s company, his warm body curled next to mine. Instead, Harley gazed back at me from the foot of the bed. I wiggled my big toe, and he pounced, gnawing at it through the covers.
“Go to sleep,” I told him and, after a few turns to get settled, he did.
But slumber eluded me. I rolled onto my stomach, then my back. I counted sheep, then goats, then cows. Finally, I grabbed my book and read by flashlight, the way I used to do at Girl Scout camp. After an hour, I decided I was truly, blissfully sleepy, and clicked off the flashlight.
Suddenly a cold sweat broke out on my face. I clutched my stomach. A series of rumbles seemed to make the whole mattress tremble. Harley leaped off the bed, and I groaned. My guts were being twisted up like animal balloons at a children’s birthday party. See, kids, here’s the dog. Wanna see the bunny?
I fled to my tiny half-bath. Twenty minutes later, I was back, pale of face but somewhat unburdened. I padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. Harley sat by the front door.
“Forget it,” I said.
Someone fumbled with the knob. My heart banged in my chest and my still-fragile digestion squawked. Burglar? What if Stacy had been right about my spare key? But no, here it was, on the counter. I looked around for a weapon and snatched up the soup ladle from the dish drainer.
There was a murmur of voices. One of them I recognized.
I yanked open the door. Max was there. Behind him was Bernie’s grown son, Gary. Both looked sheepish.
“I couldn’t find the key,” Max said.
“What are you doing home? What time is it?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Turner.” Gary was tall, dark like his father, but rail-thin and beardless. “Big storm in Trinity Alps. Lightning. Fire danger. The group decided to split early.”
I stood back so they could enter. I hadn’t bothered to change out of my sweats and tee, so at least I was decently, if not fashionably, dressed. “You couldn’t have called, maybe?” I grumbled, sounding like mothers everywhere.
“No signal till we got over the summit. Then I guess I nodded off.” Max flashed me a smile to get in my good graces. Harley wound himself around his ankles.
“I’d better get home myself. G’night, Mrs. Turner. See ya later, Max.” Gary departed, closing the door behind him. I flipped the deadbolt.
“You expecting trouble?” Max nodded at the ladle.
“Hey, I could seriously dent someone’s cranium with this thing.” I dropped it back in the dish drainer. “You want something to eat?”
“I got it,” he said, moving toward the refrigerator. He was fifteen now, and knew better than me in every respect. Physically, he resembled his father more with every day that passed, which I found a tad unsettling. Already half a head taller than me, he had a shock of thick dark hair and Wayne’s crooked smile. At least he had my green eyes and slightly off-center nose, and I dared to hope he hadn’t inherited his dad’s predisposition to bullshit. I’d raised him solo, and only time would tell what kind of job I’d done. Thus far, I couldn’t complain.
“What’s this?’ he said, hauling out the semi-cooled pot of chili.
“Don’t touch that!” My voice came out with more of a Minnie Mouse screech than I’d intended.
“What—is it, like, radioactive?” He took an experimental sniff. “Smells okay.”
“Yeah, but it works like Drano on your plumbing. Let’s put it this way, if you feel the need for a high colonic, fix yourself up a bowl. Your Aunt Stacy made it.”
“She’s here?” He put the pot back in the fridge and took out a carton of milk, giving it a test sniff before shrugging and setting it on the counter. From the cabinet, he fetched a box of cornflakes.
“Yup. Arrived this morning.” I glanced at the clock on the stove. “Yesterday morning.”
“Cool.” He stood at the counter, spooning up cereal.
I frowned. “How was your trip? Didn’t they give you enough to eat?”
“Plenty. I’m in a growth phase. Mountains were fantastic. We got loads of hiking in before the weather turned.” He dribbled the last bit of milk from the bowl directly into his mouth, then pushed the bowl toward Harley so he could lick it clean. “Mind if I grab a shower? I know it’s late.”
“Go ahead. I’ll probably be up a while longer anyway.” I gave him a big hug, then headed back to bed. Harley opted to stay with Max, no big surprise there.
I thought I would lie awake, but the sound of the shower proved unexpectedly soothing. My head was barely on the pillow before I was out like a light.
Chapter 6
There was a pan of oatmeal on the stove and no sign of Max when I got up the next morning. I scraped the gooey mass into a bowl. It wasn’t a doughnut, but after I added a few lumps of brown sugar and drowned everything with the last of the milk it was pretty tasty.
After a quick shower, I fluffed my hair with a blow dryer to give it extra pizzazz. The resultant do looked as though I’d inadvertently stuck a finger in an electrical outlet, so I rinsed my head under the tap and styled my rebellious locks with a towel and a prayer. I brushed my teeth for the full two minutes recommended by eight out of ten dental professionals, and applied two coats of unflavored lip balm. I checked the finished product in the mirror. Not quite starlet material, but the day was young.
Before heading to the office, I took the path to Stacy’s. I wasn’t too surprised to find her sitting on her back porch in a patch of watery sunshine. Harley was curled up in her lap.
“See?” she said. “Cats are crazy about me.”
I looked Harley in the eye, and he gazed back at me, all wide-eyed fluffy innocence. “I’m off to town. Can I get you anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. I might get some work done later.”
Max leaned out the back door. “Your wheel’s all set up, Aunt Stacy.”
“Terrific,” she said. “I have a few things in the trunk of the car. You mind bringing them in?”
“No problem.” He gave me a goofy grin, then disappeared.
“I can’t believe how much he’s grown,” Stacy said.
“Me neither. See you—”
“He’s a great kid. You did a really good job with him, Sam.”
The compliment was so unexpected that I didn’t have a smart remark ready. So all I said was “Thanks.”
“I mean it. Makes me wish I had kids of my own. I suppose it’s too late for that.”
“Lots of women in their forties are having babies.”
“Oh, screw you.” Stacy was thirty-eight.
I took off before she could throw something at me. Harley jumped down and scampered after me, tail held high with a happy crook in the end. Back in our own space, he jumped up on the counter, purring like mad.
“Et tu, kitty?” I said.
He blinked at me and purred louder. I sighed and put a couple of kibbles in his bowl.
I had a week’s worth of laundry piled up, plus yesterday’s flea-ridden clothes, so I threw everything into a basket and hauled it out to the van, balancing it on my knee as I tried to open the sliding door. The basket tipped, sending a shower of socks and clingy undergarments to the ground. I cussed under my breath.
“Let me give you a hand.”
I looked up and saw a woman in her sixties with two small dogs. She shifted their leashes to one hand, grasped the door handle with the other, and pulled, guiding the sliding panel as effortlessly as if it we
ighed a few ounces instead of fifty-plus cumbersome pounds.
“Wow,” I said. “Most people don’t know how to do that.”
“Grew up working on cars in my dad’s garage,” she said. “Phyllis Rice. Call me Phyll. We live just opposite you in this modern monstrosity.” She gestured toward the sprawling, single-level house across the street.
I set the basket on the bench seat and held out my hand. “Sam Turner. Nice meeting you.”
Her grip was strong enough to make me wince. She wore jeans and a tan work shirt, and had one of those apple-on-a-stick builds: bulky shoulders, big waist, and a chest like the prow of the Queen Mary, tapering down to narrow hips and little pipe-cleaner legs. Her hair was steel-gray and shorn close to her head, possibly with canine clippers from the look of it, and her voice, deep and low, seemed to originate from the soles of her shoes. Both dogs hung on her every word, ears erect, eyes glued to her face, quivering with readiness to do her bidding. If she’d told me to sit, my ass would’ve been on the ground in a heartbeat.
“Beautiful dogs,” I said, keeping a close eye on them. I’d never been much of a dog person, but they were growing on me as a species. These were short-legged and long-bodied, tailless, with big bat ears and intelligent faces. They didn’t look like ankle-biters, but I’d been fooled before.
“Pembroke Welsh corgis,” Phyll said. “Incredible dogs. My wife and I breed and train them for agility. The bitch is Olivia, and the little guy there is Nathan.”
“The b— oh, you mean the dog.” Since it seemed to be expected of me, I leaned down and held out my hand. Both dogs sniffed it, and the smaller one wagged his rear end.
“Josie and I have been up in Spokane at the northwest regional agility trials, or we’d have been over to introduce ourselves.” She turned toward the house and bellowed, “JOSIE! Come down here!” I jumped three inches and felt my eardrums vibrate, but the corgis didn’t even flinch.
“Agility trials?” I said. “For dogs?”
“Oh, yes. Hugely popular. Nathan here took two firsts. Any breed can enter. Of course the herding dogs—your corgis, sheepdogs, border collies, shepherds, and so forth—have a built-in advantage. Heredity, you know. But you’d be surprised. There was a basset hound who gave Nathan a pretty good run for his money.”
A Killer Location Page 5
