Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2)

by Layce Gardner

  “Yes. Is that a bad thing?”

  “No. Yes. I dunno. Please tell me this jacket is on sale.”

  “No worries, I got it off the half price rack.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Anytime,” Reggie says. She does one last little nip and tuck with my shirt collar, pecks me on the cheek and hurries back inside the mall. And just like that, in less than five minutes, I’m back on the road.

  In an effort to keep Sheri happy, I let her choose the restaurant. She told me that Ronny had a running tab so the dinner was on him. It’s a damn good thing, too. As I pull up to the restaurant I immediately feel poor. Well, I am poor, but you know what I mean. This restaurant is so swanky and high-toned it’s not even called a restaurant. It’s a restaurante. They put the extra ‘e’ on the end to make it fancy. I bet dollars to donuts there’s no prices on the menus. Because the people who eat there don’t worry about prices. And the owner can charge accordingly.

  I pull up to the front and get out, handing my keys to the valet. He’s a pimply, gangly kid who probably sits around watching the Fast and Furious movies nonstop. I don’t really want him driving my car, but I don’t have any other choice.

  I hand him a twenty, saying, “Take care of her and there’ll be another twenty when I come come out.”

  “Gotcha,” the valet says. He slides into my car and rubs his hands over the steering wheel. “Suhweet. I’m a big fan of old cars.”

  Ugh, I really don’t like the way he’s touching my car. I hope he doesn’t splooge all over the seats.

  I walk into the restaurante and up to a tall, skinny penguin who has a pencil mustache. His nose is so far up in the air, if it rains he’ll drown. He must be the maître d’.

  “Uh, hi there. I’m here.” I stop in front of him and pause. I don’t know if Sheri put the reservation under her name or mine.

  “Yes, I see that. Do you have a reservation?”

  “I think so.”

  “Either you do or you don’t. You have a fifty percent chance of being correct,” he says with that kind of snooty accent that sounds a lot like Jeremy Irons in every movie he’s ever been in.

  I’m about to tell this asshole he has a 100 percent chance of finding my fist in his face when a little waiter scurries up to him and whispers in his ear.

  “Oh my,” the maître d’ says, changing his tune immediately. “Of course, you have a reservation. Come this way please. Why didn’t you tell me you were a guest of Mrs. Rosetti?”

  Gee, I dunno, maybe because I think all people deserve to be treated like human beings? But of course, I don’t say that because I’m trying to make a good impression.

  He leads me through the dark dining room. There aren’t very many tables. But I guess when you’re getting upwards of a thou a plate then you don’t have to serve many tables to turn a profit. I notice that the people who are eating have tiny little portions of food on their plates. That’s something I’ve never understood—the more you pay, the smaller the portions. And the less you pay, the bigger the portions. It’s one of those whatchamacallits. Conundrums? Oxymorons?

  Sheri has a table by the window overlooking the lake. Swans are swimming in the lake. I didn’t know swans were nocturnal. Maybe they’re not real. Maybe they’re decoys to add ambiance to the restaurante. Maybe swan is on the menu tonight.

  I pull out the chair across the table from Sheri and sit down. The maître d’ bows a couple of times and backs away.

  “You look simply scrumptious,” Sheri says.

  “So do you,” I mumble. I can feel myself blushing. I’m thankful for my naturally olive complexion and the dim lighting. “I mean, you look lovely.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever said the word ‘lovely’ before in my life. At least not in reference to a woman.

  “Why, how kind of you to say,” Sheri says.

  She’s wearing a low-cut dress. And by low-cut, I mean most of her boobs are visible. It’s really hard to concentrate on Sheri’s eyes when I can feel her nipples staring at me.

  Without taking her eyes from mine, Sheri motions to the waiter. “I took the liberty of choosing our dinner tonight. If you don’t like something just say and we’ll change it.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Go for it.” I hand the waiter my menu without looking at it. I can’t read most of the stuff written on it anyway.

  Sheri says, “We’ll have the lobster with potato terrine, oysters and caviar, followed by filet of sole, Alsace vacherin and sorbet de crème glacée.”

  The waiter doesn’t write any of it down. I hope he doesn’t screw it up or Sheri will cut off his pinky.

  “And the wine?” the waiter asks.

  “Your most expensive, please.”

  “Very good, Madam.”

  With what Ronny is spending on our dinner, he could send a kid to college.

  “So, tell me about my new love interest,” Sheri says.

  “Her name is Angela Morelli.”

  “Hmmm. . . the name sounds familiar. I have to admit, though, I was rather hoping it would be you.” She licks her bottom lip and I squirm in my chair. “Tell me about her.”

  “Well. . . she’s rich.”

  “Rich rich or just rich?”

  I didn’t know there were levels of rich. To me, rich is all in the upper stratosphere. I make an educated guess and say, “Rich rich.”

  “Good.”

  We pause while the waiter shows Sheri the wine bottle. Then he pours some into her wine glass. Sheri sniffs it, puts it in her mouth, swishes it around then swallows. She nods to the waiter and he pours into both our glasses. I don’t mention that I don’t drink.

  After the waiter walks away, Sheri resumes our conversation. “What does this Angela Morelli look like?”

  “She’s. . . handsome. Dresses nice. Smells good.”

  “Does she smell as good as you?”

  Now how am I supposed to answer that question? And what exactly is happening here? Angie is paying me to protect Sheri from any. . . intruders. . . for lack of a better word. What I didn’t realize is that I’d be protecting her from my own self.

  “Believe me, I don’t hold a candle to Angie. She’s rich, powerful, and according to her last girlfriend, she’s really good in bed.” I don’t really know that, of course, but a little white lie never hurt anybody.

  “Tell me about this last girlfriend. Why’d they break up?”

  I’m going to have to dance carefully around these questions. “The girlfriend chewed gum. She smacked the gum. And she smoked. Angie likes her women. . . classy. Like you.”

  “Hmmm. . .” Sheri muses. She reaches for her clutch purse, opens it and pulls out a pack of Juicy Fruit. “Take this. I sneak a cigarette now and then. The gum covers the smell.”

  “You’ll quit? Just like that?”

  “We’re not even dating and already she’s making me a better person.”

  “She’s had a crush on you for a long time, you know.”

  “Really?” Sheri says, looking like a high school cheerleader about to meet her dreamboat.

  “Yep. Since grade school.”

  “Funny. I don’t remember her.”

  “So about tomorrow night. Are you free then?” I ask.

  “Are you asking for yourself or for Angie?”

  “For her.”

  “I’m free tomorrow. Tell her to call me.”

  I smile. Things are working out okay.

  “How much is she paying you?”

  “Huh?”

  “To babysit me tonight. How much is she paying you?”

  I shrug.

  “Whatever it is, I’ll double it.”

  My eyes widen. “You’ll pay me? For what?”

  Sheri leans across the table and whispers, “To be my love slave for one night.”

  I gulp. I suddenly wish I drank. I could use a whole bottle right about now.

  Before I can answer, the waiter reappears with a bunch of plates balanced on his arms. I can feel Sheri’s nipples
, I mean eyes, boring a hole through me. A silk clad foot travels up my thigh.

  The waiter pours her more wine. That’s when I notice that Sheri has not only drunk her own glass, but mine too.

  “You know, maybe I should practice a little before my big date,” she says. She reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers.

  And then the worst possible thing happens. Gloria and several other people sit down at the table next to us.

  “Jamie?”

  “Gloria? What are you doing here?” Omigod, do I sound as guilty as I feel?

  “My sister just got back from the Peace Corps. We’re celebrating. In a big way,” Gloria says, putting her hands out as if to include the whole swanky restaurant. “And you?” She glances down to where Sheri is still holding my hand. I quickly pull my hand away, but it’s too late, I’ve been caught.

  “This is Sheri Rosetti. She’s, um, a client of mine. This is Gloria Lambrusco.” I’m at a loss as to how to introduce Gloria. My soon-to-be girlfriend? Or my friend? Or the woman who makes my heart melt?

  “I’m her nephew’s second-grade teacher,” Gloria says.

  “Charmed,” Sheri says, giving Gloria one of those smiles that isn’t really a smile at all.

  Gloria is a vision. She’s wearing a pretty, sky-blue dress and sandals. She looks like a really pretty birthday gift. One that I’d want to take my time unwrapping.

  Gloria smiles back at Sheri. “A pleasure to meet you. Well, have a nice dinner.” Then she turns her back to our table and I know I’ll probably never have a chance with her again. I blew it.

  Now all I want is to get this horrible night over with. I look at Sheri who is working on the second bottle of wine. “Maybe we should go for a drive around the lake?” I ask.

  “Sounds divine. I’ll sign for the bill and get Gary to retrieve us a bottle of his finest champagne.”

  Once outside, Sheri rummages around in her tiny purse.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “My car keys.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not driving. Not after all you’ve had to drink. I’ll take you home.”

  “All right,” she slurs. “Will you tuck me in?” This is getting worse by the minute.

  “Sure.”

  Sheri takes a healthy swig off the bottle of champagne. She’ll be drunk as a skunk by the time I get her home and I’m pretty sure I won’t have to make good on that promise.

  *

  Sheri is passed out long before I drive up her meticulous driveway. I park Silver as close to the door as I can. Hibbard, dressed in a floppy slippers and a silk bathrobe, helps me get a comatose Sheri out of the passenger seat.

  “I can handle it from here,” he says.

  “You sure?”

  “I’ve done this many times before,” he says. Disgust laces his tone.

  “She left her car at the restaurante. Do not let her out of the house. I mean it. She can’t leave the house until her date tomorrow night. I’ve got garden shears, too.” I made snip, snip motions with my fingers.

  Hibbard throws Sheri over his shoulder fireman style and carries her into the house. Until this moment, I had no idea she wasn’t wearing any underwear under that expensive dress. I place the mostly empty champagne bottle on the front steps and drive home.

  Luckily, Travis and Michael are nowhere to be seen. The living room looks like a tornado of paper has blown through. I find Ivan asleep and snoring in my bed on my pillow. He opens one eye as I undress but doesn’t move from my side of the bed. I don’t even care. The last thing I see before falling asleep is Gloria’s stricken face at seeing me holding Sheri’s hand.

  Twenty-Four

  Travis and Michael are wide awake and going full steam by the time I wake up and walk into the living room/war room. Michael is doing some deep lunge stretches and Travis is pacing.

  “How’d it go?” Travis asks, plunking down on the couch next to me.

  “It went okay.” I scratch Ivan under the chin. He glances up at me, licks my hand, and goes back to sleep. What I wouldn’t give to have the life of a dog. Ivan’s life, anyway. It’s only nine thirty and he’s already napping. “You tired, boy?” I ask, stroking his head. “Why does Ivan have a pink Mohawk?” I could swear he didn’t have it last night when I got home.

  “Because he wanted one,” Michael says. He leaps to his feet and shoves an energy bar into his mouth. There are three other energy bar wrappers sitting next to the computer. Four cans of Red Bull are also on the computer table and two coffee cups. It doesn’t take a detective to know the boys are totally wired.

  “We needed a break from research so we dyed his hair,” Travis says. “Oh, and look at what I found on Twitter. He pulls up a screen on the computer. “The entire world knows that Veronica is in jail.”

  “Oh, crap. She’s not going to like that.”

  “She’s not handling it well. She flipped off a group of reporters when she shuffled out of court this morning. The judge denied her bail and she barely avoided a contempt charge. I guess she didn’t like the judge and he didn’t like her,” Travis says.

  “What time was the arraignment?” I pick up my phone off the table and check my messages. London has left a text, “Veronica is in the soup.” That about sums it up. Angela Morelli had also texted. “How’s it going? Check in anytime.”

  I text Angie, “Sheri adores you already. You’re on for tonight. Call her.”

  Two seconds pass then Angie responds with a thumbs-up emoticon.

  I try to send her back a winkie-face emoticon, but my thumb slips and I send her a fried shrimp instead.

  Well, at least that job is finished. Now I can concentrate on Veronica’s case.

  “Eight o’clock. Veronica was the first one out of the docket,” Michael says.

  “Who was the judge?”

  “Judge Myron R. Young,” Travis replies. He’s replaying the news footage of Veronica flipping off the court room reporters. News sure travels fast in Lakeland.

  “Is that the morning news?”

  “Oh, yeah, this is big. Look at the headline in the Lakeland Press,” Travis says, switching sites. It’s the website for the paper. I despise that website. It’s responsible for my downsizing, which is why I found myself jobless, which is why I had to become a private investigator in the first place.

  The headline of the online newspaper reads: “Hotshot Attorney Skewers Date?”

  “Skewers?” I ask.

  “It was the food editor who wrote the article. I guess the regular guy was sick or something. The whole article uses food talk to describe the incident,” Travis says. “He calls Veronica ‘full-bodied, but with an acerbic tongue.’”

  “That’s what they get for having a website for a paper. The real reporters worked for the print version,” I mutter.

  “Sour grapes much? You need to get over your downsizing issue. Being a private investigator is so much cooler than selling ads for the newspaper,” Travis says.

  He’s right. Despite the lack of a regular paycheck, when I do get paid it’s a whole lot more. Besides I am living on the edge and it’s fun. I mean who else gets to go to a fancy-schmancy restaurante and make money doing it?

  The downside is that going to said restaurante ruined my blossoming love life. Just thinking about Gloria sends my mood into a downward spiral. Then I feel guilty about thinking about my love life when my friend is sitting in jail. So then guilt and depression begin to chase each other’s tails and I sink down, down, down.

  I pull myself up by my bootstraps. I can’t afford to sink into depressed inactivity. Too many people depend on me to get the job done. Most importantly, Veronica herself. She could rot in prison if I don’t find the real killer. She doesn’t deserve to be railroaded just because the judicial system despises her.

  “Did the article get printed in the paper paper?” I ask.

  “No, that had already gone to press,” Michael says.

  I’m impressed that Travis lets Michael talk when it com
es to revealing the juicy details. This might be love after all. At least somebody is getting some.

  “It doesn’t really matter. The video coverage is better anyway,” Travis says. He replays the broadcast again.

  “Turn up the sound,” I say.

  “It’s mostly gibberish,” Michael says. “And posturing.”

  He’s right. The newscasters are going on and on about Veronica’s career and speculating on how the crime took place.

  “See what I mean? Yada yada yada,” Michael says.

  Then my eye catches something in the background. Something familiar. “Hold up. Freeze the frame.” I point to a face near the back of the crowd. “That’s Terri Barton.”

  “Who’s that?” Michael asks. He picks up a fresh Red Bull and chugs. I enviously watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down his throat.

  Travis must recognize my need. “I’ll get you a coffee,” he says. “No talking until I get back.”

  “Now, who is she?” Michael whispers.

  “I heard that,” Travis yells from the kitchen. “Don’t talk!” We stay quiet until the noise of the steamed milk hisses.

  I’m about to give Michael the info when Travis runs into the living room and points at us. “I mean it. No talking.” Then he rushes back to the kitchen and the espresso machine.

  My mind whirs. Or it whirs as well as it can without caffeine and on too little sleep. Terri Barton can’t have anything to do with this. Can she? Does she even have a motive? Sure, she hated Veronica back when, but does she still? And would she go to these lengths to get her revenge?

  Michael sighs. “The suspense is killing me. Hurry up!” he calls out to Travis.

  Travis walks back in, holding my precious coffee. He hands it to me and I take a much-needed sip. “Ah. . . Thanks, Trav.”

  “No problem. Now spill. Who’s this Terri Barton person?”

  I point at Terri’s moon face on the video. “That’s Terri Barton. She used to go to school with all of us. She was at the reunion. I talked to her for all of three seconds. She was looking for Veronica.”

  “She needs a new hair dresser,” Michael says. “I mean, really, a mullet?”