“Maybe I shouldn’t go just yet, what with the postponement of the release of the body.”
“Why not ask Jenn if she’d like you to come now? Maybe she needs you. Isn’t she still on the outs with her mother?”
Mom nodded. “You’re right, of course. Thank you, my dear. I’m not thinking as clearly as I ordinarily do. I’ll call Jennifer. I’ll tell her the funeral will be pushed back several days. I’ll keep the coroner’s phone call from her, if I can.”
She tried to give me a smile, but it was fleeting at best. Straightening her back, my mother took out a small notebook
from her nearby handbag.
“But life goes on, doesn’t it? I’ll take care of as much business as I can from Phoenix and anything I can’t do, I’ll let you or Richard know. You can deal with it.” Her voice sounded more like the usual, in control Lila. “I’ve got several agents on the Lascom case, as the company is willing to pay for it.”
“Remind me again, Mom. Those are the guys trying to find out who pirated their new interactive game?”
“Correct, Liana. It’s now being sold under the name of Carter’s Speedway in K-Mart, of all places.”
“Lascom will have a hard time proving it was stolen. They waited too long to call us. Three months? Jeesh,” I said, once again, glad to be talking about work. As much as we loved each other, we often felt safer in work mode.
Mom’s smile was genuine for the first time. “I agree. But thanks to your efforts, Video Pops is on their way to…where?” She looked at me.
“Bruce, South Dakota.”
“And Video Pops has asked the local authorities to detain the young man in question until they arrive. If you hadn’t gotten the information from his girlfriend, I don’t know if we would have found him,” she said, shaking her head. “In any event, the company is in the process of doing
damage control.”
“Are they pressing charges?”
“No. They don’t want the publicity.”
“In that case, you don’t suppose they’d be willing to send me to the Betty Ford Clinic to dry out, do you?” I asked. “I mean, after last night, it’s the least they can do.”
“My dear, you do have a tendency to become irreverent at the slightest provocation,” she said, the corners of her mouth reaching upward in a smile, nonetheless. “The Betty Ford Clinic has provided help for thousands. Any one of us may be in need of their services at some point in our lives.”
“And one of us is going to be me, if I have another night like last night.”
Mom laughed lightly. “I know you’re trying to cheer me up, and I appreciate it, Liana, more than you know.”
The swinging door between the dining room and kitchen opened again. Tío entered carrying a tray on which sat a small crystal bowl of mixed fruit. There was also a glass of liquid looking a little like tomato juice but suspiciously oranger in color, if that’s a word. He set the tray on the table, handed the bowl and a fork to Mom, who began to pick at the offering. Then he thrust the glass in my hand.
“Drink,” he ordered, in his heavy Spanish accent.
I took it warily and looked at him. “What’s in it?”
“Mi sobrina,” he said, expelling air in exasperation. “Drink it down and do not ask the questions.”
“Is there anything in here besides Tabasco sauce?” I forced a smile to my lips, while my heart raced. “I hope; I hope?”
Tío glared at me in such a way I took a big gulp before he could say anything more. A fiery inferno exploded on my tongue, bounced off the roof of my mouth, and then blazed a trail to the top of my skull with a quick stop at my nasal passages and eyes. My head felt like a flaming, overheated barbeque grill. Throw another shrimp on the barbie, mate.
I inhaled a jagged breath and lowered the glass, which retained about half of the liquid. Wordless, Tio pushed my hand and the glass back up to my mouth and held it there. Paralyzed by my own personal firestorms, I gave in and drained the glass dry.
The second swallow did far less damage to my innards than the first, and as the fire died down, the old Liana Margaret Alvarez resurrected herself. I won’t say the lark was on the wing, and all was right with the world, but I felt like I might recover.
“Thanks, Tio. That’s miracle stuff that.”
“One raw, beaten pasteurized egg, the juice of alfalfa, spinach, red beets, and horseradish mixed with tomato and
chili sauce.”
“Too much information, Tio.”
“¿Estás mejor?” he asked, a challenging look in his eye.
“Sí, better,” I replied.
“Bien.” He nodded and strode toward the kitchen door. “I will make for you my fresh herb omelet to cleanse the body and the mind.”
“Can you make two of them?” I said, thinking of Kelli. “And pack one to go. I’ve got company.”
“I thought Gurn was still in Washington, D.C.,” Mom said.
“He is, Mom. My guest of honor is ex-husband Nick’s current wife, Kelli.” Mom raised both eyebrows, and Tío stopped at the door and wheeled around to face me.
I hadn’t realized until I’d spoken, and the words hovered in the air, I’d made a pretty loaded statement about a pretty loaded situation. Sometimes you don’t face what’s going on until you hear what you’ve said about it. I hurried to give a brief, capsulated version, hoping the more I talked about it, the more it would soften around the edges. It didn’t.
My mother donned her ‘stone’ face, meaning she did not approve, and Tio stared at me in wonderment. I seem to arouse stunned silence from a lot of people a lot of the time. I try to think of it as a gift.
“You left her alone in your apartment while you came here?” Mom finally asked.
I opened my mouth with a defensive retort and thought better of it. Now that I was working on all six cylinders thanks to Tio’s miracle elixir, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all.
Chapter Three
Coping With it All
The morning fog was lifting as I hurried up the stairs to my apartment. I tried not to focus on the wrought iron banister with the Mayan character insets that ran along the stairs. Stephen had commissioned the artist, a friend of his from Marin, and gave me the renderings two years ago as a Christmas present.
Seeing it, another rogue wave smashed at me. I staved off hot tears and opened the door, looking around anxiously. Kelli lay balled up on her side on the couch, out like a light. Tugger perched on her hip and Baba snoozed at her feet. The sound of the door opening had caused two pairs of feline eyes to open and look in my direction, but Kelli didn’t stir. I breathed a sigh of relief. Everything looked fine. Mom had spooked me for no reason, once again.
On the coffee table sat a three-gallon, oval fish bowl with a lacy goldfish swimming around in pristine waters, an elaborate filtering system hard at work, and a heat lamp
keeping the water at a perfect temperature. I couldn’t imagine why those cats weren’t in that bowl, water and all, until I saw a sturdy, wire mesh screen topping it.
I tiptoed into the kitchen followed by Tugger, who started yowling at the top of his lungs for his breakfast. He was trailed by a quieter and more docile Baba. I shushed him, for all the good it did, put the omelet for the sleeping Kelli in the oven on warm, and picked up My Boy, in the hopes of shutting him up. It worked. He wrapped his front legs around my neck in an embrace, lowered his eyelids, and began to purr.
That’s when I lost it. I buried my face in Tugger’s sinewy, warm body and sobbed. I tried to be as quiet as possible, for fear of waking Kelli, and stepped out onto my back deck, Baba at my heels. I picked up the little girl in my free arm and sat down in a nearby teak rocking chair.
Under the warm California sun and surrounded by plants and colorful flowers, I rocked the three of us back and forth lost in ragged, gulping tears. It wasn’t only the horror and unfairness of my cousin’s death. It was the loss of Stephen, himself. His absence would make the world a slightly colder place in w
hich to live.
“Okay, guys,” I said after about fifteen minutes, wiping my wet eyes and nose with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “Time for breakfast.”
At the word ‘breakfast,’ Tugger’s ears perked up, and he hopped down from my lap, heading for the kitchen door. Who’s the idiot who said cats don’t understand words? Tugger knows a good twenty of them at only ten-months-old, and breakfast, lunch, and dinner head the list.
I opened a can of premium cat food that cost almost as much Beluga Caviar, mixed two helpings with their dry food, sprinkled dry fish flakes on top—sorry Lady Gaga—and watched both cats tuck in with enthusiasm.
With a glance to the living room, I noted Kelli still slept, lying on her side, arm stretched out under her head as a pillow, covered with the throw from the back of the couch. I had a moment’s guilt at not providing linens and towels before I left but figured Miss Manners would forgive me this one time. The kitchen clock stated 9:45 a.m., and I still hadn’t done my ballet barre.
Before heading to the second bedroom where I keep the office and my dance/exercise studio, I gathered some stuff from the linen closet, including a terrycloth robe, under the ‘better late than never’ heading, and set the pile down on the coffee table next to the swimming fish. She was cute, this Lady
Gaga, although how anyone could tell if it was a she or a he was beyond me.
While changing into a leotard and tights for my barre, I thought about how I would pass the time until I heard from Richard. There was no point in bothering him now. I knew my brother; when he had information, he’d call me. Otherwise, I was persona non grata.
* * * *
The regimen of a barre is one of the greatest exhilarations in the world. Some people climb mountains or jump out of planes. Not me. I dance classical ballet. Through fate’s twisted sense of humor, though, no matter how hard I try, I am mediocre at best. I discovered in my early teens, I would have been lucky to wind up in the chorus of a second-rate ballet company. Now in my mid-thirties, I’ve gotten too old to even consider professional dancing. Lousy and old, there’s my legacy. Nonetheless, I can’t live without dance in its purest form. And each day, as I do my forty-five-minute barre, I’m another Ánna Pávlova, dancing for the sheer love of it.
By the end of my workout, my body dripped with sweat, but I was clear of mind. I knew what I was going to do until I heard from Richard. I took a shower, flipped on my laptop, and started my first round of roster-checking for
airlines, bus lines, rental cars, etc., thanks to a series of
databases created by Richard. It’s grueling work and requires a lot of concentration, but it goes pretty fast. I was done in less than an hour and picked up the phone.
“This is Flint,” said a gravelly male voice on the other end of the line. With those three words, Flint Tall Trees, Las Vegas PI and long-time family friend, let you know you’d better state your business fast and make it good.
“Lonato,” I said, using his Shoshone name and pronouncing it as he’d taught me years ago. “It’s Lee from California.”
“Papoose!” Flint replied, his tone changing from business steel to fond friend. “Did I ever thank you for the birthday card? Not that I appreciate being reminded of another year gone by. Fifty-seven-years-old. I’m an old man.”
“I think you’ve got a lot of fire left in your teepee.”
Flint let out a hoot of laughter. He and Dad met when they were rookie cops and traded to each other’s precincts in a six-month experimental learning program, Flint to Palo Alto and Dad to the Shoshone reservation in Nevada. The exchange changed both their lives. Dad said the Shoshone taught him to pay attention not only to a man’s five senses: sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste, but to the sixth and most
important one: intuition. All six held him in good stead as a detective for the rest of his life.
Conversely, when Dad found out Flint had a sickly eight-year-old-son on the reservation wasting away for want of medical attention not offered locally, he stepped in. Dad pulled a few strings, found a good Samaritan with a plane, and flew the boy to the Mayo Clinic for treatment, for which he fronted the costs. Through the years, Flint paid back every dime but felt he owed Dad for his son’s life.
“I know I’m interrupting your Sunday but—”
“I’m just playing touch football with the grandkids. What is it? You wouldn’t call unless it was something important.” Flint had a way of getting right to it.
“Flint, I don’t want to take you away from your game—”
“As an elder,” he interrupted, “it is important for my children’s children to learn the eagle can only soar because the wind ripples his feathers. You must recompense the wind.”
“Are you saying I’m full of hot air?” I quipped.
He sniggered dutifully and moved on. “What do you need, Papoose?”
“You remember my ex-husband, Nick Papadopoulos?”
“Of course. Lives here with his new wife. Does real estate, but I hear it’s on a down swing. Times are tough.”
“You already know a lot about him.”
“Vegas is a small town.”
“Nick’s disappeared. About a week ago.”
“So?”
“So his wife wants to know what happened to him.”
“What does his ex-wife want?”
“I said I’d help her find him.”
Flint burst out into a full-blown, hearty laugh. “You are so much like Bobby. Always helping the underdog.” He stopped laughing. “Of course, I’ve got grandkids to play ball with because of your father. Otherwise I would have lost Knoton that summer.”
“Knoton? Oh, right, Ken’s Shoshone name.”
“No more Ken for him. And his two boys are named Hakan and Igasho, in the way of the elders. I am the past; they are the future.”
His mood changed again, and he became all business. “I’ll look around and see what I can find. Did you check his credit cards to see if he’s used them recently?”
“His wife says she got the statement yesterday, and there weren’t any charges on it since he’s been missing.”
“Hmmmm.” There was a moment’s silence. “Are you sure he’s still in Vegas?”
“No, but I’ve done a quick rundown on airlines, buses, and car rentals. Unless he’s traveling under an alias, he’s not on any lists. There’s money missing from the checking account, and his wife suspects he’s still in town, so it’s a good place to start.”
“Most hotels on the strip don’t take cash these days. They all want plastic. But downtown, it’s another story. I’ll get back to you in a few hours.”
“Any help you give me, I’m paying you for, Flint. Let’s settle that from the beginning.”
“Sorry, Papoose, the debt is full up. This is a man’s honor. Besides, I can’t play touch football for long. I’m an old man. This is a good excuse to get out of it and save face.”
We said goodbye, and I hung up knowing I’d done what I could.
My cell phone rang an instant later. I made a lunge for it and saw it wasn’t Richard but Gurn.
“Gurn, hi!” My heart did a small flutter of happiness, but don’t let it get around the neighborhood.
“Lee, I’m calling to see how you are.” His voice, low and rich, was filled with concern. He’d heard about Stephen; I was sure of it.
“You know?” was all I could get out.
“Yes, I read about it on an APB bulletin just now when I got out of my meeting. I’m so sorry. How is everybody, the family? How are you, my darling?”
It’s funny how the man in your life can reduce you to putty. I thought after my cry on the back deck I was fine, but I found my throat closing up again and those danged hot tears threatening a return. I took a deep breath and put on a brave front.
“We’re doing as well as can be expected. Mom’s flying to Phoenix to be with Stephen’s wife and kids and help out. And Richard…” I broke off here, not quite wanting to say what Richard’s suspicion
s and, ultimately, mine were. “And Richard and I are holding up.”
“I wish I was there with you, sweetheart.”
“Me, too.” I swallowed. This man was great. What the hell was he doing with me?
Stop it, Lee, I chided myself. Remember: think positive. Tell yourself you deserve this guy. Repeat it endlessly until it sinks in.
“When do you come home?” I asked aloud.
“I’m dealing with some tax issues, so I have a few things to clear up here in D.C.”
Yeah, right. Ha ha. Gurn is a CPA by listed profession. At least, that’s what the Yellow Pages say. He’s also a Lieutenant Commander in the Navy Reserves and was Richard’s commanding officer for the four years my brother was in the reserves. They became friends. But what’s never talked about is the man in my life has some sort of hush-hush job for the Navy, which requires frequent trips to our nation’s capitol. Try as I may, I couldn’t get a toe-hold on exactly what the job was. I met him when Richard dragged him in on the investigation of stolen artifacts by an international racketeering gang out of Mexico. But that’s another story.
“I’ll be back,” he went on, “in a day or two, unless you need me now. Say the word, Lee, and I’ll hop in the plane. I know what Stephen meant to all of you. I only met him once, but he seemed like a good man. We were going to run the Palace to Palace together next week.”
“I know.” I cleared a parched throat. “You don’t have to rush back, but I hope I see you soon. It’s already been a week.”
He chuckled. “And I’m feeling every minute of it. I’ll make it tomorrow night no matter what.” He paused then blurted out, “Lee, I have to say this. I’ve been thinking about us. A lot. I love you. I miss you. I didn’t realize how much until this week.”
This was the first time the “L” word was mentioned between us. We’d only been seeing each other for four months, not a longish amount of time, and I was taken aback.
Between some of my quirks and what I did for a living, most guys left skid marks when they dumped me. I didn’t reply. I was too busy quelling my beating heart.
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 49
