This was weird. Flattering, kind of, but so very weird. “Uh, sure.” It was all she could think of to say.
He looked at his watch. “I better get on back to the station. SFPD should be transporting Bloomenfeld soon. Here, I figured you might want this. I know we haven’t officially closed this case yet, and won’t until we find Moran. My ass would be on the line if anyone knew I was doing this, but you know, I was a real shit to you the other day and you were devastated about the loss of your home.”
“What are you talking about?” Nikki asked. He was a tough one to follow.
“Here. It’s not much, but it’s what was recovered from the fire. I wish it were more. Sorry.” He reached down and handed her the white trash bag.
“Thanks.” She didn’t know what to say, or if she even wanted to see the contents. Would they bring back memories from the cottage?
He stood and slid on a pair of sunglasses over his jade green eyes. “See you around, Nikki. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up with that bastard Moran. As soon as we do, I’ll let you know.”
“Right. Bye.”
She watched Mr. Cool swagger out of the eatery and the patio, almost like he was disappearing into the morning light. She peered down at the bag. Her hands shook and for whatever reason she could not bring herself to open it. Dammit. Why couldn’t she do it? What did it mean? Was she freaking out like Simon and Marco with their weird phobia? No. She was not. She’d open the damn bag. No big deal. Memories were good. The ones she’d had in that cottage were all good, for the most part, and she wanted to salvage what she could. She was simply being stupid. Open the bag. But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Confronting memories—good or bad—was not something she wanted to do, not now. Maybe later.
Marco came over and slapped both of his hands down on the table. “You done here?” He picked up her coffee cup. “I need your help.”
“Wait a minute, I didn’t even get to eat my breakfast yet, only coffee.”
Marco shrugged. “Not my fault. You should have woken up earlier and eaten earlier and not talked too long to that policeman.”
“Marco, I was out helping solve a murder. Aren’t you proud of me? Can’t you understand that?”
He shook his head. “You had Simon out with you, and both of you could have been hurt. We have done these things before, and the more I learn about you”—he shook a finger at her—“the more I discover you get into dangerous situations.” He stopped ranting for a minute.
Both he and Simon were so dramatic. They really needed to take their own advice, or their Guru’s, and mellow out. Nikki had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing. Wait a minute. Were those tears in Marco’s eyes. “Are you crying?”
“No.” He wiped the one side of his face with the back of his hand. “I am mad at you. It is one thing for all of us to go on these crazy adventures with you. But if I am not with you two and something happened . . .”
She got it now. Marco not only loved Simon but he loved her, too. She stood up and hugged him. For the first time in a really long time, Nikki felt like she had a family—a dysfunctional family, but still . . . “I love you, too. Next time—there won’t be a next time—I’ll be sure and include you.”
He stood up straight and gave her a playful shove. “Now go. Get to the spa.”
She figured she’d be working the front desk. “Okay, but can you have someone take this bag up to my room. Just have it put in the closet?”
“What is it?”
“Some of my stuff.” She didn’t want to go into it. She knew if she told Marco about the bag he’d insist she open it and she simply did not want to do that yet. “So, what’s on the agenda today?” she asked. “What’s my job?”
Marco shifted from one foot to the other and looked down at the ground. “Two of the girls called in sick, which makes me wonder, and with Simon out, and being completely booked this morning, I need you to go and give a massage.”
“Massage? I’m not a masseuse. I don’t want to go rub some stranger’s back. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to even do it. Besides, can’t you get in trouble for that?”
“Get in there and do it. You can rub a shoulder or two. You rub my shoulders and are good at it.”
“But that’s you and you’re my friend. I can’t do this to some stranger.”
Marco sighed. “It’s not a stranger anyway.”
“What? Who is it then?” Marco mumbled something. Nikki couldn’t understand him. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”
“Go, go. I don’t have time for this. Look, there are more people coming in to eat.”
“Uh-uh. Not until you tell me who it is.”
“It’s Renee.”
“Renee?” Nikki asked.
“Yes. The woman who was here last night with Derek. She said that she met you the other day. Renee Rothschild.”
Chapter 23
Nikki took a step back. “Renee Rothschild. She’s still here?”
“Sí.”
“Why? Where? I mean where did she stay?”
Marco put an arm around her. “I don’t know. Maybe the hotel.”
“Wouldn’t you know if she stayed at the hotel?” Her voice had risen a couple of octaves and the edge in it would be hard for anyone, even those who didn’t know her, not to notice.
“I think I would know. Sí.” He nodded his head, and looked away from her.
“Of course you would know. That would mean . . .” She didn’t want to say it out loud, but Marco knew where she was headed.
He put his arm around her. “I am sorry, Bellisima. Derek brought her here for breakfast. They had mimosas and she talked to him about doing a book on the spa and hotel. She said that it would make a nice follow-up to the wine and cookbook.”
Boy did Renee Rothschild know how to work fast, and work it good. What better way to a man’s heart than through his ego . . . and Derek’s, Nikki knew, happened to be this vineyard and winery. Maybe not so much an ego trip for him but a legacy. “You heard all of this?”
He looked chagrined. “I could not help but listen.”
Eavesdropping? Wonder what the Sansibaba would say about that. No matter. How was she going to get out of this? “Wait a minute. Why me? If she wants to experience a great spa treatment here for research for a book, then why me? I’m not even qualified. Switch one of the other therapists around. I can cook and run the eatery. You go.” Marco frowned. “You’re not going to give me some B.S. line about your phobia, are you?” Marco didn’t respond. “Jeesh, you and Simon really need some help, my friend. Okay, so you won’t do it, then why me?”
“I told you, two of the therapists called in sick and I only have one other available. And, with Charlotte quitting on us after the murder, we are shorthanded.”
“All right, then I’ll switch with the other person. I can’t give Renee Rothschild a massage.”
Marco looked down at the ground. “It’s her or Derek, who is in the other room also waiting for a massage.”
“What? Oh my God.” Nikki turned around, arms out, and looked skyward, muttering the word why repeatedly and feeling as dramatic as her two gay friends. She sighed. “Couldn’t you tell her another time, or day?”
“No. Derek says that she’s going back to the city this afternoon and he insisted we get her in. He loves the idea of the book.”
“Of course.”
Marco pressed his hands together in prayer. “Favore, Bellisima.”
She sighed and hung her head. What a week. Could she get any lower? Doubtful. “We’re so even after this. No, you know what, you owe me.”
His mouth dropped open. He stared at her and then nodded. “I owe you.”
She shook a finger at him. “You and Simon will have to go and see a shrink and fix your problem or nudophobia or whatever you want to call it.”
Marco shrugged in defeat. “I know you do not want to go in there, Bellisima, and do this massage, but please. You must go now. Renee is waiting.”
N
ikki didn’t answer, but turned on her heels and headed toward the spa. Marco shouted after her that the woman was in room two. Perfect. She opened the French doors to the spa. The smell of lavender and neroli oil enveloped her. Oh sure, calming scents. Right, about as calming as three cups of java straight up, black, and throw a Metallica record into the mix. White candles were lit throughout the hall of the spa, and lily, freesia, and rose floral arrangements adorned the waiting area, placed perfectly on the wooden tables. To top it off, Enya’s melancholy sound floated through the stereo system. It had a far more grating effect on her than surely was intended.
Nikki washed her hands and put on one of the white coats used by the therapists. Quite the fashion statement.
She tapped on door number two, her hands shaking. Stop it. Go in there, rub the woman’s back with some hot oil, and get the job done. No big deal. Why had she ever decided to give up Xanax? Oh yeah, because she’d found yoga and kickboxing to relieve her anxiety instead. She took in a yogic breath all the way to the diaphragm and let it out. Not quite what an antianxiety pill would do, but a good effort at utilizing the tools at hand—air, lungs, and mind over matter.
She turned the knob and entered the room. More lavender, this time mixed with eucalyptus. Ah, the energy massage. Yes, Nikki had had one of those herself.
There on the table lay Renee Rothschild, caramel hair flowing across her back—across that perfect beige skin. Thank God she was facedown. Ooh, maybe she’d fallen asleep and Nikki could stand in the corner and in an hour mumble thanks and leave. The woman would be convinced that the massage was so relaxing she’d fallen asleep.
“Hi,” Renee said. She started to turn over.
“Oh no, on your stomach please,” Nikki said, purposely finding her Southern roots and utilizing the accent she’d long ago lost. Amazing what those formative years will do for a kid: set you up for life with an identity from where you came from, making it impossible to ever really erase it. Someday she knew she would have to confront both the demons caused by her roots, but not now.
“Okay. I like the pressure somewhat hard.”
Nikki didn’t respond. She figured the less she said, the better. She found the jojoba oil, poured some in her hands, then took some of the aromatherapy oils and mixed them together.
She started rubbing Renee’s back, who complimented her almost immediately. “That’s great. Right there. I am sore there up near my neck.” She kind of laughed. “I was kissing a wonderful man last night.” Nikki pressed harder. “Ouch!” Renee yelped.
“Sorry.”
After a few seconds Renee went back to her story. “Anyway, we were kissing and I twisted my neck ever so slightly and pulled a nerve. Derek told me I needed a massage, and that’s when I started thinking about a book idea. I’m sure you were told that’s why I’m here. To do a little research for a book. I didn’t intend to come out here for that reason, or even stay for more than an afternoon, but things worked out that way, and now I have another great concept for a book.”
Okay, now didn’t most people shut up when they got a massage? What the hell was wrong with Renee? Blab, blab, blab, blah, blah, blah. Ugh! All Nikki muttered was, “Uh-huh.”
“But this place is so lovely and the man behind it, he is incredible. I even like his dog. Ollie. I don’t like dogs, but Derek’s dog is wonderful. He licked my hand and I didn’t even care.”
Ollie. That traitor. And, Derek’s dog? Derek’s dog! And, Ollie? Okay, now Ollie was the nickname Nikki had given the dog. Derek had always called him Oliver until she’d started calling him Ollie, and now he was sharing Ollie with her? With Renee? Wait a minute, Ollie was also her dog. Wasn’t he? I mean it was the vineyard joke about the two of them sharing the dog and how he couldn’t make up his mind as to who he liked best, Derek or Nikki, and now Derek was sharing their dog, her dog, with Renee Rothschild, who he’d only known for what, two minutes, maybe?
Renee sighed. Nikki turned and grabbed for the oil. When she came back around, Renee had flipped over. Thank God the sheet was covering her. Nikki didn’t think she could take any more exposure of Renee Rothschild. She’d already had way too much. “Oh, Nikki. I didn’t know you were a therapist as well. I thought you were the winery manager.”
Crap. “I am, but yes, I also can give a good massage and things have been crazy here since the murder and the fire and everything, and well, Marco and Simon needed help today and they asked me if I could come and help, and wow, that is so great about Derek and Ollie and everything.” Why oh why, in those moments where she needed to be her most pulled together self, did she always blow it and fall apart? It was like Cupid also had an idiot bow and he followed her around and when he thought he’d have some fun, he’d shoot her with it and she’d turn into exactly what she was at that moment—an idiot. “But not your neck. No, that is bad. Sorry about the neck.” Okay, major idiot!
Renee laughed. “You know what, it feels so much better now. You do give a great massage. And let me tell you, woman to woman, that kiss was worth any pain in the neck I might have briefly had. You know, you might want to consider switching job positions and come over here to the spa full time. You would rake in the tips.”
Nikki couldn’t respond.
“Shouldn’t you do the front now?”
“What?”
“Massage. Don’t you do the stomach and front of the arms. That kind of thing? My regular masseuse in the city does that.”
“Oh. Ah. No. See, this was the energy massage, and you know energy, it travels quickly and therefore this is only a thirty minute massage and it’s designed to align the chakras.” Whatever those were. She knew Simon and Marco referred to them all the time. “So, you see, the chakras release your energy field and it has to all be done in the back, and now if I work on your stomach it will basically neutralize what I just did.”
“Hmmm. Interesting. Can I quote you in the book on that? I’ll be sending a writer out. Unless.” Renee’s eyes bugged out. “Wait a second, you would be the perfect person to write this book.”
“Oh no, no, no. I’m not a writer,” Nikki replied.
“Sure you could do this. It doesn’t matter that you’re not a writer. Not for this type of book. Plus you would be the perfect person for this. You know the winery, you’re Derek’s right hand. You even do spa treatments. You would be fabulous. I can edit you, so you wouldn’t have to worry so much about the writing. Heck, I’ve even seen some of your writing and you’re good.”
“What do you mean?”
“Weren’t you the one who compiled all the notes for Derek for the book with Georges?”
“Yes. But I gave them to Georges.”
“Who do you think Georges gave them to?” Nikki didn’t reply. “Me. That’s who. Georges didn’t write all the text in the cookbook. He did the recipes, sure, but like Derek and then you, he gave me the notes and I pulled it together.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, nothing. Your notes were by far the easiest to work with. Really, you could write this book. Come on.”
Was Renee for real? Or was she yanking her chain? “Um, you know I am so busy and I think I may be going to Spain.” Oh boy. Did she really say that? Yep. The words going to Spain had escaped between her lips, and oddly enough, for the first time since Andrés had presented the idea, her stomach didn’t turn over in a wave of nausea. The idea almost settled right there and felt, hmmm—okay.
“Great. That would be a perfect time to write the book. You would have the distance a writer sometimes needs to get it done without the distractions here at the winery.”
Nikki shook her head. “No. I would probably need to be here. You know, for research.”
“No. Not at all.” Renee sat up, her sheet nearly dropping off of her. Oh God, Nikki thought she might have nudophobia at that moment. “It’s perfect, and I bet I can get you a decent advance. I do know certain people in high places at the publishing house.”
Yeah. Daddy. Nikki glanced at the clock. “I am so s
orry, but I have to get going. I need to make sure an order is going out. Um, it’s a very important wine dinner and it would be disastrous if the wines don’t get there. You know, big client and everything. A real disaster.”
“See, you are so perfect to do this. You’ve got your finger on the pulse of this place. I’m going to talk to Derek about it. And, I’ll get you the details for tomorrow night when we do Georges’ dinner. Super. This is so awesome, Nikki.”
“Right, awesome.” Nikki closed the door behind her. Solving murders and arsonous fires, that was one thing. But how was she going to get out of this one?
Chapter 24
After Renee’s massage, Nikki put her foot down with Marco and refused to play spa lady any longer. She’d had more than enough. She checked her cell phone messages and there was one that made her change all of her plans to help Marco out.
It came from the Chowchilla prison, and the warden told her that she had permission to come down and speak with Bernadette Debussey. When she’d made the request, she’d used the pretext that she was a writer and wanted to do an article on prison life for women. Obviously, it had worked.
But, the case was a done deal, right? Granted Moran was still on the run, but Bloomenfeld would surely cop to everything eventually. However, being curious, she did want to meet Georges’ ex, find out if she was as crazy as Janie said. Detective Robinson had spoken with Bernadette and she’d told him about the huge insurance policy that Baron had on Georges.
She made the decision to visit Bernadette, if for nothing other than the three-hour drive each way, which would give her plenty of time to consider her life and whether she should change it so drastically by taking a chance with Andrés and moving halfway around the world.
She headed back to her room and changed into her jeans. She opened the closet and grabbed her tennies. There was the bag that Robinson had given her. Her stuff. Marco had it sent up like she’d asked. Well, no time for that right now, not if she wanted to make it to the prison in time for visiting hours.
Silenced By Syrah Page 19
