Inked Up

by Terri Thayer

  “Xenia Villarreal was an American citizen,” she began. “She was born in New York. Her husband, Pedro, was born there, too. All five of her children were born three miles from here, in Lynwood General.”

  April faced the camera, trying to think of what else to say, how to get everyone’s full attention. She knew the camera would pick up any hesitation, so she banished her reserve to the furthest recesses of her brain.

  The scene behind her faded away. The noise of the protesters, shuffling their feet, talking among themselves. Mitch and the well drillers, Valdez and Traczewski, all of it faded.

  She remembered Xenia in her kitchen, so thrilled with her new house, so eager to embark on a new life. And she saw Xenia’s lifeless body, lying among the broken cornstalks.

  April said, “No one deserves to die alone, robbed of her last breath. Murdered.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Murdered?” Jocelyn echoed. “Who says? Get the state police on the phone,” she barked at her producer, a young girl with pink highlights in her blonde hair. She pulled out her cell.

  April couldn’t look at Mitch. This wasn’t the way she wanted him to find out that Xenia had been murdered. She felt Valdez’s ire at being upstaged coming off him like waves of heat.

  Traczewski shifted his weight, a smug expression on his face, as though the slaying of Xenia just proved his theory that immigrants were awful human beings.

  Jocelyn Jones moved away from them, dialing her phone and motioning for her camera guy and the producer to follow her. They jumped into the WLUC truck and quickly drove off, skidding on a pile of leaves before straightening out and hitting the road. Murder was a bigger story.

  The protesters gathered around Traczewski, no longer marching now that there was no audience. He said a few words, dismissing them. The crowd dispersed. Hector Valdez nodded curtly at Mitch and turned on his heel and left.

  Mitch was steaming, his face a shade of red April had never seen on him before.

  He watched Traczewski interacting with a few lingerers. “It was no accident that the TV station showed up. Traczewski had this all planned. He has those protesters and the media under his command. I wasn’t expecting that,” Mitch said.

  April was surprised by his singlemindedness. Had he heard what she’d said?

  “Mitch?”

  He turned his attention to her. “Damn it, April. I had a deal. I let him have the exposure, and Valdez was going to bring me more backers.”

  April was dumbfounded. “Are you serious? Did you hear what I said? Xenia’s been murdered.”

  “I heard you, and I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything about that. Let the police deal with that. I can only do one thing. Save their house.”

  “Mitch—”

  Mitch interrupted, his hands raking through his hair and his face grim. “This isn’t just about one house, their house. My entire project is at risk.”

  “I’m trying to give Xenia a voice. She’s being ignored.”

  “Tell that to her kids when they’re living in the family van,” Mitch said. He stalked toward the house.

  “Mitch,” April called.

  He didn’t look back.

  April could do something. She could let everyone know who Xenia was and help bring her killer to justice.

  Doing her supper dishes that night, April had a giant knot in her stomach that had nothing to do with the frozen burrito she’d eaten. Mitch hadn’t returned her calls.

  She’d eaten her dinner with the TV news on. The protesters had looked more effective on television. The crowd of them looked larger, louder, more vociferous.

  Jocelyn Jones had interviewed Traczewski. His gray hair was swept off his forehead in a dramatic wave. He was tall, and sounded perfectly reasonable. “We need to protect the American way of life,” he’d said.

  What he hadn’t said was that he was okay with immigration as long it was Christians from western Europe. For all others, he wanted the door slammed shut.

  Not that he’d mentioned his ancestors. He talked about the quality of life to be maintained, the sanctity of the English language, the overcrowding and crime that was sure to result.

  April pulled off her glove roughly, catching her fingernail in it. Her actions ripped it off close to the nail bed. Damn, that hurt. She sucked on her finger.

  Her phone rang. Her heart leaped, but a glance at the caller ID indicated it was not Mitch.

  “April, why were you on the television?” Her mother’s voice came through the answering-machine speaker loud and clear. She could hear Clive prompting her mother as she continued. “Did you go to law school while you lived in California and forget to tell us?”

  April cringed. She would have some explaining to do. She made no move toward the phone. Trying to tell her mother she’d had no intention of misrepresenting herself was futile.

  Clive chimed in, loud enough for her to hear. “You looked stellar, luv. Like a real barrister.”

  “Call us back,” Bonnie said. “I’ve been thinking about suing my neighbor for letting his dog poop in my yard.” She heard her mother cackle as she hung up.

  Next, her cell rang. She saw by the readout it was Mary Lou. She let that go to voice mail, too. Mary Lou’s message was brief. “Saw you on the news. Call me.”

  Hoping to find something to distract her, April went back to the TV and flipped through the channels. She put on MTV, but after several minutes of waiting for commercials to end, she gave up. She’d have loved some of the old MTV right now. Just music videos and a VJ to soothe her mind. Where was Nina Blackwood when you needed her?

  Her cell rang again, this time with the strains of Bob Seger’s “Like a Rock.” Deana’s ring. The one call she had to answer.

  She turned off the television and picked up the phone tentatively, as though it were hot. “Hi, Dee.”

  April plunged ahead, not giving Deana a chance to speak. “Look, I’m sorry if I said too much.”

  “About what?” Deana sounded perplexed.

  April knew the warmth in Deana’s voice was about to go away. She felt a chill ripple down her spine. “Did you see the news?”

  “I guess Mark has it on in the study. Should I go look?”

  “No.” Damn, she had to come clean. “Listen, I was interviewed at the protests at Mitch’s after I saw you today. The reporter made me say more than I wanted to.”

  April heard herself making excuses. That was not acceptable. She needed to take responsibility for what she’d said. It hadn’t been Jocelyn’s prodding. It had been her own big mouth.

  She cleared her throat and spoke clearly. “I let it slip that Xenia was murdered.”

  There was a long silence. April strained to hear Deana’s voice. Her breathing, anything. “Deana?”

  “Did you tell them I told you?” Deana asked, her voice forced, as though she’d been running and was out of breath.

  “Of course not,” April said.

  “Still, the police are going to assume I did. My reputation . . .”

  April sighed. She knew Deana’s reputation was critical. Her job as deputy coroner had just begun. She wouldn’t be reappointed if her superiors thought her untrustworthy.

  “I’ll tell Yost that I forced it out of you,” April said.

  Deana said, “So I just look weak and not like a breaker of confidences.”

  “Or I read the report on your desk. Upside down.”

  “Proving I’m not to be trusted with important paperwork.”

  “Deana,” April pleaded, “Xenia was being forgotten in the wake of the protests. No one was paying her any attention.”

  For a moment, there was silence, then April heard Deana take in a deep breath. “I’m going to have to think about this some more, April. I’m sorry.”

  April felt the words “I’m sorry” pierce her heart. Deana would have to apologize for April’s mistakes. She started to speak, but Deana cut her off.

  “We’re stamping over here Wednesday night” she said. “I’m going to
get the envelopes for your mother’s invites. I was thinking aqua and brown. What do you think?” Her words were clipped.

  “That sounds pretty,” April said, unable to shift gears. What did the colors matter anyhow? But she didn’t want to hurt Deana’s feelings by voicing those opinions.

  “Seven o’clock. If you want to come,” Deana said abruptly. She hung up before April could respond.

  Of course she would be there. She glanced at her calendar.

  A red circle on her calendar caught April’s eye. Xenia had been scheduled to come back tomorrow and talk about the stamping in her new house. A date she wouldn’t keep now.

  Her heart was heavy. Xenia’s boxes were still sitting in her car, awaiting delivery. Calls to her sister had not been returned. April decided to bring the boxes in and hope that there were invoices or addresses inside.

  April ripped open the tape holding the box from Trish first. It contained six smaller boxes of various sizes with the Bella Beauty distinctive blue packaging. She pulled them out, pleased to find each printed with a label with the name and address of the recipient. Furthermore, the labels contained the contents and the amount due. She’d be able to deliver the packages without any problem. She could collect the money and deliver it to Pedro.

  The other box, the one she’d found on Xenia’s porch, was a different can of worms. Inside were eight identical size boxes. The boxes were hot pink with scalloped edges, much like the packaging in Trish’s box. The font was very close to the Bella logo, but the name of this product was Bonita. Tiny writing along the outer edge was in Spanish. She couldn’t read Spanish.

  April ran a fingernail under the opening and popped up the top of one of the boxes. Inside was a plastic case, fitted with five lipsticks with matching glosses, one eye shadow pad and several shades of foundation. A sample kit, very much like the one Trish had showed her the other day.

  Except for the color of the boxes, and the name of the products, this line was exactly like Trish’s.

  The product had obviously been styled after Trish’s line. Ripped off, some might say.

  Xenia had been going into business on her own. Probably using her customer base that she’d built up selling Trish’s products. That was pretty unethical. Xenia had hinted that her suggestions had not been heeded by Trish. April knew firsthand how bull-headed Trish could be.

  If Xenia had felt Trish was not answering her clients’ needs, she might have gone off and created her own cosmetics.

  She stood to make her own fortune.

  An invoice on top listed this box as one of six. Five more boxes like this meant forty eight starter kits. The total for all boxes was nearly five thousand dollars.

  Where had she gotten the money?

  April sat down heavily at the kitchen table.

  When she and Xenia had been picking colors the other night, they’d talked about Xenia’s jobs. She often cleaned businesses with her sister as well as selling the cosmetics. April knew she was ambitious and a self-starter. If she had income she hadn’t reported, their family might not have been picked for the Homes for Hope house.

  Mitch had very strict guidelines as to how much money a family could make to qualify for one of his houses. The earning limits were set according to how many kids a family had. If Xenia was working under the table, hiding income, that could be a problem. Not just for her and Pedro, but for Mitch. If word got out that the process had been compromised, his opponents would have a field day. He couldn’t stand any adverse publicity.

  CHAPTER 15

  On her lunch hour the next day, April drove to the first address on the box of Trish’s products. It stood to reason that these deliveries were meant for baronesses, who ordered these products for others. If Xenia had started her own line, then they would be the logical people to buy the starter kits for Bonita, too. She would ask them what Xenia was up to.

  Could this have contributed to her death? Two things nagged at April: Where did Xenia get the money to fund these starter kits and what would Trish do when she found out that Xenia was taking her business?

  April hoped some of the answers lay ahead.

  The addresses she got off the Internet led her to neighborhoods she’d never been to in small patch towns, remnants of coal-mining, company-owned villages. Here, housing was still cheap. Many of the homes were row houses, leaning into each other like tired siblings.

  April knocked on the first door. The woman who answered peeked out tentatively. The house was covered with asphalt shingles, many cracked and some missing, creating gaps like a jack-o’-lantern’s smile. The steps leading up to the porch were crumbling concrete. The ripped screen door should have been replaced with a storm door by now to keep out the inevitable cold air.

  The woman was wearing a housedress and had a bright pink duster in her hand. Her makeup, however, was fresh and perfect. Her cheeks stood out against her skin. Her lips were red, lined in a darker color.

  April could see past her into the living room. The floor was covered in lush dark brown carpet. Two couches, covered in swirling cut velvet, faced each other. The white brick fireplace was flanked by gleaming brass tools. In the dining room beyond, the oak table was set with a lace tablecloth.

  The well-kept interior was at odds with the house’s shabby exterior. April realized these people probably didn’t own their homes, but they did take pride in what was actually theirs.

  April introduced herself, and the woman answered in rapid Spanish.

  “English?” April asked.

  The woman shook her head. This was going to be harder than April had thought. She tentatively held out the order. The homeowner nodded, fetched her purse and counted out the money owed.

  But by the time April had delivered the third package, she knew her questions would not be answered there. All of her transactions were carried out in sign language. The first two women had given her cash in the exact amount due. They’d been expecting their delivery. She didn’t know if they knew about Xenia’s death or not, but they took the products from April and closed the door.

  Those three deliveries had already taken up most of her lunch time. The rest of the Trish order and the box of starter kits remained on the backseat of her car. She had no idea who was supposed to get them and she was no closer to figuring out why Xenia was killed.

  Disheartened, she left the rest for another day and went back to work.

  Around six, April headed to Deana’s for the stamping meeting. She planned to arrive a little early hoping to have a face-to-face with her friend.

  Deana called her just before she turned onto the road where Hudock Funeral Home was. She was brief. “Could you run up to Trish’s and pick up the envelopes for your mother’s invites?”

  Dang, it was a forty-mile round-trip. It would take her the good part of an hour to get up there and back.

  But how could she say no? She would do whatever Deana asked her; April needed to be back in her friend’s good graces. She didn’t like being on the outside of Deana’s affections.

  April agreed and drove as fast as she could, happy to see her time out to Pine’s End was just eighteen minutes. At this rate, she’d get back to the stamping before the snacks were put out. Stopping in front of the closed entrance gate, she rolled down her window and looked expectantly into the guardhouse. The security guard stopped texting and gave her old car a disapproving look. Suddenly he smiled. “Hey, I saw you on TV yesterday. You’re that lawyer, right?”

  April hid her confusion with a wary smile.

  He didn’t notice. The metal barrier was already opening. “You going to see Trish again? Be my guest,” he said, bowing slightly.

  April waved jauntily, matching his mood. Being mistaken for a lawyer had its advantages.

  No one answered the door at Trish’s. Damn. April flipped open her phone, annoyed to see the smallest of bars showing. Trish’s house was hemmed in by tall evergreens. Her neighbors’ houses were just as dark as hers was.

  April walked back down
the drive, watching the bars waver. She called Deana, pacing, trying to make sure the phone coverage remained. “No one’s home.”

  “Okay. Don’t leave. See the keypad by the garage door?”

  She moved closer to the garage and spotted it on the side of the door frame.

  “I do.”

  “I’ll give you the code to get in. The box of envelopes should be right inside the door.”

  “Deana, really? I’m not comfortable going in.”

  She heard the ominous crackling sound that meant her phone was losing the connection. She raced back to the end of the driveway.

  Deana was saying, “It’s all right. I’ve used her garage code plenty of times.” Deana broke up again. “Go ahead. It’s 8-7-4-7-4.”

  April looked around. No one was likely to call the police on her. She swallowed her discomfort and logged in the numbers. Nothing.

  “Deana?” But the phone was dead.

  She took a deep breath. She wanted to do this for Deana. And her mother. They needed to get the invitations in the mail.

  She tried the numbers again, being more careful this time. It worked. The garage door rumbled open.

  She hurried inside. The automatic overhead light came on. No cars were parked here, though two oil stains gave away their usual positions. April turned her attention to the shelves lining the garage and found the box with an invoice made out to Deana.

  “One hundred Regency envelopes,” she read off the paper stapled to the top.

  She grabbed the box and headed back to the car, stopping only to close the garage door. She threw the box on the passenger seat and peeled out.

  She slowed when she reached the guardhouse, waving to the security guard, as he stuck his head out.

  “No one home?” he said.

  She shook her head, covering the box with her free hand.

  “I thought I saw her and her husband go out earlier,” he said.

  “Thanks anyhow,” April said, feeling like a criminal.