The Brush Off

by Laura Bradley

  “We would be lucky to have him in Austin.”

  “Yes,” she said, distracted by the entrance of a Mercedes sedan that pulled through the gate and down past the garden to the garage. She looked at me. “I’m afraid I’m out of time. I wish I could help you in your search for Ricardo’s murderer, but I really can’t. It doesn’t have anything to do with Jon.”

  She was suddenly anxious to get me out of there. Who was in the sedan? Even though I was afraid it might be her powerful husband, I stood firmly rooted at the window. “So, how did you know Ricardo?”

  I’d caught her off-guard. For half a second, she looked afraid but again covered well. She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, we’d known each other since high school. He was an old acquaintance. That’s all. We knew each other way back then. We hadn’t talked in years.”

  She was lying, then; her eyes slid from mine just before she spoke her last sentence. Was she Ricardo’s mi cara?

  A dark-haired man got out of the sedan, talking on a cellular telephone. Even from a distance, I recognized him as the young man from the photos. He gestured as he talked and began walking toward the garden. I gasped. It was Ricardo’s son. The photos could not capture what was so obvious in person. There was no denying it. He moved with that casual elegance I’d never seen another man exhibit. His gestures were Ricardo’s. His profile was Ricardo’s.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” Celine snapped.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have gasped. Not out loud, anyway.

  twenty

  SINCE CELINE WAS ALREADY TEETERING OFF-balance and I was already an unwelcome guest, I proceeded with Plan B: Forgo politeness, and get as much information as I could before I was thrown out.

  “Does anyone call you ‘mi cara’?”

  A flush flew up her neck. “I don’t think that’s any of your business. In fact, none of this seems to be your business.”

  “Actually, it is,” I said, “because Ricardo in his will seems to have left his salons, all of Ricardo’s Realm, to me.”

  “Congratulations,” she said bitterly.

  “No, your sympathies is more like it. I don’t want the salons. I have my own life.”

  Her gaze flicked to the young man, who sat down on a concrete bench next to a yellow rosebush bursting with blooms. “Then get on with it, and leave us alone.”

  I followed her gaze. “Is that Jon?”

  “Miss Sawyer.” She faced me. “I hope you don’t go off in the wrong direction in your investigation, no matter how well intentioned it may be. Involving yourself in other people’s lives can be very dangerous. Someone is already dead. I would hate to see you get hurt as well.”

  The words were vague, the tone pointed. I knew when I’d been threatened. Unfortunately, it made my perverse nature try to get a more direct threat out of her. It worked.

  “Mrs. Villita, I am loyal to a fault to my friends, and Ricardo was one of my good ones. I was once described as a pit bull. When I get something in my mouth, it takes knocking me in the head to get me to let go. It’s going to take a pretty big stick to stop me from trying to find Ricardo’s killer.”

  “Don’t make me tell my husband you’ve been here. He is as much of what you call a pit bull about his family and his career. Just having you here at his home threatens us both.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s no need to play games, Miss Sawyer. Just know that you need to redirect your investigation, or you will be hurt.”

  “I’m not afraid of that.”

  “Not afraid of losing your reputation, your business? And how about your family?” She saw that took me aback. “There are more painful ways to hurt than your body, trust me. Stay away from the Villitas. I will have Rosa show you out.”

  I heard the ringing of a telephone as she flung open the double doors and marched down the hall to the left. With her tied up hunting down Rosa and handling the phone call, I estimated that I had about thirty seconds to find my way to the garden and Jon Villita. I went straight across the tiny foyer and down the hall that ran parallel to the one Celine had used. I slipped through the first doorway and into an office, which fortunately had French doors to the outside. They were locked. I checked the top drawer of the desk, found a set of keys, fumbled for a moment with a few of them, and finally fit the right one into the lock as I heard the squeak of Rosa’s rubber-soled footsteps.

  I left the keys in the lock as I eased the door shut. I picked through the rosebushes, letting the thorns scrape across my skin as I made my way through the garden without the luxury of the path. I hid underneath one as I heard a door at the house open.

  “Jon, mi hijo.”

  “Yes, Mother?” He called about fifty feet ahead and to the right of me.

  I reaimed myself and waited.

  “Come inside now. I need your help.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  What else could she say? The woman who figured out your real parentage is skulking around the grounds? The door shut, reluctantly. Even as far away as I was, I heard the sigh Jon blew out. As I searched for the path, so I wouldn’t leap out of the bushes and scare him, I wondered if he knew Ricardo was his father. I’d bet not. Had Senator Villita found out and killed Ricardo? Had Ricardo threatened to tell Jon, expose his heritage? And how did the other news clipping fit in?

  I rounded a corner and saw Jon, still sitting on the bench, leaning his elbows on his thighs, staring at his hands laced between his knees, cell phone beside him.

  “Mr. Villita?” I called softly.

  He looked up, surprised, but he stood graciously and held out his hand. “Please call me Jon.”

  I hesitated for just a moment as I got over the shock of his voice sounding exactly like Ricardo’s. I put my hand in his, and we shook. “Reyn Sawyer.”

  He looked like he was doing his best to try to place me. “Have we met? I used to pride myself on never forgetting a face or a name. But I’m sorry, with this campaign I’ve met so many people. They say as a politician, I need to find ways to talk around not remembering someone, but I can’t do that. I prefer to be honest.”

  “I prefer that, too,” I said with a smile. I liked him immediately. There was a weariness about him unusual for someone so young, but also a genuineness that was refreshing. “And you haven’t forgotten my face or my name. We’ve never met before.”

  “Well, I promise not to forget your name, Reyn. It’s just unusual enough for me to remember. And your hair, that I won’t forget.”

  I smiled back at his grin and resisted the urge to return the good-natured jibe. His hairstyle was the height of aged conservative—a side-parted medium-length that was what a sixty-year-old politician might wear.

  “Ah, now, memorizing my hairstyle won’t help you, since I change my color and style almost as often as my clothes,” I told him.

  “A master of disguise?”

  “No.” I laughed, feeling a small twist in my gut as it occurred to me I might have to become a master of disguise if Celine sicced the senator on me. And what about my mom and dad, my sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews? “It’s nothing so dramatic. I’m a hairstylist, and I like change.”

  “Hairstylist. I bet that’s a fun job, making people feel better about themselves.”

  He gets it! I looked at Jon Villita more closely. I wondered about how much genetics play a part in how we turn out. Maybe more than I ever thought, if a man with the blood of a beauty salon magnate and raised by a U.S. senator still found hairstyling a high calling.

  “I like it,” I admitted. “But the job you’re running for is an important one. Maybe it’s better to be important than to have fun.”

  “You think so?” he asked. “Even if you’re miserable while you’re being important?”

  “Politics isn’t your thing?”

  He glanced guiltily at the house. “Are you a friend of my mother and father?”

  “No, just met your mother, never met your father, and don’t especially want to.”
>
  He laughed. “I don’t blame you. He’s a good man, don’t get me wrong. But we’re just two different people. I respect what he’s accomplished and what he enjoys. But he doesn’t offer me the same respect.”

  The way he was talking about the senator, I guessed Jon didn’t know about his parentage. I went fishing just to be sure. “Sometimes being a parent is a difficult thing.”

  Jon didn’t bite. He truly didn’t know anything about Ricardo. “Are you a parent?”

  “Oh, no, haven’t even gotten to first base. I need to find someone to love first.”

  “That’s another thing. Anyone I’d fall in love with wouldn’t be good at politics, which would mean I wouldn’t be allowed to marry her without a lot of pain and suffering. You know, I’d rather fall in love with a nice girl and have an ordinary job than be groomed for the White House at twenty-five.” He paused and sighed.

  “I guess that sounds whiny.”

  “No, it sounds like you know yourself better than most twenty-five-year-olds do. That’s pretty wise, if you ask me. Have you told your parents?”

  “I have, and they don’t think I’m old enough to make a life-changing decision like that. I’m old enough to represent an entire constituency and make decisions for them but not for myself?” He blew out another sigh. “I guess it doesn’t matter. I don’t have another option. I refuse to use my father to get a job, but where could I go in this town where they wouldn’t know the name Villita?”

  He sounded so trapped my heart went out to him. Before I could find comforting words, he blew out yet another sigh and struggled to change the subject. “Did you know that hairstylist who was murdered?”

  “Yes. He was a good friend of mine.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Wow. He really was.

  “What do you know about it?” I was fishing again. Maybe Daddy had brought it up at the dinner table. Maybe I’d get lucky, and Jon had heard the senator discussing the murder plan with the brush-wielding hit man.

  “Not much,” Jon admitted. “My dad told his speech-writer to use it in a speech she wrote for me to give today at the Rotary Club. It was an example for the need for better crime control. It seemed so cold to use this poor man’s death in a political platform when he wasn’t even memorialized yet. I left it out. Got in trouble, too.”

  Good for him. The boy had balls.

  “Jon!” Celine called from the house. Surely, she’d seen us sitting there by now, but what could she do other than drag him away like a five-year-old or get me in the sights of her rifle and take me out like a sniper? The frantic note in her voice worked better than anything on this sensitive young man whose spirit was about to be trampled to death in the political arena.

  “Mom sounds like she’s about to lose it.” Jon stood and shook my hand. “She’s been on edge the last day or so. I’d better go see what she needs. Nice to meet you, Reyn. I hope we get to talk again one day.”

  “Me, too,” I said as I watched him go. I resisted the urge to back all the way to the Miata. Of course, even if I saw the bullet coming, what would I do—duck? Karate chop it? Besides, if they were going to silence me, I figured it would be an “accident” that would not happen on the grounds of their pristine home. That would leave too many people asking too many questions.

  Trudy had the motor running, but I forced myself to almost meander to the car. I looked over the grounds, fingered the leaves of bushes as I passed, smelled the pungent blossom of a jasmine vine. I knew Celine was watching, and I didn’t want her to think I was scared.

  My nose started running before I got to the Miata. The sneezing began before I opened the passenger door. Who says I’m not a good detective? I’ve discovered I’m violently allergic to blooming jasmine.

  With snot cascading down the back of my throat and my nostrils in gallons, we made our less-than-dignified exit from the Villita estate. I searched my purse for anything to use to stem the flow, but I never seem to have any tissues. I was going to make a terrible mother one day. The good ones always seemed to have a tissue handy. I had to settle on the sock. Hey, it was clean.

  Trudy looked at me. “Your cell phone rang while you were in there.”

  “Yeah?” I fished out the phone. It didn’t show I had any missed calls.

  I looked at her in question. She looked at me in apology. I had a bad feeling about this.

  “I answered it,” she said as she headed east on Guaraty.

  “I thought it might be someone who heard your challenge at the funeral and wanted to give us a tip.”

  I couldn’t argue with that one. It was a smart move. “Okay. I still hear a ‘but.’ ”

  “It was Jackson.” She looked at me quickly, then back to the road. “Lieutenant Scythe.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He wanted to know where we were. I explained that the mishap on the freeway with the other police car was an accident. He didn’t seem mad about it.”

  Sure.

  “You didn’t tell him where we were, did you?”

  I looked in the rearview mirror and saw my nemesis four car lengths behind. Scythe looked ready to bite a nail in two. Could it get any worse?

  I knew better than to ask myself that question.

  “Don’t worry, Reyn, I didn’t give away our location for free. I made a deal.”

  twenty-one

  “A DEAL?” I TRIED NOT TO SHRIEK, BUT I THINK I failed, because Trudy swerved and nearly hit a light pole. Behind us, Crandall honked. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Neither do I. Do you think he’s making fun of my driving?” Trudy huffed into the rearview mirror.

  “I’m not talking about not liking the sound of the honk, Trude. I’m talking about not liking the sound of a deal.”

  “How do you know you don’t like it when you don’t know what the deal is.”

  “I know you, and I know Señor Sneaky Snake, so I don’t like it.”

  “Sneaky Snake. Ooh, that sounds sexy. I’m glad to know you’re thinking along the right lines.”

  “What lines are those?” I demanded, openly shrieking this time. “Are you pimping me out to Scythe for some information?”

  Trudy grinned as she negotiated a turn going about twenty miles an hour too fast. I think she was angling to get pulled over by the pair behind us. The only thing she’d forgotten was that we were still in Terrell Hills, which is a two-square-mile incorporated, muy expensive enclave with its very own police force whose members will pull anyone over because they are simply bored. I saw the flashing lights coming at us as we whizzed past a cross street. I didn’t warn her, that’s how mad I was at her. I prayed they’d throw her conniving heinie in jail.

  The Terrell Hills patrol car wheeled around the turn so fast I wondered if the cop thought we were bank robbers. The guy even had his siren on. Maybe Scythe had put an APB out on us and it was still hot. Well, swell.

  “Witches’ tits and bats’ butts,” Trudy swore under her breath as she pulled over. When she used vulgarities with body parts, she was mad.

  I watched the Crown Vic ease in behind the patrol car in my rearview mirror. The officer got out. She was pretty and slightly built but posturing like a bulldog. Uh-oh, this would be worse than a short cop with small man complex. And she still had the siren on. It was giving me such a headache, I felt like getting out and turning it off for her. Before I could follow through, Scythe appeared at the woman’s side, flashing his badge. It was as if she were butter and someone turned the burner on high. Copette melted. She cocked her head and her hip; her hands fell to her sides to mold to her waist. She smiled sweetly. Ugh, couldn’t she see how damned arrogant, uh, vainacious, he was? Couldn’t she see that whatever charm he was using, it was to get something from her?

  I was almost so distracted by their body language that I forgot to wonder what their voice conversation could be about. It had to be about us. It couldn’t be good.

  Suddenly, the Miata lurched forward, nearly giving me whiplash. Even whiplash would�
��ve been worth the look of surprise on Scythe’s face right before he spun and ran back to the Crown Vic. Hee hee.

  “What are you doing, Trude?” I screamed as she cranked the wheel to the left and the Miata leaned hard on the two right wheels. Before I could get my seat belt buckled, she took a hard right straight into what looked like no more than a space between two wisteria bushes. I closed my eyes, envisioning being buried in the brick of someone’s historic mansion. All I felt was the flap of a wisteria leaf on my face (so much for the allure of a convertible) and the bumps of a bad road. Slowly, I opened my eyes. We were headed down a secret lane that cut behind a row of estates.

  I heard the zoom of a souped-up V-8 engine passing behind us. We’d lost the cops. Again. I looked at Trudy.

  “Way to go, girl. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  Trudy looked at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t think you were devious enough to run from the cops and succeed.”

  She looked confused for a moment. “I’m not running from the cops. I just looked at the time and realized I’ve got to get home. I’m doing carne guisada for dinner for Mama Tru and Daffy. I’ll be dog meat if I’m late.”