by Misa Ramirez
Reilly primped in the mirror, fluffing her Crayola-colored hair and pinching her cheeks. “That’s all I have.”
“Good chisme.” But with nothing more to gossip about, we headed back to the conference room, which was as quiet as church during Easter Mass. Who knew where the rest of the associates were? All I cared about was that Sadie was not in my business, which meant I could continue my research on any connections between Jennifer Wallace, Cuerpo y Alma, and the Royal Courtside Dancers.
…
I’d come to believe that the least likely suspect is often the one who’s guilty. I didn’t like Trainer Steve, but that didn’t mean he was guilty of murder. Rochelle didn’t have a motive. For Victoria and Lance, maybe, since they were the ones with the double standard, but not for Jennifer. I kept circling around to Selma, much as I didn’t want to ride that train.
She was the sole connection between the dancers and Cuerpo y Alma. She was the one who supposedly caught a glimpse of the mysterious boyfriend. She thought she had something to lose if her naturist habit came out.
Pero I felt like I was missing something about the big picture. Where was Manny when I needed him?
Oh right, in the midst of As Camacho Turns, a P.I. telenovela.
I hadn’t had any real contact with the players, and nothing led me to suspect any of them. The wives were a possibility, but no one had surfaced as a likely suspect. And what about the other Courtside Dancers? They were the most unlikely suspects in my mind, but it was possible one of them had a grudge against Jennifer. Knowing women and their petty jealousies, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.
Of course I had no hard evidence against any of them. Manny’s rule of thumb was to form a hypothesis, but I didn’t think an imaginary grudge between women would really fly with him as a viable hypothesis.
Which led me right back around to Selma Mann. I couldn’t believe the youngest dancer on the team and a naturist at heart could be a murderer, but I’d been surprised before.
I sat down at the conference room computer and Googled her.
And found nada. White Pages listings and Facebook didn’t give me anything. Selma Mann might be the only person in the world, besides me, who didn’t regularly update her Facebook status. I didn’t keep an active page because it didn’t really go hand in hand with being a private investigator. I wasn’t sure it went with being a nudist, either.
Selma’s last status update was from a few weeks ago. It was a quote:
“The only thing wrong with nudity is a society that says nudity is wrong.” —Bill Pacer
Whoever Bill Pacer was.
I read response after response, backtracking when I saw Jennifer Wallace’s name and her comment.
“The nakedness of woman is the work of God.” —William Blake
Ten people had liked her quote. I went down the list. Selma had liked it. So had Larry Madrino…
I clicked on his picture and leaned closer. Larry Madrino was Trainer Steve’s brother. And he liked Jennifer’s William Blake quote.
I kept reading, stopping again when there was another response from Jennifer.
If only some people would see that nudity means lack of clothing. Sexuality is different. It’s a state of mind. Why can’t people separate the two?
Selma, Larry, and seventeen other people had liked her comment. Selma responded with:
Get naked. Clothes belong in the closet.
Not to Jennifer. Her apartment’s closet had been practically empty, which still struck me as strange. Even a nudist had to dress up. Unless it was simply a love nest. Whatever clothes she wore in were the clothes she wore out.
I clicked on Jennifer’s name, but someone had changed her wall to a Rest in Peace message. I couldn’t see any status posts, but I could see her friends.
Which meant I could see who else might have crossed between Jennifer’s two worlds.
I scoured the list of her friends, jotting down the names of anyone from the dance team, the basketball team, or Cuerpo y Alma. The list grew and grew as I clicked on name after name and saw interests and organizations.
“What’s wrong?”
Reilly’s voice brought me out of my Facebook daze. I peered up at her. “What? Nothing.”
She made a face at me, squinting her eyes as if she could read my mind if she tried hard enough. “You’re sighing. More like heaving, actually.”
“I am?” I was? “I guess I was just thinking about how much information this is to sift through.”
She hovered at my shoulder, staring at my list of names. “Yikes.”
My thoughts exactly.
“Nudists, huh? I’m not sure I’m down with that, but I’ll go the distance for you, Lola. No one will ever be able to say Reilly Fuller isn’t loyal and willing to do whatever it takes for a friend. So what are you going to do? Can I help? I’m really not sure about the whole nudie thing, but Neil might like it—”
“Whoa, tiger.” I patted the air to get her to simmer down. “No one said anything about going back to the nudist resort.” And seeing Reilly and Neil in their altogether, together, wasn’t high on my list of things to do.
Although…
“If I get the member list from Cuerpo y Alma, I might be able to cross-reference.” I grabbed my cell phone from my purse, pulling out one of the brochures I’d taken from Jennifer Wallace’s dresser. I dug out the rest, rifling through them until I had the resort front and center. Nice. The number was right there on the front of the pamphlet. I dialed. “Please let Tiffany pick up.”
No such luck. It was a man, and I was pretty sure the deep, laid-back voice belonged to Craig Wallace, ex-husband to Jennifer. “All natural, no additives when you dare to go bare at Cuerpo y Alma,” he said.
I made my voice bright, batting away the flapping mariposa wings in my stomach, but before I could say anything, he continued. “Ms. Cruz, I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away.”
“Caller ID?” I asked, thinking, not for the first time, that I needed to get an incognito phone with a fake ID. Technology was great, but it definitely posed problems for surreptitious investigative moves.
“I like to know everyone here, and everything that goes on here, so, yeah, caller ID.”
I’d been avoiding it, but if Craig was that tuned in, and he had an emotional connection to Jennifer, maybe he needed to be my go-to guy at the nudist resort.
“Craig, right?” I asked, making sure I was talking to the sun-scorched, wrinkly skinned nudist. I clutched the brochures, trying not to stare at them. But I couldn’t pull my gaze away. I listened, zeroing in on the numbers Jennifer had scribbled in the corner of each. What did they mean?
“The one and only. I remember you,” he added with un poquito of an accusation. “You and your friend are coming to the Halloween Ball. You can be my guests and I’ll give you a personal moonlit tour of the grounds.”
I tried to detect the leer in his voice that I was sure was there, but really, he just sounded more hang-ten than creepy. “Oh, well, thanks so much, but I already took a tour—”
My mind hiccupped. Wait a second. I’d been on the grounds. I stared at the brochures, trying to remember. Lucy, Selma, and I had walked from the hot tub, past the parking lot, past some storage buildings…numbered storage buildings.
I tried to remember how many buildings there were. Three? Or maybe four?
Jennifer had written #1 and #2 on the different brochures. Could it be related?
Craig’s voice brought me back to the phone call. “Oh no, no buts,” he said. “It’s tomorrow night and everyone will be here. It’s the biggest party we have at Cuerpo y Alma. And the only one that allows a wee bit of clothing,” he added, as if he could read my mind and knew that there was no way in hell I’d be going to a Halloween party—or anywhere, for that matter—stark naked. “You just h
ave to be creative.”
I’d been asking myself if I’d really be able to do it—and flaunt it—if it meant I could bring Jennifer’s killer to justice. At this moment, talking to Craig, the answer was a definite no.
“I work tomorrow night,” I said, stalling for time. The Royals had a game, but I could go to the party afterward. To get a closer look at those buildings.
“After you get off work. We won’t start the party without you.”
I must have sputtered into the phone, because he quickly followed up with, “Kidding. The party gets going around ten or eleven.”
Maybe I’d be done. Unless the buildings turned out to be a big clue and I found a killer to follow. Or something. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okey-dokey, then,” he said.
I came back around to why I’d called in the first place. The member list. “Mister…er, Craig…” There was no way I could ask him about the people who came to Cuerpo y Alma without telling him who I was. I grimaced, imagining the phone call I was going to have to make to Jack in a minute. “Uh, thanks again for the invitation. I guess I’ll give it a go. Sounds like fun.”
If he was surprised he’d convinced me to come, he didn’t show it over the phone. He rattled off a few details, then hung up, leaving me wondering just what kind of skimpy, yet chaste, costume I’d be able to pull together by tomorrow night.
Chapter Twenty
I spent the rest of the afternoon scouring Jennifer’s Facebook friends for any stray connection or clue as to why she might have been killed. I found Craig, Deirdre, Victoria, and Selma, but not Lance, Tiffany, Carrie, Vanessa, or any other Courtside Dancers. They’d all left Rest In Peace comments, noting how much she’d be missed and how devastating losing her was, but no one had left a comment saying, “I killed her!”
Big surprise.
Unfortunately, the word “Guilty!” wasn’t stamped on anyone’s forehead, either.
After I added some notes to the whiteboard bullet points I’d started on the case, I stood back to consider. Steve had acted so oddly but I couldn’t fathom a motive. Given more time, maybe. Larry had known Jennifer and he’d stood up to his brother as her defender. His presence was all over her final Facebook page. I’d heard from the dancers, and from Steve, that Larry attended every game. Which meant he could be the letter-writer.
A niggling sensation started inside me, working its way from my gut to my head. What if he was the boyfriend she met at the hot tub? Was that even possible? Selma had said something about the guy not being comfortable with the nudist life—Larry seemed conservative to me, what with his beige Dockers and plaid button-down shirts. He didn’t strike me as the nudist type, but my brief experience at Cuerpo y Alma told me that naturists came in all shapes and sizes, and trying to pigeonhole them into being a certain way wouldn’t get me anywhere. I needed an open mind.
Would he strip it all off for a woman?
For Jennifer?
But then why kill her? Had she broken it off with him? Had the green-eyed monster reared its ugly head when he found out about her other conquests?
All speculation, which wouldn’t convince Manny I was on the right track, and certainly wouldn’t close the case for Detective Bennett.
But it did make me hungry.
Hmph. I capped my markers, tidied up my file on Jennifer, and headed outside. Sure, it was October, but my jeans and blouse stuck to my body, the definition of stretchy redefined as they hugged every single curve I had. I hightailed it to Abuelita’s, changed into my work uniform—black pants and a white peasant blouse—and scarfed a bowl of sopa de calabaza, which Papi’d made with fresh pumpkin. As I started work, I wondered if there would ever be a day when I could stop helping out at the family restaurant.
“Mira, Lola!” My cousin, Chely, skipped into the restaurant, skidded to a stop in front of me, and tossed her textbook and binder onto the counter. “My cheerleading coach showed me this cool move!”
I’d been holding my own and hadn’t needed private cheer lessons from her, but watching her slide into the splits, then pop back up as if she were a rubber band made me cringe. I was only twenty-nine and I could do a high kick Bruce Lee would have been proud of, but the splits? No way.
“So you like cheerleading?”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. I mostly like it because my mom doesn’t.” She grinned. “She can’t say anything about the makeup or the outfits, because they’re required.”
“Ay, Chely. Your mom’s just—”
“Pink and blue and butterflies for the quinceañera, remember?”
How could I forget? Her fifteenth birthday celebration had coincided with my first big case.
“But we made it work,” I reminded her.
“Yes we did.” She slugged my arm, snatched up her chemistry book and binder, and scurried off to the break room to get ready for work. I finished filling the chip baskets, worried that if I didn’t solve this case, I’d be out of a job and, ay caramba, I’d be grateful to be a waitress at Abuelita’s.
…
Three hours later, my shift was almost done and I was no closer to figuring out an idea for a costume to wear to the Cuerpo y Alma Halloween Ball. Glancing at the clock above the cash register, I spewed out a sigh of relief. Eight forty-five.
“I’m outta here at nine,” I said to Antonio as he passed by, carrying a bussing bin of dirty plates.
“Take care of table twelve.”
I stared him down. He and our father ran the restaurant, but Antonio was handling more and more of it. The pressure was getting to him. No small talk. No friendly brother of the year.
He stopped at the In door to the kitchen and turned back to me. I hadn’t budged.
“Ahorita, por favor,” he said, faking a grin.
I saluted him. “Ay, ay, capitán.”
“Funny, Lo,” he said. “I have a lot on my mind, it’s late, but it’s still swamped. I need you to stay late.”
“Fine,” I said. At this rate, I’d be wrapping myself in Saran Wrap for a costume. Which probably wasn’t a bad idea.
A wave of dizziness fluttered through my body. I needed to sneak in something to eat. Something more than pumpkin soup.
I delivered an order to a rowdy group of teenagers in the back and headed to the kitchen. I had to eat…now. I couldn’t come up with a costume idea—plus solve Jennifer’s murder—on an empty belly. I grabbed a handful of chips from the warmer and scanned the lobby. The customers kept coming. Good for business, but that didn’t help me with my schedule.
I turned to head back into the kitchen, stopping when I spotted a vibrant head of red hair. I’d only seen that color hair on one person—Jack’s sister, Brooke. She was a Sacramento cop, but instead of her blues, just then she wore a sweater, jeans, and boots. She was as ready for fall as I was.
I started toward her for a quick hello but froze in my tracks. She was arguing with a woman—a tall, blonde, pretty woman—pulling her toward the door by the sleeve of the woman’s ratty sweatshirt.
My breath caught in my throat, my head suddenly full of cotton.
Sarah.
She was back.
And she looked right at me, her mouth curved up in a smirk.
My sister, Gracie, who was also filling in tonight, breezed up to the hostess station, counted out a stack of menus, and called, “Sanchez, party of six. Sanchez?”
Just like in the movies, as the group of people stepped forward and Gracie led them to the dining room, the door to the restaurant opened and a breeze fluttered in. A flash of panic zipped across Brooke’s face. Sarah’s lips twisted.
And there, darkening the door, was the perfect specimen of a man—something I now knew from my own personal experience—Jack Callaghan.
…
I leaned against the wall and watched
as if it were one of Mama’s telenovelas come to life right in front of me. My own personal soap opera, complete with a movie star hero. Sandy brown hair, golden-honey skin, a body that had already turned my insides to goo, smoky blue eyes.
And a crazy ex-girlfriend who just wouldn’t stay away.
¡Dios mío! Forget that damn dimple. How dare he? How could he have come here to Abuelita’s with…with…Sarah? And after our night together…
He saw Brooke, who mouthed something to him and still looked like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi-truck. Jack scowled at her, then turned to Sarah. He stood with his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, listening to whatever Sarah was saying, but, as if he could sense me, his gaze turned in my direction.
The color drained from his face. Guess he hadn’t expected me to be here tonight.
Busted.
I suddenly felt weak in the knees and inexplicably hot. I lunged into the kitchen. The Sarah problem wasn’t resolved, that was clear, but I didn’t have to see them together
My dad pushed four steaming plates forward on the stainless steel warming shelf.
“Food’s up, Dolores. Table five. ¡Ándale!”
“Hijo de la chingada,” I swore under my breath, cursing my father’s timing.
I tightened my uninspired ponytail. I was worse for wear after a long day, and my coppery salon highlights were probably as dull as a tarnished pot. I ran my fingers through the few strands that framed my face. If I was going to witness the demise of my brand new relationship with Jack, I would do it with style.
I headed toward the oval mirror by the kitchen’s In door. I was a five-foot-seven-inch woman with boobs, hips, and killer biceps. I’d never be a supermodel, but I was okay with that because I could take any empty-headed stick woman in a dark alley—or anywhere else. Including la pendeja, Sarah.
But as I started to pinch my cheeks and swipe my lips with the MAC O I had in my pocket, my dad slammed his hand down on his cutting board. “The food is ready, Dolores! ¡Pronto!”
