by Anthology
Donald Joyfield was funny. Then again everything seemed hilarious to me. Dee crossed her eyes and tried to touch the end of her nose with the tip of her tongue. That made me laugh hysterically.
The next thing I knew, the crowd was clapping and hooting. Donald left the stage and Andrea Keller came on again. “That was the very funny and very talented Donald Joyfield. Let’s give him another round of applause!”
Dee and I clapped our hands in large circles. A round of applause? See? See? Get it?
Sabie, sweet, sweet, adorable Sabie, plunked fresh drinks on the table and whisked away the empties. In this state of mind, I doubt we could be subtle enough to steal back my necklace. And that was if Enrique still had it on him. Hell, would we be able to find our way out of this club? Even if we managed to hail a cab, could either one of us give coherent directions?
I looked at my cold, foamy beer. At this point, I didn’t care.
“We have a ten-minute break. It’s open mike for amateurs.” Andrea Keller waited for a soused idiot to walk onto the stage and spout off knock-knock jokes. The noise of the crowd rose, as if someone had turned up the volume on all conversations.
I looked toward Enrique’s table. One of the girls was on his lap, and they were giggling into their margaritas. Typical. I felt nothing for Enrique. What we had together was nothing more than an illusion. My illusion. I thought about Matthew, my hot one-night-stand who wanted to take me to dinner. If I’d had my cell phone I could totally drunk dial him. Maybe he could bring his handcuffs. Now, that had possibilities.
“C’mon, people! Show me your funny!” Andrea bellowed. The woman stared into the crowd, apparently trying to forcibly will someone onto the stage. She set off a weird vibe. I instinctively didn’t like her.
“We suck at investigating,” I said to my sister, my words only a little slurred.
“Yes, but we are marvelous at debauchery.” Dee leaned across the table and said, “I could do that, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Make jokes.”
“Yeah, but they have to be funny.”
“Ha. Ha. Besides, being on the stage will give me a better view of Enrique. Maybe I can spot your necklace.” She sucked down the rest of her bourbon, got up, and wobbled over to the stage. Oh, my God. Was my straight-laced, humorless sister going to make an ass of herself just to help me out?
“Here’s our first victim,” said Andrea with too much glee as Dee stumbled onto the stage. She blinked and looked around. The loud conversations turned into low murmurs.
“What’s your name, sweets?”
“Deirdre.”
“Where are you from?”
Dee stared at her as though she didn’t understand the question.
Ever the helpful sister, I yelled out, “Summerlin!”
“Everyone, please give a warm welcome to one of our locals, the fabulous Deirdre!”
I applauded loudly, and offered a drunken woo-hoo. I watched Andrea leave the stage and go to Enrique’s booth, leaning over the table to talk to him.
Hmm. When the crowd settled down, Deirdre started talking. My head was buzzing, and I was feeling drunker by the second.
“You’re not supposed to be here, mi flor.”
Startled by the sound of Enrique’s voice, I spilled my beer. How the hell had he snuck up on me?
“You come to say you’re sorry? Beg for the necklace you love so much?” His gaze was pure evil. “We might be able to work out some trade?” He laughed then touched the scar on his face.
My heart thumped double-time. I hadn’t expected him to confront me. I swallowed the knot in my throat, and tried to find some calm. He had a restraining order against me, so there was no good reason to approach me. Warning bells were ringing in my head and every cell in my body wanted as far away from Enrique as possible.
Coming here had been a huge mistake.
“Back off,” I hissed. “Five-hundred yards, remember?”
“That’s your restraining order, not mine,” he offered gleefully.
“Same difference, asshole.”
“I could call the cops now, and they will haul you in, chica.”
Over his smarmy tone, I heard my sister’s voice. She was telling a story about … me. Of course, it was about me. The tuna sandwich incident when I was eight. Gawd.
Enrique’s fingers trailed up my arm. I jerked away from him. “Leave me alone.”
He snickered.
My crazy ex really was trying to get me thrown in jail. Maybe he had his new partner Andrea waiting in the shadows calling the police so he could claim I had violated the restraining order. Everything was falling to shit, and why was I surprised? The gift always brought trouble with it. Granted, I hadn’t actually used it yet, but still.
I got up from the table, grabbed my purse and my sister’s, and bolted. I moved as fast as my wobbly legs would go. I’d hole up in the ladies’ room until Dee got off the stage.
He followed me closely, cackling.
I made it into the tiny bathroom. I shut the door in his stupid face, and locked it. I turned and leaned against the thin wood, heaving a sigh of relief.
“I’m not going anywhere, mi flor,” he said. “You’re gonna go to jail for harassing me.” He giggled like a giddy teenaged girl.
What the hell was wrong with him? Too many margaritas?
“Go harass your new girlfriend!”
“Don’t be jealous. I share myself with many senoritas. You missin’ me, Violetta? You want a kiss?”
“I want you to go away.”
“Open the door and give me a kiss. Besame, mi flor. Besame mucho.” He hooted and started singing in Spanish, his words slurred and his tone wistful.
Why did I let Deirdre talk me into this crazy scheme? Maybe because she’s usually the sane one. I knew now that getting my necklace back wasn’t a possibility.
Enrique pounded his fists against the door, and I jumped back and squawked with surprise. He laughed.
Fear was making me sober. For the first time, I realized that Enrique might not be satisfied with taking my necklace or winning a court case. He wanted me to pay for his humiliation.
Fuckity-fuck. Next bit of money I got, I was paying the goddamn cell phone bill. What I wouldn’t give to be able to call nine-one-one. Hell, I’d turn myself in to the police for my restraining order infraction. Jail was starting to sound like a safe alternative to Riot’s small, unsecure bathroom.
Then I heard Enrique yell, “Hey! What are you—”
I heard a wet, smacking sound, and then the door shook as something heavy rammed into it.
Silence.
My heart thudded in my chest and sweat beaded my upper lip. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Enrique?”
Maybe he’d passed out. Okay. That would be good. I could step over his unconscious body and get the hell out of here.
Sucking in a fortifying breath, I yanked open the door. As predicated, Enrique’s body flopped down in front of me.
Only he wasn’t unconscious.
He was dead.
No, that couldn’t be right. I was not going to accept that as reality. I’d never seen a dead body. So, what did I know?
God. I didn’t know First Aid. Or CPR. Or how to check a pulse. All the same, I felt compelled to do something.
His eyes were wide open, his mouth slack. His expression was one of surprise. The side of his perfectly groomed head was caved in, and dark blood oozed out into his hair. My hand shook as I reached down. I couldn’t bear to touch his neck, so I settled for poking him in the chest.
“Enrique?” Poke. Poke. Poke. “Enrique?”
Nothing.
He was horribly still.
Holy shit. He was dead.
My entire body went cold, and I backed away. My gaze lingered on the blood pooling on the cheap linoleum. My gorge rose as my alcohol-filled stomach threatened to empty its contents. Clutching the two purses against my chest, I gingerly stepped over Enrique. As I exited, I f
elt something hard hit my skull. Stars burst in front of my eyes, and then everything went dark.
4
I woke up to the stench of rotting food and burnt motor oil. My face was pressed against rough pavement, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I realized I was lying in an alley.
How the hell did I get here?
My head throbbed like it was hosting a boy band reunion concert. Groaning, I managed to sit up. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, but when it did, oh shit.
Enrique’s still very dead body was less than a foot away. I scurried backwards, hitting my backside against a large garbage bin. Ugh. That explained the putrid stench. My hand closed over a metal object, and I picked it up.
It was a tire iron with red goo smeared all over it. Wait. Not goo. Blood.
I yelped and released it, shuddering at the heavy clang that echoed down the alley.
“Don’t panic,” I told myself. My sister and I’s purses were right next to me, seemingly intact. I grabbed them and stood up. The world went sideways. I inhaled shaky breaths until the need to hurl subsided.
I glanced at Enrique. I couldn’t believe he was dead. Not that he didn’t have enemies—hell, I was one of them.
Oh, my God. I wasn’t going to take the rap for this. But … it looked bad. He had a restraining order on me. I owed him a shit ton of money. Court mandated. I threatened him in public. And I’d touched the weapon that probably killed him, so my fingerprints would be all over it. Not to mention, I was in the alley with his body. I didn’t have to watch all those forensic shows my sister loved to know the evidence was damned incriminating.
Panic welled. Okay, okay. It was time to do something adult-like.
I looked around trying to get my bearings. There was a green door across from me. “Riot Back Entrance.” All I needed to do was get inside the club, find my sister, and call the police. My heart jumped. This was bad. So bad. No. I hadn’t done anything wrong. I limped toward the door and grabbed the handle, yanking as hard as I could.
Locked.
“Violetta!” My sister’s screech of relief almost deafened me. I turned as she hurtled down the alley and grabbed me in a very unlike-Deirdre hug. “What are you doing out here? I’ve been looking everywhere or you!”
“Um, Dee.”
“I wasn’t that bad on stage, was I? I mean, I know you hate when I tell that story about the tuna fish sandwich.” She was babbling, a testament to her state of mind and her drunkenness.
I gently took my sister by the shoulders and turned her around so she could see Enrique.
“What is that?”
“A dead ex-boyfriend.”
She looked at me, eyes wide. “You killed him?”
“Really? That’s what you think?”
She shook her head. “No. Of course not. Did you check for the necklace?”
“Are you crazy? I touched that metal thingie with blood all over it. And I poked him in the chest to check his pulse.”
“What?”
“The point is that I am not going to seal the case against me by frisking his corpse.”
Dee had no such compunction. Wow. My sister had some big lady balls. She squatted and efficiently rifled through his pockets and then she patted him down from shoulders to ankles. She popped to her feet, and looked at me, her expression filled with disappointment. “He doesn’t have the necklace.”
“Violetta?” Dee and I turned toward the male voice. Matthew Stone. The homicide detective. He looked at Enrique’s body, and then pinned his gaze on me.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
“You have blood on your hands.” That helpful comment was courtesy of the Riot’s owner, Andrea-what’s-her-face, who stood next Matt. Was she smirking? Yes, she was. And her gaze held triumph. What was her deal? I didn’t even know her. “That’s Enrique’s ex-girlfriend. She got arrested for assault because she hit him with a stiletto.”
“Is that true?” Matt look disappointed, and I felt horrible. He was probably regretting every second he’d thought about spending with me.
“The charges were dropped,” I said.
“Yeah, but Enrique won his small claims suit against her. Just this morning, too.”
“That’s why you were outside the courthouse?” he asked.
“It’s been a crappy day.”
Paramedics rushed by us and squatted next to Enrique.
“And why were you here tonight?” asked Matt.
Uh-oh. I couldn’t admit my sister and I had come to Riot to relieve Enrique of my necklace. This situation was getting worse and worse.
“That’s a good question,” said Andrea a little too gleefully. “Enrique had a restraining order against her.”
“Shut your cake hole, lady,” said Deirdre. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”
Andrea’s face contorted into ugly rage, and she clenched her fists.
“Now, ladies,” soothed Matt. “Ms. Keller, please give your statement to one of the uniforms.”
Andrea shot me a dirty look, and then marched away.
“You want to tell me what happened, Violetta?”
“No, she does not,” snapped Deirdre.
Matt slanted a look at Dee. “Ms. Keller apparently saw you fighting with Mr. Santos. When she came to check on her partner, she found Enrique dead and you passed out cold.” He studied me.
“She’s not saying anything else,” said Deirdre. “She wants a lawyer.”
“You want a lawyer?” asked Matt.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I was hiding in the bathroom, and Enrique followed me. I heard this big thump. When I opened the door, there he was dead. Then someone bashed me on the head. Next thing I know, I wake up here.”
Deirdre pinched my arm and hissed, “Shut up, Violetta Lenore Graves!” She positioned herself in front of me. “She needs medical attention and a lawyer.”
“I haven’t arrested her.”
“I know how this works. My husband is Darren Hamilton. He’s an assistant district attorney. We want to call him.”
Matthew’s gaze flicked to mine. I opened my mouth, but my asshole sister stomped on my foot. Pain shimmied up my leg. I pressed my lips together and looked away from the very cute and seemingly reasonable detective.
“He’s dead,” said one of the paramedics—a lean-limbed blonde with her hair pulled into an efficient ponytail. She wore a blue shirt tucked into black pants. “The coroner will have to give you approximate TOD.”
Matthew nodded. “Will you take a look at Ms. Graves? She has a head wound.”
“Stone.” A stout, barrel-chested man dressed in button-down shirt and khaki pants got our attention. He had a military haircut and a no-nonsense expression. He held up the bloody tire iron in one gloved hand. “Possible murder weapon.”
The detective’s eyes zeroed in on me. “You missing a tire iron from your car?”
I snorted a laugh. I wanted to tell him my car was basically a rolling death trap that didn’t have the usual accessories. One stern look from Deirdre and I swallowed my smart-ass response.
“We took a cab,” said Deirdre. She grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the waiting paramedic. “You might have a concussion, Vie.”
As we left the alley, I felt Matt’s gaze on me all the way to the ambulance.
The paramedic took my blood pressure, temperature, and examined me for injuries. I had scrapes on my legs and arms, no doubt from the rough pavement. Had I been dragged into the alley? If someone had, then that same someone had also dragged Enrique. My thoughts whirled like a building tornado. Had the wielder of the tire iron tried to kill me, too? Or only knocked me out so I could be a patsy for Enrique’s murder?
The paramedic’s hands sifted through my hair. Pain shot across my skull. “Ow!”
“Sorry. You have a gash and a bump. Looks like you were hit pretty hard.”
“Feels like it, too.”
“Does she need stitches?” asked Deidre.
“No, but I recommend a CAT scan. Head trauma is tricky, especially when you get whacked like this.”
My sister leaned over and examined my head. “That looks nasty. You think she has a concussion?”
“It’s possible. That’s another good reason to go to the hospital.”
“No, thank you,” I said. “Put a bandage on my owie and call it a day.”
“Vie!”
“Dee, I don’t have health insurance, a job, or a savings account. Unless the hospital accepts sexual favors for payment, I’m not going.”
“I’ll pay for it,” said Dee. She looked at me. I saw real concern in her gaze.
I’d been a mooch before, a few hundred bucks here or there, but I couldn’t ask my sister to cover a massive medical bill because I’d been an irresponsible twatwaffle most of my life. “No, Dee. I’ll be fine. Really.”
“Can you strap her to the gurney?” asked Dee. “And give her something that paralyzes her mouth?”
The paramedic laughed. “Sorry. She’s within her rights to refuse treatment.”
To prevent further harassment, I got out of the ambulance, forcing my sister to follow me.
I whirled to face her and asked, “Hey, how about calling a lawyer?”
Her brows furrowed. “I’ll get ahold of Darren.”
“Isn’t he on the we-hate-you list?”
“He gets a hiatus while he extracts you from this mess.”
“I see you’re going to live,” said Matthew. “How about I treat you ladies to bad coffee and stale donuts down at the station?”
Gah! This was one step closer to an orange jumpsuit.
“Are you arresting us?” demanded Dee.
“No. I’m taking witness statements.” He nodded toward me. “How’s your head?”
“I could potentially die of an aneurysm, but other than that, I’m peachy.”
“Terrific. Let me give you a ride.”
“Fine,” said Dee, “but we are not answering questions or giving statements until my husband arrives.”
“Fair enough,” said Matthew.
I felt my stomach dip. Did he think I murdered Enrique? I didn’t like my asshole ex, and yeah, I wounded him, but I wouldn’t actually kill him. Real fear wormed through me. The blessed numbness that had been my friend for the past few minutes was giving way to a full-on freak-out.
