by Robena Grant
“Oh?” That was interesting. Her independent daughter never liked to be observed while on the job…especially by her mother.
“So we can talk. I know you worry about me. But Cliffs is a great place to work and I feel…you know…I want to contribute more financially.”
“Honey, you shouldn’t worry about that. I can—”
“I like being independent. I hate that you work so hard. And this is the first time I’ve been old enough to bartend. And Rachel needed my help, so how could I say no? Besides, I want to work there.”
Debbie winced at the emphasis her daughter had placed on want. She knew all about wants. She’d successfully quashed them ever since she’d born Janelle out of wedlock before her sixteenth birthday. Not going there. And neither would she mention the current depressed economy or how hard her business had suffered. Or how she’d taken a risk and invested her small inheritance in the new dolphin therapy.
“Sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to shout.”
Debbie heard the apology, the defensiveness, but more so the attempt to put things right in Janelle’s voice. “I know. And I’m sorry I read you the riot act last night. But working in a bar? I still don’t get it.”
“It’s fun. And the tips are great. Better than my job at school. Besides, Rachel makes sure we’re accompanied to the car at the end of our shift. You know how she is.”
“Yes,” Debbie said. Rachel had protected Janelle ever since the day of her birth. “And you are an adult. It is your life…but I do worry.”
“Stop worrying,” Janelle said. “And go let your hair down for a change.”
“Yeah, right,” Debbie said, with a scoffing laugh. Janelle laughed too.
Her daughter understood her better than anyone. She was known for being uptight. And she was always super careful of her reputation. Her back stiffened in her own defense. She operated on the premise that if an adult did the right thing all the time their youthful mistakes would be overlooked. She didn’t know if anyone in the small town remembered, but she did. She’d been Almagro’s wild child.
“Go save the world. Mom and Rachel, saving the town of Almagro, one—”
“Janelle,” Debbie said with a warning tone. Her daughter laughed and clicked off. Debbie shoved the phone into a jacket pocket and smiled, as she hurried back into the city hall.
“I’ll now open the floor to questions,” Detective Quimby said.
Several locals jumped up, including red-headed, rabble-rousing Rachel. Debbie grinned, loving that her best friend had never been reluctant in voicing her opinion. Voices were raised all asking about getting more cops. Within seconds, half the audience stood and everyone shouted over each other.
“If you’ll take your seat and raise your hand,” the City Manager said drily. “We’ll be able to get out of here before breakfast tomorrow.”
A twitter of nervous laughter erupted as chairs scraped and people sat. Debbie looked around for the dark-haired stranger. She caught a glimpse of the back of his head as he strode toward the side door. He shoved a tan cowboy hat on his head and pushed the door open. She hurried out the main door and around the side of the building to the parking lot. Several people milled around and an older man seemed also to have an interest in her stranger. Debbie frowned. He was vaguely familiar, but he ducked his head and hurried to a parked vehicle.
The car the cowboy drove off in didn’t signify he belonged to a local radio or TV station. His car had a Montana license plate, though, and that she found interesting. Maybe she could quiz him? Get the scoop on the case. But why would a reporter from Montana be interested in a crime in the California desert?
****
Jack spent the rest of the afternoon on another wild goose chase. Frustrated, his back aching from being cramped into a tight spot observing some local riff-raff, he hit Cliffs bar again. With any luck he’d run into Trig.
The town hall meeting had been dry and boring, but the local cops had suggested he attend. So much for keeping his identity secret; they’d even sat him in the front row. He’d immediately begun taking notes. He’d decided on being a mystery novelist; a friend of some guy in the PD. After questioning a few locals and visiting Betty Blue and her daughter, he realized he hadn’t learned anything in the past twenty-four hours about his old friend Juan Suarez’s murder. Nothing, zip, nada. The daughter had been very against any book that would include her mother. She’d said the stress of that would kill her for sure.
“What’ll it be?” the big bruiser guy asked.
“Bud. Thanks.” Jack gazed around. Janelle had moved to the far end of the bar.
Friday evening. The happy hour crowd. It would be the same in every city in the state. Not that Rancho Almagro, a mere thirty thousand strong community, could be compared to Los Angeles two hours up the road. There he was used to the city’s colorful underbelly. He had his informants. Here, he was alone. The murderer could even be in this bar.
Jack took a sip of beer and stared out the window at the entrance to Cliffs restaurant. Retired couples waited in line for the early-bird “two-for-one” dinner. He could go bat-shit if he had to stay here much longer. He hated the California desert, always had. He rubbed at his lower back and winced. At thirty-eight he was too old for this crap, and way too young for an early bird dinner.
“I told you, you need to get a massage.”
The pixie, Janelle, stared into his face. Good. Maybe he could question her a bit. He gave her a quick smile. “And you’re too young to work here. How old are you, anyway?”
“Told you yesterday.” She laughed, a tinkle of a laugh, and tilted her chin. “I’m twenty-one.”
“Yeah, and I told you I’ve got lots of cop friends,” he said. “I can check your ID.” He was only kidding, but damn, she didn’t look a day older than sixteen. Her hair, baby fine, blond, and pulled off her forehead into a long ponytail, had been swept up at the sides with little girl clips. Her eyes were gray, not blue, like he’d thought before. Gray should be cold, but her eyes glistened. He thought of his mother’s gray eyes.
“My mother’s friend owns this place,” Janelle said. “Mom’s also a businesswoman. She owns a spa and has a new treatment. Dolphin Therapy.”
“Yes,” he said, and nodded. “The Blue Dolphin.” He glanced at a few newcomers reflected in the mirror behind the bar then turned back to Janelle. “A seafood restaurant?”
“No, Jack.” Her laugh pealed out like bells announcing something of importance. “See, I knew you weren’t listening. Your back is acting up, and yes, you do need a massage.”
She shook her head, gave him that look that said he was a lost cause, or a scraggly homeless dog. He took another sip of beer. No massage. No strangers touching his body. Besides, the mother might own some sleazy massage parlor. The kid could be soliciting business.
“Here,” Janelle said, sliding a shiny blue four-by-ten inch card across the bar.
“Dolphin Therapy?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “What is that?”
“Turn it over,” she said, and went back to her customers.
He mulled over the next line: Relax your mind. Use all of your senses. Our dolphins will meet you there. Almagro Healing Center, written in a loopy scroll, advertised everything from sports massage to music meditation therapy. Whatever the hell that was. Healing Center?
The blushing face of the woman at the back of the town hall meeting flashed into his thoughts. Now he knew who Janelle reminded him of. He turned the card over: Capture the sounds of the ocean; watch dolphins swimming; enjoy synchronized lights; listen to beautiful music and dolphin vocalization captured in healing sessions in Cancun, all while lying on a water bed designed to send music as vibration through the body.
Cancun? He skipped the rest of the crap about self-help and thought field therapy, and checked the prices: 45 minute journey: $35. Buy 6 sessions for $120.
Excitement bubbled up inside him. He knew Juan had to have been stressed out when he’d screamed those words. In retrospect, Jack kne
w that was the moment before Juan’s life had been taken. He’d figured his old partner had gotten his words jumbled, because dolphins and the desert don’t mix. He glanced down the bar. Were the woman and her pixie daughter involved in Juan’s death? He tapped the edge of the card to his chin.
Only one way to find out. He’d forgo his dislike of a stranger touching his body in order to gain that information. Or, better still, if it didn’t make him look like a girl, he’d get the dolphin therapy.
He barked out a short laugh.
Janelle glanced up, grinned, and raised her index finger. “Be right with you, Jack.”
Chapter Three
Debbie grabbed the spa phone on the fifth ring, barely saving it from going to voicemail.
“Mom,” Janelle said. “I know you have no bookings after four. Can I send over a client for Dolphin Therapy?”
“Okay, sure. I’ve got an hour until closing.” She listened to the background noises of the bar and a few murmured words. Fancy that? Her daughter was talking up her spa and getting more clients. Maybe the bar wasn’t such a bad place for her to work.
Janelle came back on the line. “He’s already on his way. He’ll be there in ten minutes. His name is Jack Davis. A visiting cowboy...or at least that’s what he claims.”
“What does that mean?” Debbie held the telephone handset tighter. Her daughter, the someday mystery writer…suspicion and curiosity were part of her nature.
“I think he’s a tired, cranky ex-cop with a bad back. I’ve got to run. This place is a zoo.”
“Oh. Thanks for the client.” Debbie hung up the phone, crossed the foyer and flipped the sign to open. A cowboy? A flash of the Montana license plate from the reporter’s car whizzed into her thoughts. She stood still a moment, holding her breath, and then shrugged it off. There were a lot of people in town. The golfing season pulled them in by the droves.
Mr. Davis wants dolphin therapy. Yeah, right.
Now she’d heard everything. There weren’t many male customers for that. In the open front doorway, she sniffed at the fresh cool air, and left the door propped open. Late fall in the desert was her favorite time of the year.
She walked down the small hallway and turned on the soft blue lights in the dolphin room and fluffed the pillows. Two of her staff had taken vacation time. She’d been giving back-to-back massages all day, and her entire body ached. Her last client had left, after a deep tissue sports massage, and she flexed her fingers and shook out her wrists. Her hour of stress relief would have to wait. Back at the countertop Debbie lowered the piped-in music, picked up her novel and wire-rimmed eyeglasses, and sat. The phone rang again.
“I want a massage,” a gruff male voice said.
Used to less direct requests and more of that little town niceness, she frowned. “I may have time available tomorrow afternoon, sir.” She pulled the appointment book closer.
“Today.”
His voice sounded in some way familiar and she wanted to keep him on the line. Keep him talking. She shook her head. Now she was getting paranoid. “Let me check—”
“Now. Damn it. I need it now. I’m in pain.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, maintaining a sympathetic yet firm tone. “We’re booked for today, but tomorrow—”
He cursed and slammed the phone down.
Debbie shivered. There really was a frightening tone to his voice. She’d heard it somewhere before. A breeze whipped up. At almost five o’clock, the sky had already darkened. Strings of white twinkle lights were wrapped around the trunks of the date palms that lined the outdoor shopping mall, but they gave off little light. She moved the bookmark in her novel, adjusted her glasses, thought about walking over to close the door, and then recalled Mr. Davis would soon arrive.
She pulled her blazer tight around her chest, brushing off the unease that lingered from the phone call, refusing to live her life in fear. A large shadow fell across the countertop. She jerked her head up, pulling in a quick breath.
“Hi,” the burly figure said.
“Can I…can I help you?” she asked.
He remained inside the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn brown leather jacket. “I’m Jack Davis. Janelle Williams recommended your place.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, thankful to be breathing again, and recognized him as the cowboy from this morning’s meeting. “Janelle’s my daughter. Please come in.” She beckoned him inside. “How can I help you?”
He filled the tiny room, and his almost black eyes assessed everything in the foyer, including her, in less than five seconds. With long and unruly dark hair topping his collar, deep lines around an unsmiling mouth, and the dark shadow of a beard, he appeared handsome in a rugged sort of way. Handsome and trouble. But he didn’t look like a cop. A rush of adrenaline and a sense of danger flooded her body. There was no reason he should have her every visceral sense on hyper-alert, but he did.
“What exactly are you interested in?”
“I’ve got a bad lower back. Stress related.”
“Oh,” Debbie said. She’d thought Janelle had said he wanted the dolphin therapy. She gripped one throbbing wrist and flexed her hand, trying to hide her disappointment. “What type of massage?”
“Actually,” he said, and looked around eagerly. “I’m interested in your Blue Dolphin Therapy.”
“Ah, you mean the Dolphin Therapy.”
“Yes, that’s what I said.”
She wouldn’t correct him. Blue dolphins, gray dolphins, they could be purple for all she cared. Her hands relaxed, and she almost sighed, thankful that she didn’t have to massage his well-proportioned gluteus maximus. Although, as he moved around the room and picked up CD’s and books on healing, running his hands over strings of beads and crystals and other merchandise, she couldn’t help but admire those same glutes straining against the seat of his tight blue jeans.
A professional who never let herself daydream about a person’s body, at least not a client’s, she averted her gaze. “Will this be one session, or would you like the series?”
He turned. “What?”
“We have a special. If you’ll be in town for a while it might be worth—”
“What if I don’t enjoy the first one?” he asked, and a crease in his forehead deepened, causing his heavy dark eyebrows to lower and shade his narrowed eyes.
Suspicious, well, he must be a cop, and probably an undercover cop. Darn. And he must be investigating the murder. Did he think she could be involved? Her heartbeat bumped up a notch at that thought. “Well, you don’t have to decide now,” she said. “You can tell me when you pay at the end of the treatment.”
Darn. With his address and phone number she could have discovered more about him while he was in the therapy room. That’s what Dena Cabrera would do. He’d have had to give that information if he’d purchased a series of treatments. He could pay in cash for one session, leave, and she’d never see him again. She warned herself to get a grip. He couldn’t really be bad if he’d been at the meeting today. Could he?
“Please, follow me,” Debbie said.
Inside the treatment room, she held her breath for a moment. They stood so close that his arm brushed against hers. The scent of his manliness, a pleasant mix of soap and deodorant, and something else—not cologne—filled her nostrils. No, Jack Davis wouldn’t wear cologne. And he wouldn’t be interested in dolphin therapy, either.
What did he want?
She gestured toward the bed and recalled how he’d stared at her at the meeting. Perspiration began to bead on her brow and upper lip. She moved closer to the doorway. “Go ahead and, ah, lie down. You don’t have to remove clothing if you don’t want to…um, just your boots. Maybe take off your jacket, too. Um, I’ll leave you now,” she said, unable to stop the rush of words. “If you get cold there are blankets folded at the end of the bed. I turn on the treatment switches at the front desk. If you need anything, there’s a buzzer.”
“You don’t stay in here
with me?”
“Nope.” Thank goodness. The very last thing she needed would be to sit beside his gorgeous body while the bed undulated. She pointed to a buzzer. “Press that if you get anxious. Remember it’s your private time to relax and to let the vibrations soothe you.”
“Anxious?” He sat on the side of the bed and stared at her, his dark eyes narrowing again.
“Well, some people feel claustrophobic. Most don’t, as a rule. But just in case.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and turn off your cell phone so you don’t have any disturbances.” She closed the door behind her, pulled in several deep breaths, and scurried back to the desk.
The man had her all on edge and not in a good way. Actually, it was a good way, but one she didn’t want to explore with him. He was all wrong. So big and dark, and she’d bet he had chest hair. In her limited adult love life, she’d never been with a guy who had chest hair. She’d often wondered what it felt like and—
“Oh, hell,” she said. “Snap out of it.”
Debbie turned on the switches for the dolphin room and picked up her novel. There was no denying he’d shown interest in her. But she couldn’t get involved with a guy because she barely had time to spend with her daughter. And she had a murder to solve. She glanced at her watch. Janelle would be working her butt off at almost the end of happy hour.
Why would her English Major daughter want to work in a bar? Debbie caught herself before she did a little tut-tut like Grandma used to do. She shook her head, knowing she acted like a little old lady. Still, it bothered her no end that her only child drove home alone after the midnight closing hour, and sometimes later.
The world sure had become a scary place. Especially college campuses, not that she knew much about them. But she’d heard stories. She’d given up a lot to send Janelle to college, and had forgone her own education to raise her child alone. Not that she regretted any of those decisions. She took off her reading glasses and glanced out at the darkness. Remembering the abusive caller, she walked over and clipped the door shut. A quick call to Dena Cabrera might not be a bad idea.
