One Hot Mess (31 page)

I could hear his shrug over the phone. “Some folks ain't so excited about motherhood as you, babekins.”

“How old was she?”

“When she died? Forty-seven.”

“When she worked for Rivera.”

“Twenty-four.”

My heart ticked away. The perfect age for a philandering senator. “Was she pretty?”

“Compared to what?”

I had forgotten that he now judged women by Brainy Laney standards. Ergo, everyone was as bland as rice cakes. “Compared to … say, mortal women.”

“I dunno. Brown hair, kinda plain maybe.”

Not the kind to set the senator's world on fire, then. Although, as I've indicated, Solberg was hardly qualified to judge women's looks. “And this from a man who used to date amphibians,” I said.

“Amphibians,” he repeated, and chuckled.

Since he had begun seeing Laney, nothing much bothered him. Now that he was engaged, he was probably bulletproof. I scowled out the window toward the coffee
shop next door. A chocolate chip scone would make the world a better place. “Was there anything odd about her?”

“What's that?”

“Anything the Moral Majority might disapprove of?”

“She was a registered Democrat.”

“Always?”

“Probably not when she was an infant,” he said, and snorted a laugh.

I closed my eyes and reminded myself I had missed my opportunity to kill him. Regardless of how insane it might seem, Laney was in love, and nothing short of an exorcism was likely to change that.

“What else?” I asked.

“Looks squeaky clean to me. Worked full time at Larker Medical Center. Was den mother for her kid's Cub Scout troop, volunteered at the Children's Hospital twice a week, and was leader for her circle at Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran.”

spent Saturday nervous and fatigued and breathless, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't.

Sunday was slightly more productive. By evening I knew as much about Rebecca Harris as I could without sharing a dorm room. By two I had done everything I could think of to investigate the senator's affairs. By three I was passed out in bed and Kathy Baltimore was whispering questions in my head again.

I awoke in full darkness, feeling spooked and breathless, listening to Harley's heavy breaths. Apparently Kathy wasn't bothering
his
dreams. Pattering to the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and told myself it
would be ridiculous to drive all the way to Fresno for Rebeccas visitation on Wednesday. But even as I fell back to sleep, I knew I would.

On New Year's Eve morning, I asked Shirley to cancel my appointments for January 2. I saw three clients, went home early, and fell asleep on the couch long before the first glimpse of the famous dropping ball in Times Square.

I had no idea what time it was when my doorbell rang. I woke up with a start, scared and disoriented. The TV was on mute. Outside, it was as dark as my dreams. Someone knocked. Impatient and loud. Riveras face flashed through my mind, stopping my breath, freezing my thoughts. Harlequin barked, one deep, resonating note. I found my feet with some difficulty and wobbled to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror above the sink looked tired and pale. A crease ran the length of her right cheek. It was possible she was a ghost, but I wasn't holding out much hope.

My visitor knocked again, louder still. Harley was galloping between the door and the living room, nails clicking like castanets.

I smoothed down my skirt, ignored my hair, and headed toward the door. “Who is it?” Even my voice sounded pale.

“Dick Clark.”

My mind spun lazily, then: “D?”

He stepped sideways so that I could see him through the gauzy fabric of the side window. “I've got enough champagne for us
and
the dog.”

I opened the door. He came inside. I glanced down the walkway, although I'm not sure why, and when I looked up he was staring at me.

“You expecting him?” he said.

“Who?”

He smiled. “It wouldn't hurt to make him jealous, you know,” he said, and lifted both hands. There was a bottle in each.

“I'm afraid…” I blinked, still feeling disoriented. “I'm not much of a drinker.”

He shrugged. “Practice makes perfect. You got flutes?”

I did. In a couple of minutes we were settled on the couch. He poured the wine.

“Hard to believe even a cop's dumb enough to leave you alone on New Year's Eve,” he said.

He handed over a glass of champagne. It bubbled merrily. I considered saying something equally cheery but wasn't up to the task.

“I assumed you'd gone back to Chicago.”

He shrugged. “Thought I'd take some time to see your fair city.”

“Don't you”—I took a sip. It was pretty tasty—“have business back home?”

He laughed. He'd left his alligator boots by the long window near my front door. “I'll let them keep their knees a couple more days.”

I was beginning to wake up. “I heard you dealt in livers.”

“I don't know how these rumors get started,” he said, and finished his drink.

“Wow.”

He filled my glass. “I'm slower at other things,” he said, and caught my gaze.

I could already feel the first flush of the champagne cruising through my system like sunshine, but I kept my
voice steady, my dialogue serious. “What are you doing here?”

“Question is, why isn't there a queue at your door?”

I glanced away “I'm taking a break.”

“From life?”

“From men.”

He canted his head a little. “We're not all fucktards, you know.”

“That's what they tell me.” I stifled a sigh and drank again.

“They who?”

“Men.”

He chuckled. “Anyone specific?”

I shrugged and settled back against the cushion. “There's a guy in Edmond Park.”

“He good-looking?”

“I guess so.”

“Tall?”

“Tall enough.”

“Not a fucktard?”

“Doesn't seem to be.”

“But?”

“Sometimes I'm not a very good judge of men.”

“Who are your other options?”

“There's a guy in Sespe. I think he might be a bazillionaire.”

He clicked his glass to mine in a kind of salute. “Looks don't matter squat, then.”

I shrugged.

“So why are you here? Alone?”

“I keep wondering if they're planning to kill me.”

“Bound to put the brakes on a budding relationship,” he said, and filled my glass.

“Are
you?”

He finished up his wine and refilled. “What's that?”

“Planning to kill me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“I don't know. It seems to be a trend.”

“The Edmond Park guy try to kill you?”

“Not yet.”

“How about the ugly bazillionaire?”

“I didn't say he was ugly.”

“Not as good-looking as me, though, huh?”

I drank again, watching him. Donald Archer
wasn't
as good-looking. And probably not as rich. Or as powerful. “Do I owe you more money?” I asked.

He laughed. “Sometimes I honestly don't think you know how cute you are.”

I drew back a wobbly half inch. “I'm not cute.”

“Beautiful, then.”

I felt a little dizzy. “Really?”

“Those damn cops. Never say what needs saying,” he said, and kissed me.

He tasted good, sweet like the wine. I drew back a little and watched his face. His eyes were sparkling. Harley was lying in front of the TV But he lifted his head suddenly and glanced toward the door.

I did the same, heart pounding.

“If he's not here yet, he doesn't deserve you,” D said.

I turned back toward him. “I know.” I felt a little weepy. Liquor does that to me. Not to mention New Year's. And best friends marrying undersize doofuses.

He kissed me again. “If he shows up, do you want me to beat the crap out of him?”

I was feeling a little breathless, a little aroused. “He's got a gun.”

“I've got a black belt.”

“Really?”

“Want to see?”

“You've got it on?”

“Under my clothes.”

“No kidding?”

He chuckled.

“Oh,” I said.

By midnight both bottles were empty. He slipped his arm behind my back and kissed me as “Auld Lang Syne” played with nostalgic moodiness on the television. His body felt warm and tight against mine. His lips were firm, his kiss as slow as summer.

“Want to move back to Chicago?” he asked.

“Not tonight.”

“Maybe later,” he said, and kissed me again.

After that we talked about family and plans and friends who married outside their species.

When I woke in the morning I was lying in my bed, covers tucked snugly up under my chin. I pulled them aside. I was absolutely, startlingly bone-jarringly naked.

ESPITE MY LACK OF A SHOWER and screaming uncertainty regarding what I had done with D, I arrived at Rademacher Funeral Home early, signed the registry and watched the people. Rebecca Harris was survived by her husband and her son, but the son seemed to be absent. The husband, looking stoic and stiff in his boxy suit, did his best to meet and greet. I felt like a voyeur, but I had been becoming acquainted with the senators cronies for weeks now and scanned the crowd. Would the murderer feel a need to show his face here? Or was he too savvy for that?

“She was the best.”

I jerked toward the speaker, feeling guilty and jittery.
The woman who stood next to me was in her early fifties.

“Faith that could move mountains,” she said. She dabbed her nose with a tissue. “I'm Beth Culbertson. I'm in…
was
in…” Her voice cracked. “Her circle at Shepherd.”

We shook hands. She waited for me to speak, but I was busy trying to look intelligent.

“Did you know her well?” she asked.

“No. I just…” Words failed me, but probably not for the reason she thought. “We were friends… a long while ago.”

“But you know Delbert.”

I blinked, mind scrambling.

“Her husband.”

“Oh… well…”

“They were well yoked.”

I ran that weird image frenetically through my mind, then got raggedly back on track. “I don't remember him from the campaign,” I said.

She frowned. “What campaign is that?”

“Becky and I worked for Senator Rivera together,” I said.

“Senator Rivera?” She drew back, surprised.

“A long time ago.”

“Really? She never mentioned it.”

“You were friends?”

“We taught Tykes for Christ together for five years. She never said she had brushed with greatness.”

“Greatness?” I gave her a questioning glance, then caught her meaning. “Oh, yes, the senator. Sure. He's amazing.”

“And so good-looking.”

“Like a god,” I said, but before I could swallow my tongue, I felt a presence beside me.

“Ms. McMullen.” The voice was dark-rum deep. “Can I have a word with you?”

I turned, and there he was. Rivera, in all his glaring glory, dressed in dark slacks and a navy-blue ribbed sweater with a V-neck. I refrained from passing out. I also refrained from spewing out an apology. I didn't owe him anything, regardless of what I had or had not done on New Year's Eve. But what the crap
had
I done? By the time I got out of bed, D was gone, as were the bottles. The glasses were clean and set in their proper place. I wondered if, perhaps, I was losing my mind.

“I'm rather busy right now,” I said, and gave Beth Culbertson my best refined-sugar smile.

“I'm sorry to disturb you,” Rivera said, not sounding sorry at all. “But the senator is on the phone.”

I turned toward him, baffled. Beth stared at him, agog.

“If you'll excuse us,” he said, and, nodding curtly, tugged me away.

“The senator called?” I asked, but he glared me down.

“Sure. Said he wanted to take you for a ride at his rancho,” he said, spewing sarcasm. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“It's a free country, Rivera. What are
you
doing here?”

“I'm a police officer, McMullen.” He glanced at the crowd. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “A real one. With a last name and everything.”