From Barcelona, with Love (12 page)

Mac grinned. Jassy de Ravel was a take-no-prisoners kind of woman. He said, “Tell me, did Paloma know you were going to call me?”

“She did not. No one knew. The family Matriarch, Lorenza de Ravel, called a meeting yesterday. Lorenza and Bibi inherited most of the Ravel vineyards and estates. You may have heard of our family?”

Mac most certainly had. The Marqués de Ravel wines had claimed a goodly share of the American market, and their sherries had ranked alongside Sandeman and Domecq for a couple of centuries.

“Anyhow,” Jassy continued. “We have a set of circumstances here where it is imperative to find out, finally, exactly what has happened to Bibi. Bruno Peretti is Paloma's legal stepfather. Now he wants to get his hands on Bibi's one-third share of the estate, and legal guardianship of Paloma. He's trying to take that child away from me, and I'm not going to allow it. And nor is the Matriarch.
Over our dead bodies will that awful man get Paloma.
” She stopped for a moment, thinking, then added, sadly, “As well as maybe Bibi's.”

Mac said, “Then you really think Bibi is dead?”

There was a long silence, while Jassy seemed to be thinking about it. “I don't want to believe that,” she said finally. “But if she's not dead then how could she
not
have come back to get her daughter?”

“She didn't come back because she's an accused murderer. She never went to trial but the blame still sticks. And, far as I remember, no one else has been arrested for those crimes.”

Jassy said, “Look, Mac Reilly, I'm prepared to fly out tomorrow—
today
—to meet with you. Please,
please,
tell me you will help us. I'll be on the next flight, I'll even
charter
a plane, I can be there in just hours.…”

Mac thought quickly about his hiatus; about his plans for a fishing holiday, and Sunny's plans for a vacation in Mauritius. He saw his long slow days alone with the woman he loved disappearing like smoke from that barbeque; and if he closed his eyes he could almost hear the distant muted slurp of the Indian Ocean's aquamarine waves on white sugar-sand; he could almost smell the rum and the spices, the cumin and coriander, the masala, lemongrass, ginger.… “Please don't do that, Jassy,” he said quickly.

“You've got to help me,” she begged. “Paloma told me you were the only one who would know what to do. Paloma was stalking you, you know, on the beach, she wanted to ask you to help then, but she was too shy and too embarrassed.…”

Mac remembered her waif's big brown eyes. He sighed. “I'll tell you what I
will
do. I'll look into the case for you here in L.A., find out what I can. It's so long I don't remember offhand exactly what happened, but it'll all be documented. I'll get the facts and we'll take it from there.”

There was disappointment in Jassy's voice as she said, “Then I'll have to accept that. And I thank you again for your help, Mr. Reilly. It's very important to us, and especially Paloma. I can't let her go back to that man.”

“I'll check on him too,” Mac said. “And it's
Mac.
Remember?”

Jassy laughed then. Surprised, Mac thought she sounded like a pretty woman.

“Thank you, Mac.”

“Tell Paloma hello. And if she wants to call me, she can.”

“I'll tell her. I'm sure she'll be thrilled.”

Mac closed his phone. He looked at Sunny, who was still standing in the bedroom doorway. The smell of fish hung in the air and Pirate held the baguette like a bone between his paws, gnawing happily.

“Let me guess. That was Paloma's aunt Jassy,” Sunny said.

“It was.”

“And I'll bet she said she's sorry she left Paloma alone and the child almost drowned.”

“You got it.”

“What else?”

“She and the Ravel Matriarch and the entire Ravel family want us to find long-lost Bibi.”

“
Us
?”

Mac shrugged. “Well,
me.
But don't forget you are my assistant.”

“Unpaid.”

“We can do something about that.”

“And tell me, what exactly
are
you going to do about Bibi?”

He frowned, thinking. “I don't remember the case, it's a couple of years ago. I said I'd check it out, see what was up; what, if anything, has been resolved.”

“That doesn't find Bibi.”

“No, but it might tell us why Bibi disappeared. It will also tell us about the dead lover and his girlfriend. And also, and most crucially—and I might add the real reason I'm prepared to look into it—and I am only
looking into it,
you know, I'm
not taking on
the case…”

“Just
looking,
” Sunny said. It was the phrase women used when they said they weren't shopping, but they really were.

“The reason I even agreed to
look into
this case is because Bibi's ex wants her money and in order to get it he's claiming custody of Paloma.”

“You mean he wants Paloma so he can get his hands on the money?”

“That's exactly what the Ravel family think. So I'll have to do a bit of looking into the husband too.”

“What's his name?”

“I've no idea. I haven't even thought about the Bibi case in years.”

“And now you will.” Sunny saw her Mauritius paradise disappearing before her eyes.

“We can still go fishing,” Mac said, hopefully.

She threw a pillow at him.

“I'd better warm up that pizza,” he said, ducking past her, out the door.

 

Chapter 16

Bodega de Ravel, Spain

Paloma was at the
de Ravel bodega waiting for her friend Cherrypop to arrive. She thought the only good thing about leaving her aunt Jassy in Barcelona and going to live with Lorenza at the vineyard was that her best friend lived there.

Cherrypop was only a year younger than Paloma, but she always seemed so much wiser, even though she had not traveled the world like Paloma, who had even spent two weeks alone at a big hotel in Paris and sipped champagne from leftover party glasses when nobody was looking. Lorenza said Cherrypop was one of those girls who seemed to have been born with her head screwed on. Paloma thought she meant that Cherrypop was “sensible.” Nothing could have been farther from the truth.

Cherrypop had acquired her name as a small child when an indulgent cook had fueled her addiction to a syrupy cherry soda. It was said that the child's first words had been to demand “cherrypop,” which the smiling cook had given her, straight from the plastic bottle with a bright pink straw that matched the color of the soda. The child had sipped her cherrypop endlessly through that straw, until the sugar finally wore a little hole the exact same round shape of the straw in her two front baby teeth. She had been called Cherrypop ever since, though her proper name was Monica, and never a drop of soda had crossed her teeth from that day to this. Much to her chagrin.

Now, eight-year-old Cherrypop had perfect new front teeth. She had long blond hair worn in a thick braid that swung down her back and that Paloma envied. She was small and chunky and with the narrowest prettiest feet Paloma had ever seen, except for Jassy of course, but then Jassy had a pedicure every week and had feet any ballerina would envy. Cherrypop had a cute little snub nose and innocent blue eyes and knew how to behave herself when she had to. And how to misbehave when she didn't. Which was one of the reasons Paloma liked her.

Paloma's room was on the second floor of the big white house and had two windows, each overhung with a blue tiled gable. Paloma thought they looked like eyebrows, and they created areas of shade that made her room seem mysterious and very private.

Lorenza told Paloma always to remember that even though she had so far not spent very much time there, this room was hers. Nobody else would ever be allowed to sleep in it, even when the house was filled to the rafters for the after-harvest party, or Christmas, or holidays. Lorenza wanted Paloma to understand that even though she might travel the world with Jassy,
this
was her true “home.”

Paloma missed Jassy, but now she was looking forward to seeing her friend. She sat with knees under her chin, on the window seat, watching, waiting. The seat cushions were made out of some soft peachy-gray fabric, silky stuff that felt good under her bare legs, and were not at all “little-girly” or cute.

“You are definitely not the girly-cute type,” Lorenza said, when Paloma asked why she couldn't have pink gingham and a fluffy pink feather boa to wind round her four-poster, like Cherrypop did.

She'd said, “My dear little Paloma, you are much too good for feather boas. And that's something you should remember when you are a grown woman.”

Paloma had wondered what she'd meant by that last bit, but she knew the first part was true. She was certainly not cute. Or beautiful. Unlike her mother. She wondered how it could be that a child could resemble her mother and yet not? That she could have the same coloring, the same characteristics, and yet appear so different, so plain. Besides, she wished she could have had pink.

She did have
one
pink thing. The telephone. Barbie pink, it sat on the small desk placed under the second window. The desk was made from wood hewn from hundred-year-old vines, gnarly and gray with age. It stood there, on sinewy-vine legs with little darker-gray circles where branches had been chopped off; with her schoolbooks dead center and the pink phone on the right.

That phone looked old-fashioned, like something out of a Gidget movie. Paloma knew about Gidget from watching old movies on TV with Jassy, who adored all that fifties, early sixties surfer stuff—but in fact it was a replica and was as fast, if not faster than her iPhone. Jassy had replaced the one lost in the Pacific Ocean. Of course Paloma had not told Jassy exactly
how
she had lost it until yesterday, when the whole story about almost drowning had come out. Anyhow, now the pink phone rang and she leapt to answer it.

“¿Diga?”
she said.

She expected it was Cherrypop, who should have gotten her message by now, that she was here and dying to see her.

But it was Jassy, who said, “I called him.”

Paloma drew in a shocked breath. She didn't even have to ask who. She crossed her fingers hopefully. “What did he say?” Praying it was “yes.”

“He said he would look into the case.”

Her
mother
was just “a case.” “What does that mean?”

“It means he'll check the police records, check out everyone, including your stepfather, and get back to us.”

“Is that good?”

Jassy thought about it, then said tactfully, “He said you could call him, any time, if you want to talk.”

“Thank you.” Paloma knew she would not call. She hadn't even been able to speak to Mac about her mom right there in person on Malibu beach. Even when he'd
asked
her, for God's sake.

“Anyway,
chica,
I offered to fly there right away to talk to him, but he said no, he'll just check it all out.”

“He'll find her,” Paloma said, suddenly filled with the kind of confidence that had no basis in reality. But then she wasn't dealing with reality. She was dealing with the possibility that her mother was a murderer.

She had discussed this with Cherrypop, who'd told her all that murder stuff was just crap. Cherrypop's mom was from the projects in Brooklyn so Cherrypop had a good command of American vernacular. She knew every curse word there was and she also claimed to know what they meant. Paloma didn't always believe her; Cherrypop just threw stuff out at you and you had to sift truth from lies … something Paloma also knew about, though when
she
told fibs—well no, damn it—(or “fuck it” as Cherrypop said when she was showing off) she told real
lies.
Downright deliberate
lies,
not stupid little fibs, but they were only to cover up the stories about her mother. It was Paloma's way of protecting her.

Jassy said, “Paloma, are you going to call Mac?”

“But he said he'd get back to
you.
”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then I guess I'll just wait and see.” Paloma thought for a minute, then added, “But Jassy, if all he is going to do is look up the records and see what really happened, why can't
I
do that?”

“Because Mac has access to certain information we don't. We'll just have to wait and see what happens. I'm sure he'll call soon. Meanwhile have a lovely time with your grandmother. I'm going to miss you,
chiquita.
”

“Me too,” Paloma said, as Jassy rang off.

The door was flung open and Cherrypop stood there wearing copycat red Converse sneakers like Paloma's, her long blond plait swinging over her shoulder, her oh-so-innocent round blue eyes taking Paloma in.

“Love the hair,” Cherrypop said, and Paloma laughed. Cherrypop was such a liar.

 

Chapter 17

Malibu

Mac's big-screen computer
took up most of the space on his desk, an old wooden rolltop model Sunny had found on one of her scrounges around the local flea markets and which, like the dining table with the bulging legs, she assured him would qualify as “an antique” someday.
When,
she wasn't exactly sure, but Mac put his trust in her and also put up with the old ink stains and the fact that the desk was totally unsuitable for electronic equipment and a large man with too many papers, most of which were piled on the floor, to be transferred later to his “office,” a single room in Santa Monica with a frosted glass door with his name on it.
MAC REILLY PI
.