Murder Under the Italian Moon (23 page)

"I don't know how long Forrester and Ruby had known each other before the accident or the filing of the law suit against Caltrans. I do know there was a lot more going on than client-lawyer relationship. Forrester ended up in a mental institution not long after the lawsuit was settled. Perhaps they locked up the wrong person."

"I'm assuming Forrester is still—locked up?"

"Your assumption is correct. I heard a detective from the Santa Ana Police Department interviewed him, or at least tried to. The mind is gone, forever. Results of a crack-cocaine overdose; the doctors were able to save his body, but not his brain. Anyway, you think you can at least give it a try? About Ruby, I mean? Anything else you'd like to talk about? " Bonnie's voice and attitude had changed as our conversation progressed; it morphed from the marina Bonnie to Bonnie the lawyer faster than a snowman melting under the desert sun. Time to say goodbye.

"I will think about it, I promise. Goodbye Bonnie, and thanks again for all you did for Kyle." I hung up.

I didn't lie when I said I would think about it. Think about it? I had been obsessing about it from the minute I set eyes on that duplicate file. All I wanted to do was to wipe the smile off Nick's face. I couldn't. Next best thing would be to wipe Ruby off the face of the earth.

My husband and my best friend.

Lovers.

Cheaters.

Liars.

They made a mockery of my trust, my loyalty, my love. And one of them was now working hard to destroy my son. She would not succeed. Her dark side existed all along, and as usual I chose the path of less resistance.
Look the other way, Lella. Never stop believing. This too shall pass.

No more. Bonnie and Larry were right; I knew Ruby better than anyone else. Time to put my knowledge to good use. I mentally revisited the afternoon events and the conversation I had with Larry on the drive back. We spoke of Ruby's old place. The place with the grand view where Ruby filled her rainy afternoons listening to Miles Davis, sipping wine and apparently having sex with my husband. I remembered the days I spent at her place, helping her to recover from her mental confusion, and I remembered something else, her tendency to "go backward," like the time she went looking for me at the house I had already moved from.

What if…what if she went back to her old address, even if the building was gone, the property was gated, the place deserted, safe and secluded—what if. The thought lit an itch in me, a need to know, to find out—what if.

I undressed in a hurry, grabbed my workout pants and a sweatshirt and hesitated only a second before I put on my jogging shoes. The toe still felt painful, but a sense of urgency possessed me. And a sense of purpose, something I hadn't experienced for so long it felt like I tasted it for the very first time. I knew I had to get there before sundown. I ran out the door without checking on Flash.

Ruby's old place was south of Aliso Beach, on the ocean side of the Pacific Coast Highway. On this late Monday afternoon Laguna wasn't as chaotic as it would be in few months. The place was a hub of colorful confusion, laid-back people crossing here and there, and cars parked in hop-scotching patterns off the side streets. I headed toward South Laguna, with its plethora of quaint restaurants and small art galleries sustained in essence by local patrons. In this older part of Laguna some of the beach cottages dated back to the 1900s. That abundance of mismatched dwellings created a hard-to-miss distinction between Laguna and the rows after rows of pink houses to the east of the freeway. I drove by deserted beach parking. Maybe it had to do with the clouds littering the sky. My Mustang climbed the hill like a steed on a chase, and knowing how close I was to Ruby's old place raised my anxiety level.

Would I be able to find the driveway? It was always hard to see it from the road, and no doubt it was designed that way. I remembered the old rusty gate and then the private street dropping straight down, to where the house stood. The garage was created as a shield between the gate and the house. I hadn't thought about that place in years. Memories of jazz and the smell of brine came rushing at me. Memories of the days I spent helping Ruby to get well. How could I have been so blind? Blind? More like blind, deaf and dumb.

I saw the "No Trespassing" sign.

The gate
.

My heart pounded in my throat, and I felt sick.

There was no place to park. Across the street from the gate, hundreds of homes, cottages, duplexes on stilts, covered the steep hill, clumped like flocks of lovebirds, colorful and charming, all without parking spaces. The cars of the residents could be found parked on the east side of Pacific Highway, day or night, in rows and close together like links of a chain. On the ocean side there was no parking allowed, and green containers lined the west curb. Trash pick-up day. That wasn't enough to stop me today. I squeezed my Mustang between the garbage cans, forcing a few to push forward.

I got out of the car and walked up to the rusty iron gate. I stretched my neck but couldn't see anything past the rocky path unwinding under the ancient trees and the bushy, neglected edges. My mind wanted to revisit the image in the photo. I wasn't going to let it.

I shook the gate. It groaned, but didn't budge. I walked back and forth the length of the gate, the width of the frontage, not willing to surrender to a piece of metal. What could I find in my car to help unlock this gate? The only thing in my trunk was a gallon of water, an umbrella and a beach chair. None of these items had been needed or used in years.
Dio mio,
the
beach chair! The excitement of the discovery had my hands trembling while opening the trunk. I unfolded the low canvas chair and propped it against the whining gate. Standing in the center made the chair wobble and try to fold close on me, so I grabbed on to the gate with both hands and pulled myself up. That was when I saw it: the roof of the cottage. I recognized the dark shingles. Farther below, the spot where the house once stood was empty, cleaned out, allowing for a patch of sky and ocean to show through. Oh my God! The old garage turned residence was just the way I remembered it
.
Had to get down there, had to. Damn gate.

I read somewhere that if you could get your head through an opening, your whole body would fit too. Maybe I could squeeze myself between the metal bars? Would I dare push my head through first? Nah. I slid my foot between the bars, then my leg. No problem. If I was going to do this I may as well do it right. My purse was in the car, my car keys in my pocket. I put my hands on the last bar of the gate, the one closest to the lock. It looked like the one offering the least resistance. I pushed my right shoulder in first, then my right leg. Forget the head; if my butt
can slide in so will the rest. While the bulky sweatshirt wasn't helping with the sliding process, it softened the pressure of the rusty metal against my chest. I panicked when my head got stuck. I couldn't move, couldn't even wiggle my nose. God! What now? I was hyperventilating, and sweat trickled down my neck. I should have brought my cell phone with me. I should have told Larry.

Then a miracle happened. Perspiration covered my forehead, my face. I pushed my head one way, then the other way. It hurt and I wasn't sure I was moving anything until I felt the bridge of my nose touching the bar. Just like that, my head was free, and I found myself on the other side of the gate.

I stood, listening for a police siren, a dog barking or some neighbor shouting at me. Nothing.

In spite of the adrenaline rush, the distance from the gate to the cottage felt like pure agony. Only gravel covered the path where Ruby used to grow rose bushes, and the place looked locked and in dire need of a coat of paint. The second-story windows were boarded up. I couldn't see a thing either way, yet something inside me had me believing she was there. I walked around the whole building. At first I couldn't come to terms with the fact that it was standing, untouched, and with the exception of the boarded windows, pretty much the way I remembered it. When I came to see Ruby for the first time after the accident, the roses were dying. I brought them back to life, the roses and Ruby. Double-crossing, back-stabbing Ruby.

I was trespassing. I knew that. If I forced the door open, would I be destroying evidence? I pulled the sleeves of my sweatshirt down to cover my hands like I used to do as a child in Italy when I had forgotten my mittens. First I tried pushing, pulling. Then I banged on the front door with both fists. I held my breath, waiting for something to happen. I figured Ruby didn't want to attract attention, so she would come out of hiding to shush me. I figured wrong. It was getting late, and the sunlight was fading. The big trees were dark silhouettes against a painted sky. A sense of gloom hung in the air. I kept hitting that locked door, over and over, for the weeks of pain and frustration I carried bottled inside. I banged my fists until I no longer could then I squatted on the gravel, my back against the door, and wept.

A grating noise came from up the hill. Rusty hinges being forced open. God, oh, God, the gate. Someone opened the gate. The only way out was through that gate. I held my breath and waited. No birds chirping above. No waves crashing below. Only buzzing of distant engines on the PCH disturbed the evening stillness. I couldn't wait. I stood, wiped the tears off my face and wobbled up the driveway toward the gate.

I saw the shadow first. A dark silhouette standing inside the open gate. I walked to the top of the steep driveway with an attitude, attitude being the only thing that kept me going. Because of the setting sun I had trouble making out the person staring down at me. One thing I was sure of—it wasn't Ruby. The man standing there with crossed arms and looking at me with much disapproval was Larry. My Larry.

How did he know where to find me? Before I could think of something to say, he cleared his throat and kept on staring. No smile, no hello, the silent treatment.

"How did you find me?"

"I didn't come here looking for you."

"Oh! Who did you come looking for?" No, no, I didn't mean that at all.

I heard tires screeching, doors slamming, voices. Soon I recognized Detective Bob, Florian and four more people heading our way.

Larry moved closer. "How did you get through the locked gate? What did you do down there?" There was nothing friendly about his voice or his attitude.

"I squeezed between the bars. Down where? You mean the garage? Nothing, I knocked on the door, but no one answered." Did he hear my uninterrupted pounding from the gate?

He looked at my sweatshirt. I followed his gaze; large rusty spots covered my chest area. "Did you touch anything? Tell me now. Would we find your fingerprints all over the place?" It was more a hiss than a whisper.

"Oh, yeah, fingerprints and DNA. I peed in the bushes."
Did I really say that?

The cops reached the gate; if they didn't expect to find me there they hid it well. Bob high-fived Larry, who had moved away from me, and Florian smiled to me, a real smile, wrinkled nose and all.

"We got the search warrant along with the owner's blessing." Bob headed across the property. "Let's see if there's electricity like they claimed."

The other cops walked down the driveway toward the garage. I didn't know what to do with myself. My instinct was to tag along with the rest of them and see what was inside the building. A long, cold stare from Larry kept me from moving. Did Larry follow me here? I didn't like his attitude.

"Would you like to wait in the car?"

"Wait—for what? Why can't I go down there?"

"It's official police business. They may want to ask you a few questions about your presence here."

Anger bubbled inside me; none of this police business would be taking place had it not been for me. Then I remembered I never told any of them, and especially not Larry, about the location of Ruby's old place. Damn. Was I a suspect? I had to stop watching police shows on TV, honestly.

"Okay, I'll wait in the car." I grabbed my beach chair that Larry had moved away from the gate and walked toward the street, planning to get into the car and drive myself home. If they wanted to ask questions they knew where to find me. Looked like Larry had that all figured out. The Mustang I left sandwiched between the sidewalks and the garbage cans was now blocked on the street side by Larry's Mercedes. I was stuck. The rest of the unmarked police cars were parked pretty much where they wanted, including neighbors' driveways. I didn't turn around to call out to Larry to move his car. I felt his stare on my back, literally. I wasn't sure I could control my anger; how dare he? I unlocked the Mustang and got in. I revved up the engine, another thing I would not do under normal circumstances. I started to move the car back and forth, drive, reverse, inch by inch. Since I only had inches, the movement caused the nearest trash can to slide sideways. Now I had more than a yard. Time ticked away slowly; after I managed to move the second trash can I came to my senses. What was I doing? All I had to do was walk out there, move all the bins back to their homes and drive away. Let smarty pants Larry explain all that to angry neighbors.

The containers were much heavier than expected; one in particular appeared wobbly, and I had trouble keeping it upright. At this point Larry must have realized I meant business.

"Lella, what do you think you're doing? You'll cause an accident."

"I'll cause an accident? You're the one blocking my car."

"Okay, okay, let me move my car."

The first vehicle to hit the brakes because of Larry's Mercedes happened to be a Channel 4 news van. Super! I really, really wanted out of there. Larry started to move his car away from mine; I pushed the gas pedal, barely missing a garbage can, and I headed south without looking back.

By the time I crossed the Golden Lantern intersection, my adrenaline rush had faded, replaced by the slow, simmering pain caused by the truth. I couldn't get myself to stop thinking about Ruby's place without thinking of Nick and Ruby's sweaty nude bodies groping each other on her black mahogany bed. Did he whisper endearing words in her ear while caressing her breasts the way he did to me? Where was I when this was going on? Could he actually touch me and tell me he loved me while the taste of her skin lingered on his lips?