Murder Under the Italian Moon (3 page)

"True. That's true." I took a breath. "Lieutenant, why don't you get to the point? Tell me why…I mean, what has happened to Ruby?"

"Ruby—Mrs. Russell—you mean after she shot her husband?"

"What?" I opened and closed my mouth, the smoothness of his statement still piercing my eardrums. "No. No. Wait. You said…I thought…Ruby shot Tom? Ruby isn't dead?"

"Ruby?" He looked straight into my eyes and I noticed his.

Devin's eyes were gray, slightly almond shaped. Or maybe he cultivated an eternal squint to confuse people. Then again, my knowledge of detectives' habits was limited to ancient
Columbo
reruns on sleepless nights.

"Why did you assume Ruby to be the victim?" He tapped his fingers on the mini recorder he'd taken from his jacket pocket. The drumming sounded soft yet as precise as a metronome's rhythm. Time passed. The man knew how to wait.

I sat up straight and reached for my cup. I clamped my hands on the mug, head down, eyes closed. Ruby was alive. She shot her husband. Emotions rushed through my mind like debris in a hurricane. What was wrong with me? I couldn't decide if I felt relief or disappointment.

"Please, forgive me. This morning, when you called, I was sound asleep. I assumed…" I finally raised my eyes to him.

He relaxed against the back of the chair, returning my stare, his eyes as unreadable as before. "I apologize if I misled you. It happened in his office. He was cleaning the gun."

Tom had a gun? What for?

"He set it on the desk to answer the phone. Mrs. Russell—Ruby—picked it up, unaware the safety mechanism wasn't on. Supposedly, Mrs. Russell had never handled a firearm before. The gun went off, the bullet hit Mr. Russell in the back of the skull, and he died instantly. Mrs. Russell called 911, but there wasn't anything anyone could do. Any particular reason why you assumed it was Ruby who died, rather than her husband?"

The chart of a dead woman.
"No." He couldn't be telling the whole story. It made no sense. Ruby would have called me. But then, she had. Was that what she needed to talk to me about that last night? Dear God, why didn't I try harder to get my call through to her?

"Mrs. York, there's nothing personal in my questions, only routine. I didn't mean to upset you." His voice sounded as monotone and calm as before.

It didn't matter, I was drowning in feelings of guilt. Guilt about what? Not being there for her? Not returning her phone call? Getting upset about her neglecting Flash? "When did it happen? Ruby left a message for me at the hotel just before I left Florence. Maybe she wanted to tell me about Tom." I expected more. I wanted Detective Devin to assure me I had nothing to blame myself for. I needed absolution.

"Four days ago—you and the Russells have been friends for a long time, right? I'd like your opinion of their relationship. Did they argue a lot? Were they happy?" The sound of his voice was getting under my skin. It forced me to pay closer attention than I preferred. And he knew it, I could sense it.

"Happy? What's your definition of happiness? Does it have a size? A color? A smell? Does it come in packages, by the pound or by the inch?" I talked like an opinionated, philosophical jerk, but I seemed unstoppable.

He ran his fingers over his forehead without disturbing the annoying perfection of the slicked-back style.

Could I do it? Run my fingers through his
—Dio mio
! What made me think about that? Something about this man pushed all my more regrettable buttons. I swallowed hard in my dry mouth.

He studied me, but I couldn't decipher a thing from his eyes. "The shooting has been ruled accidental."

Nick's death was accidental. And Ruby was with him when it happened. Just like she was with—

Stop it.

"But still…you're here."

"Just to make sure nothing has been overlooked, Mrs. York."

I nodded. He smiled, barely moving his lips. The smile spread, reaching his eyes, and suddenly Lieutenant Devin of Homicide became a real human being. A good-looking, well-dressed human being in a gorgeous charcoal suit with a perfect cut and constructed shoulders. French cuffs peeked out from his sleeves, and light gleamed from the small pyramid-shaped cuff links. Not what I expected a detective to wear.
Columbo again
.

How could I be so superficial? He'd just told me my best friend killed her husband, and I obsessed over his choice of threads? My glance went from his suit to his left hand. No wedding band. Probably in his late forties. I offered him coffee. He declined.

"I'll leave you one of my cards, just in case." His smile lingered.

I walked him to the door. My fingers clutched his business card like my sanity depended on that piece of printed paper.

LAWRENCE DEVIN.
Larry? I liked the sound of his name.

He left and I ran upstairs, put on the pink sweater to match my dress, changed my shoes, grabbed my purse and the car keys and set forth to see Ruby. I tried to remember if I'd left gas in the car when I left for my Italian trip.

The little boy, David, stood by the rows of mailboxes. I kept the car on idle and went to check mine.

"Is that your mailbox?" His pale blue eyes looked puzzled.

"Of course it is." I rummaged for my key. "Why?"

"The other lady gets her mail in there too." He frowned, like a little old soldier standing guard. How odd.

"Oh, you must mean my friend Ruby. Yes, she did that while I was gone. Sort of. My mail and my cat." I sighed. Why was I talking to the little boy about Ruby's shortcomings?

I unlocked the box and looked inside: empty, except for a note from the mail carrier. Due to the volume, my mail waited for me at the post office, and if I wanted delivery to resume, I should call and request it. Great. Apparently Ruby stopped picking up the mail at about the same time she quit taking care of Flash. Answers. I needed answers. Good or bad. Anything would be better than wasting my time guessing and worrying. Why wasn't she picking up the phone? Ruby liked to talk, a lot. She called me at strange hours and from strange places. A lot more must be going on than what the detective shared. Could she be out of town? Where? I was determined to get answers, even if had to camp outside her door.

I eased into the northbound traffic flow on Golden Lantern. Dear God, I'd been gone less than a month and another ridge was already ravaged by construction, new dwellings sprouting on the hilltop. Kyle and I used to fantasize Laguna Niguel was the playground of the Green Giant. At night, he planted the seeds that grew into row after row of pink houses. Lately it looked as if he'd dumped the whole bucket of seeds all at once. So many houses. All looking alike. Reminded me of Lego blocks, as colorful and as generic. Just what we needed. More houses. Southern California was already overcrowded, according to my friends. It didn't matter to me. I loved the place in spite of the traffic, the high housing costs, the earthquakes and everything else that came with the territory.

Past Crown Valley, the scenery changed. No more pink houses. I approached the Nellie Gail Ranch. My stomach began to churn. Ruby moved here when she married Tom. The logical place for their fairytale wedding. Of course, the house didn't look exactly like this when they first bought it. With her background in fashion, Ruby had exquisite ways with colors, textures and spaces. Walls got removed, replaced and redesigned. Even the windows had to be "improved" to match the walls. Strangely, the kitchen was spared. Possibly because Ruby didn't care much about cooking, and Tom didn't have much luck when he tried to make remodeling suggestions. It all turned out fantastic. A big difference from Ruby's former place. Before marrying Tom, she lived in a garage turned cottage in Laguna Beach. Like Nick, she was an editor for the
Orange County Register
in Santa Ana.

Four years, and the thought of my husband's death still tore me apart.

I turned right and floored the gas pedal, my breathing short and sharp. Faster. Faster. I didn't want to feel the pain. I wanted to forget. Forget how I chose the clothes for his last dressing by the undertakers, careful not to let my tears mar his silk tie. Forget the touch of my fingers on his lifeless lips. Forget the coldness of the bed his body had warmed. Forget the empty garage where he used to keep his car.

Above all, I wanted to forget how he died.

Would it be the same for Ruby? No. It would be worse. It
must
be worse. She killed Tom. Accident or not, she was the cause. She'd have to live with that every day of her life.

Until death do us part
. My wedding vows. Strange time to think about weddings and vows.

I drove along. Horses trotted on the bridle path. Young girls with long blond locks rode honey-colored mounts. California girls. California lifestyle. I made a left on Nellie Gail Road. Tears welled in my eyes. If only I could crawl somewhere and hide, the way cats did when they were sick. I couldn't. I was a grown woman on my way to comfort a friend. Better find a smile to put on my face.

The Russells' house—or, as Ruby called it, their French chateau, Orange County-style—had blue eaves and a three-car garage smack in the front. The ultimate multimillion-dollar tract mansion. I parked my car and checked my makeup in the rearview mirror. Habit. I pinched my cheeks for instant rosiness. Ready. The street was deserted, normal for this two-careers-one-mortgage neighborhood. All the drapes of the Russells' house were drawn closed, yet I had the feeling eyes from somewhere on the block watched my every move. I could only imagine the wagging tongues of the Home Owners Association. Poor Ruby. Maybe she avoided answering the phone because of that.

The doorbell echoed inside. I waited for what felt like an eternity. I rang again, my finger lingering on the button. I peeked through the etched glass panels of the front door. Darkness and silence seemed to fill the big house.

Devin's words echoed in my mind: "
They were in his office. He was cleaning the gun. He set it on the desk to answer the phone.
"

I shivered and forced myself not to think about Tom. Who was I
kidding? Dear God. Tom dead.
Come on, Ruby, open the door.
I wanted to scream her name and bang my fist on the glass door. Where could she be? After Nick's death, I went through loneliness and hopelessness.
Dio mio
. Ruby needed my help.

I tried her cell again, but again got the same message about a full mailbox.

I walked back to the car, back stiff, knees weak from feeling stared at. I sat in the car, troubled. What to do? Four days ago, Ruby accidentally shot her husband. Tom was Ruby's only family. She loved him. I could testify to that in—
testify?
I fought the urge to go back to Ruby's door. I started the engine and headed toward the Dana Point post office to pick up my mail, only to find it closed. Why didn't I pay more attention? Look at my watch, step on the gas? Story of my life. What was that American saying? A day late and a dollar short? Yes, pretty much summed up my state of mind.

That drive to Ruby's place had upset me more than I cared to admit. Why hadn't Ruby tried to reach me? Why wouldn't she return my calls? She needed someone who could listen, and help her to process Tom's death and the consequential problems.

I glanced at the setting sun, a shiny penny dipping into purple waters. Then I let the front door slam behind me and carried the groceries I'd stopped for on the way home into the kitchen. Another trip to the car should do it. Something I hated, a big drawback of the common garage. At least it wasn't raining.

When I dropped off the last bags, Flash eased down the stairs and paused for a moment. Her eyes followed me while I turned on the lights. She'd seemed jumpy since I returned from my trip to Italy.

"Hi, Flash. Look what I bought you." She walked over and rubbed against my leg. I ran my fingers over her arched back. A soft purr rewarded my stroking. After filling her dish and changing her water, I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and sat on my favorite chair looking out onto the terrace. Since moving into this place, my life had been…peaceful, which was a creative way of avoiding the truth. In reality, my life consisted of an uninterrupted series of boring hours, days and months. In an attempt to broaden my circle of friends, a few years earlier I signed up for the Mission San Juan Docent program and, after the required hours of study, I graduated and went to work one day a week as a volunteer. It turned out to be more fun than anticipated. When I became a widow, I started to spend more time there, getting involved with the gift shop and helping make the little fragrant potpourri bags sold in the store. I should call to let them know I'm back. Tomorrow.

My thoughts returned to Ruby. Had she lost touch with reality four years after the car accident, the one that killed Nick and damaged her brain? What doctors thought was a concussion turned into blackouts and trouble forming short-term memories. She was doing great when I left.

Tired of watching Flash groom herself, I went into the kitchen and dialed Ruby's number. Five rings. I held my breath. No automated answer. Good. The phone kept on ringing.
No voice mail, no Ruby. I dismissed the idea of calling her cell. She rarely checked the messages, so the mailbox was always full.

I sighed. Time to check my answering machine, something I hated even more than carrying bags of groceries from the car. After each absence I procrastinated as long as possible. Kyle told me I needed a digital service, but I preferred the old-fashioned style I'd had for so long. It did its job, and I knew how to use it.

Shades of red and purple from the setting sun bathed my bedroom walls. I liked my bedroom regardless of the time of day, but evenings like this made it even more special. I kicked off my shoes, made myself comfortable on the bed and, pad and pen in hand, hit the play button.

Someone wanted to sell me a subscription to the
OC Register.
I already subscribed to the newspaper. Hang-ups, a wrong number, my dentist's office reminding me of my appointment. Jet lag caught up with me, and I yawned. More hang-ups. Flash jumped onto the bed and snuggled up against my backside, purring. I listened to an offer for a free trip to Vegas.