Murder Under the Italian Moon (6 page)

I was there when it happened.

Kyle called. His father was dead, killed in a car accident.

"Please, Mom. Come home."

I don't remember what I did or said. I don't remember getting to the airport or even the flight home. When I arrived at LAX I was still in denial. Somebody was playing tricks on me. Nick dead? Impossible. He wouldn't do that to me.

Kyle picked me up in Nick's car.
Nick's car?

I waited until we reached the freeway to ask.

"Mother." His voice more like a whimper. I noticed how pale he was—and thin too. That woman he got involved with was destroying him.

"…driving her car, and…"

"Wait! Whose car?"

"Mother, haven't you been listening?"

I shrugged.

"Dad was driving Ruby's car. The brakes failed on the way down Ortega Highway, a mile or so above San Juan Hot Springs. You know—the same damn spot…." He shook his head.

Every resident of South Orange County knew someone who'd had a close call in that same damn spot.

"What was your father doing on Ortega Highway in Ruby's car?" My voice sounded shrill. I had to blame someone. I had to unleash the rage inside me. I needed a scapegoat.

"What difference does it make? When Ruby comes out of the coma…
if
she comes out of it, you can ask her."

I cried. Nick was dead. It wasn't fair. I needed him. I loved him. It was my fault. I should have been there. How could I go on without him? I wasn't strong enough.

Kyle kept his head and shoulders upright. He may have been hurting more than I was, but he wasn't giving up.

"Why, God? Why, Nick?" I choked on my questions.

Kyle drove the rest of the way in silence.

The phone rang as I ran up the stairs. I answered it in my bedroom.

"Hello."

"You sound breathless."

I frowned. "Who is this?"

"Larry." He must have misunderstood my silence. "Lieutenant Lawrence Devin of Homicide, ma'am." He spoke in a surprising imitation of the
Dragnet
monotone. Then he laughed a low, intimate laugh.

"I thought you were going to call in a week."

"I'm calling now. How about dinner?"

Did he want to talk about the case or was this a social call? Did I even care? I kicked off my sandals "When?"

"Tonight."

I unfastened my jeans. "Tonight?" Stepped out of them.

"I drove all the way back from Parker, Arizona, and to be honest, the idea of my dark, empty house doesn't seem very appealing. I'm hungry, so if you haven't eaten, I'd like to take you to dinner."

I unbuttoned my blouse. "Where are you?"

"At your gate." That laughter again. "Only kidding—but not too far."

My bra came off, and then my panties. "Give me thirty minutes. How should I dress?" Was that really my voice? God, I sounded so self-assured I almost
believed it.

He hesitated. "Something pink?"

I laughed at his answer. Typical male. I'd meant if I should be casual or formal.

"Pink? Maybe. See you soon." Two minutes later I had the water running in the bathtub.

From where we sat at Cannon's restaurant, the lights of the boats out at sea looked like fireflies on a sultry summer night. Below us, spotlights flooded The Pilgrim's main mast. The ship was a perfect replica of the vessel that brought Richard Henry Dana into the harbor in 1834. Dana Point had been named after him
.
We were looking at the same waters, from the same cliffs.

"You weren't very hungry, were you?" Larry asked.

I turned away from the harbor.

"Don't talk much either." His fingers brushed mine.

The busboy poured the coffee then left.

"We—I love this place. I haven't been here in a while." I took a breath and then stirred my coffee, avoiding his gaze. I'd mentioned Nick at the beginning of the meal, which made it hard not to think about him.

"It's a great spot."

"I like the food." I stopped just short of confessing he was my first date in over two years, and I worried I'd say or do something wrong. He leaned toward me. The flickering candle threw his face into shadow. His lashes flirted with his tanned cheeks every time he blinked, and he stared at me. The warmth of his hand covered mine. I couldn't think, couldn't move.

The busboy came back to our table. "More coffee?"

I pulled away and turned my head. I stared at our reflections on the glass wall. We looked joined, as one. I sat back, and we were two again. He didn't let go of my hand. I breathed quietly. Could he hear the racket my heart made beneath the shimmering of my pink silk blouse?

"How was fishing?"

He blinked in response. "Fishing?"

We looked at each other. I nodded, aware my question killed the mood.

"Fishing—of course—fishing." He drummed his fingers on the table. I waited. The bill came. He pulled out his wallet and put down a credit card. "We never made it out of Parker."

"We?" I immediately hated that I needed to know who the other half of that equation was.

"My buddy and I. Steve is a detective with the Parker Police Department. We go back a long way. He was with the Orange County office. Anyhow, I got there yesterday morning. We loaded his Bronco and were ready to take off when they called him in. A drowning case just below the dam. Some kids found the body. I wasn't sure this was the kind of conversation you would have enjoyed with your meal."

"I'm fascinated. Was it an accident?"

He shrugged. "Nah. Apparent suicide. She left a note."

"A woman?"

"Some local. The family has a history of mental instability. Steve knew them. Her brother is in a mental institution. Sad case. We decided to postpone the trip. I drove home. He went to the office to fill out the transfer papers."

"Transfer papers?"

"The body—pardon me, the victim had to be taken to Tucson for the autopsy. How did we get on this subject?" He shook his head. "Let's go." He stood and helped me from my chair.

Outside, a dark sky and a mild night set the tone. We paced, waiting for the skinny teenager to bring Larry's Mercedes around. I couldn't hear or see the ocean from Cannon's parking lot, but I breathed in the brine.

Larry's profile was an interesting series of strong lines and precise angles. A strand of hair fell onto his forehead. I reached to brush it back but caught myself. He seemed familiar with the streets. I sensed he studied me from the corner of his eye as much as I studied him.

The teen brought the car around.

"Nice car."

"Thanks."

"New?"

"Yes."

How could he afford this kind of car on a detective's salary?

"You're wondering how I could afford it."

I nodded, heat rushing to my face as we got in.

"I won the lottery."

What?
I couldn't see his eyes and his voice wasn't giving me any clue. Was he joking?

I laughed. The tension was getting to me.

"What's so funny?" He looked straight ahead.

I searched for an intelligent reply but couldn't think of anything to say while the sound of my laughter filled the car.

"Twice a week, every Saturday and Wednesday, someone wins the state lottery. Not always the grand prize, but there are other winners."

"Larry, you don't look or act
nouveau riche.
It's as if you were born into it." When did he pull to the side of the road and stop the car?

The way he looked at me had me gulping for air. Bathed in the amber glow of the dashboard, his eyes held on to mine. Without a word he reached across me and touched something on the car door. My seat hummed and began to recline. He leaned, pressing my shoulders against the soft leather of the seat, his lips on mine, his tongue probing my mouth. My head felt empty, as if a giant vacuum had sucked out my brain, and, with it, all my self-control. Through the light fabric of his shirt, the heat of his body warmed my breasts. And slowly, without logic, I relaxed, wanting more. He pulled me tighter against him, cupped my face with his free hand. His thumb stroked my neck, the tip of his tongue in my ear, circling, teasing.

"Hmm." The sound escaped from the back of my throat. A whispery, husky response to his kiss. That was all I could get from my frozen brain while my body burned. My hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer, holding on to him.

The heart is an organ of fire.
The line from Ondaatje's
The English Patient
crossed my mind. Blood coursed through my body, and we were as close to spontaneous combustion as humanly possible.

 "Lella," he whispered, his mouth close to the nape of my neck, his breath putting goose bumps all over my body. "Lella." A little louder. Only my name. How long had it been since a man spoke my name in the
darkness of a car
?
I couldn't handle the intensity. I pushed him away. He resisted at first then relaxed back against his seat and tucked his shirt in. I lay there a moment staring up at him. I sighed and raised my seat up.

The engine must have been idling the whole time, because he simply shifted gears and the car began to move.

We drove in silence. A silence void of uneasiness. I've always been amazed by the different meanings of silence. It could be emotionally charged or empty silence—nothing to say. Angry silence—after a fight. Anyway, it was never just silence.

My body quivered, still under the spell. He held the steering wheel with his left hand. His right one cupped my knee. What would happen next? Should I ask him in for a nightcap? Or kiss him good night before getting out of the car? This was idiotic. I had regressed into puberty. Because of a kiss? Well, not just any kiss. That kiss was a promise, a beginning. We reached my gate. I clicked the control and the gate swung open. Larry kept his eyes straight ahead and his hand on my knee. I had to decide how to end the evening. Problem was, I didn't want it to end.

Even with the lights on, the underground garage wasn't very bright. He slowed down when we reached the main entrance; the beam from the Mercedes' headlights shined on rows of parked cars. I recognized the familiar shape of the car sitting on the stall next to mine. A brown Porsche.

Kyle's car.

Dilemma resolved. The instant Larry stopped the car, I jumped out. With a quick "I'll call you,
ciao,
" I strolled down the walkway. If he said something. I didn't hear him. The only sound came from my high heels clicking on the stones of the path leading to my front door. All the windows of my town house were dark. No lights. Strange.
I unlocked the front door and stepped in. "Hello. Anybody here?" Silence. Where was Kyle? He couldn't have seen me in the car with Larry. What a relief. We'd never talked about the possibility of future dates. A conversation I dreaded.

Something brushed my ankle. I jumped back, startled.

"Meow." I turned on the light. "Flash, you scared me to death. Is Kyle here?"
Smart Lella.
A talking cat, right? I checked every room. Nothing, but his car was
in the garage. Kyle must have gone out with friends. I could have asked Larry in after all.

Upstairs in my room, I undressed. That kiss did a number on me, couldn't get it off my mind.
Oh God, I didn't know Larry's phone number. Except for the police department, and he was technically still on vacation.

In the middle of my bathroom I stood, staring at myself in the mirror.
Nuda come un verme.
"Naked as a worm," my mother used to say. I cupped my hands under my breasts and pushed up. Hmm, much better. I could understand why women got breast implants and face lifts.
Understand or justify?
Maybe one of those Wonderbras would help.
Get a grip, Lella.
It was just a kiss. I put on my nightgown, got under the covers and turned off the light.

When I was a little girl, my mother used to braid my long, straight hair into tight, intertwining strands. She pulled it back so tightly that from the front, it looked as if I had no hair. One scorching summer afternoon, Mother filled a wooden tub with cool water and let me play in it. An exciting new experience for me. My braids came untied. My hair fell on my shoulders and all the way to my waist. It was as if the hair took on a life of its own. My hair. Part of me, yet out of my control. Like my emotions. For most of my life I'd kept them tucked away, nicely intertwined in the hidden places of my soul. From the outside it appeared as if I had no feelings. It simplified my life. I could handle leaving home for a new country, loving Nick the way he liked it. His perfect little wife. A reflection of his expectations. A product of his wants.

Last night's kiss untied my emotions like I had been dipped into a cauldron of desire. I was afraid to look at myself in the mirror, afraid all that mass of passion showed on my face. It was that concern about my feelings seeping through that kept me tucked in my bed instead of running to welcome Kyle when I heard the front door open last night.

This morning the sun filtered through the drapes, creating new shadows on my old, familiar bedroom furniture. I looked at myself in the mirror before going to say hello to Kyle. I'd had vivid dreams all night, mainly starring Larry Devin. I wanted to make sure I didn't look too disheveled. Apparently all the changes took place in my head, since the face in the mirror looked just the same. Now I felt old and full of doubts. The more I studied myself, the more depressed I became. My nightgown looked frumpy and out of style. Just like my hair, and my lingerie, and—enough. Flash was giving me a look. She didn't care about my internal crisis. She wanted breakfast.

I put on my slippers and quietly went downstairs. The open door of the guest room brought me to a halt. I nearly stepped on Flash. She jumped and ran with a loud meow. I peeked in. The bed hadn't been touched. Everything seemed just like the night before. Where was Kyle? Maybe he left his stuff downstairs and ran out to join his friends? I couldn't see a trace of Kyle ever being in the house. I knew I saw his car in the parking garage last night. I was absolutely certain. Flash's scratching at my ankles started to annoy me. Not a good sign. I fed her while the coffee brewed. I had just retrieved the daily newspaper from the front door when the phone rang. I hesitated, not recognizing the local number. Could it be Larry?