Yappy Hour (12 page)

My blood pressure skyrocketed and sweat formed on my temple. “Yolanda, is there a … is there someone else in the house with us? Alive or…”

“No, no.” She shook her head back and forth. “Nothing like that, it's just something…”

Beepo skidded out of the room and ran circles between my feet.

“What? What's in the room?”

She studied me a moment. “It's something that I think Rachel might have done when she was mad at Dan. It's something silly. Childish … but if the police saw it … well, maybe they wouldn't think it was a joke.”

“A joke? You screamed your head off when you saw it.”

“Did I?” A guilty expression crossed her face, then she quickly composed her features back to neutral. “No, Beepo got underfoot. I think I stepped on his tail.”

Beepo looked up at us, his brown eyes full of mischief, his tail wagging back and forth.

“He doesn't particularly look hurt,” I said.

Yolanda shrugged. “He doesn't hold a grudge—”

“Yolanda—”

“Okay, okay. I screamed when I saw it. It just surprised me.”

“What is it? Let me I see it,” I said firmly.

She waved me off. “Let's forget it.”

“If it's something that could incriminate Rachel, I think I need to see it.”

“Honestly, she's not here,” Yolanda said. “And that's what we came for, right? Let's just turn around and go home.”

“She's been here recently, though. There's some vodka in the kitchen and olives … the place isn't a mess, either, like I expected. It's not all dusty and moldy. Someone came here and cleaned.…”

Although Rachel cleaning sounded far-fetched. She wasn't the tidiest person in the world. Perhaps her guest had cleaned.

Yolanda's eyes lowered. “Okay, so what? We know Rachel's been here within the past month or so, but what does it prove? She's not here now. She's probably on that honeymoon cruise after all, just like Abigail said.”

I felt like I was staging a battle with Yolanda that I wasn't likely to win. I wanted to get into that bedroom to see whatever she'd seen, but she was blocking the entryway like a linebacker.

“Okay, maybe you're right,” I said, softly. “I need to clean up the broken glass in the kitchen and then we'll go.”

Yolanda's eyes grew wide and a grin lit up her face. She couldn't believe I was going to drop the subject. She linked her arm through mine. “Now you're talking, honey, let's clean up the mess.”

I walked with her three feet toward the kitchen, then dropped my arm and slipped behind her toward the bedroom. I raced into the room before she could stop me and flicked on the light switch.

I gasped in horror as I saw what Yolanda had been trying to hide.

Above the dresser was an oversized photo of Dan that someone had mounted onto a corkboard and had used for target practice. Worse, along the bottom someone had scrawled in red letters resembling blood, “Dead Meat!”

A hush descended upon us and I regretted not taking Yolanda's advice. I knew Rachel owned a gun. Grunkly had taught us both how to shoot when we were kids. We'd go into the woods, right around this very cabin, and set up cans to aim at. Rachel was a natural-born Annie Oakley. Filling my lungs with air, I turned to Yolanda. “You think this incriminates Rachel?”

She shrugged. “It doesn't look good.”

“No,” I agreed. “And it is childish.…”

She nodded. Beepo followed her into the room and the three of us stared at the corkboard in silence.

After a moment, I said, “You're right. It doesn't prove anything, but I certainly don't want the police to know about it.”

Yolanda slipped her fingers over her mouth and made the universal “my lips are sealed” motion.

“I should have listened to you,” I said.

“You'll just have to learn to trust me.”

An unsettling feeling gripped me. Was someone setting up my sister? I needed to figure out who'd been in the cabin and I needed to figure it out fast.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Yolanda and Beepo dropped me back at my apartment at noon. I had time for a hot shower and a brief lie-down before dressing for my date with the hunky Officer Brooks. I'd wanted to nap, but the image of the Dan on the corkboard haunted me. Was I obligated to tell Brooks what I'd found? Did it mean that Rachel really did have bad blood with Dan?

The thoughts plagued me as I slipped into a lavender scoop-necked dress that sported an above-the-knee A-line skirt. I figured the dress was the perfect compromise between afternoon and evening, just in case the date ran late.

Fingers Crossed!

My doorbell rang and I took three deep breaths to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

When I opened the door, my heart fluttered to see Officer Brooks out of uniform. He wore dark blue pants and a light-colored windowpane button-down shirt. He smelled of aftershave and mint, and something in my belly danced when his low voice rumbled out a hello.

“Do you want to come inside?” I asked, suddenly feeling stupid.

Why had I invited him inside? Was that done? What would he think I was suggesting?

I hadn't been on a real date since I'd broken up my ex-boyfriend, Hank, last year. And even then, after a few months of seeing each other our dates had deteriorated into hang-out sessions at one or the other's apartment, where we ordered bad takeout and complained about our jobs.

Brooks smiled. “If you're ready, we can get going straight away.”

“I'm ready. I'm ready,” I said, sounding a little overanxious.

Geez. This isn't high school, Maggie!

We left my apartment and took the short walk on the cobblestone path toward the fountain in the main square.

“Are you hungry?” Brooks asked.

I realized with a start that I'd only had a latte that morning. No breakfast and no lunch. Certainly a far cry from the gourmet breakfast the other day that Gus had cooked me. Heat rose to my cheeks and inanely I felt guilty for thinking about Gus while on a date with Brooks.

“I am hungry. You?”

He laughed, his face lighting up. “I'm a guy. I'm pretty much always hungry. How about the Charcoal Corral?”

“I don't know it,” I said. “But it sounds good.”

We walked around the town fountain. The smell of homemade waffle cones coming from the Dreamery Creamery would have detoured me had Brooks not taken my elbow and gently steered me down a charming narrow alley with vintage lampposts and hitching posts.

“They have the best burgers in town,” Brooks said. “My favorite.”

We stopped in front of a circa-1956 pink neon sign that read C
HARCOAL
C
ORRAL
. He pushed open the door and we were immediately greeted by the rich smell of frying meat and grease. A cheerful hostess settled us into a wood-paneled booth with a mini jukebox hanging on the wall.

She placed two laminated menus in front of us and disappeared. Brooks was about to pick up the menu, and then looked as if he'd suddenly been electrocuted.

“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

He composed his facial features and shook his head. “No, it's … uh … I hope … You do eat meat don't you?”

I laughed. “Oh, isn't there a vegetarian offering here at the corral?”

He relaxed to see me laughing. “'Fraid not. Well, actually, I really wouldn't know. All I ever get is the buffalo burger with pickle disks and hoops of onion, topped with homemade hot sauce.”

“Wow, my mouth's watering,” I said, fanning myself with the menu.

A waitress in a short white uniform and high-top tennis shoes appeared at our table. “Hi Brad, the regular?”

He nodded. “You better believe it, Betty.”

Betty glanced in my direction. “What's it gonna be, hon?”

“Uh…” I flipped open my menu, and my eyes glazed over at the ten thousand options. “Uh…”

“Need a minute?” She glanced at Brooks. “How about I come back with a couple drafts?”

“Do you drink beer, Maggie?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Meat eating, beer drinking. I'm not making a very good impression, am I?”

He smiled, then said to Betty, “Two drafts, please.”

The waitress nodded and spun off toward the back.

“What do you mean, you're not making a good impression?” he asked.

“Girls are supposed to eat salad and drink, I don't know, something froufrou or light anyway.”

He chuckled. “Like a greyhound or mutt-tini?”

I smiled in response, but said nothing.

“Salad and froufrou are overrated,” he said. “I like meat-eating, beer-drinking girls.”

He snaked a hand closer to the menu and picked at it. “I want you to feel comfortable to be yourself,” he said in a low voice. “I'm not judging you.”

Heat surged through me as he leaned in closer.

“Do you like country music?”

“Of course; it goes with meat and beer.”

He smiled, then turned to the mini-jukebox and selected some Johnny Cash while I perused the menu. I decided on the Knuckle Burger, which came topped with bacon and cheddar and a side of crispy fries. Betty returned and took my order, leaving two icy drafts in front of us.

Brooks took a sip of his beer. “So, Maggie, where you from?”

“Originally, from Santa Maria. It's about an hour southeast from here.”

Brooks nodded, as if he was familiar with the area.

“My great-uncle Ernest always lived here,” I continued. “So I spent a lot of time in Pacific Cove as a kid, but I hadn't been back in … ages. You?”

“I grew up here,” he said. “Went to Pacific Cove High. I left after high school. Went to Los Angeles for college and then trained with L.A.P.D. But Los Angeles is so … so…”

“It's so L.A.,” I said, with a smile. “The girls eat salads and drink froufrou drinks.” I took a healthy sip of my beer.

He laughed. “Right, it's so fake. After a while, I wanted to come home. And my mother … well…” A sad look flashed through his eyes, but he averted my gaze.

So he didn't want to talk about his mother. Why was that? I wondered.

“Anyway,” he said, “I heard about an opening at the P.C.P.D., and I went for it.”

“How long have you been back?” I asked.

“Just over a year. It's funny, though, at this point it feels like I never left.”

The waitress stopped at our table and placed two steaming burgers in front of us. Brooks got a tower of onion rings that smelled heavenly, but he still eyed my crispy fries.

“Trade you one?” he asked.

“I thought you'd never ask,” I said, picking a warm ring off the tower. I bit into it and rolled my eyes. “Delish.”

He laughed. “This is pretty much the point where I stop talking,” he said, taking a huge bite out of his burger.

I winked at him. “I won't judge you.” Biting into my Knuckle Burger, I savored the red meaty deliciousness of the prime aged corn-fed beef. “Oh my God,” I murmured.

He smiled. “Right? If I wasn't a cop, I'd open a place just like this.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Sure! I could eat onion ring hoops all day.”

“'Til the cows come home,” I joked, sipping on my draft.

“I'd call it Fat Patties.”

I nearly spit out my beer. He laughed and we both chuckled for a moment.

“Fat Patties!” I repeated. “You'd alienate all the women.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “All?”

“Most,” I clarified.

He shrugged. “I could live with that. I only need one.” His eyes stayed on mine and my breath caught.

Oh, this guy was smooth.

Was he for real?

I reminded myself that he'd said one woman, not
this
woman, and took another bite of my burger, then washed it down with some fries.

“Where did you come from most recently?” he asked.

“New York.”

He let out a breath. “New York, wow. Pacific Cove is a change from that. You'll find we're a pretty sleepy little town. Not a lot goes on here. Are you … uh … do you miss it?”

I almost choked.

Not a lot goes on here?

“Well, let me just say, I've never tripped over a dead body in New York—a few homeless street people sleeping in the subway station maybe, but a dead guy, never!”

Brad studied me. “I suppose you've brought your own brand of excitement to the cove, though.”

I held up a hand. “Don't blame that on me.”

He took a slow bite of his burger, then a sip of his beer, all the time silently watching me and giving me the bad feeling he'd slipped back into officer mode. Well, if Brooks was up for talking about the investigation, then I might as well probe a bit.

“Do you have any idea what happened yet? Any suspects?”

He squinted at me, his electric-blue eyes penetrating the invisible wall around me that I pretended shielded my vulnerability. “Gus DelVecchio pretended he was shocked when I gave him the news, but I know for a fact he already knew.”

A bubble of guilt crept into my throat and I tried to swallow past it. “That doesn't make him a suspect. I told him.”

Brooks cocked his head to the side, frowning. “You did? Why?”

I couldn't very well confess that I was drunk—what kind of impression would that make? So I opted for stupid instead. “I wasn't thinking, I was upset.”

“Finding a dead body is a very upsetting thing. But if finding the person responsible is important to you—”

“It is! It absolutely is.”

He nodded. “Then I suggest you not compromise the—”

“I wasn't trying to compromise anything. I'm sorry. I … shouldn't have said anything to him.”

Brooks's face softened, then after a moment he said, “I didn't realize you knew him.”