nineteen
I MIGHT HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SLIP INTO THE CHURCH unnoticed if it weren’t for the sound of the Miata’s tires squealing as Trudy laid about a hundred feet of rubber on the asphalt in front of the building. I might have been able to overcome the initial curiosity of the third of the congregation that was either still on its way in or came out to check for an incoming missile if I hadn’t been wearing every color in the rainbow.
Speaking of might-have-beens, I might have been able to arrive on time, in a dignified manner, wearing black, and delivered a well-studied, socially acceptable speech about the life of a good, if slightly selfish and more than marginally narcissistic, man, if I hadn’t been so damned curious and driven to find his killer. And if I hadn’t forgotten to keep an eye on the time when I was breaking into his house.
So much for might-have-beens.
Instead, I was striding down the center aisle of the Clear Creek Church in scuffed-up Nikes (I fell once in our dash back to the car), a silk Aloha shirt with a wild print of palm trees, hibiscus flowers, flamingos, exotic and scantily clad buxom bathing beauties (it was the only shirt in the closet that had any fuchsia in it, which was Trudy’s requirement, and it covered my heinie, which was my requirement), my hot pink legs flashing with each step. In this get-up, I didn’t think it mattered if my speech was so socially acceptable. I knew Ricardo wanted a sendoff fit for the Salon King of San Antonio, but I’d bet he didn’t expect to be offed with a brush. I felt compelled to change the plan for him.
The minister was trying—and failing—to hold the congregation’s attention with a passage from the Bible. I’d like to think that the ear-piercing tire squeal was what woke up every news photographer in the place, but this was a jaded bunch, so I imagine my first step in the door was what did it. From wars to wrecks, I’d bet they hadn’t seen anything like me before. At any rate, all the red lights were on and the film running as I plunked myself down in the first pew next to one of the hired actors.
Father Gallego passed the service off to one of them, who, in a slick script, sprinkled with Bible verses, outlined Ricardo’s perfect life, from his privileged upbringing in Mexico to his success as owner of a small empire. Lies, mostly, but they sure sounded good and made us all wish we could have such a perfect life. Then a delicately beautiful Hispanic actress got up and delivered a heart-stopping description of the lives Ricardo had changed with his support of children’s charities in the city. Much closer to the truth, but it made me wonder why he couldn’t have had one of the organization’s presidents give the speech. Probably because they wouldn’t have made such good sound bites for television.
I could tell it was nearly my turn, because Father Gallego was glancing nervously my way, hoping, no doubt, that I would disappear before he would have to introduce me. Too bad. He said my name like it tasted rancid, so much for “love thy neighbor as thyself.” Even without the love, I rose bravely and marched to the podium.
I almost lost my nerve when I saw half my clients and old coworkers in the pews. I regained it suddenly when I caught sight of Scythe and Crandall in the back. Crandall was shaking with pent-up laughter. Scythe was scowling ominously. He’d better not think of telling me what I could and couldn’t do. I’d show him.
“Today is a day to celebrate.” I paused as a collective gasp ran through the crowd. “That’s why I’m dressed this way. I want to celebrate the life of Ricardo Montoya, businessman, benefactor, and friend. He would want us to remember him with pleasure instead of tears. Think of the legacy he leaves behind—every day, hundreds of men and women will have their self-esteem boosted and, through that, their lives improved in countless ways. So smile when you leave here today, smile every time you leave one of his salons, and thank him for what he has done for you.
“But what can you do for Ricardo? You can help find the one who took him from us by sharing his secrets. I know Ricardo was a private man and never wanted his privacy breached. But did you ever wonder if that was because he was protecting someone or being threatened in some way? Maybe keeping secrets is what got Ricardo killed. What if what you know about his life could get you killed, too?” Another gasp rose, followed by jagged whispers.
I pointed at a man sitting in the third pew. “What you know might not seem like much, sir, but…”I pointed at a woman on the other side, in the twentieth pew. “If you combine it with what she knows, it might just solve the puzzle that Ricardo’s left with his murder.” The sound of whispering was rising, and I was about to lose them. Scythe stood, and he and Crandall moved to the back wall of the church. Scythe’s laser blues caught me in their sights and pinned me with an intensity that stopped me for a moment. Hey, just watch, he was going to thank me for this later. “I know enough to see some of the patterns on the puzzle but not the whole picture. Help the police get the whole picture. Tell them what you know about Ricardo. Before it’s too late for one of you here today.”
All hell broke loose, with everyone talking at once. Father Gallego cued the organ player, who banged out a dirge but failed to drown out the crowd. Reporters were reaching out and grabbing people willy-nilly; the poor cameramen didn’t know whom to film first. I slipped behind the organ box and down the hallway behind the altar. As we’d planned on the way over, Trudy was outside with the engine running. I was to find a way out a back door, and she’d pick me up.
I turned the corner down a darkened hallway. “Just where do you think you’re going?” I recognized Father Gallego’s voice.
He stepped out of the shadows and looked pretty scary. My heart thumped hard in my chest. I had nothing to be ashamed of, but I’m sure glad I wasn’t an acolyte who’d lit the wrong candle.
“I, uh, am trying to get out of here.”
“Thank the good Lord for that.” He nodded at a door at the end of the hallway. “Go out there. Once you are through the small garden, you will be free of the grounds.”
“Bless you, Father.”
He crossed the air as I passed. “May the Lord forgive you for turning my sanctuary into a circus.”
The Lord? He knew my intentions were honorable. I was more worried about Ricardo not forgiving me. But if my old boss and buddy really thought about it, wherever he was, he’d realize that he’d gotten just what he asked for. He wanted a funeral San Antonio would never forget. The one he’d scripted was too much like a thousand other funerals. The one he’d gotten would never be outdone. They’d be talking about Ricardo’s sendoff decades from now.
I pushed my way out the door. As it closed, so did a hand on my right wrist. Yikes, was the air cross not enough, did the good Father want to dunk me in the sacred water, too?
“What in the hell’s wrong with you?”
I’d know that baritone anywhere. I turned just as Scythe pulled me with him until we were behind a tall banana tree. By then, I’d found my voice. “You tell me. It seems to be your favorite pastime.”
“Don’t sulk. It doesn’t become you.” I could almost hear him counting to ten in his head for patience. “Would you please tell me what you think you’re doing?”
“I think I’m going back to work.”
“Back to work as a hairstylist or as a wannabe murder victim?”
“Hey, no need to be nasty.”
“Hey, no need to be stupid.” Scythe sucked in a deep breath, and I saw for the first time how upset he was. He was angry, all right—I could feel it emanating from his body. Talk about red spikes. But there was something else there, too. Worry, maybe? But why would he be worried about me? Worried about his job, more likely. “Why did you just load the gun for the murderer and point it at yourself? All he’s got to do is pick the right time to pull the trigger. The sooner, the better.”
“Come on, aren’t you being a little melodramatic?”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You think you’d be grateful that I sent all those informants your way. It’s a lot easier than searching them out, I bet.”
He snorted in disgust. “That’s a whole other thing that I’m not going to get into with you. After this, we’ll have to assign at least two extra guys just to handle all the wack-jobs who’ll be coming in with useless information.”
“Oh, I didn’t think of that.”
“I wonder if you think at all.” He finally noticed he was still holding my wrist in his hand. He let it go and looked at my fuchsia legs. “Like this outfit. What led up to it— and don’t give me that bullcrap about celebration.”
“I was just running a little late, and this was handy.”
“Handy where? In Ricardo’s closet?”
That got me. I met the laser blues head-on in surprise. He stared right into me as no one ever had before. I bet he got people to confess to all sorts of things they didn’t do with that look. My brain refused to offer a quick rejoinder. I blinked in answer.
He half hitched the right eyebrow. “You didn’t find anything, did you?”
Ha! My blank look was just what I needed now. What a good defense. I blinked again.
“And you would share anything you might have found or might find in the future, right?”
I smiled. His eyebrow hitched higher. So, despite all his criticism of my investigative technique, the lieutenant was a little afraid that I might be on to something.
I recognized the purr of a Japanese engine. Saved by my faithful redheaded Watson, I patted Scythe on the arm and slipped past. “Gotta run. Keep in touch.”
“Oh, no need for that,” Scythe said airily. “As of thirty minutes ago, you’re under twenty-four-hour SAPD surveillance. For your own safety, you understand.”
“As if you guys care about my safety,” I returned, noticing for the first time the unmarked dark blue Crown Victoria fifty yards behind Trudy’s car. I sulked.
“You still think I did it.”
“Technically, you are still within the suspect radar now that you’re Ricardo’s heiress, having delivered your eulogy.” He paused to pull a face. “Such as it was.”
I guessed Scythe had talked to the frosty Ms. Gibson, who was likely thrilled to throw suspicion my way. From the way my stomach clutched, my bizarre inheritance still made me feel icky. What was I going to do with the salons? I pushed that problem aside and dealt with the live one behind me. Throwing him a huffy look, I walked toward the passenger side of the Miata. “You’re not too observant if you’ve discerned that I’d kill for money.”
He shrugged. “Everyone would kill for something. It’s just finding out what that something is.”
I turned, ready to call his bluff. “What would you kill for?”
“A night with one of the girls on your shirt.” He winked and, with a wave at the cops behind us, disappeared back into the church.
Trudy had done her homework while I was inside creating havoc. She handed me a slip of paper with the Villitas’ local address that she’d gotten from a friend of a friend of a cousin of a client. In the small-town society labyrinth of the big city of San Antonio, it’s not what you know, it’s who who-you-know knows.
“My client says Celine and the senator are in town right now doing some campaigning for their son, who’s getting ready to announce his intention to run for the state representative seat being vacated by Sifuentes.”
I was watching the Crown Vic in the rearview mirror. It was behind about three cars but changed lanes with Trudy. “What did you say?”
“Their only kid is about to run for office. The political couple is in town to help Junior gladhand. Got it?”
What had Mama Tru said? Her Republican Party girlfriend had given Ricardo some inside information about a political race. Gerald had mentioned Ricardo being suddenly politically conscious. Something niggled at me. “Is Villita a Democrat?”
“Yes.”
“Who is running against him?”
“I didn’t ask. And if you actually ever read the newspaper that you insist on subscribing to and never read, you might know without asking. Just like if you ate all the food in your refrigerator, you’d…”
“Weigh three hundred pounds. Just like too much information would make my head heavy. I prefer to operate on a need-to-know basis.”
Trudy shook her head. “Can anyone ever have the last word in an argument with you?”
I frowned. Scythe always seemed to have the last word, like that shot about the girls on my shirt. Humph. Was he really attracted to exotic-looking half-naked nubiles with big bulging breasts? He was a man, of course he was. Why did this irritate me so much? Because I was an ordinary-looking, fully, if oddly, dressed mature woman with practically no discernible breasts? Why did I care what he thought, anyway? He was an arrogant…no, I’d use my new word. He was a vainacious jerk.
“I think we’re being followed,” Trudy said.
“We are.”
She looked at me nonplussed. “You know?”
I nodded. “It’s the police.”
“The police?” Trudy veered into the middle lane of the three-lane highway, sending the car that had been about to pass us on the left squealing into the far left lane, sending the surveillance cops whose Crown Vic had been in the left lane onto the shoulder and into the back of a stalled truck. Oops.
Trudy and I cringed. She smiled weakly. “I got rid of them.”
“Yeah, you sure did. What technique.” Oo-ee. I didn’t want to be around Scythe when he found out about this one. “You might want to take the next exit, in case they put an APB out on us.”
She swallowed hard. “We can take the long way to Terrell Hills.”
“Good idea.”
We were still at least ten miles from the Villitas’ Guaraty Street address. Since few roads in San Antonio were actually straight and even fewer ran through without being broken up by a stream, drainage ditch, sudden one-way access, or road construction, it took a while to wind our way there. Thank goodness Trudy grew up in the city, or we’d still be wandering around.
The drive did give us time to review what we’d learned in the case. Ricardo was interested in a political race, presumably the one in which the Villita son was running. Gerald thought he nursed a decades-old broken heart. He and Celine Villita might have a history. Or he and the Villita son might have a history. What we still didn’t know was what proof was in the pudding. Or what the Johnstone-Van Dykes had to do with anything. Or what two mistakes Ricardo made—besides borrowing my brush, that is.
The Villita estate was grandiose even on a street lined with stunningly expensive old homes. Set back from the street, behind a rock wall and iron gates, its green-tiled roof rose above the oak trees. Trudy stopped at the intercom box and pressed the button.
“Hola?”
Trudy looked silently at me. I’d do the talking.
“Hello, habla inglés?”
“Sí.”
“Please tell Se?ora Villita that I’d like to see her.”
“You don’t have appointment.”
“No, tell her I’m Trudy Trujillo, a friend of Jolie Dupont’s.”
I shoved my hand over Trudy’s mouth before she could get it all the way open.
“Sí.” The maid sounded like her going to fetch the se?ora would be a waste of her time.
Trudy finally shrugged in acceptance, and I dropped my hand from her mouth. Just then, the maid’s voice crackled again over the intercom, surprise and curiosity evident in her voice. “Entrase, por favor. La se?ora will be with you pronto.”
“Gracias.”
The heavy gates opened at a ponderous pace. I worried for a moment that it would give Celine time to escape out the back, but I reminded myself if she hadn’t wanted to see us, she wouldn’t have let us in and would have sent some goons with baseball bats out to pound a warning on Trude’s car. The maid waited at the front door of the three-story rock mansion. It was as imposing as the senator himself. His presence in person was larger than life; the power of his political office only multiplied the effect. I hoped he wasn’t at home this evening, or I might just lose my nerve.
“Come.” The uniformed maid beckoned as I got out of the Miata. Trudy sent me a smile as the maid shut the door behind me.
The maid escorted me to the sitting room just beyond the foyer, which seemed unusually small for a home that had to be at least ten thousand square feet. As I settled in the sitting room, I realized that it had been renovated that way on purpose. The sitting room had been part of the foyer at one time and had been built in. Perhaps these people didn’t want anyone lingering, as company tended to do in foyers. A guest was to be put in her room, a compartment, dealt with, and then sent on her way.
I wasn’t left to mull the issue long. The maid hadn’t been gone thirty seconds when Celine Villita appeared in the doorway, shutting the double doors behind her. Dressed in an expensive black-and-white St. John knit skirt suit, panty hose, and Via Spago pumps that likely cost more than my annual dental plan, she looked pale and tense. Even a face-lift couldn’t hide the unhappiness in her thin face; her brown eyes reflected it. Her thick hair, recently dyed Amazon Midnight, was drawn back in a French twist. This woman was trying hard to be sophisticated and controlled. She might once have been the carefree young girl in the photo, but I was far from certain. I stood, racking my brain for a way to get her to smile.
We shook hands—hers was limp, apathetic. She smelled like lavender. But I cautioned myself—it was a common scent.
“You say you’re a friend of Jolie’s, but do I know you?”
“We’ve met. I styled your hair once a long time ago. I am Jolie’s stylist. I have a shop in Monte Vista.”
“Oh, yes.” She gave my hairdo a once-over. “Your hair. It’s different.”
I sighed internally. Couldn’t anyone notice anything else about me? “It’s been different probably three dozen times since I saw you. I like to change it every month or so.”
Suddenly, realization washed over her face. “You’re not a Trujillo, you’re Reyn Marten Sawyer. You’re the one they say killed Ricardo!”
If it was an act, it was Academy Award winning. It took a lot of a package this carefully presented to show real emotion. She was clearly horrified; her hand was at her throat. She swallowed several times and fought to retain her composure.
I had to admit I was disappointed. I didn’t want to take her off my suspect list completely. After all, guilt and the emotional defense necessary to get away with murder could make a person act all sorts of funny ways. Still, my intuition told me while she didn’t do it, she might be the key to finding who did.
“I don’t know which ‘they’ you are referring to, but if it is the media, then you ought to know a lot better than I do how ‘they’ might create a misleading perception. Tell me they’ve never done that to your husband?”
She nodded once, crossed her arms over her chest, and moved to the picture window that overlooked the elaborate gardens sloping down the property to the right. As she gazed outside, she asked, “You’re telling me you didn’t kill him?”
I really wanted to answer, What’s it to you? but bit my tongue. The conversation felt precarious, as if choosing the wrong word would get me escorted back to the Miata at warp speed. She was the one who opened the conversation to Ricardo; if I treaded carefully, I might be able to learn something. I was close, I just didn’t know to what. I remembered when I was about ten, trying to get a rattlesnake to leave its hole without coiling and striking me. Why I wanted to do this, who knows. But I had a stick and poked all around it without ever touching the snake, and finally, maybe an hour later, it slithered away. Perhaps if I used this technique with Celine Villita, the truth would come slithering out.
“I didn’t kill him. He was my friend and mentor for years. I’m trying to find out who did kill him.”
“What brought you here?”
Uh-oh. This was a tricky one. Perhaps telling her I’d broken into his house and found a secret compartment with a photo of someone who might resemble her with a lock of hair that might be hers would be a little too direct. I went for the jugular instead. “It’s really about your son.”
She spun then, facing me, a fierce mother tiger. “What about him?”
“I understand Ricardo was getting ready to make a big donation to his campaign.”
Celine relaxed slightly. “Ricardo donated to a lot of political campaigns.”
“Did he?”
Oops. She realized she might have let too much go there, but her years in politics allowed her to cover it smoothly. She rubbed her left hand up her right arm. Over and over again. Nervous gesture? “Oh, come on, Miss Sawyer, he was well known as a philanthrophist. San Antonio will really miss him.”
“I didn’t realize politics was the object of philanthropy.”
“It is when the representative supports important charities with his legislation.”
“I’m sure that’s why Ricardo was so interested in Jon’s campaign.”
Celine’s arm rubbing was getting almost manic. “Maybe. After all, Jon’s father is a champion of minority charities.”
There was something eerie about her saying that after the accolades issued to Ricardo at the funeral for his support of minority children’s charities.
“But I wonder how Ricardo heard about Jon running. Even the newspapers don’t have wind of it yet, do they?”
Celine would have no hair left on her arm at this rate. She wasn’t surprised. She knew Ricardo knew, which meant either he told her, or someone who told him told her. “A few connected people knew. I guess they were so excited by Jon’s candidacy they jumped the gun.”
She’d stopped the arm rubbing and stood unnaturally still. I was getting too close to something. She was about to coil and strike me right out of there. Time to lie. I smiled. “I know that must be it. I’ve heard wonderful things about your son. He must be exceptional.”
Her chest puffed a little with parental pride. She turned to me, relaxing in a beatific smile. Suddenly, the years fell away, and she was the girl in the photo in Ricardo’s wall. “He is exceptional. So caring and sensitive to the concerns of the community. He will make a wonderful representative. Jon is a gentle, wise soul, despite his youth.”
Gentle? He’d be eaten alive in the world of Texas politics, where it was still the Wild West with a cutthroat cowboy culture despite the suits. Surely, Celine and her husband knew that; they’d lived it long ago, before he made it to D.C. Perhaps they had cautioned Jon about the dangers and were just being supportive of his decision to run.
“We would be lucky to have him in Austin.”
“Yes,” she said, distracted by the entrance of a Mercedes sedan that pulled through the gate and down past the garden to the garage. She looked at me. “I’m afraid I’m out of time. I wish I could help you in your search for Ricardo’s murderer, but I really can’t. It doesn’t have anything to do with Jon.”
She was suddenly anxious to get me out of there. Who was in the sedan? Even though I was afraid it might be her powerful husband, I stood firmly rooted at the window. “So, how did you know Ricardo?”
I’d caught her off-guard. For half a second, she looked afraid but again covered well. She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, we’d known each other since high school. He was an old acquaintance. That’s all. We knew each other way back then. We hadn’t talked in years.”
She was lying, then; her eyes slid from mine just before she spoke her last sentence. Was she Ricardo’s mi cara?
A dark-haired man got out of the sedan, talking on a cellular telephone. Even from a distance, I recognized him as the young man from the photos. He gestured as he talked and began walking toward the garden. I gasped. It was Ricardo’s son. The photos could not capture what was so obvious in person. There was no denying it. He moved with that casual elegance I’d never seen another man exhibit. His gestures were Ricardo’s. His profile was Ricardo’s.
“It’s time for you to leave,” Celine snapped.
Maybe I shouldn’t have gasped. Not out loud, anyway.