Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 01 - Living the Vida Lola (24 page)

His voice rose slightly, and I thought he said, “Not now, Sarah.” Then he lowered his voice again, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make out any more of his conversation. A few seconds later, he ended the call, sliding his phone into his pocket. He turned back to me. “I have to go.”

I balked. “You’re kidding, right?”

His gaze dragged over me, and I felt desire pulse from him. He raked his hand through his hair, disheveling it in a delicious way, but his jaw pulsed with frustration. “I wish I was.”

He came closer, put his hands on either side of my face, and kissed me, long and deep and full of promise. “Right now.”

No!
I had pent-up lust. I had an orgasm waiting in the wings. “Jack—” I panted as he pulled away. He couldn’t leave me in this condition. He
wouldn’t
.

“I’ll take a rain check on the belly button inspection.” And he walked out the door.

Alone in bed a little while later, one question buzzed relentlessly through my mind: Who the
hell
was Sarah?

I
woke up the next morning in pain. I sat up, squinted one eye, and peered at my stomach. “Oh. My. God.” My hand clamped over my mouth. A small area of my skin was pea green, the shiny silver post the only thing remotely attractive about my midsection. So much for sexy. Holy shit. I better not get a heart infection and die. At least not before I lived my fantasy with Jack Callaghan.

I rolled onto my back, my hand slipping under my pillow as I fluffed it under my head. My fingers brushed against the slick surface of—my breathing hitched—the pictures of Jack. Antonio had put them back! But now I had the real McCoy. What did I need two-dimensional images for?

I pulled the pictures out and looked at them anyway. Really, Jack hadn’t changed much. He was broader in the chest now, more muscular and leaner overall, but he had the same blue eyes, same chestnut hair, same taunting dimple.

I swallowed. There was no way I could get rid of these photos, because I
didn’t
have Jack in the flesh. Sarah had called and he’d run.

Pushing the disturbing thought out of my mind, I reached for
the phone. My first order of business for the day was to find out the truth about tattoos and infections. After some fancy talking, I convinced the receptionist at my doctor’s office that I had to speak with the doctor herself. After a short wait, she came on the line. It was a brief conversation, but she confirmed that, in very rare instances, a tattoo could actually cause an infection that could lead to death. It had happened to a student at a local college in just that way.

I thanked the doctor and hung up, but felt less than relieved. My gaze settled on my discolored stomach again. The doctor’s theory supported Emily’s story, but only worked to heighten my anxiety over my own piercing.

Distraction. That’s what I needed, and since Jack wasn’t around to be distracted with, I did the next best thing. I threw on a pair of shorts, slipped on a T-shirt, and took Salsa for a low-impact jog around the block. Conquer the pain. I hadn’t forgotten about my near-death experience at My Place and watched my back the whole time.

After a long steaming shower I inspected my abrasions from the hit and run. They were healing, and the bruises were starting to fade. My lip was almost back to normal. Just my stomach looked and felt like hell. The things women did for the sake of beauty, fashion, and PI work.

Dressed in lightweight jeans and a sleeveless blouse, I wrapped my hair into a loose bun, making sure a few coppery strands framed my face. Grabbing a jacket for the flower mart, I jammed to pick up Chely, checking the rearview mirror every few minutes. My gut told me it had been Muriel yesterday in Bonatee’s building, and it had crossed my mind more than once that she’d followed me there.

Chely bounded out of her front door, climbed breathlessly into the car, and flung a coat into the backseat. “This is so exciting, Lola. A room of flowers. So cool.”

I gave her a serious look. “You have to decide today. No more fooling around. The party’s in three days.”

She fidgeted in her seat during the entire fifteen-minute drive, and I wondered if she was capable of making a decision. Of course, what fourteen-year-old girl, almost fifteen, really knew what she liked? I sure as hell hadn’t. Except for Jack. And being a PI.

As I slowed to park in a space in front of the boxy building, a truck barreled past us, horn blaring. I stared after it, but it disappeared, and I dismissed it as something unrelated to my case.

Chely brought my focus back to the
quinceañera
. “What if we go to all this trouble and my mom and I still can’t agree?”

Jackets in hand, we climbed the rickety metal staircase that led to the accessory room of the Flower Shoppe. “One of you has to give.”

She nodded her head but didn’t look convinced. Then she came to a dead stop in the doorway. “Oh,” she said, her enthusiasm sagging even more.

I put my hand on her back and propelled her forward. “What now?”

Her forehead crinkled. “It’s just, like, this isn’t, you know, very
pretty
. Where are the flowers?”

I looked at the familiar room. I’d been coming here since I was seventeen, picking up Abuelita’s flower orders. It was no frills—a step below the décor of the huge warehouse stores—with gray metal shelving defining the aisles and boxes stacked high on the shelves. “It’s wholesale,” I reminded her. “They sell the products, not the atmosphere. We could go to a pretty little florist shop, but it’ll cost three times as much.”

That got her moving. Tía Marina was nothing if not a tightwad. Chely pulled her shoulders in as she walked, afraid to knock dust from the shelves onto her Cabo Wabo T-shirt.
After several redirects on my part, she spotted a sleek cylindrical vase, heavy on the bottom and about ten inches high.

We picked up black-and-white curling ribbon, confetti to sprinkle on the tables, balloons to decorate the hall, and little mesh gift bags to fill with silver Kisses. She was happy again, and I was relieved that we were moving quickly. Finally, we crossed the warehouse landing outside to the fresh flower room on the opposite side of the building.

“Lola!” Marissa—flower goddess—greeted me as I walked into the room. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” She gave a wicked smile, enhanced by her spiky black hair and rosy cheeks. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I
love
it when Antonio picks up Abuelita’s order.”

“Eww.” Chely wrinkled her nose and bared her teeth. “Yuck.” She leaned in to me and whispered loudly, “Does she, like,
like
Antonio?”

“What’s not to like?” Marissa winked. “That man is heaven.”

No,
Jack
was heaven. My lips tingled just thinking about his kiss last night.

Chely hopped back and forth on her feet. “Eww, yuck. No he’s not. Antonio’s my cousin.”

“Well, he’s not
my
cousin,” Marissa said, walking over to one of the center block tables to wrap an order. “And you can tell him I’m waiting for him to call me.”

Okay, time to move it along. “We’re going to check out the freezer, okay?”

“Sure thing. Holler if you need me.” She moved off to help another customer as Chely and I slipped on our jackets. Windows and steel doors separated the work room from the refrigerator. I grabbed hold of the heavy door handle, braced my feet, and put all of my weight into sliding it open. A wall of freezing air hit us as we stepped into the arctic.

“Oh. My. Gosh.” Chely’s eyes popped open as she stared at
hundreds of buckets full of every type of flower imaginable. “Now this is what I’m talking about.”

My teeth chattered, and I pulled my coat tighter around my body. Oh, to have long johns and woolly socks…

We tiptoed around puddles of water and up and down the bucket-lined rows until our lips were blue. Finally, after she rejected at least ten suggestions, I snapped. “Come on, Chely! We don’t have all day. You don’t like the pink roses?”

She hemmed and hawed, studying the rose buckets. “Okay,” she finally agreed.

Hallelujah! Although, hadn’t she been against pink? Teenagers. Argh!

I picked a bunch of pink buds—wholesale meant we had to buy two dozen—and handed it to her. “Let’s go. I’m a Popsicle.”

She nodded, her teeth chattering. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. It wouldn’t open.

I stomped my feet, trying to send the blood circulating again. Trying again, I put all my weight into it. It didn’t budge.

What the hell was I doing wrong? Grab the handle and pull. It should be simple. My heart skittered. Something wasn’t right. I pulled again.
Nada
. “Help me, Chely,” I said, gritting my teeth and trying again.

Chely’s eyelids flew open. “Is it locked? Oh m-my G-God!” She dropped the roses, and we both took hold of the handle.

“On three,” I said, my teeth clanking together. “One, t-two, th-th-three!” My toes were going to break off any second. That fueled my determination. I had too many cute sandals to be toeless.

We pulled and heaved, but the door wouldn’t open.

“Oh my G-God!” Chely wailed again. “We’re g-going to d-die in here. And I n-never even k-kissed a b-boy!”

And I’d kissed Jack only once. I shushed her. “We’re n-not going to d-die,” I said, but we might lose a couple limbs if
someone didn’t open the door…
now
. I ran to the thick window as fast as my frozen legs would take me and pounded my fists on it.

Marissa had her back to us, still helping the same customer. I peered at them through the foggy glass. Flannel coat, hunched shoulders, steel-colored wiry hair. Muriel!

I was not delusional. I grabbed a bucket, dumped the flowers and water on the ground, and holding it by the handle, swung it with all my might against the window. It bounced off, reverberations shooting up my arms. Was the refrigerator soundproof? Couldn’t Marissa hear?

Another customer walked into the warehouse. I banged the window again, waved my icicle arms like an air traffic controller, my movement finally drawing his attention. His reaction was slow, but his eyes finally bugged when he seemed to understand and he raced toward the refrigerator. A second later, we were free. Chely fell into his arms as we both stumbled out into the warmth.

Marissa whirled around. “What happened?”

The man stripped his coat off and wrapped it around Chely.

“Th-the d-door was l-l-locked.” I stomped my feet, my mind and body frozen as I looked for the woman in the flannel shirt.

“It can’t lock by itself.”

“It w-was l-locked.” I wheeled my head around. The place was empty. “Where’s the l-lady you were h-helping?”

Marissa strode over to examine the refrigerator door. “She left,” she said over her shoulder.

I ran on my block feet for the exit.

Marissa followed. “What’s going on, Lola?”

“What’s her n-name? Why was she h-here?”

“She didn’t give me her name. She changed her mind about her order at the last minute.”

Tires squealed from outside. I made it to the street in time to see the back end of an old red truck race past the building. The license plate was caked with mud. I couldn’t make any of it out. Damn.

I stood, rooted to the spot, until I started to thaw and could wiggle my toes again. “Was she an older woman?” I asked as we went back inside. “Pasty skin and a million wrinkles?”

She nodded. “That sounds like her. How’d you know?”

Nerves gripped my gut. I folded my arms and glanced at Chely, who was still shivering and wrapped in a stranger’s coat. She’d almost been an innocent casualty, thanks to me. “Just a hunch,” I said grimly.

Back at Camacho and Associates, I stood in front of my whiteboard where I’d mapped out all the information I had on Emily Diggs so far. Something wasn’t adding up. Even though I suspected Muriel O’Brien was the wrinkled woman in plaid who’d locked Chely and me in the cooler at the florist, I couldn’t picture her as Emily’s killer—or at least not on her own. And if she was acting on behalf of someone else, I had no idea why.

Muriel only managed businesses owned by someone else. She had no motive for murder. I had to delve deeper to find out who was the puppet master behind Muriel.

I looked through Emily’s notebook again. More scattered, random words popped out at me. Her name,
Emily
, written over and over; different letters jotted down in various, meaningless combinations; Jack’s name and the phone number to the newspaper;
my lie;
the word
investigation
scribbled out in dark, angry pencil marks; the word
circumstantial
, also crossed out.

Several times there was a series of words:
tattoo, infection in the blood stream, heart failure, death
. What happened to Garrett had been foremost on Emily’s mind.

I’d checked with Manny, who’d checked with Seavers, and there was no indication that she’d ever gone to the police with any suspicions about the fatal tattoo. She’d been killed before her suspicion had turned into anything more substantial. The million-dollar question was this: Had she been killed because her suspicions were warranted?

Somebody tapped my shoulder, and instinct kicked in. I wheeled around, throwing up my arms in a self-defense stance.

“Dolores!” Sadie yelped, jumping back.

I relaxed. “Don’t do that.”

“Touchy, aren’t you?”

Damn it if she wasn’t right. I was completely on edge. Being targeted for murder can have that effect on a person. “I’m fine.”

“What’s going on with the case?”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. I didn’t feel like sharing with her, even if she did project this I’m-in-charge attitude.

“Nothing’s going on,” I said. If you didn’t count someone trying to turn me into roadkill at My Place, and then into an ice sculpture this morning…

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” I eyed Manny, who was hunched over his desk in his office. He was either ignoring us completely or truly oblivious of our presence. My bet was on the former. Superstar PIs were never oblivious.

“I’m free right now. I can lend a hand.”