1 Margarita Nights (37 page)

Clay unlocked the doors of the Lexus with the remote. Then with his left arm across my shoulders and holding me tight to his side, he said, “Let’s go.” We ran down the stairs and he pulled open the door, hustling me inside.

“I feel like a movie star,” I told him when he slid behind the wheel, “With a bodyguard. Well, two bodyguards. Do you think that’s why he’s here?”

“That or making sure you don’t blow town or kill someone else.”

“All comforting thoughts.”

He was too busy searching for danger to pay any attention to me. I reached out to the right pocket of his jacket and felt the hard outline of a gun. He gave me a brief glance and then focused on his driving.

When we pulled into the underground parking at the condo, Styles kept going.

I still had to get through Andy’s funeral, had to hold myself together. Clay and I timed our arrival at the Unitarian Church for just before the service was about to start.

Styles stood outside the church, hands clasped in front of him, watching stragglers entering—judging and calculating. My legs wobbled as I passed him, pretending I didn’t see him and didn’t know him.

Inside, the church was cool and dark after the glaring sunlight and the sunglasses I wore left me blind. I slipped off the glasses but kept them in my hands. This time I slipped into the first pew inside the door, keeping my head down and making my body as small as possible, trying not to be seen, with my eyes firmly on the hymn books in the rack in front of me.

But we were barely seated when one of the ushers came down from the front of the church. People in front of us turned around to see what was happening. He leaned over and whispered, “Mrs. Crown would like you to join the family.”

Oh god no! I couldn’t do it.

Clay stood up, stepping out of the pew to wait for me. “No,” I whispered. “I’m fine here.”

Clay leaned over and said, “C’mon.” He held out his hand. I took his hand, rose on weak legs, stepped out in the aisle and froze, trembling, unable to make myself move forward. Clay gave me a gentle push, starting me down the scarlet runner towards the front pew.

I went a long, seeing questioning faces turn to me. Evan was there at the end of the aisle a few pews in front of us. A few pews further still I saw Cordelia. And then I saw Dr. and Mrs. Travis. I stopped. Bernice had a look on her face like someone had given her a permanent wedgie.

Clay placed a hand on the small of my back, a gentle pressure propeling me forward. I wobbled on until I saw Hayward Lynch, sitting two rows back from the Crowns. Hate, like I’d never felt in my life, raged through me. How dare he sit here at the funeral of a man he’d killed?

I felt Clay’s hand squeeze my waist. “Let it go,” he whispered.

“Sherri,” Betsy Crown called softly. Her smile welcomed me and her fingers beckoned. I walked forward and collapsed into the space waiting for us at the end of the front pew. Clay reached out for my hand and I clung to him, staring at the dark wood floor.

I sat there feeling loss and anger and pain. The hurt went on and on, never ending, beating on me, swamping me. The service was awful . . . worse than Jimmy’s, odious and cruel and I thought Noble would never shut up and let us go.

At last Noble walked down the steps carrying the urn with Andy’s ashes and handed them to Mr. Crown.

Clay nearly had to lift me to my feet. Then he dragged me out of the pew and off to the side so the Crowns and their daughter could get by us. I slipped on the dark glasses.

“Are you all right?” Clay asked when we cleared the shadow of the church.

“I might never be all right again,” I croaked. “Let’s go. I want to get as far away as possible.” “I’ll take you home,” he said.

Home. Ruth Ann always says, “Home is where the love is.” “Sherri,” a man’s voice called behind us. I swung to face Hayward Lynch.

“Get away from me,” I hissed. “I know all about you. Know what you did.”

His mouth tightened into a thin white scar and his piercing eyes grew colder.

“You killed Jimmy and Andy.”

I would have struck out at him but Clay held my arms as he spun me away from Lynch. And then Marley was hugging me and kissing me before passing me over to David who did the same.

David held me at arm’s length and said, “We had a little moment for Andy yesterday morning.” None of the sad funeral behavior for David, his face was happy, inviting me to share in his joy of life.

“Andy and I were talking about funerals once and he told me about a scene from the movie
The Big Chill
where the dead man’s friend plays this Rolling Stone song on the organ at the guy’s funeral.”

He waited to see if I was following him. I’ve only seen that movie about a hundred times so I nodded to show I was keeping up.

“Andy thought that was a neat idea so at the service yesterday I rocked out ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want,’ on the piano and then we had a moment’s silence for Andy.” David grinned at me. “I’m sure my parishioners thought I’d lost my mind but I know Andy would approve.”

I remembered David getting up from a piano when Marley and I went to the shelter. I knew where the tape was. I threw my arms around David and kissed his cheek and pounded his back. I swung around to search the crowd for Styles. Lynch was right behind me, a worried expression on his face. I grinned and said, “Got ya.”

I didn’t wait to see how Lynch took this. Dodging in and out of people I searched for Styles. When I found him, I grabbed a handful of his suit jacket and tugged. “You have to come.” When I was sure he was moving in the right direction, I ran back to David. Lynch was talking to him but left before I got there.

“Can we get into your building?” I asked David. “Is it locked?”

“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Lynch was just asking about the center too.” He looked bemused by this sudden attention for a place normally so overlooked.

I snatched his hand. “Then you have to open it.” I headed for the parking lot hanging on to David, Styles right beside me, and Marley bringing up the rear. Everyone was talking at me. Marley caught up and jogged along beside me, firing questions. David was going on and on saying that he didn’t understand, when Clay pulled up in front of us and swung open the passenger door.

We went over the bridge so fast we were actually airborne. At Tamiami and Hope, Clay cut through a parking lot and came out the other side rather than waiting for a light. Styles didn’t object to Clay’s driving, although it was scaring the hell out of me.

At the shelter, we all tumbled out while the car was still rocking to a stop. I think it was in relief more than anything else, and while David went to the front door, Styles headed around to the back.

“Hurry,” I urged David as he fitted the key in the lock. I looked around, searching for Lynch. It just didn’t seem likely that he’d give up so easily, but maybe he was already leaving for parts unknown.

When we poured through the front door, we could see the back door hanging open even before we saw the raised lid of the old battered upright.

“Oh no!” I wailed, but the words were barely out of my mouth when Styles goose-marched Lynch through the open back door.

In his hand, Lynch held the videotape.

Two days later I unloaded a tray of drinks at a table and went back to Peter at the bar. “The long and the short of it is this, the police are watching your partners, just waiting for them to do something wrong. Why did you get hooked up with them in the first place?”

“When these guys ask, you don’t say no.” He stared into his empty Scotch glass.

“Look,” I said, “I have a little idea.” I picked up his glass and poured him another drink. “Do you know Big Daddy’s Oyster Bar?”

“Yeah, Morgan Davies owns it.”

“Right. He’s seventy-two and still working seven days a week. Can you imagine that? I hope that doesn’t happen to me.” I pondered the future for a moment. It seemed real likely.

“Anyway, we were talking last fall. He says this is his last season. He wants to sell. He asked me if I was interested in taking it over. He even offered to hold a mortgage.”

“Why don’t you?” Peter asked. “You’ve got Jimmy’s insurance money.”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s for me.”

Peter laughed. “Face it, you just like the Sunset. They’ll have to dynamite you out of here.”

I took a bag of limes out of the fridge and spilled them into the bar sink. “We’re talking about you.” I turned on the tap. “The location of the Oyster Bar has always been great, but with the new houses being built out there that restaurant is a little gold mine. Sell out to your partners or just walk away, but get out. Get your name off everything and then go see Morgan Davies and tell him I sent you.”

I saw movement at the entrance and looked up to see Styles standing in the door of the bar. He looked around, hands easy at his sides, making sure of what he had.

He was smiling. Hot damn, the man could actually smile. I picked up a cloth and wiped my hands as I walked down the bar to join him.

“Of all the gin joints . . . ,” I began and his smile broadened. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, this isn’t working out the way I’d hoped.” He hitched himself onto a stool.

“But I’ll buy you one.”

“Well,” I said taking a wineglass down from the rack behind me, “Unaccustomed as I am to public drinking, I’ll take you up on it.” I poured myself a glass of the most expensive white wine on the bar.

“And what about yourself?”

He hesitated and then ordered a beer.

“This must be a special occasion indeed,” I said as I pulled his dark ale.

We toasted each other over the rim of the glasses. “I arrested Hayward Lynch today,” Styles told me, setting his glass down on the center of the coaster.

“Did he admit to the murders?”

“He’s never going to admit to anything, but Ganoff confirms his boss borrowed his vehicle. Ganoff wasn’t involved.” “Have you got enough to convict Lynch?” He nodded. “Lynch shouldn’t have kept your Beretta after he killed Crown.”

“He probably was waiting for a chance to use it on me,” I shivered.

“The county commissioner has admitted to the bribe, so we have Lynch sewed up pretty tight.”

“So it’s over.”

He nodded and reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a brown manila envelope and slid it across the mahogany to me.

I knew what it was but I opened it anyway, counting the six photographs inside.

“Your husband was a mighty fine photographer,” Styles said. “Mighty fine.”

The End