Murder Under the Italian Moon (19 page)

"Thanks, Valerie. I'll go over and say hi to Sabrina." What a relief, she didn't ask about Kyle.

The mission gardens appeared spectacular and luscious as usual, and a lot less chaotic than the town's streets. People this side of the walls looked as colorful as the ones outside. I walked over to the gift shop. Not sure why this place tended to feel a few degrees cooler than the rest of the buildings. Here visitors spoke in softer voices, and the room smelled of citrus and potpourri. The potpourri was one of our projects. We collected rose petals, orange peels and an array of other fragrant things and tied them in cute little sachets.

I spotted Sabrina by the native jewelry display. She wore her usual white gown with lace sleeves and a red cummerbund. The outfit was originally an old white cotton nightgown and came from Goodwill. But Sabrina performed one of her creative tricks; she added a red cummerbund, pinned a red silk hibiscus in her hair and proclaimed her dress to be a copy of Bizet's Carmen. Two younger docents rushed to the same Goodwill store hoping to score a similar treasure but couldn't find anything even close to it.

"Excuse me, ma'am." I tried to disguise my voice. "Seen any dazzling bullfighters lately?"

She turned to look. Her professional smile died and she stared at me, eyes wide open, mouth even wider.

"Shhh," I whispered. "I'm traveling incognito." I watched her relax. She poked my shoulder with her index finger and we laughed.

"Where is your hat?"

I shook my head. "Gone. I wanted to stop by to apologize to you."

"Forget it." She waved her hand. "Want to stay and work? We're very short-handed."

"Can't." I pointed to my feet.

"Huh! Nice boots. Got them in Italy?"

I nodded. "They're killing me. I bet I have blisters already. I'm sorry." Just the mention of blisters made the pain go up a notch. "I'm planning on sneaking out through the back and driving home—provided I can make it to my car."

"How is everything?" Sabrina was being very diplomatic.

"Good, lots of things happening. We need to do lunch or something and catch up. Okay?" Shifting my body weight from one foot to the other didn't help. I had to get out of the torture devices. "Sabrina, Valerie, the admission person, said someone came looking for me. Any idea who it was?"

"A dazzling bullfighter?" she chided.

"She said a blonde. I've got to find a place to sit before I leave a trail of blood." Whoever said that if you want to forget your troubles you need to wear tight shoes must have owned Italian boots.

I left. I wanted to stop a few minutes in Serra Chapel. Maybe sitting quietly and elevating my feet would help me make it to the car. This was not the way I had envisioned my day at the mission. By now, the morning mass would be over, and with the exception of the very pious, no one would be in the chapel. I could sneak in, rest and be gone. I went halfway up the aisle and sat in one of the pews.

Hard to believe these wooden pews were over one hundred years old. I always felt like part of living history in this chapel, the oldest building in California still used for mass. Even at high noon, the small recessed windows high up by the ceiling let in a filtered light. The scant sunlight and the thickness of the original walls kept the place naturally cool. I remembered the times Ruby would meet me after my volunteer work, and we would stroll down to Sarducci's for lunch. The restaurant, named after the fictitious character from
Saturday Night Live
, served creative Italian food prepared by a Polish chef.

Right now, though, I appreciated the silence of the chapel most. I sat and put my sore feet on the kneeling bench—what a relief. Incense and the smell of votive candles filled the air while the oil burning inside red glass containers reflected on the gold leafed
retablo
behind the altar. All that gold had me thinking of the keys Larry took with him, and something else, what he asked me on the way back to the house: "
What kind of person is Ruby? What does she like to do? What kind of places does she like to go to? You should know.
" He was right.

I should know.

And I should be exploring each and every possibility. What was I doing here, moaning about my feet while my son sat in a jail because of my so-called best friend? I needed to get home, change into comfortable clothing and go find that heartless bitch.

What would be the fastest route from the mission to my car? I should avoid Camino Capistrano. The only way to accomplish that meant getting out through the cemetery on the east side of the chapel, and I had a strong feeling that gate would be locked on Las Golondrinas' Day. May as well go out the same way I came in. I braced myself for the lunch crowd, much more aggressive than the morning strollers I bumped into on my way in. Everyone would be cranky, hungry and ready for chips and salsa.

Leon Rene's song "When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano" played from several speakers, as it did every year. People sat under colorful umbrellas and century-old trees, while waitresses in smocked Mexican peasant dresses hurried around with pitchers of water and margaritas. My prediction proved right. The minute I reached the corner of the mission's wall, I got sucked into the crowd. I was a woman on a mission. What side of Camino Capistrano looked less mobbed? The left side had more shops, so people tended to slow down to look in windows. The right side housed more eateries. Decisions, decisions. I began to cross to the right side of the road when I noticed my hat!

Dio mio
, was I hallucinating? Nope, I would have recognized the red ribbon even at a red-ribbon convention. It was my hat. I couldn't see the person wearing it. It moved along with the crowd. Because of the height of the wearer, the hat appeared to be bobbing—now you see me, now you don't.

Damn
, I was going to take care of that thief, boots or no boots.

I picked up the pace, pushing my way through people, garnering dirty looks and insults. Maybe it was an illusion, but it seemed as if the hat also moved faster. For a moment I got a better glance and saw it was a woman dressed in black. I could only see her upper back and head. A blond woman. Could I attract her attention? How? Screaming wouldn't help. The streets had enough noise to drown a foghorn.

I got lucky. The blonde moved away from the river of humanity and walked into the covered Capistrano Plaza, past the row of small shops, down the narrow stairs, turning right at the last step and taking off through the parking lot. These parking spots were mostly reserved for customers of surrounding restaurants.
She knew the neighborhood.

"Excuse me," I yelled after her, feeling stares on me from people waiting at the train station. I kept moving, painfully aware I could only walk at a certain pace and swearing at my decision to wear the spiky heels. We were tracking back where I came from. "Hey, hat lady."

The woman turned to look at me for an instant. I caught a glimpse of blond hair, large dark glasses and red lips. Those red lips—Ruby!

Oh my God, oh my God
. I had problems coping, thinking and moving. I could hardly breathe. I kept on walking, searching my purse for my cell phone.
Come on, come on, damn phone
. I called Larry's cell. I had a good view of Ruby's back, in a black pantsuit, running at full speed away from the train depot.

Larry picked up. "Hi, sweetie."

"It's her. She's here. She's here," I panted. "What should I do?"

"Lella, what's wrong? Slow down. Where are you?"

"At the mission. It's Ruby."

"Lella," Larry said. "Tell me where you are, and I'll get someone there right now. Stay away from Ruby. You sound breathless. Are you listening?"

"She stole my hat." The silence that followed my statement spoke a thousand words.

"Sweetie"—the snake-charming voice rang in my ears—"are you okay? Maybe you should find a place to rest, and I'll send someone to get you?"

"Shut up, Larry. I'm trying to catch Ruby. Remember her? All the cops in California are looking for her? Well, she is right here, by the tracks, a block north of the mission, and I'm going to get her. You hear me?" No answer. He hung up after I told him my location. He was as familiar with the place as Ruby and I. Damn you, Larry.

I can do this.

She gained ground ahead of me. I knew where she was headed: a small opening in the chain-link fence siding the train tracks to the east. She found it and crossed over, heading toward Los Rios Historic District. Not good. Where were the cops when you needed them? Should I call 911? I pulled out the phone, still trying to catch up with Ruby. It slipped out of my hand and fell to the hard ground. I saw the battery fly one way, the rest of the phone the other.

Why?

Forget the phone. My feet felt fat and heavy, and hard to lift. I had to get over the tracks. The heel of my left boot got stuck in the steel groove, and I couldn't budge it. I looked to see where Ruby was headed but the bougainvillea bushes and the purple vines dotting the low fence hid the road below, and she disappeared out of sight. I was close enough to the train depot to see people looking at me and motioning. I squatted down and began to unzip my boot. It was then I felt the tracks rumbling. The Amtrak Pacific Surfliner was coming in.

I had a captive audience at the depot. In spite of the tracks shaking and rumbling I unzipped the boot; my foot was so swollen I couldn't get it out. I heard the people waiting for the train calling to me. How fast could the train be going when it needed to come to a complete stop fifty yards from here? No time to find out. I wiggled and twisted and pulled.
Come on
. In a desperate attempt to free myself from the tracks, I stood, took a deep breath and then jerked my foot back hard. It came loose, but something snapped and I lost my balance, falling on my behind. I heard folks clapping, laughing.

I wasn't going to leave my boot there to get run over, I could always sell the pair at the consignment store. One person's torture devices could be another person's footwear from heaven. I retrieved my boot a split second before the steel mammoth roared by me. The gush of air from the row of passenger cars zooming by lifted my skirt. I jumped back, one boot on, one off. I heard the hiss of the train coming to a stop at the nearby station. The thing must have had great brakes.

Someone grabbed my arms from behind and pulled me farther from the train tracks. "What are you doing?" an angry woman's voice said. I wiggled myself free and turned to look at this tall, thin woman with short hair and a stern look on her face. She wore a frothy chiffon dress, open sandals and some silver jewelry that rattled like my cutlery drawer every time she moved her hands.

We stared at each other. "Mrs. York, just what were you thinking?"

"You know me?" When I said that, her expression relaxed, she attempted a smile, and little wrinkles formed just above the bridge of her nose. "Flor—Detective Florian?" I didn't have a clue as how to address her. "You look—different."

"It's my day off." She sighed. "Devin called." She looked me over. "What were you doing?" Her impatience barely concealed.

"Why did he call you?"

"He called everybody. I live in Laguna Niguel, so I happen to be the closest to you." She pronounced "you" as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

I had a strong hunch she wanted to call me something else.

"I was trying to catch Ruby."

She looked around. "Where is she?"

Was she mocking me? "She went that way." I pointed to the west side of the train tracks. "Los Rios. I'm not sure where she's headed. And then my heel got stuck in the tracks." I could tell she didn't give a hoot about what I was saying. She wanted to get back to her lunch. "Shouldn't you be calling for more cops to come and comb the area?"

Florian looked at me for a long time. Was she ignoring my question? I fidgeted with the left boot still in my hand.

Finally she spoke. "Can you walk?"

I put my foot on the ground and pain shot all the way up to my knee. I wished to die, but I wasn't about to let that snotty young lady know, so I smiled. "Of course I can walk. My feet are just a little sore. I was running in heels trying to catch up with Ruby."

"I'll get the car and drive you home." She ignored my reference to chasing Ruby.

"I have my own transportation, and I can drive myself home. Thank you. However, if you would be so kind as to help me get to my car…I'm not sure I can get the boot back on." I held her stare. I could tell she was weighing the pros and cons of her next move.

"Where's your car?"

"The other side of El Camino Real, around the corner, in the public parking by the Egan House. I was heading that way when I spotted Ruby. She's a blonde now." Judging by her expression, the more details I shared, the less she bought my story. I shut up and took painful little steps. While I hung onto her stiff arm, we walked in the direction of the parking lot.

"If you don't believe me, ask all these people." I pointed to the train depot. We turned our heads to see the empty platform and the train slowly pulling out of the station, heading south to San Diego.

Her deep impatience hung over me. I had ruined her day off. I was realistic enough to know I needed help, so I stopped and got the car keys from my purse. "Florian, would you mind bringing my car around? It's all I need, honestly." I handed her the keys. Conflict shadowed her face. Frustration won.

She grabbed the keys "What's your license plate?"

"Huh?"

"Your car, the license plate of your car?" We looked at each other and her judgmental eyes reminded me of that American eagle you see on anything patriotic, from stamps to national parks ads.
Damn.

"I—I don't know it. Wait. It's a Ford Mustang, silver-gray, with a custom dark gray stripe on the hood."

Florian checked me over deliberately from my bare feet to my gray roots. The look on her face declared she hated me. What could I say? If I was her, I'd probably think I had it coming.

She left, walking quickly toward the parking lot. I tried to retrace my steps. Maybe I could find my phone. I hopped around, careful where I put my bare foot, diligently picking harmless spots to land on. I got lucky. I found the battery first then, not too far away, the rest of the phone. I wanted to try to reassemble it, but I heard a car horn—my car horn. I looked up and saw Florian, standing by my car. What a wonderful sight. I dropped the battery and phone into my purse and hopped toward her.