Authors: Laura Bradley
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Scythe said wearily. “We just want a little information from Miss Sawyer.”
“Really?” Brightening, Mama Tru cocked her head sideways. “What kind of information?”
Uh-oh.
Mario got his blabbermouthity from somewhere, and it wasn’t his dad, for whom an entire sentence was a rare speech.
Scythe, no dummy, recognized an opportunity. He took one of Mama Tru’s soft, round hands in his, introducing himself. Mama Tru, coming under the spell of his charm, returned the introduction. Then he reached for the bottle of malbec and a glass, a crystal one.
Ah-ha,
so he had noticed my omission. “Can I get you some wine, Mrs. Trujillo?”
“Sí,
Lieutenant. And, please call me Esmeralda.”
“You can call me Jackson, Esmeralda.”
Mama Tru was practically purring.
I should’ve been grateful for the distraction, but it ticked me off. How come she got the chivalrous knight, and I got the laser-beam hard-ass? I gave myself a mental slap. As they sat at the kitchen table, I weighed my options in escaping just long enough to hide the violet paper. I could excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room, but how would I explain having to back all the way there?
“How long have you known Ricardo, ma’am?” Scythe said in an exaggerated version of his dry West Texas accent. He was shifting into his interrogating-old-ladies mode.
“Oh, I didn’t know him.”
I could see Scythe visibly deflate.
“But,” Mama Tru added, “I do know a lot about him.”
“The police aren’t interested in rumors, Mama.”
“Wrong, Miss Sawyer,” Scythe corrected. “Many rumors carry a grain of truth in them.”
“Ha!”
“Ha what?”
“I guess you’ve never known a teenage girl. They can make up stories out of whole cloth without even a speck of truth, much less something as substantial as a grain.”
Scythe looked a little funny for a moment, but it might have been my imagination, because by the time I blinked, he had his game face on—unyielding. “We aren’t talking about teenage girls, are we, Esmeralda?”
“No, Jackson, I hear things about Ricardo from my son and from Delia Bonita.”
“Who used to be a teenage girl,” I pointed out.
“Who used to be a teenage girl? Mario?” Scythe slipped in.
I glared. He obviously didn’t appreciate my help, so he could do this on his own.
“Delia,” Mama Tru was saying, “still went to Ricardo for her hair. You know, he only did that for very special customers, ones he’d had around a long time.”
“I talked to Mario earlier,” Scythe said. “So I probably know all you can impart from his end. But what has Delia told you?”
I resisted the urge to pull out the paper to see if Delia’s name was on the list. I hoped so, or the whole Zorita thing was a hoax.
“Many, many things over the years. I can’t remember most of these.”
“That’s fine. What you do remember is probably what will be most important to me.” Scythe was endlessly patient. With her, not me.
“We went to Judy’s Tacos over on the south side after the last time she got her hair done. We go eat somewhere after her appointments, then run around shopping at the thrift stores.”
That explained the funky caftan. I’d thought they stopped making those things in the seventies.
Scythe laced his hands togther, probably to prevent himself from a dozen impatient gestures he was dying to make to get Mama to the point. His knuckles whitened. He nodded to encourage her to go on.
“We were at Neighborhood Thrift, going through the women’s dresses, looking for something for her granddaughter to wear to her cousin’s
quinceañera
, when—”
“Just a minute.” Scythe held up a hand. “You’re telling me that Delia pays how much to get her hair done?”
“Two hundred sixty dollars.”
“And,” Jackson continued, “shops for her family’s clothes at a thrift store?”
Mama Tru tsked. “Jackson, have you ever been to a thrift store?”
I resisted the urge to grin as I tried to picture Scythe picking through racks of jumbled clothes in a warehouse. He wouldn’t do it unless he were looking for a clue. In fact, I doubt he ever shopped for clothes, period. Maybe he got his girlfriends to do it for him. “No, I haven’t,” he answered.
“Last week, I found a silk organdy dress, brand-new with tags from Neiman Marcus, for nine dollars and ninety-nine cents. And it was senior citizen day, so I got twenty-five percent off that. No matter how rich you are, Jackson, you can’t pass up a deal like that. Besides, someone as cultured as you should know that sometimes the rich are the worse for being cheap.”
I threw Jackson a sidelong glance. He looked duly impressed with Mama’s insight but still impatient for the good stuff. We’d been talking fifteen minutes and had only found out the places to shop and eat on the south side.
“Did she happen to mention Ricardo while you two were out finding deals?”
“Oh, yes.” Mama nodded and took a swig of wine. I think she thought it was
sangria,
becuse she made a face like she’d been expecting the sweet watered-down drink and got dry tannin, thirteen-percent alcohol instead. “We passed a billboard for one of the open city council seats, and Delia mentioned that Ricardo seemed especially distracted by the local political race. She said in all the years she went to him for hair, he’d never even mentioned politics, but this time he was different. She said Ricardo was always so cool and smooth, but that day he as
un hombre del fuego.
”
“A man of fire? Why?” So Jackson knew some
español.
“She didn’t know. It surprised her. You see, she’s the secretary—or what do they want us to call them now, executive assistants? Anyway, she is the executive assistant for the chairman of the Bexar County Republican Party. She said something to Ricardo she shouldn’t have, she said. Told him about someone who was about to announce to run in one of the races. She felt guilty about it, because Ricardo, he got a little passionate.”
My fingers wiggled.
Down boys, you can’t pull out that list to check just yet. Patience is a virtue. Wait until the nosy policeman is gone.
Scythe shrugged. “People get passionate for all sorts of reasons. Did Delia happen to say which race Ricardo was focused on?”
She shook her snow-white head.
“Lo siento.
I didn’t ask. We started talking about the
mariachis
her daughter-in-law’s sister hired for the
quineañera
. They aren’t very good, and they are very expensive, and—”
Scythe stood up and stuck his hand into his back pocket, extracting a card from his business card case. He took her right hand in his, put the card in her palm, and covered it with his left. “Thank you so much, Esmeralda. Please call me if you talk to Delia again or think of anything else. You’ve been a great help.”
Had Mama Tru run Scythe off so soon with her promise of endless chatter? If that was the case, I would have to keep her around.
Scythe looked down at the beeper on his belt, and I realized he was being paged. He pressed a button, obviously recognizing the number displayed. “I apologize, ladies, that I have to leave so soon.”
He carried his half-drunk glass to the sink, then walked to the back door. I jumped up, careful to follow behind him so he couldn’t see the paper. I was almost home free.
I thought.
“Reyn.” Mama Tru was looking at my back. She leaned forward with her hand outstretched to grab the paper. “You have something—”
I jumped and narrowly missed banging into Scythe. “Something to make for dinner. Oh, yes, Mama Tru, I do. I hope you’ll stay.”
“How about a thousand somethings?” Scythe muttered derisively. I knew my distraction technique would work. So much for my pride.
He had a hand on the doorknob when he turned, surprising me. This time, I did bump into his chest.
Oops.
He steadied me with a hand on my waist. There was a second I had to hold my breath. I decided it was because two inches to the west, and he would be touching my big clue. Although I might have been lying to myself, because for that second I forgot about the damned paper.
“Don’t think you’ve wriggled out of talking to me,” he said quietly. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll be asleep.”
“Oh, Claude like to tuck in early?”
I grinned. “That’s right.”
“Guess I’ll have to wake you up, then.”
With the ghost of a grin, he was gone, leaving me to wonder how he was going to wake me and when.
Damn.
I
MET THE DAWN FEELING WORSE THAN THE MORNING
before, probably because I’d woken a dozen times waiting for Scythe to make good on his threat. Or promise. Or whatever it was. One time, I woke up thinking I heard the telephone ring. Another time, I thought I heard the
ping
of a rock hitting my windowsill. I shot out of bed in a cold seat after a nightmare that he’d sent the SWAT team in after me—with me wearing only my somewhat holey “Fat Babies Have No Pride” T-shirt. After slipping on panties for some peace of mind, I finally got back to sleep, only to have my subconscious embellish the previous nightmare, imagining what Scythe would do to me once the SWAT team had me caught.
Hmm.
I was sweating again when I woke, but I wasn’t cold.
I beat James Brown to the punch again, hearing my alarm as I was winding up an extra-long shower. I actually shaved my legs two days in a row. A record, I believe. Reviewing the contents of my closet, I decided that today called for a more take-charge outfit than the one I wore yesterday. Skirts made me feel feminine, but they also made me feel vulnerable—the last thing needed around Scythe. Not that I thought I would see him today, understand. I just wanted to be prepared for any eventuality.
After slipping on utilitarian white cotton panties and a white cotton bra, no padding, no underwires, which somehow today seemed inadequate, I chose a chic pair of flat-front black combed cotton slacks and started to reach for an emerald-green shirt, one of my favorites. Remembering the red spikes and how much they seemed to intimidate Zorita, I snatched off the rack a rayon three-quarter-sleeve button-up-the-front blouse in a deep ruby, instead hoping to accentuate my red spiky aura and scare off any potential trouble, especially of the tall, brunet, and badged variety.
Black lizard Luccheses and a black leather belt with a silver horny toad buckle completed the ensemble. I shoved some plain silver loops into my earlobes, tucked the violet paper, which I’d read and reread dozens of times before going to sleep, into the front left pocket of my blouse, and buttoned it shut. Then I cocked my head at the assembled trio.
“How about some breakfast, girls?”
I didn’t have to ask twice. They were off, down the stairs, a chorus of clicking nails and excited yips. All that for a can of the same dog food they’d eaten for years. That’s why I think dogs—really, animals in general—have so much to teach us humans. They take absolutely nothing for granted. Every treat, every pat, every second of attention, is appreciated. I told myself to go through the day remembering their lesson. Ricardo didn’t have the chance, but it wasn’t too late for me.
With my positive attitude firmly in place, I fixed the dogs their bowls and made myself a cheese
quesadilla,
smothering it with sour cream and
jalapeños.
I could eat Mexican food three times a day—not real Mexican food from across the border or the stuff they serve in any other state in the United States—I’m talking about the Tex-Mex food San Antonio is famous for.
Tortas, gorditas, chile rellenos, lingua, cabrito,
and—when I forgot my hind end had to fit into a pair of Levi’s the next day—
barbacoa,
that decadently high-fat meat.
Even just thinking about
barbacoa
made me feel dietetic for only eating
queso blanco,
flour tortilla, and a fatty cream product. Hey, I forgot the vegetable.
Jalapeños
are a vegetable, right? I really had a complete meal in front of me. Better than Cap’n Crunch, anyway. One day when I had more time, I’d compare the fat content of those two so I could feel even more pure.
Char, Beau, and Cab were finished before I was—another reason I love these dogs, they made me seem so civilized—and asked to be let out in the backyard, where they stay most of the day unless I have an exciting outing like yesterday, when they sat in the car for hours and just escaped being turned into toadstools or worse. I glanced at the clock as I sat back down on my bar stool and took another juicy bite of the
quesadilla.
It was seven forty-five. My eight o’clock had canceled so I planned to go into the office and use that hour to work on my books. I never seemed to get caught up. I really needed to hire a full-time bookkeeper, but I just couldn’t quite afford it. Six more regular clients would do it, but it seemed I never could hit that magic number. Every time I’d get close, one client would drop me, bringing me back down. I was just stubborn enough not to adjust my number down according to the circumstances, as Trudy always insisted I do. I wouldn’t rely on the other stylists and nail techs in the shop to put me over the top, either. As soon as I did, one would disappear, taking his or her portion of the rent and the percentage on their gross intake with them. They were the gravy, I was the meat loaf, as Gran would say.
With a self-pitying sigh, I cleaned up breakfast and headed down the hall and into the salon. I never failed to get that surge of pride when I first walked into my very own shop each morning. I guess the morning I didn’t feel it was the morning to close the doors for good. I straightened a painting on the wall, a large landscape with a melancholy romantic atmosphere. I’d actually been tempted to look for Heathcliff on the rolling berms. I’d bought it at a starving artists’ sale and got home before I saw it had the art teacher’s grade of A-minus on the back. I sometimes wondered if any of my highfalutin clients—the ones who had original van Goghs, Rembrandts, and Monets on their walls (I did have a few of those clients)—could see the minus in my humble oil.
I thought of Ricardo’s shops, where he had a single commissioned modern chrome sculpture—a different one in each shop—in the center of the lobby. Just one of those sculptures cost more than my house, not to mention the art in it. One time, while I was still working for him, the receptionist caught a client’s five-year-old son climbing the sculpture. She went to Ricardo in a panic. He calmly told her to leave it be, that if the mother let the boy destroy the artwork, she certainly had enough money to replace it. That’s called having balls. And there was more. He had nothing on the walls but mirrors, which any hairstylist would consider extremely brave. In our business, you don’t want the customer to look too much at herself, or she’ll start finding fault in what you’ve done. It worked for Ricardo, but he was charmed.
Well, he was until yesterday.
After I unlocked the front door, I took my philosophical, nostalgic attitude into my office, leaving the door open so I could hear any arrivals. Sherlyn was supposed to start work at nine but she rarely made it before nine-thirty. The stylists and nail techs were allowed to start booking clients as early as six-thirty
a.m
., but it was rare to have any of them before nine. I could go check their books, which I required them to leave out for me to see, but I didn’t feel like it. I sat down at my desk instead and was met with a framed photo of Ricardo in front of the Broadway salon with his arm around my shoulders, me holding my first State of Texas cosmetology license, grinning like a goofball.
I looked young and stupid. He looked proud. Or maybe he was just photogenic.
Sighing heavily, I opened the April books. After a few minutes, I realized I was seeing not the numbers but the list on the violet paper. In my mind’s eye, I saw the names again. Three men and seven women. I knew about half the names because they were in the news on a regular basis—doctor, lawyer, Indian chief (politician)—or they were friends of friend (such as Delia). Of the five remaining, I knew three because I’d worked at his shop. They were an heiress to a salsa fortune, a sister to a past president of Mexico, and the owner of a feminine-products manufacturing company. That left only two who were a mystery. I reached for the yellow pages to see if it could be that easy and was just thumbing through to find the first name when my telephone rang. It was eight-thirty.
“Transformations, more than meets the eye,” I answered automatically. I hadn’t been paying a receptionist for long, and I was still the best one so far. I was dying to be stripped of the title, but I doubted Sherlyn would be the one to do it, since it was her fourth day in a row to be late to work.
“May I speak with Miss Reyn Marten Sawyer?”
“Speaking.”
“Ah, Miss Sawyer, I was informed you were early to work, and I’m thankful that information was correct. I was a little apprehensive.”
“Yes?”
“My name is Rita Gibson. I was retained by Mr. Ricardo Montoya to represent his estate.”
“Yes?”
“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Montoya had no living relatives—”
“None he cared to claim, anyway,” I clarified.
“Yes, well.” She cleared her throat. “I will be planning the memorial for him. Or, I should say, I will be carrying out his instructions for his memorial.”
“I see.” Of course. It was just like Ricardo to plan his own funeral. “I’ll do anything to help.”
“Good thing, too,” Rita Gibson said. Was that a hint of a chuckle in her voice? “Since you’re required to.”
“Required to?” I felt my hackles rising. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how much of this Mr. Montoya apprised you of.”
“Try none.”
“All right. He’s left a list of detailed instructions for his funeral and burial, including scripts for the eulogy. You are the only one who will be speaking who isn’t a hired actor or priest. Mr. Montoya must have thought highly of you.”
Ha.
“I still don’t see how I am
required
to do this?”
“If you don’t speak at his funeral, then you won’t get your inheritance.”
“Inheritance? What inheritance?” I had a funny prickly feeling at the back of my neck. Zorita couldn’t have been right. Ricardo had been joking. This was all a nightmare.
“You really don’t know?” It was the first time she really sounded like this whole affair was giving her a headache. I could hear her asking herself,
Why can’t some people just write a normal will, give their money to those who expected it, and be tucked away neatly in the ground?
I might have appreciated Ricardo making his attorney reach for aspirin first thing in the morning, except that the whole affair was giving me a bigger headache. Rita Gibson had regained her frosty professionalism and moved on. “Mr. Montoya left all his salons to you, albeit with
extremely
detailed provisions on how they should be run, but first you have to speak at his funeral. Or you don’t get anything. Not even his firstborn child.”
“What did you say?”
“I’m just quoting what Mr. Montoya wrote in the will. That’s how he put it: ‘If she failed to perform said requirements, she will get nothing, not even my firstborn child.’ ”
“He doesn’t have any children,” I paused. “Does he?”
She was about to lose her patience with me. “As I told you, Miss Sawyer, he told me he doesn’t have any family.”
“Okay.” Was this whole thing Ricardo’s idea of a joke, or was he trying to tell me something. I wouldn’t ever consider myself his best friend, but I couldn’t name anyone he was any closer to. The vice president of Ricardo’s Realm, Inc., would be a natural choice, but Ricardo always told me Gerald made a wonderful soldier and would fail as a general. Gerald was a man made to take orders. Was he giving me the salons because he thought I would make a great general or because he knew I had an insatiable curiosity and he wanted to invest my emotions in finding out who killed him? By now, I’d convinced myself Ricardo knew he was a marked man.
“Mis Sawyer?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“Yes. Take your time.”
As if I needed a lot of time to grease the wheels in my dull, nonlawyer brain? She only wished. “When did Ricardo write this will?”
“He redrew his will about a month ago.”
“What did the old will say?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Can’t fault a girl for trying. That’s one thing I promised myself when I turned thirty: never be afraid to ask a question. It’s amazing the information you can get that way. I’m constantly surprised at the questions some people answer. Sometimes all it takes is changing some words. “And you can’t tell me who might have been a beneficiary in the old will who was cut out of this current will?”
“No, I can’t.” Did I hear some grudging respect in her chilly voice? Maybe I was imagining it. I wasn’t imagining the tinkle of the bell on the front door. Sherlyn must finally have deigned to grace the place of employment with her presence. “Miss Sawyer, as you are the sole beneficiary of Mr. Montoya’s will, I don’t see a need for a formal will reading. I do need you to sign some papers following the memorial service. As for the salons, I will inform the vice president, a Gerald Akin, of the contents of the will. He will report to me until you sign the papers. If you anticipate that this information will be difficult for him to accept, we can arrange a joint meeting…”
Gerald and I always got along great. In fact, I bet he probably spent the last twenty-four hours popping Tums at the speed of light at the thought of having to make all these decisions himself. “No, I think Ger will be okay with it. He’s not going to lose his job.”
“I’ll let him know of your intentions. But you understand you can’t make any decisions until you deliver Mr. Montoya’s eulogy and you sign these documents. This is a company worth—”