Murder Under the Italian Moon (5 page)

I made myself a peanut butter sandwich, the crunchy kind. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, munching, I glanced at the mail piled on the dining room table. I'd have to go through that soon. What a nuisance.

The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. York?"

"Speaking." I tried to swallow the big chunk of bread filling my mouth.

"Mrs. York, this is Lawrence Devin. My office called. I'm told you tried to reach me last night. Did you need to speak to me?"

"Your office said you were on vacation." I forced myself to speak without resentment. "Weren't you working on Tom Russell's death?"

"That death was ruled accidental. Unless you have something to add."

"No. I just wondered about the timing."
The timing, sure.

"I went on vacation right after I filed the paperwork clearing Mrs. Russell of any wrongdoing. If you need to tell me something, though, I'm available. Any time."

He sounded honest enough. I didn't know what to say. Why was I so tongue-tied?

"I'm calling from my car. I'll be back in a week and I'd like to have dinner with you if you're interested."

My tongue stuck to the peanut butter on the roof of my mouth. My brain functioned fine. His stormy gray eyes and the way his buns filled his pants came to mind. This was the best offer I'd had in months. Months? Years.

"Why don't you call me when you get back and we'll set up a time?" Ask for his phone
number, stupid. Caller ID showed number unavailable.

"Good. I'll talk to you then. Bye." Click.

I stood there, holding the phone, my brain in shock. Then I danced an impromptu
tarentella
around the spotless kitchen and ended up kicking Flash's bowl. Poor baby. She was probably wondering what had gotten into me.

I sat at the dining-room table, a brown paper bag next to me to recycle the junk mail, with a box for the rest.

The crystal chandelier cast a circle of light around me. It was a quiet night for a Friday. No pool parties.

On top of the pile sat a postcard with a smiling dog brushing his teeth. From my dentist. My appointment was next week.

Bank statement. Must balance my checking account. Black out the account numbers. Trash.

A letter in Ruby's handwriting. The envelope came from her stationery, but it looked beat up, crumpled. I studied my address. She wrote the wrong zip code. She'd scratched it out and written the right one underneath it. Ruby was always fussy about her correspondence. It surprised me she hadn't replaced the envelope with a new one. She mailed the letter the day before I'd gotten home. Fear resurfaced
.
I tore the envelope open, pulled out the white paper and two keys fell onto the table. My house and mailbox keys. The paper was blank, except for the two Rs interlaced at the top, like a Rolls Royce logo.

I kept staring, confused. What did it mean? The glow from the chandelier reflected on the keys. They shone like gold. Why mail the keys? Why not give them to me in person? Was she avoiding me? We'd had lunch the day before my trip; she drove me to the airport and everything was fine. This blank letter, the keys—the whole thing felt like a goodbye of some sort.

I got up and went to pour myself some Chardonnay. Changed my mind, settled on some bottled water and went back to the mail. I didn't understand any of this. Better to finish with the mail.

An invitation to a gallery opening. Keep or trash? Think about it.

Advertisements. End-of-the-month clearance. Bills.

A refund check from my broker. Good.

A letter from Mission San Juan Capistrano reminding me of the volunteers' planning meeting for the Return of The Swallows on March nineteenth.

That was tomorrow. I groaned. I had to be there.

I was tired. I could watch the news upstairs and go to sleep. The light on the answering machine told me I had a message.

"Hi, Mom, I may be able to stop by tomorrow or the day after. Not sure yet. I'll let you know.
Ciao
." Kyle's voice did my heart good. First Lawrence Devin, now Kyle. Only one not accounted for. Ruby.

Time spent at the mission felt more like a reward than work. A time for renewal. The twelve of us regulars made it a habit to leave our personal agendas outside the massive gate of the historical landmark. While the new church built in the '80s to replace the one destroyed by the 1812 earthquake was an architectural masterpiece, we preferred to meet in the old section of the mission to discuss how to divide our duties for the day. We knew no swallow would darken the sky on March nineteenth , or any other day, at least not on the way to the mission, but tradition must be carried on and the town of San Juan Capistrano had three days of festivities planned around the event that celebrated the return of the cliff swallows from Argentina. My assignment was to answer the phones. Many calls came in from overseas and started very early in the morning. No one forced us to wear a costume, but we all did it. Such a fun practice. I wore my black suede skirt with matching fringed vest and my red silk blouse from Florence, and I tied the whole look together with my gaucho hat. That and my new Italian boots. The thought of the boots brought back images of the astrologer and, of course, Ruby.

Sabrina, one of the volunteers who worked at the gift shop, noticed my mood change. "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head. "I haven't seen Ruby since I got back, so I'm a little concerned."

"Poor thing. I read about her husband. They were married such a short time. It's too bad. Maybe she's staying under the radar for a while, to avoid the gossip."

"Gossip? About what? I wish I could have been there for her. I was in Italy when it happened. Poor Ruby—she called, but the phone service overseas is very different. We didn't connect."

"That's right. Bad things tend to happen to Ruby when you are gone. Strange coincidence. No reflection on you, of course. We know it was an accident. Still, Tom is gone and so is your husband. Both accidental deaths, and Ruby goes about her life, unscathed."

What an unkind comment. I kept my mouth shut, nodded my head and went back to talking about the phones. Should have left my personal life outside the gate as usual. Sabrina seemed to take the hint and resumed stuffing envelopes to solicit donations with a bit more eagerness.

California's missions have always fascinated me, and I read everything I could find on the subject. Of all the ones I'd visited, Mission San Juan Capistrano was my favorite. After all, they'd named the mission, and later the town, after an Italian saint, San Giovanni da Capestrano. Loved the Italian connection; it made me proud. This place oozed history and stories. After most of the day spent at the mission and in no mood to cook, instead of going straight home I headed toward the grocery store to pick up some takeout from the deli counter.

At the traffic light, waiting to turn left, I glanced at the Old Dana Point Cafe courtyard. Memories ambushed me.
Damn you, Sabrina, you had to bring up Nick's death.
The place looked sad and deserted. Stacks of patio chairs sat next to the closed red and white umbrellas. Even the chattering fountain had hushed. A few dead leaves dangled from the naked trees. Rumors had been circulating the place had been sold to a commercial developer, and snazzy condos would replace the existing buildings. Just what we needed, more cramped residences and more people.

Six years ago the settings were quite different. Six years can be swift or endless. Six years ago I met Ruby for the first time.

A few weeks after Kyle graduated from high school, Nick and I drove south, to Dana Point, looking at open houses. After spending Sunday afternoon in and out of homes for sale, we felt hot and tired. Nick decided to stop for a drink.

Coming into the dark from the outside brightness, I squinted, embraced the coolness of the place and heard music. No, not just music—
jazz.

We stood in a poorly lit hall. Photos of musicians covered the walls. Where were we?

Nick put his arm around my waist and coaxed me on. We walked under an arch and into the main room.

We'd come in through the back entrance of the Old Dana Point Cafe and found ourselves next to the small wooden stage where a jazz quartet performed. The players seemed old. Plenty of wrinkles, not much hair. The face of the pianist looked weathered beyond repair, but the hands flying across the keyboard possessed the passion of youth.

The place was packed, and we climbed onto barstools. A musty smell came from the well-stocked bar.

Nick leaned over. "What would you like?"

"Sparkling water with lemon." I had to shout for him to hear me. "I'm going to the ladies' room." I slid off the stool. Applause erupted. The musicians bowed and put down their instruments. I didn't know places like this existed in Orange County. It reminded me of old movie scenes, when ladies wore hats and men removed theirs.

A few hours here and you could forget the heat just outside the massive door or the roar of the surf on Doheny Beach a hundred yards away. Perhaps Dana Point wasn't a bad place to live.

I had to fight my way back from the ladies' room. The main room was packed. Head tilted, Nick was caught up in conversation with a dark-haired woman. From where I stood, I could only see her back. She was short, like me, and seemed to be stretching on her toes, despite her stiletto heels. Trying to get as close as possible to Nick's face?

Her scanty dark blue dress, with a scalloped hem, showed off the rich tan of her shapely legs. Short, curly hair gave her the look of an Italian cherub. Was her hand resting on my husband's thigh? I couldn't tell. I quickened my pace. He still hadn't noticed me. His face had that why-am-I-enjoying-this-when-I-shouldn't look.

"Hi." My voice a little louder than I'd meant it to be. I stood mere inches from the woman's derriere.

Nick jumped. I couldn't tell if her hand slid off his leg or the edge of the stool.

"Honey." His voice strained. "This is Ruby Alexander. She works at the newspaper. My wife, Lella."

When Ruby turned around, her bust line rose about three inches and somehow stayed there. She smiled. Her lips were red—the brightest, glossiest red I'd ever seen.

I offered my hand. "Ruby Alexander—the fashion editor?"

Her eyes lit up. They were dark and liquid, but something else set them apart. Ruby's eyes were—voracious. The word slammed into my mind like a wrecking ball. And yet it was the right word, for an insatiable hunger seemed to come from within her. Hunger for what? Or whom?

She took my hand in hers. "You read the fashion page?"

"Every Friday." I did.

She nodded.

Someone pushed a stemmed glass filled with clear, straw-colored liquid toward Ruby. "Oh, thank you, Charlie." She picked up the wine and sampled it. "Chimney Rock." She turned toward the bar and lifted the glass to the tall bartender. He winked.

"Do you come here often?" I asked.

"Any chance I get, especially on Sunday. I simply
looove
jazz."

She uttered the word "love" with a little gasp, like an orgasmic cry. Everything about Ruby seemed spontaneous. She appeared to inhale life by big gulps. Against my better judgment, I found myself liking her.

Nick cleared his throat. I glanced at him. Twenty-three years of sharing the seesaws of life told me he was ready to leave.

Ruby offered to show me around the area in the coming weeks. I accepted and soon found myself fascinated by this woman. I pursued her friendship even when instinct warned me not to. Ruby kept her word. We toured open houses and model homes. With Kyle close to leaving home for college, Nick and I had to decide if we wanted to move south or stay put. Ruby lived in Laguna Beach and, unlike Nick, she didn't commute and worked mostly at home. We met for late lunches. She introduced me to California's new generation of wines. Ruby's true passions? Wine and jazz.

At forty-five, she'd been married and divorced three times, and she still dreamed of Prince Charming driving a white Ferrari Testarossa. While waiting for the prince, she kept herself busy—often with more than one man.

"Hell, use it or lose it." She didn't have to explain what "it" was. Oddly enough, she didn't discuss any lover in particular, and I never met any of them.

Ruby worshipped the sun. After our family settled into our new home, I spent many afternoons at the beach with her. I wore a big hat; she soaked in the rays. Her nose had the redness of overexposed skin, but instead of detracting from her looks, it seemed to fit her all-or- nothing attitude.

Did opposites really attract? It appeared that way. I often thought of Ruby as the Hollywood version of plain old me.

Ruby fascinated Kyle too. He hung around her place on his time off—willing to run errands, or wash her car. Puppy love?

On a dare, she used him for a fashion spread. We all gathered around the kitchen table that Friday morning, opened the fashion page and shrieked with excitement. Kyle, my baby, shone on the glossy sheet. A golden boy against the endless cobalt sky. Soon the phone was ringing, and the next thing I knew, he was a rising star. Goodbye, college.

During our first spring in Dana Point, things began to go wrong. My mother became very ill, and Kyle got entangled with a much older but still famous movie star, a married woman who was breaking his heart. I felt helpless; why couldn't I stop my loved ones from suffering?

On a late summer morning, Ruby called while Nick finished his second cup of coffee. Her car wouldn't start, and she had an important meeting at the paper. Could Nick give her a ride?

He did, and soon they were carpooling several times a week. Their return route grew longer and longer. Toward the end, Nick sometimes missed dinner altogether. Was I too distracted by my family problems to notice the signs? Perhaps I refused to see them. Wasn't denial the ultimate placebo?

Some nights the phone rang, and I was afraid to pick it up. What would it be this time? My dying mother? Kyle on the brink of suicide? Or another of Nick's late, late business meetings?

When Mother was diagnosed with cancer, I packed my bag and flew to Italy.