Silenced By Syrah (24 page)

“Nope, and now, thanks to you, he can keep his little rendezvous with Miss Trouble nice and tidy.”

Jonah Robinson’s demeanor toward her had been no less than horrible, but there was something about him now that softened her. Maybe his quirky sense of humor and way with words, or maybe when it came down to it he had that coolness about him that only a handful of people ever exuded. Sure, lots of folks pretended they had it, but Nikki got the feeling that Jonah never needed to remind himself he was cool. It was a given. When they’d first met, she’d thought it was only his look that fit the category, especially because his behavior had been downright mean, but sitting here talking with him changed her mind. She crossed her legs and shifted in her chair.

“Why are you telling me all this? Doesn’t this go against your grain? You know, since I’m so disrespectful to the police.”

“Hey, I was only doing my job. Trying to keep you outta trouble.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You got a friend around here, too, who also asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you kept your nose clean. But lady, I was too busy and you apparently did not keep it clean. The reason I’m telling you all this is, I figure I owe you an apology and you deserve some explanations. You were the one, after all, who turned me in the right direction.”

“Wait a minute, back up. You said that I have a friend who asked you to keep a watch on me. Who?”

Robinson winked. “Now I can’t go and reveal that.”

“Andrés? Was it Andrés Fernandez?”

“Nope. I’ll tell you that much. Listen to you. Don’t you have quite the following?” He took out his card and passed it to her. “I’m sure you threw the first one away, so take this one and add me to your list.”

“My list?”

“Of admirers. You ever make it into Santa Rosa and want a decent meal, I might know a place or two.”

“Are you asking me out, Detective?” Her face grew warm.

“Not my style. Like I said, you ever get on a few miles north, we’ll hang out.”

This was weird. Flattering, kind of, but so very weird. “Uh, sure.” It was all she could think of to say.

He looked at his watch. “I better get on back to the station. SFPD should be transporting Bloomenfeld soon. Here, I figured you might want this. I know we haven’t officially closed this case yet, and won’t until we find Moran. My ass would be on the line if anyone knew I was doing this, but you know, I was a real shit to you the other day and you were devastated about the loss of your home.”

“What are you talking about?” Nikki asked. He was a tough one to follow.

“Here. It’s not much, but it’s what was recovered from the fire. I wish it were more. Sorry.” He reached down and handed her the white trash bag.

“Thanks.” She didn’t know what to say, or if she even wanted to see the contents. Would they bring back memories from the cottage?

He stood and slid on a pair of sunglasses over his jade green eyes. “See you around, Nikki. Don’t worry, we’ll catch up with that bastard Moran. As soon as we do, I’ll let you know.”

“Right. Bye.”

She watched Mr. Cool swagger out of the eatery and the patio, almost like he was disappearing into the morning light. She peered down at the bag. Her hands shook and for whatever reason she could not bring herself to open it. Dammit. Why couldn’t she do it? What did it mean? Was she freaking out like Simon and Marco with their weird phobia? No. She was not. She’d open the damn bag. No big deal. Memories were good. The ones she’d had in that cottage were all good, for the most part, and she wanted to salvage what she could. She was simply being stupid. Open the bag. But she couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. Confronting memories—good or bad—was not something she wanted to do, not now. Maybe later.

Marco came over and slapped both of his hands down on the table. “You done here?” He picked up her coffee cup. “I need your help.”

“Wait a minute, I didn’t even get to eat my breakfast yet, only coffee.”

Marco shrugged. “Not my fault. You should have woken up earlier and eaten earlier and not talked too long to that policeman.”

“Marco, I was out helping solve a murder. Aren’t you proud of me? Can’t you understand that?”

He shook his head. “You had Simon out with you, and both of you could have been hurt. We have done these things before, and the more I learn about you”—he shook a finger at her—“the more I discover you get into dangerous situations.” He stopped ranting for a minute.

Both he and Simon were
so
dramatic. They really needed to take their own advice, or their Guru’s, and mellow out. Nikki had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing. Wait a minute. Were those tears in Marco’s eyes. “Are you crying?”

“No.” He wiped the one side of his face with the back of his hand. “I am mad at you. It is one thing for all of us to go on these crazy adventures with you. But if I am not with you two and something happened . . .”

She got it now. Marco not only loved Simon but he loved her, too. She stood up and hugged him. For the first time in a really long time, Nikki felt like she had a family—a dysfunctional family, but still . . . “I love you, too. Next time—there won’t be a next time—I’ll be sure and include you.”

He stood up straight and gave her a playful shove. “Now go. Get to the spa.”

She figured she’d be working the front desk. “Okay, but can you have someone take this bag up to my room. Just have it put in the closet?”

“What is it?”

“Some of my stuff.” She didn’t want to go into it. She knew if she told Marco about the bag he’d insist she open it and she simply did not want to do that yet. “So, what’s on the agenda today?” she asked. “What’s my job?”

Marco shifted from one foot to the other and looked down at the ground. “Two of the girls called in sick, which makes me wonder, and with Simon out, and being completely booked this morning, I need you to go and give a massage.”

“Massage? I’m not a masseuse. I don’t want to go rub some stranger’s back. I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to even do it. Besides, can’t you get in trouble for that?”

“Get in there and do it. You can rub a shoulder or two. You rub my shoulders and are good at it.”

“But that’s you and you’re my friend. I can’t do this to some stranger.”

Marco sighed. “It’s not a stranger anyway.”

“What? Who is it then?” Marco mumbled something. Nikki couldn’t understand him. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“Go, go. I don’t have time for this. Look, there are more people coming in to eat.”

“Uh-uh. Not until you tell me who it is.”

“It’s Renee.”

“Renee?” Nikki asked.

“Yes. The woman who was here last night with Derek. She said that she met you the other day. Renee Rothschild.”

Chapter 23

Nikki took a step back. “Renee Rothschild. She’s still here?”

“Why? Where? I mean where did she stay?”

Marco put an arm around her. “I don’t know. Maybe the hotel.”

“Wouldn’t you know if she stayed at the hotel?” Her voice had risen a couple of octaves and the edge in it would be hard for anyone, even those who didn’t know her, not to notice.

“I think I would know.
Sí.
” He nodded his head, and looked away from her.

“Of course you would know. That would mean . . .” She didn’t want to say it out loud, but Marco knew where she was headed.

He put his arm around her. “I am sorry,
Bellisima
. Derek brought her here for breakfast. They had mimosas and she talked to him about doing a book on the spa and hotel. She said that it would make a nice follow-up to the wine and cookbook.”

Boy did Renee Rothschild know how to work fast, and work it good. What better way to a man’s heart than through his ego . . . and Derek’s, Nikki knew, happened to be this vineyard and winery. Maybe not so much an ego trip for him but a legacy. “You heard all of this?”

He looked chagrined. “I could not help but listen.”

Eavesdropping? Wonder what the Sansibaba would say about that. No matter. How was she going to get out of this? “Wait a minute. Why me? If she wants to experience a great spa treatment here for
research
for a book, then why me? I’m not even qualified. Switch one of the other therapists around. I can cook and run the eatery. You go.” Marco frowned. “You’re not going to give me some B.S. line about your phobia, are you?” Marco didn’t respond. “Jeesh, you and Simon really need some help, my friend. Okay, so you won’t do it, then why me?”

“I told you, two of the therapists called in sick and I only have one other available. And, with Charlotte quitting on us after the murder, we are shorthanded.”

“All right, then I’ll switch with the other person. I can’t give Renee Rothschild a massage.”

Marco looked down at the ground. “It’s her or Derek, who is in the other room also waiting for a massage.”

“What? Oh my God.” Nikki turned around, arms out, and looked skyward, muttering the word
why
repeatedly and feeling as dramatic as her two gay friends. She sighed. “Couldn’t you tell her another time, or day?”

“No. Derek says that she’s going back to the city this afternoon and he insisted we get her in. He loves the idea of the book.”

“Of course.”

Marco pressed his hands together in prayer.
“Favore, Bellisima.”

She sighed and hung her head. What a week. Could she get any lower? Doubtful. “We’re so even after this. No, you know what, you owe me.”

His mouth dropped open. He stared at her and then nodded. “I owe you.”

She shook a finger at him. “You and Simon will have to go and see a shrink and fix your problem or nudophobia or whatever you want to call it.”

Marco shrugged in defeat. “I know you do not want to go in there,
Bellisima
, and do this massage, but please. You must go now. Renee is waiting.”

Nikki didn’t answer, but turned on her heels and headed toward the spa. Marco shouted after her that the woman was in room two. Perfect. She opened the French doors to the spa. The smell of lavender and neroli oil enveloped her. Oh sure, calming scents. Right, about as calming as three cups of java straight up, black, and throw a Metallica record into the mix. White candles were lit throughout the hall of the spa, and lily, freesia, and rose floral arrangements adorned the waiting area, placed perfectly on the wooden tables. To top it off, Enya’s melancholy sound floated through the stereo system. It had a far more grating effect on her than surely was intended.

Nikki washed her hands and put on one of the white coats used by the therapists. Quite the fashion statement.

She tapped on door number two, her hands shaking. Stop it. Go in there, rub the woman’s back with some hot oil, and get the job done. No big deal. Why had she ever decided to give up Xanax? Oh yeah, because she’d found yoga and kickboxing to relieve her anxiety instead. She took in a yogic breath all the way to the diaphragm and let it out. Not quite what an antianxiety pill would do, but a good effort at utilizing the tools at hand—air, lungs, and mind over matter.

She turned the knob and entered the room. More lavender, this time mixed with eucalyptus. Ah, the energy massage. Yes, Nikki had had one of those herself.

There on the table lay Renee Rothschild, caramel hair flowing across her back—across that perfect beige skin. Thank God she was facedown. Ooh, maybe she’d fallen asleep and Nikki could stand in the corner and in an hour mumble thanks and leave. The woman would be convinced that the massage was so relaxing she’d fallen asleep.

“Hi,” Renee said. She started to turn over.

“Oh no, on your stomach please,” Nikki said, purposely finding her Southern roots and utilizing the accent she’d long ago lost. Amazing what those formative years will do for a kid: set you up for life with an identity from where you came from, making it impossible to ever really erase it. Someday she knew she would have to confront both the demons caused by her roots, but not now.

“Okay. I like the pressure somewhat hard.”

Nikki didn’t respond. She figured the less she said, the better. She found the jojoba oil, poured some in her hands, then took some of the aromatherapy oils and mixed them together.

She started rubbing Renee’s back, who complimented her almost immediately. “That’s great. Right there. I am sore there up near my neck.” She kind of laughed. “I was kissing a wonderful man last night.” Nikki pressed harder. “Ouch!” Renee yelped.

“Sorry.”

After a few seconds Renee went back to her story. “Anyway, we were kissing and I twisted my neck ever so slightly and pulled a nerve. Derek told me I needed a massage, and that’s when I started thinking about a book idea. I’m sure you were told that’s why I’m here. To do a little research for a book. I didn’t intend to come out here for that reason, or even stay for more than an afternoon, but things worked out that way, and now I have another great concept for a book.”

Okay, now didn’t most people shut up when they got a massage? What the hell was wrong with Renee? Blab, blab, blab, blah, blah, blah. Ugh! All Nikki muttered was, “Uh-huh.”

“But this place is so lovely and the man behind it, he is incredible. I even like his dog. Ollie. I don’t like dogs, but Derek’s dog is wonderful. He licked my hand and I didn’t even care.”

Ollie. That traitor. And, Derek’s dog? Derek’s dog! And,
Ollie
? Okay, now Ollie was the nickname Nikki had given the dog. Derek had always called him Oliver until she’d started calling him Ollie, and now he was sharing
Ollie
with
her
? With Renee? Wait a minute, Ollie was also her dog. Wasn’t he? I mean it was the vineyard joke about the two of them sharing the dog and how he couldn’t make up his mind as to who he liked best, Derek or Nikki, and now Derek was sharing
their
dog, her dog, with Renee Rothschild, who he’d only known for what, two minutes, maybe?