One Hot Mess Page 5

  I glanced up. Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised that she was familiar with my client list, but Mandy of the magnificent caliber had never quite gotten a single name right. The last time, I believe, she had referred to Micky as Mr. Nugget.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  She nodded, just a couple of superfluous chin wobbles. Shirley Templeton was not an attractive woman. But then, according to her niece, she had gestated a baker’s half dozen kids, and that can’t be gentle on anybody. “Poor fellow, carryin’ around that load of guilt.”

  “Shirley!” Granted, I didn’t know her well, but she didn’t seem like the type to eavesdrop. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you cannot listen in on my sessions with clients.”

  “Listen in,” she said, then chuckled a little. “Now, why would I do that?”

  “Well…” That was a good question. Still, her niece had done so until her ears grew into cauliflowers. “You seem to know more about Mr. Goldenstone than is easily explained. I just assumed you—”

  “Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “That.” Shaking her head, she bent with some difficulty to retrieve a little geometric metal shape from the floor and stuck it back on its magnet sculpture atop my coffee table. “I’ve seen enough troubles, honey. Don’t need to hear nobody else’s.”

  “Then what made you think Micky was guilty?”

  “I didn’t say he was guilty,” she explained. “Said he carried around a load of it is all.”

  Maybe there was a difference there, I wasn’t sure.

  “How do you know he carries guilt?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged shoulders wide enough to make a linebacker wealthy and an ox useful. “Maybe I got a nose for it.”

  “You can smell guilt?”

  “Can’t you?”

  Maybe I gave her a look like she’d lost her marbles, ‘cuz she chuckled again. “Not smell smell. But, you know, sense it.”

  I wasn’t sure I did, but I nodded. Maybe my nose was good for other things, because the chocolaty goodness emanating from the bag was becoming a little distracting.

  Her eyes went serious. “It’s a good thing what you’re doing for him.”

  I peeked into the bag. I’d been right. Little chips of goodness all over the top of a dessert bar. Possibly goodness all the way through. “How do you mean?”

  Going to my mini-fridge, she pulled out a carton of milk and set it beside the bag. I glanced up in surprise.

  “You don’t wanna mess with no osteoporosis. Mama— she’s bent over like a candy cane. Thing is…” She narrowed her eyes, getting back on track. “Mr. Goldenstone needs help. You’re helpin’.”

  “You think so?” I was feeling insecure and a little gooshy so I took the goodness out of the bag and broke off a piece. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just…” I shrugged and tasted, sending my salivary glands into a hastily choreographed version of Riverdance.

  “Just takin’ their money?” Shirley said. “Well, don’t you be thinkin’ that. You’re helpin’. And not with the kind of sugar water some folks hose ya with. You’re giving him the hard stuff, but he’s drinkin’ it down.”

  I took another bite and heard a taste-bud chorale join the dancers. “Really?”

  “Some folks take some hard knocks, but if they got the right person helpin’ ‘em, they can still get set right before it’s too late.”

  “I don’t know.” I stifled a weak-ass sigh. “Some days it feels like I should just pass out cookies and go home.”

  “Well…” She chuckled. “Cookies don’t hurt, neither, but you keep doin’ what you’re doing and things’ll get better.”

  I studied her a moment. There was wisdom in her eyes and strength in the set of her jaw. Turns out she was kind of pretty.

  “Thank you,” I said, and she nodded, all business suddenly.

  “I tidied up my desk, confirmed tomorrows appointments, and rescheduled today’s no-show. Anything else you want I should do before I head home to my brood?”

  Marry me? “No,” I said. “Thank you. That’ll be fine. It’s been really nice working with you.”

  “Pleasure’s been mine,” she countered.

  After she left I sat there alone, ate my Riverdance bar, drank my milk, and wished, to my chagrin, that the Magnificent Mandy had never darkened her mother’s womb. Aunt Shirley was so much better, and maybe she was right. Maybe I was doing some good. But maybe there was more good that could be done. Perhaps I should look into Kathleen Baltimore’s death, regardless of the fact that Rivera was already spitting tacks. Maybe she was one of those people who just hadn’t been given the right chances. Just because the senator had offered to pay me didn’t mean it was the wrong thing to do. And just because his son insisted it was the wrong thing to do didn’t mean it was. In fact, chances were good it meant the opposite. Rivera might not own the stupid market, but I’d say he had a pretty good share.

  Turning to my computer screen, I Googled Kathleen Baltimore.

  After fifteen minutes I had learned several things: She had died on Tuesday in Kern County, the hummingbird capital of California; she was survived by a single daughter; and the police had determined her death was an accident.

  I shut down my system and headed home.

  Harlequin met me at the door like an overwrought lover. Large, excited, and a little drooly.

  We had dinner together on the couch while watching Grey’s Anatomy. I don’t see a lot of television—except for Laney Brainy as the Amazon Queen, of course—but Harley has a thing for McDreamy I went to bed with dreams of my own and found myself a little drooly.

  But even thoughts of Patrick Dempsey couldn’t steam the memory of Kathy Baltimore’s photo out of my head. I wondered how the senator had gotten that photo and why he was so sure that she was the woman from his dream—especially if the police thought her death was accidental. In the morning my mind was still mulling.

  I dressed in an apple-green shift with a strand of pearls and sexy cork wedge sandals. Classy as hell, but late. Grabbing a glass of milk and a granola bar, I jumped into my Saturn and lurched onto Foothill Boulevard. Five minutes later I had cut two people off on the 210 and was trading hand signals with the locals. At 8:57 I screeched into the parking lot, ready to throw open the L.A. Counseling doors before my first clients could arrive and be instantly offended by Mandy’s magnificence. But, to my fantabulous surprise, Shirley was already manning the desk.

  “My niece asked me to fill in one more day,” she explained.

  I refrained from dancing. “Still not feeling well?”

  “Terrible bug, I guess. Say…” She reached under her desk and brought out a white cardboard box. “I stopped at the Donut Hole on the way here and got a couple a caramel rolls. Ate one ‘fore I got here, but Lord knows if I pack another ounce of fat into my arteries, they’re going to have to come up for air. You take the last one.”

  I took the box, protesting weakly. I love caramel more than sin. “I don’t think—”

  “Oh…” She waved dismissively. “Don’t you go telling me you can’t eat it. Scrawny little thing like you don’t have the strength to lie. Here.” She picked up a card that was propped with its kindred in front of her. “Your first client. Daryl Ellingson.” She put it on top of the box. “He should be pulling in any minute now. Your three o’clock canceled on account of she has to work, and a woman name of Celeste Friedman called in a panic. Wanted to get her daughter right in. An emergency she says. I told her you didn’t have no time ‘til this afternoon, but that conflicted with her Pilates class.”

  I refrained, quite professionally, from rolling my eyes. “So I shouldn’t be expecting her?”

  Shirley gave me a “what’s that?” glance, accompanied by a sassy tilt of the head. “Course you should. After I borrowed a little of that guilt that’s been rolling around in here, she decided to take your free three o’clock.”

  “Guilt?”

  “I just asked if little Amy was her only daughter
or if she had a spare—just in case things don’t work out.”

  I stared in silent admiration.

  “You get goin’ now. You better start in on that roll or Mr. Daryl’ll show up and you’ll have caramel on your teeth,” she said, and shooed me down the hall.

  But she opened my office door before I’d had a chance to slip into a glucose high. “I forgot to tell you that a Senator Rivera called.”

  “Oh?” I glanced up, immediately nervous.

  “He’s got a mighty sexy voice for a Republican.” She scrunched up her face a little when she said it. I was going to have to guess she voted for the other side.

  “What did he want?”

  “Asked that you call him soon as you get a chance.” She glided into my office like an angel and set a note beside the roll. “Home phone, cell phone, pager,” she said, and left.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to be floored by her efficiency. Back-to-back clients kept me on my toes until nearly noon, at which time curiosity took me by the throat. I set my records aside and called the first number on the list.

  “Caring Hands,” said a chipper voice.

  I glanced at the phone. “Um … I’m sorry. I was given this number for Senator Rivera.”

  “The senator? Hang on a minute.” She covered the receiver, but I could hear her clear as vodka. “Hey, Emmy, is the senator still here?”

  The answer was out of my range, but in a minute Chipper was back on the line. “I’m sorry. We can’t seem to find him right now. I thought he was serving lunch, but maybe he’s helping on the floor.”

  I blinked. “We’re talking about Senator Rivera, right?”

  “Yeah. If you want to leave a number I can try to get him a message, but my shift’s done here in fifteen.”

  “Senator Miguel Rivera?” Somehow I couldn’t quite see him dishing up reconstituted mashed potatoes in his Armani suit.

  “Yes, ma’am. If you want to come see him yourself, he’ll be here until five or so.”

  I hung up the phone a moment later and wandered out to the reception desk a little after that.

  Shirley was alphabetizing the files and possibly curing cancer in her spare time. “What do you know about Senator Rivera?” I asked.

  She wrinkled her nose. “He was against offering condoms to high-school kids.”

  “I take it you’re an advocate for contraceptives.”

  She snorted, jerking her head back a little. “I’m forty-one years old. I got seven kids, five grandkids, and an ex I ain’t seen since before Dion come screamin’ into the world. Far as I’m concerned, they should be injectin’ birth control into them kids’ Tater Tots.”

  I sat down, watching her work. “What else do you know about the senator?”

  She shrugged. “Good-looking fella, if I recall. Got into trouble with the ladies some time—” She stopped, lowered her brows, gave me a sassy oh-no-you-don’t expression. “He ain’t snooping ‘round you, is he?”

  “No. No. He just…” Where to begin. “His son and I… Jack is … Lieutenant Rivera and I are … friends,” I finished poorly.

  “His boy’s a cop?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

  “And you two been seeing each other?”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “Well…” She scowled. “Ain’t life a kicker.”

  “It is.”

  “So if you’re hangin’ with the boy, why you askin’ me about the old man?”

  I considered telling her that I respected her opinion, but it sounded too mushy even with the sentimentality of Christmas looming over me like a bad-tempered gargoyle. “I was just wondering about your perspective.”

  She nodded. “Well, there’s a sayin’,” she said. “You swim in Shit Crik long enough, some of it’s gonna get in your ears.”

  6

  Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses. And I’ll give you a neighborhood where there ain’t a white family within a five-mile radius.

  —Micky Goldenstone

  T’S HIGHLY POSSIBLE that I should have stayed at work and never made the trip over to Caring Hands, especially since I was undecided about whether or not to agree to the senators proposal. But my last client left at 4:50, and I thought if I hurried and no one tried to kill me, I could see for myself whether the stylish Miguel Rivera really was hobnobbing with the down-on-their-luckers in one of L.A.‘s high-crime areas. Besides, I had a secret shortcut across town. At 4:58 I joined a zillion cranky commuters who seemed to be in on my secret, but finally I arrived at a listing brick building on the corner of 134th and Wilmington. Leaving my Saturn in the donors’ parking lot, I walked in the front door and up the railed ramp. A dining area opened at the top of the incline. It was filled with a couple of dozen long tables that teemed with shuffling diners. At the far side of the room, volunteers dished meals onto paper plates.

  Making my way through the crowd, I ran into a dark-haired woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Helen. She had somehow dodged the hip spread generally associated with middle age, and I tried not to resent her for that. My efforts weren’t tremendously successful, even though she was perfectly civil in a harried sort of way and didn’t ask me if I was humping the senator when I inquired about his whereabouts. Pointing vaguely toward the shifting mass of humanity, she hurried off, but a moment later I spotted my quarry dishing up mashed potatoes to a bearded fellow in saggy trousers.

  Miguel Rivera wore wrinkle-free blue jeans and a small-plaid button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled back from perfectly manicured hands and he wore no tie. I figured his working-man ensemble had cost more than I bring home in a week; if there’s one thing to be said about the senator, it’s that he knows how to dress for every occasion.

  The bearded guy moved on, followed by an African American woman with a little girl. Vaguely, I could hear the senator commenting about her cornrows. But after a minute the middle-aged woman sans fat hips caught his attention and directed it toward me. Our gazes met with a little spark of recognition and he smiled.

  Subsequently, the hipless woman took over his job and he came my way, wiping his hands on a napkin.

  “Christina.” He smiled. The expression was still top shelf, a little self-deprecating, a little flirty, as effective here as at any lavish banquet in Pasadena. His handshake, however, was the real showstopper. Warm and personal, squeezing my fingers intimately between his slightly calloused palms. “What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”

  Excellent question. “My secretary gave me your message, but when I called I got this number.”

  He shook his head and looked embarrassed. “I must have given her the wrong number. How foolish of me. But you needn’t have come all this way. I only called to …” He sighed mournfully. “To apologize. Both for my behavior and for my son’s. We were…” Another head shake, accompanied by a vague scowl. “What is the word?”

  “There are a lot of them,” I said, remembering the stunning stupidity of the other night. He looked at me and laughed.

  “You see, this is why I like you so very much, Christina,” he said. “You do not stand on ceremony. In fact, that is why I stopped by. I knew you would have the integrity and intellect to get to the bottom of this.”

  “The bottom of what, exactly?”

  He gave me a curious glance. “The cause of Ms. Baltimore’s death, of course.”

  “Uh-huh.” Two days and a conversation with Laney had stirred up a few doubts about the good senator. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “why do you care?”

  “Despite the troubles between Gerald and myself, I am still his father and I still wish to protect him.”

  I was only more confused. “And you think he’s in danger because …”

  “I am beginning to suspect that you are not a great believer in premonitions and dreams, Christina.”

  I shrugged, feeling a little guilty for my lack of faith. “I don’t think I would bet a new septic system on either.
”

  He laughed. “Perhaps it is my heritage that makes me more prone to believe. Or perhaps it is my age. In my many years I have seen a great deal that cannot be explained.”

  “Like your dream.”

  “Yes.”

  “About that—how did you know who the victim was when you saw her in your dream?”

  “I did not,” he said, and motioned toward the back. I moved in that direction.

  “Then why—”

  “As it happened, I read an article regarding her death just after…” He shuddered. “After that horrible dream.”

  “An article?”

  “Online.”

  “And it had a picture of her?”

  “Taken just weeks before her demise.”

  I nodded. I could hardly disprove it. One could find anything online. “Okay,” I said, deciding to let that go for a minute. “But why not hire a professional if you’re so set on investigating?”

  He sobered handsomely. “May I be honest with you?”

  “Does this suggest that you haven’t been in the past?”

  He laughed again. “As you know, I was in the political arena for a long while. Indeed, I may yet be again.”

  I stared at him, not sure where he was going or how long it would take him to get there.

  “Having the media connect me with an unsolved death would do me no good,” he added.

  Something knotted in my stomach. “Are you connected?”

  He shook his head like a sad warrior, wearied by the world. “The truth rarely has any bearing in matters such as these. Once the paparazzi learn I have paid to have a death investigated, they will insist on knowing why.”

  “Why not tell them about your dream?”

  His smile suggested I might be kind of naive. “The citizens of this great country are wonderful people, Christina. Strong. Resourceful. But they—like you, perhaps—do not set a great deal of store in things they cannot touch. Cannot prove. You see, I have no desire to make my constituents believe I am easily spooked. Neither did I wish for my son to think less of me. I was certain I could trust you to be discreet. Still…” He motioned me toward a hallway. It was narrow and poorly lit. Three doors lined the wall on the right. One stood open. Inside, piles of paper were stacked on the desk. “I realize now that I was wrong to ask,” he admitted, and motioned to a green plastic chair. “To put you in such a position. I know how you feel about my son.”