Friday, December 30 #2
After their last disastrous phone call, she skipped the small talk and went straight for arrogance. “I saved you the trouble, didn’t I?!”
“Trouble? What are you talking about?”
Nicholas didn’t even apologize. He’s so thick-headed. What’s the point? “I’m just tired. I need Jack to pick me up tomorrow if he can. I’ve been invited to my cousin Tessa’s baby shower outside the capital.”
“Of course, he can do that. I guess tomorrow’s my lucky day,” Nicholas said, snickering raucously.
Angelica rolled her eyes. “It appears so,” she muttered. Aside from it being Saturday, she didn’t know whether the day would be lucky for her.
“When would you like Jack at your house?”
“Ten-fifteen would be great. Tell him we’re going to St. Catherine’s Church. I want to slip out of the shower by 5 or 5:30. I’ll arrange it with him on the ride down.”
“Got it. I’ll text him after we hang up. I imagine Jack won’t be making these trips for much longer,” he said, adding, “Oh, don’t forget a cocktail dress.”
Sleeplessness and Nicky didn’t mix. “I can’t look like a slob in the presence of Mr. Nicholas Ponte. It’ll taint the king of luxury motors’ image.”
“No matter what you’re wearing, dear, you can’t tarnish my image.”
Nicholas didn’t pick up on her mockery, but Angelica picked up on his tone and even read his mind.
“All right, Nicky, I must get off. I’m obligated to wrap up this book today, or my name will be mud.”
Quick and smooth, he volleyed back, “Darling, mud isn’t the last name I’ll be giving you.”
He always had a comeback line.
“We’ll talk about it when I’m there. Bye.” She hung up.
Angelica rested her chin on her hand and groaned. I’m not ready, but I must be.
After two cups of coffee for an energy boost, Angelica opened the blinds above the desk and settled into her chair for as long as it took.
How can she create imaginative artwork while the homicide team is investigating her ex-boyfriend’s death? Or when she’s unsure about getting engaged the next day? How can she be artistic when she’s sleep-deprived? These thoughts gnawed at her as she took out her art supplies.
Even though the illustration required only a touch of shading around the mystical horse and carriage arriving to rescue little, lost Belle, Angelica hoped her stress wouldn’t show in the finished piece.
The book’s final page must deliver the happy ending intended for young girls. She can’t mess up “The End.”
The work boarded on impossible. Angelica’s hand felt useless with each pencil stroke.
Brain fog didn’t help. Her name would be “mud” if she didn’t persevere.
Many people risked their reputations for her.
A professor at the Art Institute put in a good word for her with the publisher, and Henry and Fooster took a gamble on a “newbie.” Most importantly, she’d be letting herself down if she allowed outside influences to jeopardize her livelihood.
Hours later, she threw the pencils into the air. Fini. Always ready to pounce, Daisy emerged from hiding and scampered after her favorite toys.
Angelica sank back in her rolling chair. What if she doesn’t get another assignment for months, years, or never? She joked with Garrett about moonlighting as a starving artist. That might be her future if she doesn’t become a Rembrandt overnight.
Before heading to the package drop-off store, she sent an email to the publisher. Almost late, but delivered by the skin of her teeth. Just not in those exact words.
Angelica fulfilled her obligations per her contract. If things go well, “mud” won’t be attached to her name. The bigger issue is whether she will remain Ms. Whitely or become Mrs. Ponte. Much depends on this weekend.
* * *
He and Charlie Bickney tossed a coin. Garrett lost. While Bickney stayed with the police officers conducting the search at Jenkins’s body shop, Garrett was here!
When he entered Emily’s home a few minutes ago, he thought some days were worse than others.
He just couldn’t remember any that were “worse” right now.
The reeking smell in the house reminded him of a high-stakes poker game—heavy on the sweat, with a side of the eau de cologne air fresheners—cigarettes and marijuana.
Somewhere around forty, Emily Jenkins Cartright’s stringy hair had been bleached ten times over. Dressed in a “Super Mom” T-shirt and jeans, the sniffling woman sat on the sofa, more covered in dog hair than in fabric, with a box of tissues beside her.
“What am I gonna do if Matty’s dead? He’s all I have since Ralph left me last year. Ahh … except for my son, Lionel. He’s sixteen and worthless. Kids today, they don’t have no ambition.”
Poor Lionel, he didn’t stand a chance, crossed Garrett’s mind.
Sitting on a sagging recliner, stuffing popping out of the armrest, Garrett reassured, “We all hope this is a misunderstanding and that your brother can be located.” What a lie! He hoped “Matty” was at the bottom of Lake Hasha-Cowa-Wawa.
“To help our investigation, I need to ask you a few questions about your brother.” He took out his pad and pen and felt far more than an ‘ouch’ in his right hand.
“He’s the sweetest big brother a girl could have. For the record, you can write that down,” Emily muttered, her voice cracking into a choked sob.
Is that the same ‘sweetest’ big brother who assaults defenseless women? He didn’t write down her comment.
“Can I get you a glass of water?”
She wiped her eyes, tossed the tissue onto the shag carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed in about ten years.
“If you could get me a beer from the fridge, I’d appreciate it, Garrett.”
“Certainly.”
Garrett headed to the kitchen. It smelled worse than the living room. Bags of garbage piled by the back door were the culprit. Lionel is behind on taking out the trash.
When he opened the fridge, he found the beer without any hassle. All three door racks were packed with beer cans. He grabbed one from the top rack.
“Thanks, Garrett. You’re a super nice guy.”
No, not nice! Don’t even think it, Emily.
Garrett cleared his throat. “Emily, when did you last see or speak with Matthew?”
“We spoke on the phone Christmas afternoon.” She popped the tab on the can and chugged. “I knew something was wrong when he didn’t pick me up for my doctor’s appointment Tuesday morning … I got some rash where the sun doesn’t shine.”
TMI. Garrett wanted as much information as possible, the right kind. He wanted to close this case yesterday so he could get back to seeing Angelica.
He proceeded with caution. “Does your brother tend to go away without telling you of his whereabouts?” he asked.
“Oh, he tells me, so I don’t worry. He’s nice that way,” she offered with a nod. “He drives up to Canada a few days a week.”
“Are his trips for business, or does he have a girlfriend there?”
Beer spilled onto her lap, but she didn’t seem to notice as she shook her head. “I don’t know why he goes there, but he’s got more girlfriends here than he can handle. He’s known for being popular with the ladies.”
“Did your brother mention any names?” Garrett asked, his neck burning at the collar, hoping not to hear what he didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want Angelica’s sexual escapades spread around town, let alone in the media.
Emily patted a tissue to her cheek. “Nah. Been known to see a couple of girls at once, though.”
“Do you know whether he was interested in married women?”
“He told me he likes them best. No hassles. No promises. It took him a while, but he figured out their problem.”
“What problem?”
“Why they ‘strayed’ from their men. The lughead husbands sucked at sex and used their wives for quick withdrawals and deposits from their sperm banks.”
“Oh!” Garrett felt a flush come over him. Blunt as ever, Emily. This wasn’t the kind of conversation he had in mixed company.
“He thought it was to his advantage to make the ladies feel special. Take his time when they did it. They always came back for more that way.”
Crap. Garrett’s stomach churned. He felt sick just thinking about Angelica with that man. Then he realized he had to compete with a dead man. “By the way … you’re an effing lousy screw!” That’s if he could compete. One more reason he was glad the guy was dead. Eliminate the competition.
“Has your brother ever been married?” Garrett mumbled, about ready to go back into the kitchen to grab a beer for himself.
“Nope. Matty has no interest in that or kids,” Emily noted, through sniffles. She gazed at Garrett with doe eyes. “Unlike me—”
“Has he been distracted or out of sorts lately?” he asked, cutting her off.
She raised a heavily penciled brow and her beverage can. “Come to think of it, he was very snippy on the phone. Said he had to hurry off. Had to drop off a package, then meet someone afterward. His business always kept him so busy. Wouldn’t even take holidays off.”
Most likely, his last meeting with anyone. Poor Jenkins. How Garrett’s heart ached for the guy who was screwing another man’s wife.
He then ran through the usual list of questions about health, drinking, substance abuse, and finances. According to Emily, her brother was an outstanding citizen and a successful businessman in the best of health. If you overlook the fact that he’s riddled with bullet holes.
Before Garrett let himself out, Emily added, “Everyone loves him, you know. You can write that down, too.”
Funny, he heard the exact opposite.
Walking to his car, he tossed the info around. Messing with married women and regular trips to Canada to run drugs, no doubt. Now, which one got Jenkins killed? If you asked Garrett, he’d bet on the first one. Been there, done that in his dreams.
* * *
Angelica lay on her bed, trying to steal a snooze. She tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling. How can she sleep trauma-free when she’s alone at night if she can’t relax enough to nap during the day?
Then again, why hadn’t she told Nicky about her sleep issues? Keeping secrets harms any relationship. She’ll tell him this weekend. Perhaps he can offer insight into its origin.