Murder and Rock 'n' Roll: a 1950s cozy historical mystery (A Rosa Reed Mystery)
Author: Strauss, Lee; Strauss, Norm
Date: 2020-10-29
Publisher: La Plume Press

Murder and Rock ’n Roll

A Rosa Reed Mystery Book 5

Lee Strauss

Norm Strauss

Contents

Rosa Reed Mysteries

Summary

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Rosa & Miguel’s Wartime Romance

More from Lee Strauss

About the Authors

Rosa Reed Mysteries

in order

Murder at High Tide

Murder on the Boardwalk

Murder at the Bomb Shelter

Murder on Location

Murder and Rock ’n’ Roll

Murder at the Races

Murder at the Dude Ranch

Murder in London

Murder at the Fiesta

Summary

Murder is a hit!

It's the summer of 1956 and Private Investigator Rosa Reed (former Woman Police Constable from the London Metropolitan Police) attends her first rock and roll concert featuring the young and upcoming music sensation Elvis Presley. The high note goes sour when a press photographer is found dead onstage and Rosa is called in to investigate. When the apparent suicide is deemed to be a murder, she is once again called upon to work side by side with her former flame, Detective Miguel Belmonte. Will Rosa keep her heart in line and find the killer before she has to sing the blues?

If you love early rock & roll, poodle skirts, clever who-dun-its, a charming cat and an even more charming detective, you're going to love this new series!

* * *

This book has been edited and proofed, but typos are like little gremlins that like to sneak in when we’re not looking. If you spot a typo, please report it to: admin@leestraussbooks.com

Rosa & Miguel’s Wartime Romance is a BONUS short story exclusively for Lee’s newsletter subscribers.

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1

Despite her efforts to restrain bubbling excitement, Rosa Reed couldn’t help but let out a low-pitched squeal. Her British upbringing, with its emphasis on keeping a “stiff upper lip,” made this uncharacteristic sound unusual. Even her sleepy cat, Diego, who was curled up in the center of her four-poster bed, glared at her through narrow yellow-green eyes.

Rosa emitted a chuckle and vigorously rubbed his ears in retaliation. “I know it means nothing to you, Diego, but it’s Elvis Presley!”

A year previous, Rosa would’ve been hard-pressed to recite a tidbit of trivia about the young music star, but now it was as though Elvis Presley was everywhere—one couldn’t get away from hearing his music on the radio, seeing his face on the cover of magazines, and watching him on The Ed Sullivan Show.

And he was in Santa Bonita!

Pure serendipity, since the concert had been booked before Elvis had become a national sensation. Rosa’s main squeeze, Dr. Larry Rayburn, the town’s assistant medical examiner, had gotten tickets for them, and Rosa couldn’t wait for their evening to begin. She turned back to her bedroom mirror and added finishing touches to her makeup. After agonizing over several outfits, Rosa had decided on a two-tone navy-blue-and-red dress with a form-fitting bodice, accentuating her new “bullet bra.” Wearing her flouncy red skirt with a full crinoline slip would be fun for the upbeat event that an Elvis Presley concert promised to be. She suspected that many of the attendees would be teenagers. Though she was closer to thirty than twenty, Rosa felt young at heart, perhaps because, despite a failed attempt, she’d yet to marry and start a family.

The melody of “Blue Moon,” a song that had frequently been playing on local radio, reached Rosa from down the hall. Rosa had recently relocated to California from London, England, and lived with her American relatives in a large home known as the Forrester mansion. Gloria Forrester, Rosa’s cousin, who was closer to twenty than thirty, prepared to go to the concert with her friend Marjorie.

“Without a dream in my heaaaaart,” they sang loudly in unison.

Curious as to what the two girls were up to, Rosa tapped on the partially opened door before entering Gloria’s colorful bedroom.

“Oh, Rosa,” Gloria trilled. “I’m so excited; my knees are like marshmallows!”

Marjorie stared at the cardboard cover of the long-playing record they were listening to and swooned over the picture of Elvis, his smiling face large and inviting. “He’s just so dreamy!”

Rosa laughed. “I hope you two will survive the night.” She looked at Marjorie. “Is your sister going to be there?”

When Rosa had lived with the Forrester family to escape the dangers of German bombs over London, Nancy Kline became a high school friend.

“Yes,” Marjorie said. “She practically had to force Eddie to take her. I told her she could go with us, but I guess we’re too uncivilized for her. I swear, sometimes she acts older than our mother.”

“Three young sons might do that to someone,” Rosa said.

Although Gloria and Marjorie acted like teenagers, they were in their early twenties. Most girls their age were married or engaged. But Rosa had missed marrying her high school sweetheart, Miguel Belmonte, who now happened to be a detective in the Santa Bonita Police Force. Their romance, forbidden by Aunt Louisa, had been short but intense. When World War II ended, Rosa had been sent back to England, forcing the young couple’s relationship to dissolve.

Now she had Larry on her arm, a funny and kind Texan, and couldn’t be more thankful.

Yes, she was thankful.

Miguel’s engagement to Charlene Winters had thawed, rather, had disintegrated, and in a shockingly public way, and suddenly, Miguel was single again. Even though Rosa’s heart was still pulled toward Miguel, she refused to break the heart of her sincere and lovely boyfriend, over a once-fiery teenage love.

It wouldn’t be fair.

Returning to her bedroom, Rosa scooped Diego from the bed, headed downstairs, and walked along the wide hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the mansion. Señora Gomez, the long-time housekeeper, greeted Rosa and Diego with her standard warm smile.

“You look nice, Miss Rosa.”

“Thank you. I hope I’m not overdressed.”

“This Elvis fellow is very famous now, eh?”

“They call him an overnight sensation.”

Rosa set Diego on the tile floor, and he immediately investigated the status of his food and water bowls, both full, thanks to Señora Gomez.

Through the vast windows, Rosa spotted two members of her American family and joined them on the patio overlooking the pool, tennis court, and vast gardens. Palm trees dotted the well-manicured lawns, and Rosa loved the tropical essence the trees evoked. The mansion itself was a sprawling mission-style edifice that had Rosa gasping in admiration, even on her second visit.

“Join us for a cocktail?” The invitation came from Aunt Louisa, technically Rosa’s half-aunt, as she and Rosa’s mother, Ginger, shared a father but not a mother. Her aunt, dressed in a top-of-the-line, blue satin cocktail dress with triangular capped sleeves and a waist narrow enough to make a much younger woman envious, gave off the sophistication that her wealth and status demanded.

Rosa hardly felt she could refuse the drink. She lowered herself to the edge of one of the loungers, not wanting to get too comfortable, as she expected Larry to arrive soon.

“Just a small one,” Rosa said. “I’ll be leaving shortly.”

Aunt Louisa called to Ricardo, the pool boy, who hovered nearby. “A piña colada for Miss Reed.” She glanced at Rosa for approval, and Rosa nodded.

“Are you going to that Elvis Presley thing?” Sally Hartigan asked, a hint of her Boston accent remaining. The eldest occupant of the Forrester mansion, she was Aunt Louisa’s Boston-born mother, and though not related to Rosa by blood, she insisted Rosa call her Grandma Sally. The lady’s permanently tanned face had wrinkled through her seventy-plus years, but her gray hair was professionally permed and her perfectly pressed dress was tailored just for her. She lifted a glass of amber that tinkled with ice in Rosa’s direction.

“Yes,” Rosa answered. “I’m waiting for Larry to pick me up.”

Grandma Sally scowled. “I’ve seen Mr. Presley on television. The way he wiggles about onstage is uncouth.”

“It’s the new music, Mother,” Aunt Louisa said, taking a sip of her drink. “Rock and Roll.”

“It’s vulgar,” Grandma Sally muttered. “Young people these days have no manners. No respect for their elders.”

“I’m sure they’re not all like that,” Rosa said.

Ricardo returned with the piña colada, attractively garnished with a slice of fresh pineapple. Rosa thanked him before taking a sip.

“It’s not safe to cross the street,” Grandma Sally insisted. “Just the other day, we were nearly run over by a young man—his car radio blaring that crazy music—speeding down Main, right, Louisa?”

“I’m going to talk to the mayor about putting in another set of traffic lights,” Aunt Louisa replied. “And a lower speed limit. Something they’ll enforce. What do the police do around Santa Bonita, anyway?”

Rosa and her aunt didn’t land on the same side in their opinions about the police. Rosa’s job as a private investigator often caused her path to cross with the local men in blue, along with a certain well-dressed detective that her aunt had never forgiven. Rosa found it best to steer away from the topic when it came up.

“And don’t forget,” Aunt Louisa added, “our annual fundraiser for the Santa Bonita Veterans Foundation is happening in a few days at the same theater you’re going to tonight.” She raised a dark, professionally plucked eyebrow at Rosa. “I hope you’ve marked it on your calendar.”

“Oh yes. I am looking forward to that,” Rosa returned, thankful that they’d moved off the subject of the police.

Señora Gomez entered the patio with quick steps. “Telephone for you, Miss Rosa,” she called out. “It’s your doctor amigo.”

Rosa checked her watch. Larry should be driving his truck up their drive, not calling on the telephone. She excused herself and followed Señora Gomez back into the kitchen where she picked up the receiver.

“Larry?”

“Hello, darlin’,” Larry said.

Rosa thought his voice sounded a little weak. “Are you all right?”

“I’m sorry to do this to ya, but I can’t make it to the concert tonight. I had a migraine come on strong about an hour ago. I don’t get them often, but when I do, they hit me like a runaway locomotive.”

“Oh no.” Rosa’s heart dropped. As much as she was concerned for Larry’s health, she was dreadfully disappointed not to go to the Elvis Presley concert.

As if he read her mind, he said, “You can still go. I’ll send a cabbie to you to deliver the tickets. Maybe you could take a friend.”

Rosa’s mind worked hurriedly. She could go with Gloria and Marjorie, and perhaps she could convince Clarence to join them. Since his wife had left him and his young daughter, he did nothing but mope about. It would be good for him.

“If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’d feel terrible if you missed out on my account. You’re doin’ me a favor by goin’.”

“Well, if you’re certain.”

His warm Texan accent reassured her. “Darn tootin’, I am.”

It was a consolation prize, but Rosa took it.

“Thank you, Larry. I’ll take pictures and be sure to tell you all about it. It’s going to be a momentous event.”

2

It took some convincing, but Clarence agreed to go with Rosa, with one caveat—he got to drive. Grandma Sally wasn’t thrilled about the reason Clarence was leaving his four-year-old daughter, Julie, behind, especially since her nanny was off duty, but she was happy to invite the child to watch The Ed Sullivan Show with her.

As Larry had promised, a taxi had appeared to deliver the tickets, but Rosa politely informed the driver that they would not be needing a ride to the show. Instead, Rosa climbed into the front passenger seat of Aunt Louisa’s Bel Air and Gloria and Marjorie sat in the back. Clarence drove down the oceanside highway until they came upon the Santa Bonita Veterans Theater. A line of people stretched from the entrance, around the corner of the building, and down one block.

“Wow,” Gloria said from the back. “We should’ve left earlier.”

“See?” Clarence said triumphantly. “I told you it would be a circus.”

A traffic cop waved drivers to an empty field set up for parking, something Rosa had never seen before in Santa Bonita. “Just follow the car in front of you until you find a spot,” the officer said.

After squeezing into a space, they stepped in behind another grouping of concertgoers—mostly teenage girls wearing heavy makeup—who skipped ahead with obvious eagerness.

When the doors of the theater opened, a mad stampede pushed to get inside. Glad to have someone to steady herself against, Rosa held Clarence’s arm. Gloria and Marjorie clung to each other, laughing giddily. The air was taut with enthusiasm and anticipation.

Two fellows stood languidly by the entrance, their fists in the pockets of pencil-legged denim trousers which were cuffed at the ankles.

“Ben!” Gloria called out.

The taller of the two, his dark hair greased back and flipped into a duckbill in the front, smiled, revealing large white teeth. Rosa immediately recognized him from a chance meeting a month ago when she and Gloria had been extras on a movie set. He strutted over to Gloria, took her gloved hand, and with dramatic flair, kissed it. Obviously, Gloria had been seeing him on the sly during the past month.

“Hello, my lovely lady.” He draped his arm loosely over Gloria’s shoulders.

Rosa expected Gloria to refuse such overt liberties, but instead, Gloria giggled and slipped her arm around the fellow’s waist. The situation didn’t stretch Rosa’s detective skills. It was quite clear that this meetup had been arranged beforehand. Rosa waited for Ben to greet her, but he and Gloria disappeared into the crowd. His friend cast the fellow a warning glance, stepped in toward Marjorie, and kept his hands to himself.

“Rosa!”

Rosa jerked toward the sound of her name and smiled when she saw Nancy gripping her husband, Eddie.

“I can’t believe we found you!” Nancy said as they pushed through the crowd to greet Rosa and Clarence, the only two of their party still assembled. Clarence and Eddie shared a look of commiseration, probably relieved to have another fellow to join in with this throng of mainly female fans.

Embracing Rosa, Nancy giggled and declared, “It’s so dang hot!” She fanned herself with gloved hands. “I might have to relieve myself of this hat.”

Rosa agreed that the fashionable flowerpot hat, and the way it covered the entire head, was probably a poor choice for an event like this one, and noted that most of the ladies weren’t wearing hats. However, Rosa wore a woven straw pillbox hat, but even that felt heavy in the heat.

The line proceeded, and soon they presented their pre-bought tickets to the gate security and entered. The auditorium’s wooden floor was flat with sloped seating on rollable risers that could be removed when not needed. The riser chairs, covered in red vinyl, were comfortable enough. In front, an open area was reserved for dancing. The air buzzed with the excited murmurings of the audience, and a good amount of security guards warily watched the crowd.

Clarence noticed too. “I wonder what they think this Elvis character is going to do?”

“Whatever it is, it has the establishment worried,” Rosa said. “But I’m sure it’s going to be thrilling.”

Finally, a man in a tuxedo stepped onto the stage and approached the lone, standing microphone near the edge. The auditorium lights dimmed, and a powerful spotlight projected from somewhere high behind the seating area.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Marvin Stewart, Santa Bonita’s favorite radio host at SB-104 FM where ‘Rock and Roll is it!’ Welcome to the show. You’re about to have the time of your lives!”

The crowd let out an enthusiastic round of applause, and a few whistles filled the air.

Rosa had heard the local announcer of the new rock-and-roll station on the radio. Mr. Stewart was a bit of a celebrity around town. After making a few announcements regarding the use of toilets in the building and pointing out the emergency exits, Mr. Stewart started with the introduction.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you have been waiting for. He made a splash on The Dorsey Brothers Stage Show earlier this year. He thrilled us all on The Milton Berle Show and recently on Ed Sullivan. This young man’s star is rising fast! His band has come all the way from Memphis, Tennessee. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Santa Bonita welcome to . . . Elvis Presley!”

A thick red velvet curtain slowly rose, and what happened next, Rosa could only describe as complete bedlam. Never had she heard such a cacophony. She instinctively grabbed Clarence’s arm as the roar of hundreds of young women screaming hysterically took her breath away. On the stage stood four men, each with a different instrument—including drums, stand-up bass, and an electrified guitar.

The young man Rosa had seen on television had a guitar slung over his shoulder too, but as Rosa soon discovered, it was more of a prop than anything else. He was dressed in a loose-fitting, bright-red, Cuban-collared, short-sleeved shirt; high-waisted black pants; and black-leather penny loafer shoes. He walked up to the microphone, slung his guitar to his side, grabbed the microphone stand with both hands, and tilted the silver microphone to the right. With a voice that held the energy of a coiled jungle cat, he shouted, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.” The band kicked in behind him, and the screaming from the crowd rose to an even higher pitch.

Rosa covered her ears against the clamor. This was a long way from the London Symphony Orchestra! What a fabulous letter she’d soon write to her mother and father, describing it all.

As the concert continued, Rosa felt herself getting caught up in the sheer energy that emanated from the stage, especially from the handsome, frenetic young man with the slicked pompadour hairstyle, captivating voice, and the quivering lip. The screaming from the crowd reached various decibels throughout the concert, only calming once during a slow ballad called “Love Me Tender.” During that song, the audience seemed to be held in a trance while the singer crooned.

Nancy leaned in. “Isn’t this just way-out!”

Rosa agreed, “It’s brilliant!” She knew she was witnessing something unprecedented and made good use of her Argus 35 camera. The irresistible vibrancy from the stage and the reaction of the crowd felt new to her. She had the feeling it felt new to almost everyone in the auditorium as well. As far as she knew, nothing like this had ever happened in the world of music. Can it be that these concerts, attended by mostly teenagers, and with all the attention focused on one artist on stage, represent a new direction in music performance? Rosa felt a pang of empathy for Grandma Sally and the parents of this generation. This crowd had radically turned away from the music and pastimes of their parents.

Spreading his legs wide with knees shaking, Elvis leaned into the microphone and sang, “One for the money, two for the show . . .”

Eddie stood up and yelled out, “Yeah! Sing it, Elvis, I’m here for you, buddy!”

When Rosa looked at Eddie in surprise, he grinned.

Nancy pointed to her husband’s shoes—blue suede. A not-so-resistant concert attender, after all, Rosa mused.

Before everyone knew it, the concert had ended. It felt as if the whole crowd gasped. A standing ovation and thunderous applause followed the last note.

“Thank you,” Elvis Presley murmured to the cheering crowd. “Thank you very much.”

What a show!

Elvis and the band took a bow, and the crowd went wild once again. Camera flashbulbs from journalistic photographers blitzed all over the auditorium as the band stood together on the stage and took another deep bow.

Rosa’s chest filled with emotions she didn’t understand, then something happened that her mind couldn’t immediately comprehend. Rosa watched in horror as a body suddenly fell from high above. It stopped short just a few inches from the stage floor and then swung limply from a rope tied around the neck.

The curtain closed, and pandemonium ensued.

3

Rosa had had the unique experience of being raised by two parents who, since World War I, had worked in law enforcement. Her mother, Ginger Reed, also known in certain circles as Lady Gold of Lady Gold Investigations, was a renowned private investigator in London and one of the first ladies to step into such a role back in the 1920s—a role that remained conventionally male, even in 1956. Though in her early sixties, Rosa’s mother remained glamorous and youthful at heart and looked at least a decade younger than her actual years.

Rosa’s father, Basil Reed, had risen in the ranks of Scotland Yard, having the position of chief inspector at the time of Rosa’s birth and retiring as an admired and esteemed superintendent.

As the adage went, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Rosa had decided early on to follow in her parents’ footsteps—first training and serving as a Woman Police Constable with the London Metropolitan Police, and now, with her own private investigator’s office in Santa Bonita, California.

So, when a body dropped behind the band, and everyone around her screamed and ran out of the room, it was natural for Rosa to dart to the stage. Finding the split in the middle of the velvet drape, Rosa stepped through.

Behind her, Marvin Stewart grabbed the side stage microphone to address the crowd. “Stay calm, everyone!”

The band members nervously gathered around the macabre sight of the hanging man with expressions of disbelief. Several other men, whom Rosa guessed to be part of the band’s road crew, joined them.

Elvis Presley shouted, “Grab his legs and lift!” The singer, along with two of his bandmates, suddenly jumped into action. They lifted the body by the legs to ease some of the tension on the rope, although they could only raise it about a foot higher, which caused the body to tilt to the side.

“Keep lifting!” Rosa shouted. She dashed to the back and looked for a way up the scaffold to the high lighting hidden behind another curtain. Finding a ladder leading up to a network of scaffolds and gangways above the stage, she carefully climbed—cursing her blasted crinoline slip—past various lights, pulleys, and ropes along the top. Rosa had never been squeamish about heights, but this was high enough to warrant good caution.

A man on the far side of the scaffolding climbed as well, and though he shouted to her as he navigated up another ladder, the noise in the auditorium muffled his voice, and she couldn’t understand what he was saying. First to reach the top, Rosa found the end of the rope looped through a large pulley and wrapped around the railing of the scaffolding.

“Hold on!” she yelled below as she tried to make sense of the pulley and the rope’s entanglement.

Because of Rosa’s profession, she made it a habit to carry things in her purse that would shock most modern ladies. Along with the usual tube of lipstick, hair comb, a handkerchief, and gumdrops, Rosa carried a magnifying glass, a kit for picking locks, a ball-point pen, notepad, her Argus 35mm camera, and a red Swiss Army Knife. She retrieved it quickly and sawed through the jute rope.

“Hey!” Balding and dressed in denim overalls, the man who’d raced Rosa to the top reached her just as the rope gave way.

They watched as the body dropped into the arms of Elvis Presley. Two stagehands assisted, and they carefully laid the body down. Elvis loosened the rope around the man’s neck. From her perch above, Rosa could see that it wasn’t tied in a typical noose knot, but looped around his neck a couple of times. On the top of the gangway, Rosa and the man in overalls stared at each other. The man opened his mouth to speak, but Rosa whirled around to hurry back down the ladder.

As she gripped the top of the ladder and turned to descend, she shouted to the man, “What’s your name?”

The man looked confused. “Walter. Walter Grund.”

Rosa noted his soft German accent.

“I’m the head stagehand. Who are you?”

Rosa shouted her response as she continued her descent. “My name is Rosa Reed, and I’m a private detective and a consultant with the Santa Bonita Police. Call the police and ambulance services and have someone lock all the doors. Make sure the stage crew is accounted for and present until the police get here.”

The stagehand frowned at receiving orders from Rosa, but after a moment, he nodded and hurried toward the opposite ladder.

When Rosa returned to the stage, she found a scene of confusion—the stage crew, the myriad of security officers, and the band were debating what to do. Offstage, the rest of the crew members were busy shepherding people out of the theater. A man yelled above the din, “All right, everyone, we need you to calm down and quietly make your way to those four exits. Please, no running. Stay calm.”

“Is there a doctor in the house?” Rosa asked, although she doubted it since no one had seemed to bother taking the man’s pulse. Confirmed by the shaking of heads, she hitched up her skirt, squatted low, and placed two fingers on the prone man’s neck.

Nothing.

Rosa stood, smoothed out her skirt, and introduced herself. Long since used to expressions of surprise or disbelief when someone heard her credentials, she ignored the looks thrown her way by the men on the stage.

“We’ll have to wait for the medical examiner and the police,” she said. “I’m going to ask that none of you leave the building until the police have interviewed everyone.” She opened her purse and took out her small notepad and pen. “In the meantime, I would like to get your names and some other information, if you don’t mind.”

“Why? You don’t think any of us had anything to do with this, do you?” A burly stagehand with black, coffee-colored skin and straight white teeth lit a cigarette and snarled. He gestured toward the body. “It was probably an accident, or maybe even suicide.”

“Do you know who this is?” Rosa asked

“Yes, I mean, no . . . I mean, I know who he is, but I don’t know him very well. Everyone who works here knows who he is, though. That’s Orlando.”

“And what is your name?” Rosa asked, pen poised above her notepad.

“Terence Lincoln. I work for the theater.”

A man in his early thirties with a tall, slender build, bright-red hair, freckles, and wearing similar overalls to the other stagehands, moved in to stand beside Mr. Lincoln.

Rosa caught his eye and asked, “And your name please?”

“Bernie Sawchuck. I . . . I also work here as a stagehand.”

Elvis wiped his face with a towel. In a soft Mississippi drawl, he said, “Of course, we’ll stay until the police arrive, Miss Reed. But we have to hit the road early, so I hope they can talk to us first. It’s been a long day.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Rosa felt her knees weaken at the famous man’s voice. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Presley.”

Rosa snapped a few pictures. The police photographer, Officer Richardson, hadn’t taken a shine to Rosa, so she never assumed he’d cooperate with her if she needed him to. The deceased was a Hispanic man of slender build. Dressed in a white shirt, the man wore a black tie that draped over his right shoulder. The rope lay in a crumpled heap beside him.

“Who is he?” she said as she turned to Terence Lincoln. “You said everyone here knows who he is.”

Before he could reply, Walter Grund threw up his hands in a gesture of utter frustration.

“Well, he finally did it.”

“Did what?” Rosa asked.

“Killed himself!” Walter Grund took off his cap and smacked his leg with it. “Dang it!”

“Did you call the police, Mr. Grund?” Rosa asked.

“Yes, they’ll be here any minute. They had officers patrolling the area because of the concert.”

“Do you know this man?” Rosa pressed.

“He’s a photojournalist for The Los Angeles Signal news agency,” Mr. Grund replied. “They send him out here to take pictures all the time. He asked me for permission to take shots from up there as the concert ended. I should have gone up with him. Dang it!” He threw his cap on the ground. “His name is Orlando Belmonte.”

Belmonte?

Rosa shivered at the coincidence.

Then, as luck would have it, Detective Miguel Belmonte stepped between the thick red curtain.

4

Miguel took in the scene with a sweeping glance, his eyes stopping for a moment on Rosa.

“I was in the audience . . .” Rosa started. She stopped when she saw Miguel’s gaze land on the body. His olive-skinned face blanched.

Blast it! Rosa thought. The last name wasn’t a coincidence.

Miguel’s partner, Detective Bill Sanchez, who always looked like he had slept in his clothes, also stepped through the curtain. Wearing a red tie instead of his normal faded blue one, he had a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He cast an amused grin at Rosa. “I don’t know how you do it, young lady.”

“Nice tie,” Rosa replied, glancing for a moment at Detective Sanchez, but then returning her concerned gaze to Miguel as he hovered over the body.

Two ambulance attendants then came through the curtain along with—as Rosa had predicted—Officer Richardson, the primary police photographer.

Miguel’s eyes glistened as his jaw tightened.

Rosa touched his elbow. “Who is it, Miguel?”

He let out a quick breath. “My cousin, Orlando.”

Rosa felt a stab of empathy. That would explain the same last name, but as far back as she could remember, Miguel had never mentioned a cousin, especially one named Orlando, before.

Detective Sanchez patted Miguel on the shoulder. “Sorry, pal. Ya know what this means, though?”

Miguel sighed. “You’ll lead this one, Sanchez.”

Officer Richardson, who only rolled his eyes when he saw Rosa on the scene, started snapping pictures of the body.

“Who’s in charge here?” Detective Sanchez, searching for an ashtray and not finding one, dropped his cigarette to the stage floor and rubbed it out with a shoe.

Mr. Grund scowled. “I’m the lead stagehand,” he said. “The building manager and owner, Mr. Radcliff, should be around here somewhere.”

“Mr. Grund, please make a list of every employee,” Detective Sanchez directed, “and the security guards who were in the building, and find out what they were doing at the time of the incident. Let everyone know that interviews will follow, and there will be more officers here shortly.”

A man ran in from behind the stage. Tall, wearing a black suit and tie, and wire-framed glasses on a prominent nose, he shouted, “What’s happening?” When he saw the body on the floor, he slowed to a walk. “Is that Orlando Belmonte?”

“And you are?” Miguel asked.

“I . . . I’m Leonard Radcliff. I’m the owner of the building.” He grabbed the back of his neck. “Oh, this is not good, not good at all.”

“I am Detective Belmonte—”

Detective Sanchez stepped in, casting a look of caution Miguel’s way. “I’m Detective Sanchez. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Sure. Whatever I can do to help?”

“The man fell at—” Detective Sanchez stared at Rosa.

Rosa had her notepad in her hand, but she knew the answer without looking. “Nine p.m.”

Detective Sanchez set his gaze on the theater owner. “And it’s now nine twenty-five. Where have you been since then?”

Mr. Radcliff grimaced. “This new racket they call music isn’t my cup of tea. I stayed in my office upstairs.” He scowled as he stared at the body on the floor. “It must have been an accident, right? My insurance is going to go through the roof!”

“Let me in,” a familiar voice bellowed, interrupting the interview. “I’m Dr. Philpott, chief medical examiner.”

Rosa cast a glance at Miguel. The elderly medical examiner rarely attended the scene of death anymore, preferring to send Larry, his younger assistant.

Rosa explained, “Larry’s ill. I came to the concert with my cousins and friends.”

Why had she added that last part? She had no obligation to explain things like that to Miguel. Yes, they had once been in love, but that was a long time ago. With Larry in her life, she’d moved on.

Officer Richardson stepped between them, his back rudely turned toward Rosa. “I think I have enough pictures, Detective.”

“Let Sanchez know,” Miguel said. “He’s taking the lead on this one.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Philpott completed his rudimentary examination. Returning to his feet, he grunted as he pressed his palms against his lower back. “You can bring your gurney in. I think I am about done here,” he said, addressing the ambulance attendants.

Miguel approached, and Rosa stepped in behind him. “Doctor?” Miguel said, his question unspoken.

“I understand the deceased was your cousin,” Dr. Philpott said kindly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I hate to ask this,” Dr. Philpott continued, “but was your cousin depressed?”

Miguel’s frown deepened. “We weren’t close. I couldn’t say.”

Rosa, feeling a little unnecessary, decided to take another closer look and peeked behind a stack of boxes and various stage props. Mr. Radcliff caught sight of her and followed.

“I’m sorry, miss,” he said in a voice that clearly meant he wasn’t sorry at all. “I missed getting your name.”

“Rosa Reed. I’m a private investigator and often consult with the Santa Bonita Police.” Her credentials were a bit of a stretch. She’d only been a private investigator for a few months and could count the number of times she’d “consulted” with the police on one hand. “I happened to be in the audience, so was one of the first on the scene.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, Miss Reed, this isn’t good. Not good at all.”

“A tragedy, I agree,” Rosa said, though she was fairly certain Mr. Radcliff wasn’t sympathizing with Orlando Belmonte’s fate.

“He shouldn’t have been up there!” Mr. Radcliff said. “These photographers, they’re like rats. You never know when they will suddenly appear.” Mr. Radcliff’s voice took on a bitter sarcasm. “Oh, I can’t wait to see the news reports on this.”

Mr. Radcliff grabbed his hat and stormed away, and as Rosa watched him leave, she caught sight of something resting on a stack of padded chairs. She stepped onto the top of a low black case on casters that had the words Power Amplifiers painted on it in order to get a better look.

Interesting.

A black, double-lens camera with the word Rolleiflex embossed on the front lay precariously on the edge of the chairs. Rosa was not an expert, but this looked like a professional camera, the sort a photojournalist would use. Why was this camera here? Did it come from high above on the gangway? Maneuvering herself among the chairs, she got a closer look at the fallen camera, and then took a picture with her own Argus 35 mm to show where the Rolleiflex had landed. One lens was cracked, but other than that, it was intact.

She would have to tell Sanchez about it right away, but she fought an urge to take the film out and bring it to her office and develop it herself. That, of course, would be against police protocol, especially since she suspected this would soon turn into a homicide investigation. Instead she put the camera into her bag with the intention of handing it over to Sanchez.

Rosa wondered if she would ever have a nice evening out without somehow getting involved in a murder investigation.

5

Rosa stepped back onstage just in time to hear Detective Sanchez speaking to Miguel. “The officers will take a bit of time to finish getting all the statements. Dr. Philpott’s gonna give me his official report in the morning, but it seems clear the guy jumped to his death.”

At Miguel’s strained expression, Detective Sanchez quickly added, “Sorry, buddy. It momentarily skipped my mind that he was your kin.”

Miguel ducked his chin. “It’s fine. Carry on with the interviews. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

“Don’t you need some time off or something?” Sanchez asked.

“Like I said before, we weren’t close. Once the funeral date is established, I’ll talk to Delvecchio.”

Miguel gave Rosa a meaningful look. “How are you getting home?”

“I’ll call a taxi.” Clarence and Gloria had been ushered out, and Rosa was sure she’d get an earful when she got back to the mansion because she’d left them waiting. However, Rosa reasoned, they should know by now that any mystery would draw me in.

Miguel shook his head. “I’ll take you.”

Rosa protested. “No, really—”

“I insist.”

“I’ll be fine, really.”

“Rosa. It’s late.” Miguel sighed softly. “Please, let me take you home.”

Rosa heard herself say, “Okay, but I need to see the band again.”

“I’m sure Sanchez has it covered.”

“Not about the case.” She glanced up, feeling a tad embarrassed. “Gloria will kill me if she finds out I met Elvis and didn’t get an autograph.”

Miguel relented. “If you must.”

Strolling to the backstage area, Rosa knocked on a door that had a large star printed on the front. A portly man wearing a brown tweed jacket and holding a lit cigar between two fat fingers answered the door, and Rosa recognized him as Mr. Presley’s manager, Colonel Parker.

“What?” he snapped. “I thought the police were going to take our statements.”

“Hello, Colonel. I’m not here to take statements. I was hoping—” Her gaze moved past the defensive manager to the band, who stared at her expectantly. She felt foolish but determined. When her eyes landed on Elvis, his smile hitched crookedly to the left.

“Let her in, Colonel,” he said.

The dressing room had lighted mirrors on two of the walls and was outfitted with padded orange-and-blue-vinyl swivel chairs. A table was covered with bottles and half-empty plates of sandwiches.

“I was wondering if I could get an autograph, Mr. Presley, for my cousin.” Rosa opened her purse and rifled through for something suitable.

Elvis gripped the white towel that hung around his neck. “Goin’ by your accent, you must be English?”

Rosa smiled. “Yes, I’m from London.”

He looked at the Colonel and then back at Rosa. “My boys and I are trying to convince the Colonel here to book us in Europe someday. I would love to visit the queen.”

The thought of him visiting Buckingham palace struck Rosa as humorous. “I am sure Her Majesty would love to have tea with you,” she said.

Chuckles erupted among the band members.

“I’m serious, boys,” Elvis said. “We’ve got to go to London.”

“Let’s see.” A sly grin formed on Colonel Parker’s face as he puffed on his cigar. “You get this nice young lady to book a teatime with Queen Elizabeth, and I’ll book you at the Royal Albert Hall!”

This brought hearty laughter from around the room.

Elvis flashed his megawatt smile. “Are all young ladies from England pretty as a daisy like you?”

This boy from Mississippi was a real charmer.

“I tell you what, though,” Elvis said. “You sure showed a lot of pluck, jumpin’ on that gangway and untyin’ that poor fella.” To Colonel Parker, he added, “We have an extra headshot?”

The colonel huffed, then removed a large black-and-white photo of Elvis’ handsome face from his briefcase.

Elvis pulled the cap of a felt pen off with his teeth then winked at Rosa. “You’re sure it’s for your cousin?”

Rosa was dearly tempted to take the unspoken offer for Elvis to sign the picture for her, but she really wasn’t the sentimental type. Besides, she’d snuck a shot of him when she was taking photographs of the scene.

She smiled in return. “It’s for Gloria, thank you.”

After Rosa left the room and joined Miguel, he made a show of studying the photograph. “He looks wet behind his ears—like a kid. That suit’s probably his church clothes his mama bought him.”

Rosa grinned. Yes, and she’d bet he was a real terror in his Sunday school class.

Miguel, ever the gentleman, held the back door of the theater open for Rosa while she passed through under his arm. The proximity caused her physical responses to betray her terribly.

I’m not in love with him anymore.

I’m not.

Next, Miguel opened the passenger door of the unmarked police car. Thank goodness it’s a police cruiser. Otherwise, I’d feel too much like we’re heading home from a date.

Miguel started the engine, shifted it into reverse, and neatly backed out onto the street. The silence weighed heavily between them.

“I’m very sorry about your cousin,” Rosa said. “You must be in shock.”

“Thank you,” Miguel murmured. “I am.”

“I know you said you didn’t know him very well, but he seemed to be your age, and I thought your family was close.”

Miguel tapped his thumb against the top of the large steering wheel. “I suppose I wasn’t completely up-front. It’s stupid, and I should know better. I just didn’t want to hang dirty laundry out where strangers could overhear.”

Rosa stared straight ahead. Did she want to know about Miguel’s family secrets? Her heart said no, but her blasted curiosity was kindled. Perhaps it would help Miguel to talk about it.

“When was the last time you can remember being with Orlando?” Rosa asked.

“At my mother’s birthday party. About six months ago.”

“What was he like as a person?”

“You could say Orlando was the black sheep of the family. He worked as a photojournalist during the war. Didn’t come home the same person; I know it’s a common story. Orlando was a happy-go-lucky kid, always a smile on his face, the epitome of optimism. After—well, he returned from the far east with a dark cloud over his head that never went away, no matter how much the sun shone.”

“The war was a terrible thing,” Rosa agreed.

“My sister Carlotta was the only one who seemed to break through to him, but she’s like that. Everyone loves her.”

The silence returned along with growing tension. Rosa fought the urge to reach out to Miguel, to take his hand, thread her fingers through his, and squeeze. She longed to comfort him. Flashbacks from their romance eleven years earlier flooded her as though they had happened only yesterday. The intensity of her love for this man hadn’t faded with time, and now . . . well, now she was with Larry.

These confusing emotions are exactly the reason why I didn’t want to ride with Miguel! She glanced at him only to catch his dark eyes on her for an instant before he returned his gaze to the road.

Soon they were headed up the long drive leading to the Forrester mansion, a monument to the wealth gained by Rosa’s late oil-baron uncle. Miguel circled the water fountain, which the butler, Bledsoe, had turned off for the night, and slowed to a stop in front of the large oak doors.

Miguel jumped out and hurried to open the passenger door before she had a chance to do so. As he extended his hand to help her out, a bolt of electricity sparked through her. Standing close enough to kiss him, she wallowed instead, then said, “Thank you for the ride home.”

“My pleasure, Rosa. Sleep well.” Miguel took a long step back, hurried around the front of the cruiser, hopped into the driver’s seat, and drove off without looking back.

It was obvious that Miguel didn’t love her anymore. He was being a good friend, that was all. And why would he love her? He’d been in love with Charlene Winters enough to ask her to marry him. He was still licking his wounds over their breakup.

Oh bother!

Rosa fisted her gloved hands and let out a shudder of frustration. How shallow was she? Thinking about matters of the heart when a man is dead!

6

Rosa was practically accosted by Gloria when she entered the mansion, barely having time to remove her gloves.

“Where were you?” Gloria asked, her face flush.

If Rosa could go by the crystal glass in her cousin’s hand, her cousin’s headiness came from something stronger than excitement.

“I was worried sick, but then I thought you must’ve gotten swooped up with the police. Like usual, right? Wait. Did the fellow die?” She shook her head and then, as if struck by intense infatuation, cried, “Oh, Rosa! Did you talk to Elvis?”

“Give me a chance to get inside,” Rosa said, feeling a little off-balance. “Were you sitting on the windowsill watching for me?”

“I saw the headlights. Was that a police car?”

“I got a ride home.”

“Ooh,” Gloria raised a brow. “With that dreamboat, Detective Belmonte?”

Gloria wasn’t privy to Rosa’s past romantic entanglements and often teased Rosa in a way that stabbed at her heart.

“Since I didn’t have a ride home, he offered.”

A double eyebrow jump came from Gloria.

Rosa felt indignant. “We’re friends, Gloria. You mustn’t forget that I’m with Larry.”

“Oh, yeah, Dr. Rayburn. You really have all the luck, Rosa.”

“I don’t know—”

“We’re in the living room having cocktails.” Gloria linked her arm through Rosa’s and dragged her down the corridor and into the living room where Clarence, Aunt Louisa, and Grandma Sally—who had apparently given up her 9:00 p.m. bedtime routine—sat up like curious meerkats to hear the latest.

“Gloria and Clarence were just entertaining us with all the vile details,” Grandma Sally said. She sat in one of the matching Scandinavian-style chairs that rested on a large yellow area rug. “Was this Presley boy really gyrating?”

Clarence laughed. “Don’t mind Grandma, Rosa. Can I get you a drink?”

A sideboard stocked with liquor sat by the large bay window, which was flanked by two heavy yellow-and-white drapes embossed with a geometric design.

“I’m having a gin spritz,” Aunt Louisa said. “It’s fabulous.”

“All right,” Rosa said to Clarence “I’ll have one of those.”

Gloria took her seat on the empty chair next to Grandma Sally and crossed her legs. “Rosa, you’re killing me. Do spill the beans.”

Clarence handed Rosa her cocktail, and then took a spot on the end of the couch next to where Rosa had taken a seat.

Aunt Louisa leaned in. “Gloria and Clarence say a man fell from the rafters behind the band just at the end of the concert?”

“That’s true. I’m afraid the man didn’t make it.”

“Was it suicide?” Clarence asked. He chortled before Rosa could answer. “What a way to make a grand exit. I wonder what message he was sending and to whom?”

“It’s under investigation,” Rosa said. “It wasn’t obvious if he jumped or if something rather more nefarious took place.”

Aunt Louisa stared over the rim of her cut-crystal glass. “Did they identify the man?”

Knowing what it would lead to, Rosa was reticent to say. She took a long sip of her cocktail. “Yes, his name was Orlando Belmonte.”

Aunt Louisa’s eyes narrowed. “No relation to that detective?”

That detective was as polite as Aunt Louisa deemed to get when it came to mentioning Miguel, her dislike of him going back to the war. When she’d discovered Rosa, a teen in high school, had been seeing a soldier—and one of Mexican descent—Aunt Louisa all but threatened to send her back to London on the next barge.

“Actually,” Rosa started, “it’s Detective Belmonte’s first cousin.”

Gloria gasped. “How awful!”

“Surely, he can’t investigate the death in that case?” Clarence said.

“Nothing to investigate if it’s a suicide,” Aunt Louisa said.

Rosa huffed. “They don’t know cause of death. Please, let’s not jump to conclusions or start any rumors.”

Grandma Sally put a wrinkled hand to her sizable soft bosom. “As if we’d be guilty of gossiping!”

Aunt Louisa chimed in. “Forresters know how to keep a secret.”

The way her aunt said it, with a court-room seriousness, Rosa couldn’t help but wonder what secrets Aunt Louisa kept.

Or perhaps it was the cocktail speaking.

“Oh,” Rosa said, remembering the gift she had for Gloria. She smiled at her cousin. “I have something for you.” She opened her handbag and pulled out the glossy print of Elvis Presley.

Gloria squealed. “Rosa, you didn’t! Oh my gosh, this is so keen!” She examined the picture, tracing her fingers lightly over the words: To Gloria, from Elvis Presley. Holding it to her chest, she almost burst with excitement. “This is so way-out! Thank you!”

Rosa laughed. “I thought you’d like it.”

Gloria’s eyes zeroed in on Rosa’s. “So, what’s he like? Is he amazing? Oh, those lips—”

“Gloria!” Aunt Louisa said. “Restrain yourself!”

Gloria leaned back and slowly purposed a serious expression on her face. “Yes, Mom.”

Clarence couldn’t resist getting in a dig. “Elvis doesn’t even know you, but he’ll probably remember Santa Bonita. I doubt a man falls to his death at every concert.”

“Oh rats,” Gloria muttered. “You’re right. I really hope he didn’t kill himself.”

Clarence scowled. “You’d rather he was murdered?”

“No! I’d rather he hadn’t died. Jeez, this family can be so vicious. Benny would never say anything like that.”

The pronouncement giving Mr. Applebaum’s name was like a rock dropping in the middle of a pond, and the corresponding waves a tense silence that only Aunt Louisa had the nerve to break.

“Are you seeing Benjamin Applebaum again, Gloria?”

Gloria sniffed as she stared hard into her empty glass. “We met up at the concert.”

Aunt Louisa’s gaze bored into her daughter. “Accidentally or on purpose?”

“What difference does it make, Mom? We were only having fun.”

“The difference is you’re of marrying age now, Gloria, and no longer have the benefit of youth to cover for your carelessness. You bear the Forrester name. Who you associate with matters. Who you marry matters.”

Gloria glared at Aunt Louisa in a way that shocked Rosa. “Clarence married who he wanted.”

Clarence shot his sister a look of resentment, his lips pursing as if searching for a response that wouldn’t explode the bomb that had been lit.

Aunt Louisa’s lips tightened. “He’s hardly a model to live your life after.”

“Thanks, Mother,” Clarence muttered.

Aunt Louisa wasn’t one to back down. “I’m right, aren’t I? I told you not to get involved with Vanessa, and now you’re divorced.”

Clarence threw back the rest of his whiskey and shot to his feet. “As much as I would love to continue this fun conversation, I bid you all good night.”

Gloria, wearing Clarence’s offense, took her brother’s exit as an opportunity for her own. “Good night, Mother, Grandmother. Rosa.”

“She always gets formal with her speech when she’s upset,” Aunt Louisa said lightly. “She’ll be back to her flighty self in the morning.”

Rosa debated if she should go to bat for her cousin, though she had the same reservations about Ben Applebaum as her aunt did, if not for the same reasons. Before she could find an appropriate comment, Aunt Louisa left the living room without so much as a goodnight, leaving Rosa alone with Grandma Sally.

Rosa stared into her glass before taking a small sip. “Why do I feel there’s more going on here than meets the eye?”

“You’re very perceptive,” Grandma Sally said. “Two years ago, Gloria fell in love with a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Louisa didn’t approve and made Gloria miserable. She forbade Gloria from seeing him and then threatened to take her allowance away if she didn’t stay clear of the boy. Gloria appeased Louisa with words but continued to meet with the boy clandestinely. Louisa ultimately offered him a good amount of cash to end things with Gloria, and he took the money. Gloria was devastated.”

“I see,” Rosa said, releasing the breath she was holding. “I can assume all of Gloria’s love interests since then have been purposely from ‘the wrong side of the tracks?’”

Grandma Sally tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Our Gloria has a streak of rebellion in her. A true Hartigan gal.”

Rosa awoke the next morning in a fog of crazy dreams. They contained a disorientating cast of characters, including Queen Elizabeth playing the guitar in a Sunday school class and Elvis Presley handing Rosa a daisy and stroking his thumb on her nose. As she climbed up out of the depths of sleep, Elvis’ thumb became the wet, sandpapery tongue belonging to Diego. She nudged her pet away.

“Diego, that’s disgusting.”

Persistently, Diego rubbed his small furry cheek along hers and ramped up the purring in her ear.

“I know, I know. You think I’ve slept long enough, and you’re right.” She kissed her kitten on the top of his furry head and rolled out of bed feeling slightly dazed when all the events of the previous evening came back to her in a flood.

Miguel.

His troubled expression upon learning about his cousin haunted her. Replaying the events in her mind as she slipped into her slippers, she shuffled to the bathroom attached to her bedroom. It was a luxury she didn’t have back in London at Hartigan House, and she felt rather fond of the arrangement. As she washed her face and chose her outfit for the day—a semi-sheer printed day dress with a slender pleated skirt and matching belt and buttons—she recalled seeing Orlando Belmonte fall to his death and wondered when the news of either foul play or dramatic suicide would be reported.

Diego had no such concerns and tended to bathing himself, twisting in a manner only available to the flexible feline as he licked the fur on his back.

“I do declare,” Rosa said as she watched him, “you have it easy, don’t you?” She scrubbed his head with her full palm just to annoy him. He meowed at her, swatting back with his paw.

“I’m not afraid of you, little boy,” she said and kissed him again.

When Rosa entered the kitchen, she found Aunt Louisa sitting at the table, a newspaper in one hand and a coffee cup in the other.

Señora Gomez reached her arms out for Diego. “Good morning, Señor Diego,” she said. “Good morning, Miss Rosa.”

Rosa returned, “Good morning, Señora Gomez, Aunt Louisa.”

“You’ll be interested in seeing this, I bet,” her aunt said without returning the morning salutation or acknowledging Diego’s presence. She laid the paper on the table so Rosa could see the write-up, pointing at the large headline with a long, pink-lacquered fingernail.

MAN FALLS TO HIS DEATH AT ELVIS CONCERT

Rosa read the article, noting that there was nothing new reported that she didn’t already know. Included was a close-up photo of Elvis Presley. Rosa was startled to recognize the back of her own head. “That was taken from right behind us.”

Rosa immediately regretted pointing it out, as belatedly she noticed that Ben Applebaum and Gloria had their arms wrapped around each other. Aunt Louisa snatched the paper and brought it closer to her nose. She snarled her daughter’s name.

Gloria, as fate would have it, stepped into the kitchen at the same moment. “You called, Mother?”

Rosa glanced at Señora Gomez. The housekeeper’s eyes widened at the palpable tension that erupted in the kitchen and found that instant to be the perfect one to go pick up Diego and take him outside for a bit of fresh air.

“See?” Aunt Louisa stabbed the paper with her nail. “You can’t hide this kind of behavior. In a town this size, you’ll always be found out.”

Gloria jutted her chin defiantly. “Who says I’m trying to hide it?”

Aunt Louisa had a storm cloud over her head. “I’m serious, Gloria.”

“Well, you needn’t be. It was just a concert. He didn’t propose or anything.”

“I should hope not.”

Rosa helped herself to an American breakfast of bacon and eggs, compliments of Señora Gomez’s early rising, and sipped on a glass of fresh orange juice. Though Aunt Louisa had insisted that the Forrester mansion was her home, Rosa was still unsure of her place when it came to family dynamics such as this. Her instincts told her to keep her nose out of it.

“I’m going to eat this outside,” she said. “It’s such a beautiful day.”

“I’m taking mine to my room,” Gloria said tightly. “I have class this morning.”

After Rosa and Gloria’s disastrous experience working as extras on that movie set, Gloria had given up her acting ambitions for good. Aunt Louisa was all too willing to pull strings to get Gloria into a journalism course through Santa Bonita College if it meant Gloria would hang up her acting hat.

Aunt Louisa had confided in Rosa, “Maybe there, she’d have a better chance of meeting the right kind of fellow.”

Rosa hoped Gloria met a good fellow of whom Aunt Louisa would approve, just for the sake of peace in the family.

When Rosa sat down at her desk at Reed Investigations later that morning, she dialed the answering service operator to pick up any messages that had come in. Her second-floor office had become her haven; a place where she could be both relaxed and organized. It had a small kitchenette, a darkroom, and a spot for her oak desk along with several padded lounge chairs for conducting consultations with clients. A small reception area had a blue, padded, teakwood, Danish-style sofa and a large bookcase filled with some of her favorite novels and reference materials.

Diego, who Rosa transported about town in one of several satchels, slept in a curled-up ball on one of the chairs facing her desk.

Four messages were announced: the first three from prospective clients—one who had questions about insurance fraud, another regarding a missing necklace, and someone who wanted to investigate a traveling fortune-teller.

The fourth was from Miguel. He wanted her to call him at home.

Home? Not at the precinct?

She immediately dialed him, and he answered on the third ring.

“Hello, Rosa,” he said. “If you’re free this morning, I’d like to come to your office to talk.”

Rosa felt herself flush at the thought of seeing Miguel again and inwardly reprimanded herself. She was a professional!

Which reminded her, she must call Larry after this call.

“Sounds ominous,” she said.

“It’s not. It’s a job offer. I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

Miguel hung up, leaving Rosa’s curiosity piqued. What is the job, and who is it for?

Rosa busied herself by tidying up the office and putting on a kettle of water for tea. Then she made a quick call to Larry to report on her version of events from the evening before—he knew nothing about the postmortem, only that Dr. Philpott didn’t think one was necessary—and no, he wasn’t feeling any better.

Poor thing.

Once the pot was steeping, she peeked into the darkroom. She made it a habit to make sure no incriminating photos hung from the wire, just in case a client took it upon himself to snoop.

It reminded Rosa that her camera was still in her purse and that she’d taken photographs the night before. She also realized with a start that she had forgotten to give the Rolleiflex to Sanchez. It was also still in her bag. She dug both cameras out and had stepped into the darkroom when a confident knock pounded on her office door.

“Come in; it’s open,” she said, peeking from the darkroom.

The door swung open, and Miguel stepped inside in khaki shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and sunglasses—hardly the uniform of a detective. Rosa couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen him dressed so casually. In the war years, he’d always worn his soldier’s uniform or a full suit, and since her return to Santa Bonita, he’d worn trousers with a shirt and tie, and often, a hat.

“Were you fired?” she asked.

He snorted. “Not quite.”

Rosa motioned to the empty chair beside Diego, and Miguel took a seat.

“Hello, Deputy Diego,” he said lightly, patting the cat on the head.

“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Rosa asked.

“How very British of you.” Miguel smiled, and a dimple appeared.

“There’s nothing that a cup of tea can’t soothe. I’m having a cup.”

“No coffee?”

Rosa stepped into the small kitchen area. “I can make a pot if you like.”

“No, I won’t stay that long.”

Rosa felt a twinge of remorse.

“I’ll take tea,” Miguel continued. “Loaded up.”

Rosa made a tray, brought it to her desk, lifted a teacup and saucer—tea so white it almost looked like milk—and handed it to Miguel.

“Forgive me if I don’t lift my little finger.” Miguel took a sip.

Rosa smiled. “Forgiven. It’s not as common as Americans think.”

Miguel sat his saucer on the desk and nonchalantly asked, “How’s Larry? Feeling better?”

Rosa blinked. She supposed it wasn’t unusual for Miguel to ask about the assistant medical examiner. They worked together often and would probably refer to each other as friends, yet somehow it felt personal.

“He’s still under the weather, unfortunately,” she said. “So sad that he had to miss the concert last night. Aside from your cousin’s death, it was an extraordinary experience. I’m surprised you weren’t there. You would have loved it.”

Miguel, a hobby musician, played locally with his band, Mick and the Beat Boys.

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t get the night off.” He stared out to the blue California sky then came to the point of the meeting. “Delvecchio has pulled me off the case.”

“Oh?” Rosa said, not surprised by the chief of police’s decision.

“Conflict of interest. Detectives may not investigate cases when family members are involved. I can’t even assist.”

“Makes sense.” Rosa stared pointedly at Miguel’s attire. “But surely, there are other cases?”

“Delvecchio wants to classify Orlando’s death as a suicide. I flat-out disagree with that assessment. We had ‘words,’ you could say. He gave me the day off ‘to cool down.’”

Rosa looked at him in surprise. “You argued with your boss?”

Miguel shifted in his chair. “You could say that.” He shrugged. “Almost got myself fired, I think, but… there’s no way he killed himself. I don’t buy it.”

“Let me play the devil’s advocate. Why not?”

“I know he had his troubles; the war affected him deeply. I talked to my mother this morning however, and she’s adamant that Orlando would never do anything like that. For one thing, we’re Catholic.”

Rosa knew that many Catholics believed suicide was a ticket straight to hell.

She responded softly, “Sometimes Catholics find life too hard—”

“I know, but . . .” Miguel slapped his thighs. “The thing is, maybe, maybe he wanted to kill himself, but to hang himself spectacularly at an Elvis concert? That wasn’t Orlando’s style—he was a private person. He’d choose a different way. At any rate, I need to know. The only way is to prove that no one else had means and motive.”

An understanding dawned. “Why are you here, Miguel?”

With a look of determination, he answered, “I would like to hire you to investigate the murder of Orlando Belmonte.”

7

In a split second, Rosa filed away all the objections as to why she shouldn’t agree to work for Miguel, the biggest one being Larry. Emotionally in danger of being untrue, she knew she should spend less time with Miguel, not more.

“All right.”

His posture shifting, Miguel let out a breath. Diego, sensing a victory of some sort, stretched out his hind legs and jumped onto Miguel’s lap.

“See,” Miguel said, both dimples blazing. “Deputy Diego wants to be in on the case.”

Diego slowly turned to look at Rosa.

Oh dear! Had Miguel just winked at her?

She opened her desk drawer and removed a pad of yellow, lined, legal-sized paper. She ripped off the top page that had old notes on it and poised her pen over the pad before writing in capital letters at the top: ORLANDO BELMONTE.

She looked back at Miguel. “Tell me about your cousin. Help me get to know him better.”

“Orlando is the youngest of six, of my father’s brother, Juan.”

“Your age?” Rosa asked.

“Three years older. Thirty-four.”

“Married?”

“Once, but it was annulled.”

Rosa looked up with interest. “Why?”

“After the war, Orlando was convinced the world was too evil a place to bring children into. It was the reason his wife left him, and the church agreed to annul the marriage.”

Rosa jotted the information down, thinking that Orlando’s life hadn’t been a very happy one. A fact that might support his taking his own life.

“So, no children?”

“No.”

“And if I recall correctly from our conversation last night, Orlando was a photojournalist during the war.”

“That’s right. For the U.S. Army Signal Corps.”

“What newspaper did he currently work for?”

“He was mostly freelance, I think, but his main contractor was The Los Angeles Clarion.”

Letting out a soft sigh, Rosa set her pen down on the notepad and leaned back in her chair.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Miguel said. “He had every reason to feel depressed enough to want out of life early.”

“Didn’t he?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t mean he did.”

“Okay, what do you think happened?”

Miguel stroked Diego’s back which triggered a round of loud purring. “I think someone went up on that gangway, grabbed the rope, wrapped it around Orlando’s neck, tied the end, and hurled him off. Orlando was a diminutive man. If he wasn’t expecting it, he could’ve been overpowered by someone larger. The music would’ve drowned out shouting or sounds of a struggle. The gangway was hidden from the view of anyone seated, even in the first row of the theater. I know; I checked. In fact, even someone standing backstage wouldn’t have been able to see the top of that scaffold.”

Rosa could see that Miguel had given everything a lot of thought.

“But it would have been hard for the killer to get off that scaffolding unseen,” she said.

Miguel shifted his weight, which Diego took as a sign to jump to the floor and search for his food bowl.

“There are three ways to get off or onto that scaffolding,” Miguel said. “I did some exploring while Sanchez was busy questioning people. There’s a ladder at either end and a secondary ladder which you may not have noticed when you were up there.”

It was true. In the moment’s intensity, when on the gangway, Rosa hadn’t had a chance to look around. She had been totally engaged in getting the body down from the rope.

“That secondary ladder is retractable, and it leads up to a small network of metal rafters with areas built for storage,” Miguel said. “The crew stores stuff up there for productions that require props or backdrops to be lowered and raised during performances. I would guess that the killer climbed up there after throwing Orlando over the rail, then went through the storage room and used the freight elevator to get down again. It would have taken a minute or two, but a reasonably fit man could do it easily, and he would be mostly hidden from view.”

“A perfect escape route,” Rosa said, drumming her fingers on her desktop. “What about motive? Who would want to kill your cousin?”

Miguel shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s where you come in. I need to find out who hated Orlando enough to take his life.”

Rosa picked up the telephone receiver while holding down the plastic buttons to keep the dial tone at bay. Catching Miguel’s eye, she asked, “Am I to do this alone or with you?”

Miguel’s lips twitched into a subtle grin. “Officially, I’m to stay away from police business, at least for today, and since this case is closed, I’d be wasting police time by following alleged leads.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

A dimple appeared. “Together, of course.”

Rosa considered Miguel’s assumption. If things were reversed, she’d want to be involved, but, and this was a big ‘but.’ Could her heart handle working so closely with Miguel for as long as it took to get the answers he was looking for?”

As a professional, she had no choice but to press onward and hope her heart wouldn’t compromise her loyalty to Larry. She released the buttons and listened for the dial tone before dialing on the rotary phone.

“Who are you calling?” Miguel asked.

“The Los Angeles Clarion.”

After three rings, the call was answered by the paper’s receptionist. “Los Angeles Clarion, how may I direct your call?”

“May I speak to Orlando Belmonte, please?”

Rosa heard the hitch of the receptionist’s voice. “I’m afraid Mr. Belmonte’s not available.”

“I see,” Rosa said. “May I speak to his overseer?”

“That would be Bill Strongwell. Who may I say is calling?”

“Miss Rosa Reed. I’m a friend of a friend.”

Rosa was put on hold, and Diego took that opportunity to chase his tail, then failing to catch it, run rampant around the office, jumping off chairs and sliding into walls.

“What’s got into him?” Miguel said.

“I don’t know. He just gets hyperactive at times.”

“He needs a toy.”

“He has one. A cloth mouse.”

Miguel cocked his head. “Maybe he needs a real mouse.”

“I’m sure Señora Gomez would have none of that at the mansion. However, Diego does often get lost in that big house. Perhaps he’s hunting.”

On the other end of the line, a man cleared his voice and spoke loudly, “Strongwell here.”

“Hello, Mr. Strongwell. I’m Rosa Reed from Reed Investigations in Santa Bonita. I’ve been hired by a family member of Orlando Belmonte to investigate his untimely death.”

“Seems a waste of time since the man committed suicide.”

Rosa held the receiver away from her ear, allowing Miguel to catch the conversation, which the newspaper man’s powerful voice made easy.

“The family isn’t so sure about that,” Rosa replied. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

“Make it quick. The news doesn’t wait.”

“Are you reporting Mr. Belmonte’s death in your paper?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a headline if you know what I mean.”

“Are you aware of anyone who might’ve wished Mr. Belmonte harm?”

“The newspaper business is a very competitive world, miss. Dog-eat-dog, as they say.”

“Does a name come to mind?”

“Can’t say one does.”

“How was Mr. Belmonte’s job performance in recent days?” Rosa thought a man planning to end his life might slack off from his responsibilities.

“Fine. Belmonte was good at his job and proud of it.”

“What about his temperament? Did he get along with people?”

“Belmonte kept to himself, that’s all I can tell you. Sorry to have to cut this short, but I’m on a deadline.”

“I understand,” Rosa said with regret. She had plenty more questions she’d like to have asked. “Thank you for your time.” Hanging up the phone, she looked at Miguel. “What do you think of that?”

“It doesn’t sound like the boss was unhappy with Orlando’s work. Orlando wasn’t much of a talker, not since the war. I can vouch for that. I doubt that he would’ve confided in anyone he worked with.”

Rosa folded her hands in front of her and rested them on the desk. “We didn’t glean much information on potential enemies.”

Miguel jutted his chin into the air. “Sanchez says they didn’t find Orlando’s camera. That alone is suspicious. He thinks Orlando didn’t bring a camera because he didn’t intend to use it.”

Rosa felt the heat of guilt rush up her neck.

Miguel noticed. “Rosa?” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me—”

“Yes. All right. I have it. I meant to turn it over to the police and—” Rosa pinched her lips, fighting back embarrassment. “With the excitement of meeting Elvis Presley, I forgot. I only remembered it was in my purse after you called.”

“Did you develop the film?”

“No, I was planning on just giving it to Sanchez. Besides, I haven’t had a chance to develop it yet anyway, my own film either.”

“Where is Orlando’s camera now?”

“In the darkroom.”

They both jumped to their feet—Miguel following Rosa—into the darkroom. Rosa flicked the switch, and the room flooded with red-tinted light. She picked up the Rolleiflex from the counter. “I can develop it right now,” she said, flicking the safety latch, but then gaping at the empty film pocket. “Oh my! It’s gone.”

“He either didn’t plan to live through the night,” Miguel said, “or he did, and someone took the film. I’m inclined to believe the latter.”

“Me too,” Rosa said.

“So, what’s next, Miss Reed?”

“Well, Detective, it’d be nice to have a list of suspects.” Returning to her desk, she picked up her pen and pulled her pad closer. “There’s the head stagehand, Walter Grund—”

“What would he have against Orlando?”

“Probably nothing, but he had opportunity and means. Of course, we’d then have to include Elvis Presley, his band, or someone from his stage entourage.”

Miguel shook his head. “No, I think we can leave them out for now. I mean, we have all their names if it should come to that, but those guys travel to a different town every night. Elvis is from Tupelo, Mississippi and the rest are all from Tennessee. They would have no connection to my cousin.”

“Agreed,” Rosa said, then continued with her list. “There’s the building manager, Leonard Radcliff. Again, motive questionable.”

Rosa stared at Miguel with a sense of gloom. They had very little to go on. Going by Miguel’s sour expression, Rosa guessed he felt the same way.

She pushed her chair back and got to her feet. “Let’s visit Dr. Philpott,” she said. “Perhaps he can tell us something that will give us a proper lead.”

Rosa scooped Diego into her satchel. “Let’s go, little boy.”

Miguel rubbed his neck. “You’re bringing your cat?”

“He and Dr. Philpott are pals,” Rosa explained. “Besides, I don’t like leaving him alone all the time.”

8

Rosa insisted on driving. Since Miguel refused to allow her to work pro bono, she insisted on handling the expenses, including the cost of fuel. Driving her new creamy-white Corvette was no hardship, plus Diego was accustomed to riding in it, happy to stay in his satchel tucked in nicely on the red-leather seat between Rosa and Miguel. Her cat acted as a barrier of sorts, which Rosa found helpful, if not fanciful.

Diego sometimes climbed from the satchel to lounge on the dashboard when traveling in town but had learned his lesson about sticking his head over the windshield. Not only was it unpleasant being whipped by thirty-mile-an-hour winds, but a nasty bug splat in the eye was definitely enough to dissuade any kitty.

Not wanting to engage in trivial banter, and drawing a blank on further discussion about the case, Rosa twisted the chrome button of the radio, turning on SB-104 FM. Marvin Stewart’s warm voice filled the airways as he introduced “My Prayer” by the Platters.

Santa Bonita wasn’t a large city, and Rosa had been living there long enough to know her way around. To avoid the wind while riding in her convertible, she’d tied a silk scarf over her head and pushed stray brunette locks back under the edges.

She sang along softly, “My prayer is to linger with you. . .”

“You have a pretty voice.”

Rosa snapped her mouth shut. Her mind had wandered, and she hadn’t realized that she’d started singing along with the radio.

“Uh, thank you,” she said. “Nothing like you, Mick.” She smiled over at Miguel at the use of his nickname.

“Do you play an instrument?” Miguel asked. “It seems to me you mentioned growing up with a baby grand in your drawing room.”

Rosa’s heart skipped. Miguel remembers stories of my childhood that I told him over a decade ago! “Drawing room does sound rather pretentious when you say it like that,” she said. “And, if you must know, I’ve recently taken up the guitar. I’m not very good.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Rosa pulled in front of the one-story, white-stucco hospital and parked. The morgue was at the back, and she and Miguel walked the familiar corridor to the set of stainless-steel doors. Miguel opened one and waited for Rosa to enter the morgue before him.

Inside, the nurse at the small reception area greeted them, then waved them on when they announced they were there to see Dr. Philpott. The chief medical examiner was inside his office at the file cabinet, reviewing files. He smiled at Rosa and Miguel as he sat down with a thump on his desk chair. “I thought I might see the two of you today.” He looked pointedly at Miguel. “Thought you might’ve gotten dressed, though.”

“I’m technically off the clock.”

“If you’re playing the tourist, a morgue is a strange stop.”

Miguel laughed. “You got me there.”

Rosa gently put her satchel down on an empty chair. Diego purred contentedly. The song from the Platters must have lulled him to sleep in the car.

To Rosa, Dr. Philpott said, “I take it you’re on someone’s clock?”

Rosa shot a glance at Miguel. “The police have determined the death of Orlando Belmonte was suicide. We’d like to know if you concur.”

“Ah, I see.” He stared at them over the rim of his glasses. “I gather that the two of you don’t?”

“We just want to be sure,” Rosa said.

“Naturally.” He nodded at Miguel. “And may I say again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Philpott shuffled through files on his desk, selected one, and opened it. Pushing his glasses up along the ridge of his nose, he started reading. “Cause of death: severe trauma to the upper cervical region, hypoxia. Rope burns on the neck, fibers in the neck creases, along with skin cells that correspond to scratches on his neck.” He glanced up at Miguel with a look of empathy. “He died quickly, but not instantly.”

Miguel’s expression was dark. “Anything else of note, Doctor?”

Dr. Philpott flipped the folder shut. “No other apparent trauma. No blows to the head to indicate a second party.”

“What about how the rope was tied?” Miguel asked.

Dr. Philpott glanced at the notes in the file. “Appeared to be a basic knot.”

“The rope was routed through a large pulley,” Rosa said. “Its usual function was to raise and lower heavy objects.”

Miguel glanced at her. “Who would know such a device?”

“Anyone who works or worked in the theater,” Rosa said.

At that moment, Diego squirmed out of the satchel, leaped to the floor, and took off down the corridor.

“Diego!”

Rosa raced after him but failed at cornering the cat. Diego had every intention of getting into the morgue, which would be a disaster. Imagine if there was a body lying on the operating table.

“Diego!” Thwarted by the closed door, Diego spun out on the slippery floor then raced past Rosa and Miguel toward the reception area. When they finally reached the front desk, they found the nurse cuddling the cat, who sat on her lap, purring innocently in her ear.

“Such a cutie!” she said to Rosa, who managed to catch her breath and keep her dignity. “He must be so much fun!”

“Oh, he is,” Rosa said stiffly. She extended her arms, and the nurse reluctantly placed Diego in them. Rosa returned to Dr. Philpott’s office, the medical examiner staring at her and the cat with amusement. She placed Diego in the satchel, zipping it up with only a few inches to spare. “You little rascal,” Rosa said, and then to Dr. Philpott. “I’m sorry about that.”

Dr. Philpott chuckled. “He’s just true to his nature.”

Rosa felt a bit of remorse. Perhaps she expected too much from her kitten.

“However,” Dr. Philpott continued, “did you know there is a cat training school in Santa Bonita?

Miguel failed to hold in a scoff.

“I thought the same thing,” Dr. Philpott said. “Train a cat? But my wife’s niece swears by it, and I can confirm that her cat is a delight to be around. She drags the feline all over town, much like you do, Miss Reed.”

“It’s certainly an interesting concept,” Rosa said, finding the idea tempting after Diego’s escapade. In fact, she had heard about the existence of such a training school in Santa Bonita before but had never seriously considered it. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Philpott.”

“Whenever you need me, I’m here.” He chuckled. “Though I suspect you’ll be happy when Larry gets back on his feet.”

Rosa smiled at the chief medical examiner, purposely averting her gaze from Miguel.

Once outside, Miguel complained of hunger pains, but thankfully, Diego was a perfect excuse for getting out of dining. And Dr. Philpott’s little jest reminded her she should check in with Larry. Hopefully, he was feeling better by now.

“I’ll ring you,” she said, then, at Miguel’s smirk, quickly amended, “I’ll call you. Later. If I find anything new.”

Rosa had intended to head home, but as she drove past the Santa Bonita Veterans Theater, she saw that Diego had worn himself out and slept soundly in the satchel once again. It seemed a shame to waste an opportunity to call on Mr. Radcliff, and Rosa took a chance that she’d catch him before he went for lunch.

Mr. Radcliff’s office was located upstairs in the Veterans Theater building. Rosa shifted the satchel—heavier now that Diego was growing—to her left elbow, then knocked on the door. When a rough voice beckoned her, she turned the knob and walked in. The bespectacled businessman had short-cropped, military-style, graying hair and sat at his desk wearing a white, short-sleeve, collared shirt and tie. On the filing cabinet sat a framed photo of him in a military uniform with a dark-haired, attractive woman standing close.

Mr. Radcliff caught Rosa looking at the framed picture. “That’s my wife, Linda. Lost her to cancer in forty-six. I had just returned home from the war.”

“I am so sorry. Do you have children?”

“No. I’m on my own, I’m afraid. Too busy to remarry.” He emphasized the word ‘busy.’

“I’m sorry to intrude. I hoped you could spare a minute.”

Mr. Radcliff’s eyes scanned Rosa from head to toe. He swiveled in his chair and put his feet on his desk, crossing them at the ankles. “Proceed.”

“As you might recall, I run an investigation business, and I have been hired by the family to look into Mr. Belmonte’s death.”

Mr. Radcliff’s face showed some puzzlement. “I thought it was a suicide. Hey, you’re not with some insurance agency, are you?” Anger flashed in his eyes as he dropped his feet back to the floor.

Rosa hurried to answer, “No, I am not.”

“You’ve got five minutes.”

Rosa placed her satchel—with Diego’s head poking out—on the floor then said, “Last night, after the incident, you mentioned you were working with your security to make sure people were getting out safely.”

Mr. Radcliff frowned at her pet but ignored him.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said. “When I heard the commotion, I headed straight downstairs. It was mayhem.”

“Where were you exactly when Mr. Belmonte fell to his death?”

“Sitting right here.” He pointed to the window overlooking the auditorium.

“To be clear, you weren’t in the audience?”

“Like I said, I was here in my office. I don’t really like that kind of negro music.”

The bluntness of that statement made Rosa cringe inwardly. “Negro music, Mr. Radcliff? Mr. Presley is white.”

“Yes, but that racket is inspired by those jungle rhythms. Everyone knows that. They incite primal responses. You heard all the young women screaming.” He shook his head in disgust. “You seem like the respectable sort. Not like the rest of them, yelling like banshees when Mr. Presley came onstage.”

“How do you know how everyone behaved if you weren’t there?”

“Well, I stayed until it started. Left before the first tune was done. I tell you, when this Colonel Parker contacted me, I had no idea what I was in for. If I had, I wouldn’t have agreed.” He sighed, “But then, the ticket sales were very good as you saw. We rarely fill the place quite so fast.”

“Can anyone corroborate that you were in this office when Mr. Belmonte . . . met his fate?”

“Like an alibi? Surely, you don’t think this was an intentional act. Like… like a murder or something.” He rose to his feet.

Rosa took a nervous step back. “I am just doing my job. It is important to entertain all possibilities.”

“Well, that’s absurd! Have you seen the papers? It’s bad enough that because of them, everyone is talking about the incident, and that my building is connected to it. It’s bad for business! I pride myself on being above reproach.”

“Of course.” Rosa noted that the manager had expressed no concern about the deceased’s family or friends, apparently concerned only about his reputation.

Mr. Radcliff narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at her. “You are part of the Forrester family, aren’t you? I know your aunt. She’s quite a firecracker.”

Rosa couldn’t disagree. “What has that got to do with—”

“You probably don’t know this, but I serve on the city council in this town. I’m the chairman for several charities as well, including the Santa Bonita Veterans Foundation, who have their fundraising events at my theater.”

“I’ve heard,” Rosa said, remembering her aunt’s admonishment to update her datebook.

“Yes,” Mr. Radcliff asserted, “and it’s been suggested that I run for mayor next year. Your aunt has exerted a lot of influence on our current mayoral decisions and has for quite some time.”

“Mr. Radcliff, I—”

“I’ll have none of that when I am mayor, and you can tell Louisa I said that.” He was shaking his finger now. “Civic decisions should not be influenced by families with money.”

Aware that her five minutes were up, Rosa attempted to steer the conversation back on course. “Was there anyone with you when Mr. Belmonte fell off the backstage scaffolding?” she pressed again.

“No, I was alone, and I resent your implication!”

“I’m not implying anything,” Rosa said, feeling a little unnerved by the man’s outburst. “I’m simply doing my due diligence. Scratching names off my potential suspect list. Did you know the deceased at all?”

“No, not really. I mean, just as well as I know any of the news people that come here for large events. He’s been here before. Those guys have an uncomfortable fraternity, you see. Big competition to get the ‘scoop,’ the best pictures of celebrities and whatnot. One of them had a dislike for Belmonte. He had a mouth on him. Everyone knew it.”

“Which reporter was this?”

“Jerry Glass. He mostly works for The Santa Monica Voice but is also freelance. He and Mr. Belmonte had this huge rivalry. Belmonte accused Glass of stealing a story or some such nonsense.”

Finally!

“All right, do you know where I can find Mr. Glass?”

Mr. Radcliff flashed a mirthless grin. “As luck would have it, Miss Reed, he lives right here in Santa Bonita.

9

Rosa’s mother, Ginger, was—as her father called her—a bit of a “speedster,” and with driving, Rosa had inherited some of that penchant. But she was also a former police officer and had a deep respect for the law, so she consciously lifted her heavy-on-the-accelerator foot, especially as she sped her Corvette down the hill from the Forrester mansion into town.

On the southern outskirts of town, just off the highway heading to Los Angeles, The Jerry Glass Photography Studio was in the attic of an old brick-and-mortar building. Once the fire escape, three flights of grated iron steps led to the outside entrance. When Rosa reached the top, she admonished Diego, lounging languidly in her satchel. “Now, promise you’ll be good.” She knocked on the open door and called out, “Mr. Glass?”

A solidly built man in pleated crème-colored rayon slacks and a Hawaiian sport shirt came to the door.

“Mr. Glass?” Rosa said.

“The one and only!” The photographer had a bald head, a jolly smile, and deep wrinkles fanning from blue eyes.

She remembered seeing him at the concert, snapping pictures, a lone bald head in a sea of screaming teenage girls. Rosa extended a gloved hand. “I’m Rosa Reed. We spoke on the phone.”

Mr. Glass accepted her handshake then motioned for her to step inside. “Come in, come in.”

The studio was a bright space with natural light pouring in through large windows at each of the gabled ends. Wood floors looked aged but were polished. Photo studio equipment littered the place, including backdrops, specialty lights on movable racks, and reflective umbrellas. On the walls hung dozens of photographs, including publicity photos of actors and actresses, some that Rosa recognized and some she did not. Some shots looked like they could be on the cover of Life Magazine. Politicians giving speeches, athletes at sporting events, and of course, musicians. Rosa spotted candid shots of Chuck Berry, Frank Sinatra, and a young piano player who had electrified a television studio audience, Jerry Lee Lewis. Missing, oddly, was a picture of Elvis Presley.

Mr. Glass seemed to read her thoughts as she perused the wall. “I haven’t developed the pictures of Mr. Presley yet. He’s a fascinatin’ subject. Such energy!”

At the end of the wall, just bordering a small kitchen area, was a cage containing a gray parrot with a bright-red tail. Jerry Glass walked to the birdcage, tapped on it, and made chirping sounds with his mouth.

The bird returned, “Hallooo,” then whistled and cawed once before saying, “Now there’s a good shot.”

Rosa laughed. “How delightful!”

Smiling proudly, Mr. Glass tugged on his belt and rocked on his heels. “I call him Homer. He’s an African gray parrot, and he’s a lot of fun at parties. Says the funniest things sometimes. Can be a little embarrassin’ though, when I have a client up here for a photoshoot. But he makes good company.”

“I need to tell you that I have a kitten in my bag,” Rosa said, spreading the handles to reveal her furry pet, who stared up with green, shining cat eyes.

“By golly!” Mr. Glass said. “You ain’t kiddin’.”

“I don’t think he’s seen a bird in a cage before.” Rosa gently put her bag down on the floor. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Let the beast roam!” Mr. Glass watched Diego tentatively climb out of the bag. “He can’t hurt Homer while he’s in his cage,” he said then added, chuckling, “or vice versa.”

Diego curiously sniffed the new surroundings, but when he saw the birdcage, he froze. Lowering his head to the floor, Diego’s tail suddenly went as fluffy as a feather duster, slowly swishing back and forth, as he fixed his gaze on the parrot.

“Halloo,” said the bird.

A tiny meow escaped Diego before he abruptly turned and nosed his way back into the satchel until only his swishing tail was visible.

Rosa laughed out loud. “He doesn’t know if he’s the predator or the prey.”

Mr. Glass laughed along with her. “Well, that was anticlimactic.” He grabbed a small camera and snapped a picture of Diego’s tail sticking out of the satchel. “My niece will love that.”

“You don’t have any children?” Rosa asked. She didn’t see a ring on the man’s finger.

“No, not me. Never married. Live alone in the apartment below.” He smiled again and gestured to an office chair by his desk.

Rosa was confused at first because it seemed to be his chair. Instead, he walked to the side of the room and picked up a foldable metal chair and placed it on the opposite side of the desk, then sat. “Take a seat,” he insisted. I always offer my chair to my clients when they come. I want to let them know that I work for them, not the other way round. It’s a habit now, I guess.” He crossed his legs and folded his hands across his knee. “Now, Miss Reed of Reed Investigations, what can I do for you?”

“I just have a few questions.”

“Shoot,” he said as he mimicked snapping a picture of her. He chuckled again.

“I’ve been hired by the family of the man who died last night,” Rosa started. “Belmonte was a colleague of yours?”

For the first time, Mr. Glass frowned. “Oh yes. Such a shame.”

“Do you remember where you were in the building when Mr. Belmonte . . . fell?”

“I spent most the night at the end of the fourth row, but near the finale of the concert, I moved into the aisle. I wanted some close-up shots. That’s where I was when I saw him coming from above.”

“Did you snap any pictures of the body as it hung there?” It was a morbid thought, but would prove that he was precisely where he said he was and when. She added, “I’m sorry for the disagreeable question.”

Mr. Glass slowly shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. I was just too shocked, and by the time I took a breath, the curtains had closed.”

Rosa raised an eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” he said at her look. “A professional photographer’s first reflex is to keep shootin’, but I’ve never seen anythin’ like that before. It threw me off my game for a moment.”

“Were you with anyone else?”

“No. Even though I’m a freelance photographer, I was on an assignment that night for The Santa Monica Voice. I came to the concert on my own, just like the other photographers you saw, I suppose.”

Another alibi that would be hard to corroborate. That made two in a row. Rosa couldn’t very well interview every audience member.

Mr. Glass tilted his head. “Your questions seem to show that you and the deceased’s family may suspect foul play?”

“My client has some suspicion that it wasn’t a suicide,” Rosa admitted.

“Oh well, that’s interesting.”

“Why? Do you have some idea about that?”

“Oh no, not really. I mean, I didn’t know Mr. Belmonte beyond common social niceties when we crossed paths. He was a decent photographer.”

“So, you didn’t have any problem with Mr. Belmonte then? Weren’t you two rivals?”

“Oh sure, but we all are. I had nothin’ against him personally.”

This contradicted what Leonard Radcliff had said about a feud between Jerry Glass and Orlando Belmonte.

“Then, you two didn’t have a falling out recently?” Rosa pressed.

“No, not at all. Sure, we had our minor disagreements, even arguments, you could say. The world of freelance photography is extremely competitive, Miss Reed. It’s very cutthroat with photographers jostlin’ for position, not only at events but in newspapers and magazines. The nasty behavior I’ve witnessed from my colleagues is well, shockin’.”

He paused for a moment, looked at the floor, and then, in an almost conspiratorial tone, added, “If someone actually killed Mr. Belmonte, well…”

“Yes?” Rosa prompted. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Mr. Glass cleared his throat. “No. no. I don’t. In fact, forget I said that.” He vigorously shook his head. “I don’t know of anyone who would do such a thing.”

“Are you sure?” Rosa asked gently. “This could be important.”

“No, forgive me. I was just a bit negative about my colleagues in the business. I’m sure it’s not quite that dark in the darkrooms of this county.” Mr. Glass chuckled at his pun.

Rosa found the photographer’s caginess intriguing. In her experience, people who had something to hide were often vague or contradictory to throw the police off the scent.

Mr. Glass had a secret; she was certain of it.

Pressing further, Rosa asked, “Are you aware that Mr. Belmonte’s camera was found onstage? It looked like it had been dropped from the top of the gangway.”

“No, I didn’t know that. Why would I know that?”

Rosa ignored the question. “It was a…. oh, now I forget what kind of camera he used.” She snapped her fingers as if trying to remember. “It looked expensive, though.”

If Mr. Glass was aware of his competitor’s equipment—something Rosa found hard not to believe—he wasn’t about to divulge the fact. “Yeah, can’t help you there.”

Rosa threw out the bait. “It had no film in it.”

“Really?” Mr. Glass blinked his eyes in surprise. “Now, that is curious.”

“I think so too. Can you think of any reason that the camera would be unloaded?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.” Mr. Glass smiled at her again, but only his mouth was engaged in the act, his eyes had lost their winsome shine. “You know,” he started, “and this probably has nothing to do with it, but I learned from one stagehand, that the head stagehand, Mr. Grund, and Mr. Belmonte had run up against each other in the past.”

“Please elaborate.”

“I don’t like to gossip about such things. Maybe you should hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“And that would be?”

“The black man, Terence . . . somebody.”

Rosa consulted her notes. “Terence Lincoln?”

“Yes, that’s the fellow. Mr. Lincoln had a few unkind things to say about Mr. Belmonte. Interrogate him.” Mr. Glass winked, his eyes regaining their earlier merriment.

10

Back at Reed Investigations, Rosa studied the notes that Detective Sanchez had taken the previous night. Miguel had somehow got copies with Sanchez’s covert permission.

Diego lay crouched on his stomach on her desk, sleepily monitoring her. Rosa tapped him on the head lightly with the rubber end of her pencil. “C’mon, Deputy Diego! Stay with me here.” Diego took a half-hearted swipe at the pencil then turned over onto his side with his head back on the desk and his creamy-colored chin facing the ceiling.

“Pfft,” Rosa said, shaking her head. “You’d better not be all bright-eyed and awake at four in the morning again like last night.” She pointed the pencil at him accusingly. “I can’t always help you find your toy mouse, especially not before dawn.”

Diego yawned.

Rosa pointed her pencil at him again, this time stabbing it in the air for punctuation, “‘You ain’t never caught a rabbit, and you ain’t no friend of mine.’” She continued humming “Hound Dog” as Diego slowly closed his eyes in indifference.

“Oh sure. You’re cocky now,” Rosa said. “But we’ll see how you do at cat obedience school.”

As if challenging her, Diego opened one eye.

“That’s right. You start this afternoon. I’ve phoned them already.”

Rosa hadn’t wanted to start so soon, but the introductory class started today, and she was just barely able to get Diego registered. The next class didn’t start for another six weeks, and Rosa was concerned that her kitten would get too old to learn. It was only an hour and shouldn’t interfere with her investigation.

Rosa returned her attention to the notes. A list of stagehands on duty the night before who had been interviewed as well as all the on-site security personnel. Of course, everyone had alibis, but since the police didn’t believe a crime had been committed, none had been checked out yet. She was going to omit Elvis Presley and the band members from the investigation. Besides, they were probably hundreds of miles away by now, and the only one in the whole troupe who would have had even the remotest opportunity to kill Orlando Belmonte was Colonel Parker, Elvis Presley’s outspoken road manager, and that seemed highly unlikely. Instead, she would start much closer to home.

Time got away from Rosa as it sometimes did when she was busy turning about the pieces of a case in her mind. She glanced at her watch, jumped out of her chair, and jarred her sleeping cat awake.

Rosa pulled her Corvette to the curb across the street from a three-story office building. On the marquee were small painted signs representing the different businesses that were housed in the complex, including a brightly painted sign that said Candy’s Cat Training Center. The logo was a drawing of a cat wearing a tuxedo, looking rather like Sylvester the Cat, the famous Looney Tunes cartoon character with a lisp and a penchant for a certain small yellow bird.

“I hope they teach you not to chase Tweety birds here,” Rosa said.

Unaware of the changes about to take place in his life, Diego glanced up.

With the satchel heavy over her arm, she entered the complex, found the elevator and pushed the third-floor button. When the doors opened, she stepped into the lift but just as they were about to close, a man’s hand stopped them. Rosa was surprised to see Terence Lincoln—the burly stagehand that Jerry Glass had just mentioned hours earlier. As propriety often dictated, they stood apart from each other, both facing the doors.

Mr. Lincoln carried a white, orange, and black calico cat about Diego’s size in the crook of one large arm. Rosa smiled at the sight of the large black man, who projected such an air of surliness, affectionately carrying a small cat against his chest. When the calico caught sight of Diego—who stuck his head out of the satchel with his usual curiosity—a loud hiss passed through pointed teeth.

“Suzi!” Mr. Lincoln said, then rushed an apology. “Sorry, she’s not used to other cats.”

“Hello, Mr. Lincoln.”

The man’s dark eyes finally latched on to Rosa and suddenly registered recognition. “Oh, it’s you, the English lady detective. Miss Renfrew or . . .”

“Miss Reed.”

“Yeah, right. Miss Reed.” He nodded and then looked straight ahead. He didn’t seem interested in conversation.

“That’s a lovely little cat,” Rosa offered.

The cat’s green eyes suspiciously narrowed at Diego.

Mr. Lincoln looked down at his cat and ruffled her ears. “Thanks.” Begrudgingly he added, “Your cat’s cool too.”

“This is Diego or Deputy Diego, as some people call him.”

“Cat training to sniff out clues?”

Rosa laughed. “I reckon he needs to earn his keep.”

The elevator stopped, and the double doors opened. Mr. Lincoln seemed to know the way, so Rosa followed him down the hall until they came to a door that bore a picture of the tuxedoed cat. Inside, they were greeted by a flamboyantly dressed older woman with soft, pink cheeks, and gray hair styled in short curls around her ears.

“Hiya, I’m Mrs. Candy Randall. Come on in.”

Various cat climbing towers and cubby holes dotted the spacious office. Seven wooden chairs were in a circle in the middle of the room.

The attendees totaled six humans and seven felines, including Mrs. Randall’s cat, accurately named Fluffy. Mrs. Randall instructed everyone to take a chair and then made friendly introductions. Rosa and Mr. Lincoln claimed seats next to each other—their pets giving one another the evil eye.

Mrs. Randall handed out cat treats. “Place your pet on your lap and allow them to get used to the situation. It’s natural for them to be nervous. Some cats are more sociable than others, but aggressive behavior is usually a sign that your pet feels unsafe. Take as much time as you need to comfort and reassure your pet.

Diego settled into Rosa’s lap without issue while some cats jumped to the floor, ran for a place to hide, or like Suzi, hissed. Rosa felt an unearned sense of pride at how well Diego was dealing with the situation.

“Coco!” A lady with lines of anxiety etched on her face chased after her cat that hid deep in one of the cubby holes.

“It’s fine,” Mrs. Randall said with a voice of assurance. “Take all the time you need. Cats aren’t like dogs—more patience is required, but you’ll be glad in the end. To those of you who have your cat ready, I’m handing out a harness. It fits over your pet’s head and attaches under the forearms. This is preferred to a collar since you don’t risk harming your pet by applying undue pressure to the neck. Taking your pet outdoors on a leash allows your cat to experience nature while enjoying the extended lifespan common to indoor cats.”

Rosa accepted the harness and watched as Mrs. Randall showed how to put it on her own cat.

“My Fluffy has known nothing else since she was a kitten,” Mrs. Randall said, “and loves her harness. She knows it means we’ll be going outside soon.”

Mr. Lincoln accepted the harness from Candy Randall. Suzi tried to go around the harness at first, but after only two tries, Mr. Lincoln buckled the straps. The cat seemed at ease with the harness almost immediately and, after a few seconds, walked around the room exploring the different toys and climbing platforms as if unaware that she was wearing the apparatus.

“Very good!” Mrs. Randall said.

Terence Lincoln couldn’t have looked prouder if his son had just won a blue ribbon at a track and field meet.

Unfortunately, Diego didn’t fare so well. As Rosa attempted to place his head through the hole of the harness, Diego ducked his chin and dug his back legs into Rosa’s thighs.

“Diego,” she said with a note of admonition. After an amount of wrestling, Rosa got the buckles attached. “Oh, Diego, look at you!”

Diego jumped off Rosa’s lap and capered around the room like a miniature bucking horse trying to dislodge an invisible rider. He stopped once to roll, paw, and bite at the straps, and then jumped up again to continue in short hops, making his way across the room and back.

Eventually, Diego surrendered to the foreign object on his back and accepted the treat Mrs. Randall gave him in return.

When the brief session was over, Rosa followed Mr. Lincoln outside.

“Mr. Lincoln!” Rosa called.

The man stopped and turned back to her. “Miss Reed?”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

“It was fortunate to meet you here because I was going to look you up. I have a few questions for you regarding the incident at the concert.”

The big man frowned. “What do you have to do with that?”

“I’ve been hired by a family member to look into the circumstances of the death.”

“If it’s not a police investigation, why should I agree to answer your questions?”

“I’m hoping you’d be interested in learning the truth.”

Mr. Lincoln shifted Suzi to his other arm. “The Belmonte family doesn’t concern me.”

Rosa jumped in with her first question, hoping he’d humor her. “How long have you lived in Santa Bonita?”

“Eight months.”

“Did Mr. Belmonte cover any events at the theater during that time?”

He hesitated just for a split second before answering. “Yeah, he did. So what?”

“You knew him, then?”

“Just in passing.”

“You had no dealings with him at all, outside the theater?”

“Nope.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Rosa tried another angle. “I assume that Mr. Belmonte, like other press photographers, had a working relationship with the stagehands at the Veterans Theater?”

Mr. Lincoln shrugged a thick shoulder. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Rosa lowered the satchel to the ground. “Did he get on with everyone?”

“Well, since you are asking . . .” Mr. Lincoln stared off into the distance. “Promise you won’t let anyone at the theater know I told you this, or I will shut my mouth so tight you won’t get it open again with a crowbar.”

“I promise,” Rosa said.

“I could lose my job.”

“I’ll be as discreet as possible.”

He shot her a look of misgiving then nodded to the satchel on the ground by her feet. “Swear on the life of your cat.”

“Absolutely. Diego’s lips and mine are sealed.”

Mr. Lincoln thought for a moment, then the corner of his mouth pulled into a wry smile. “I’m not so sure you’re in control of your cat.”

Rosa stared back with annoyance.

“All right.” Mr. Lincoln looked both ways as if to check if anyone was listening, which Rosa thought was a little comical since the sidewalk was empty.

“Orlando Belmonte and Mrs. Grund had an affair a couple of months ago.”

Rosa blinked. “You mean the wife of Mr. Grund, the head stagehand?”

“Yeah. Old Walter was mad as hell. Said he was going to kill Belmonte.”

“I see,” Rosa said.

Mr. Lincoln started walking with long, determined strides. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

“One more thing,” Rosa said. She picked up her satchel with Diego inside and jogged after him. “Where were you when Mr. Belmonte fell?”

Mr. Lincoln stopped short and turned on the heel of his leather saddle shoes. “Watching from side stage for the show to end. Part of my job is to grab the musicians’ instruments as they rush off the stage.”

“You didn’t see the gangway from there?”

“Nope. Curtains in the way.”

“But it means you were close to the scaffolding. Weren’t you curious to see what might have happened up on top when his body dropped?”

“There were a lot of things happening at once, Miss Reed, if you remember. The last number had just ended. The crowd was going nuts with applause. That’s a very busy moment for a stagehand. Anyway, I saw Mr. Grund climbing up there a minute or two later. I told that to the police in my statement. Anyways, since he was going up there, I figured that was enough.”

“Did anyone see you, Mr. Lincoln?” Rosa asked.

“I have no idea.” He turned again and walked away.

11

After dropping Diego off at her office—Rosa felt the poor little guy deserved to rest properly after everything she’d put him through—she returned to the Veterans Theater to search for Mr. Grund. When she parked her Corvette in the paved lot, she noticed the wide-open, backstage loading door had a green transport truck parked just outside.

The place was quiet with no one in sight. Rosa approached the main backstage scaffolding, and on seeing the ladder again, ascended it. Grateful for the ease of motion gained by wearing capri pants, she cautiously climbed to the top then walked toward the rope still routed through a pulley and tied off to a set of ceiling hooks. She mentally went through the movements that would have been required to rush up on someone, loop the rope around their neck, and throw them over. It could be done if the victim was small, taken by surprise, and overpowered by someone larger. Any noise would’ve been drowned out by the band and the shouting of the concertgoers.

She found the secondary ladder Miguel had mentioned, and three feet above her head was another wider platform. The ladder was in the retracted position. Rosa unlatched a safety catch and extended the ladder to catch on the metal hooks of the upper platform. She checked the time on her watch, then started climbing.

From the top, which smelled of plywood and mildew, she could see the area was like an attic in the roof of a gabled house. All kinds of props and partial backdrops leaned against the plywood walls, and coils of rope and large pulleys were lying in large bins. Finding a freight elevator at the back of the room, Rosa stepped inside and pressed the large red down button.

When the elevator touched the cement floor, she glanced at her watch again. It had taken her less than two minutes to climb the retractable ladder, go through the storage room, and ride the elevator down. She stood about twenty feet from the back doors of the theater in a larger storage area. This one was filled with rollable racks of costumes.

Rosa made her way back to the stage area where she found Bernie Sawchuck, the younger, red-headed stagehand, sweeping the stage.

“Excuse me, hello,” Rosa said. “I’m Rosa Reed. I think you might remember me from the Elvis Presley concert.”

The man stopped sweeping, recognition registering on his face. “Oh yeah. What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Grund.”

“Sorry, Mr. Grund’s not here. Took a couple days off as of this morning. I think he was, you know, a bit broken up over what happened.”

“Oh, I see.” She thought for a moment, “Well, perhaps I can talk to you then.”

He leaned on the end of his broom. “I guess. How can I help ya?”

“I’m looking into the death of Mr. Belmonte.” She quickly explained how the family had hired her. “According to the police statements, you were outside the building when the incident happened?”

“I was having a smoke out back.”

“Isn’t the very end of a concert an important moment for stagehands?”

He moved his broom about in small circles. “I didn’t realize the concert was ending—I thought they had one more song left.”

“Did anyone see you having your smoke break?”

“I don’t know; I don’t think so. What’s this about, anyway? I thought the guy offed himself.”

“The family just wants to be sure.” Rosa softened her expression. “It’s a hard time.”

“Well, I wasn’t sluffin’ off. The door was open, so I could sorta hear what was going on, but the crowd was so loud. That’s why I had to leave. The noise got to me. But when the screaming turned from joy to terror, I ran back inside, just in time to see Mr. Presley and the band try to lift the body to take the pressure off the rope. After that is when you came down from the scaffold.”

“I see.”

“Look, if you’re looking for someone who had a motive to kill Orlando Belmonte, I’d talk to Terence Lincoln.”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, well, I bet he didn’t tell you he owed Belmonte money and that Belmonte had been badgering him a lot about it lately.”

“That’s interesting. Money for what?”

“Medical bills. Terence’s sister needed back surgery a while back. Terence couldn’t afford it, so he hit up Belmonte for a loan. Not just Belmonte either, he asked to borrow from other people, too, me included, but I didn’t have any money to lend. Belmonte was the only one who charged him interest, though.”

“Mr. Lincoln told me he really didn’t know Mr. Belmonte.”

“Pfft. That’s a lie. Those two played poker together every Tuesday night out in the north end of town with a bunch of other news photographers.”

12

The next morning, Larry called with the cheerful news of his improved health and an offer to join him on an outing to the farmers’ market. He picked up Rosa and Diego—happily tucked into her satchel, if not so excited about the harness she’d wrestled him into—and they drove to the Santa Bonita pier for a leisurely outdoor shopping experience in the warmth of the morning sun.

The familiar pier was full of interesting kiosks and stands set up by local farmers selling produce and crafters selling wares such as pottery and handmade baskets. Hundreds of people strolled about in front of the displays, and Rosa mused at how colorful fruit and vegetables were. From pumpkins to apples, grapes to squash, the fall harvest was on display, and the smells were just as vibrant as the scenery. Vendors roasted nuts and offered small bags of pistachios and sunflower seeds.

Linking her arm with Larry’s, Rosa reminded herself how comfortable it was to be in his company. No swirling emotions. No knotting of the stomach. Just simple, enjoyable companionship. Rosa brought Larry up to speed on the Orlando Belmonte case.

“It’s not uncommon for family members of someone who’s sadly taken their own life to want a different explanation,” Larry said. He picked up an avocado, turned it over, then returned it to the pile. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Philpott,” he continued. “There is no real pathology to support the theory of murder, but . . .”

“It could still be,” Rosa interjected. She understood why the medical examiner and the chief of police were quick to rule it suicide: Valuable police resources were put to better use investigating deaths where evidence suggested malicious intent. But something didn’t sit right with Rosa, and it wasn’t just because she wanted to give Miguel the conclusions he wanted.

“Detective Belmonte seems pretty sure it was not suicide,” she said.

“Was he close to his cousin?” Larry asked.

“No, not really. But his sister, who lives in Los Angeles, was. She doesn’t believe he’d have done such a thing. Neither does Miguel’s mother.”

Larry hummed. “What is Orlando Belmonte’s story?”

“According to Miguel, he worked for the American Signal Corps in the Pacific theater as a photographer in the war. He was a small man and didn’t qualify as a foot soldier, but he had a knack for photography. When the war ended, he found work as a photographer for various newspapers. But, according to Miguel, he suffered from psychological effects after what he witnessed in the Gilbert and Marshall Islands in the South Pacific. Upon returning to America, he had trouble holding down a job because of depression.”

“Doctors are startin’ to realize that the war has had lastin’ effects on many soldiers,” Larry said. “Even ones who weren’t involved in combat—like medics and journalists. I did a little studyin’ on war neurosis. It was part of my trainin’.” He stopped to examine the red potatoes and then chose four large ones. He handed them to the vendor to be weighed, paid for them, and kept walking.

Diego started getting antsy in the satchel, and Rosa thought it might be a good time to test him on his leash in a crowd. She snapped the leash to the harness and lifted him out of the bag and onto the boardwalk.

Larry chuckled. “I almost forgot you had your cat with you.”

As if he wasn’t too keen on this new experience, Diego seemed to press his body to the ground while warily watching all the people walking by them on either side. “I’m taking him to a cat training class.”

This time, Larry belly-laughed. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Back in Texas, a cat’s allowed to roam wild and free.”

“Well, Diego’s attached to me and likes to go to places with me.” Then as if to prove Rosa’s point, Diego started walking forward, his striped tail curling high into the air.”

“I stand corrected,” Larry said jovially.

They made their way further down the market passageways, their pace considerably slowed by Diego who stopped every few seconds, belly to the ground. Though Rosa had to tug gently on the leash on occasion, she thought, with a flush of pride, that her little cat was doing exceptionally well on his leash, especially with so many people walking about. He certainly drew enough attention, with almost everyone who noticed him breaking into an amused grin at the sight of a gray tabby cat slinking along a busy pier. After a few minutes though, it was clear that she would have to carry him for a while if they were going to make it to the end of the dock before sundown.

“Good boy, Diego,” Rosa remarked as she scooped him into her arms. “You’re not quite ready for the farmers’ market, but you did really well on your first try.” She kissed him on the top of his furry head while she and Larry continued walking.

The sound of live music reached them as they rounded a busy corner.

“A band,” Larry remarked.

Rosa thought she recognized the music of Miguel’s voice, and her suspicions were confirmed as they drew closer. Miguel’s band, Mick and the Beat Boys, were singing the last few lines of the song ‘Ain’t That A Shame’ by Fats Domino.

“Hey that’s Miguel!” Larry said with a grin. “I heard he had a band. Wow, he’s really good on that guitar.”

“Yes, they’re quite good,” Rosa admitted. “Shall we continue on?” Seeing Miguel sing and play had always caused her emotions to percolate and she would rather avoid the moment. However, Larry’s stance was firmly settled, his arms casually crossed, a foot tapping as he watched with enjoyment. Rosa relented, distracting herself from Miguel’s allure by burying her face in the top of Diego’s soft head.

As the applause for the last song ended, Miguel stepped back up to the microphone. “Thanks, folks. For our last number I would like to do an original song, the groove inspired by Chuck Berry’s wonderful guitar playing. It’s called ‘Pretty Little Lady in a White Corvette’ and I hope you like it.”

Rosa stared with her mouth open. She drove a white Corvette.

From her peripheral view, she could see Larry’s gaze narrow as he glanced at her. She refused to meet his eyes, quite certain that her turmoil would be clearly spotted in her own.

The song started with Miguel playing a raucous guitar figure before the band came crashing in a beat later. A cheer went up from the crowd as they recognized the obvious musical reference to Chuck Berry’s signature style. Many of the couples started swaying and dancing to the infectious rhythm while Miguel continued to play an intense, energetic passage on the guitar.

The song is a hit, thought Rosa.

“Have you seen the moon last Saturday night? They say it’s got to be the most beautiful sight.” Miguel spread his legs wide, pointed a finger at the audience theatrically, and leaned more into the microphone, “Now you can spend your time looking up at the sky but it don’t move me and I’ll tell you why. The finest thing that I’ve seen yet is a pretty little lady in a white Corvette!”

“Wow,” Larry said.

Rosa didn’t know where to look or what to say or even how to breathe.

The song continued, “She’s much too fast for my old ’55, and just leaves me sitting down at the traffic light…. “

“That part is true,” she whispered wryly into Diego’s head.

“Now your cute sister drives a Cadillac and your cousin Betty owns a Pontiac. Liz Taylor’s got a Thunderbird and your mama drives a Dodge from what I’ve heard. But the finest thing that I’ve seen yet…”

Miguel motioned for the crowd and the band to join him in shouting out the last line of the song, but in that split second his brown eyes fell on Rosa, looking stunned. He blinked once, before breaking his gaze and refocusing his attention on the small crowd, then shouted, “Pretty little lady in a white Corvette!”

Rosa felt like she had been hit by a wayward lightning bolt from the cloudless sky.

A cheer went up as Miguel once again leaned into the microphone. “Thank you, thank you very much,” he murmured.

Elvis Presley had said it exactly the same way a few nights ago.

Larry turned to her with questioning eyes. Rosa prided herself on being good at reading people’s expressions, but at that moment she couldn’t even guess at the stormy thoughts that were cascading through the Texan’s mind.

“Larry, I…”

“Are you ready to go?” Larry nodded in the direction of the end of the pier.

“Yes.”

Without speaking, they walked to where the pier met the Pacific Ocean, then stopped at the wooden railing. Diego started squirming in Rosa’s arms so she put him down on the worn wooden deck surface where he immediately adopted his familiar belly-to-the-ground stance.

“Rosa?”

Rosa turned to the sound of a female voice calling her name. An attractive Latina woman in her mid- to late-thirties, dressed in a blue A-line dress and carrying a bag of fruit, beamed at her as she made her way towards them. Rosa smiled back, and though the woman looked vaguely familiar, Rosa couldn’t immediately place her.

Then Miguel suddenly appeared almost right beside her as he came out of a narrow passage behind a fruit stand. He was wiping his forehead with a small white towel.

“Oh hey,” Miguel said, looking surprised as he noticed Rosa and Larry. “Hey, Larry.”

Larry returned the greeting with an uncharacteristic tight-lipped smiled. “Hi, Miguel. Great song.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks.”

If the awkwardness were any thicker, Rosa thought the national guard would have to be called to cut through it.

Miguel added stiffly, “Uh, Rosa, you remember my sister, Carlotta.”

“Of course,” Rosa said. Her mind drew up images of a younger, thinner version of Miguel’s sister, a person she’d met once a long time ago. The resemblance to Miguel was striking. They had the same attractive dimples and genuine smiles with shining, white teeth.

Rosa held out her hand. “How do you do?”

“It is you!” Carlotta said, accepting Rosa’s hand. “You haven’t changed a bit!” She grinned up at Miguel. “It’s the British señorita who broke your heart at the end of the war.”

Carlotta’s sparkling brown eyes were friendly, and her voice had a warm, musical quality. Rosa was certain she had no idea about the bombshell she had just dropped.

Miguel’s brown face turned two shades whiter as Rosa’s white face turned three shades redder.

Larry’s face lost all humor.

Por todos los santos.

Carlotta’s brown-eyed gaze moved quickly from Miguel to Rosa to Larry and back to Rosa. “I’ve gone and put my foot in my big mouth, haven’t I? Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my brain.” She stared pleadingly at Miguel. “Mickie?”

“It’s okay, Cee,” he said. Then to Rosa and Larry, “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Okay, bye,” Rosa said, waving feebly, and feeling about two feet tall.

Diego pulled on the leash, giving Rosa a welcome diversion. Larry quietly stood as Rosa gathered Diego back into her arms.

She risked a glance at Larry’s face. “I meant to tell you,” she finally said.

“Tell me what?”

“That Miguel and I knew each other, fondly, in the past.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“It didn’t seem relevant in the beginning.”

“And now?”

Rosa didn’t know. She’d be dishonest with Larry and with herself if she said that Miguel didn’t still occupy a part of her heart.

Something caught Diego’s eye, and he wriggled then leaped out of Rosa’s arms, saving her from having to answer. Rosa silently thanked her little furry friend.

The afternoon had grown warm, but that didn’t keep the inside of Larry’s truck from feeling frosty as he drove Rosa back to the Forrester mansion.

“Larry?” Rosa started before opening the passenger door. “It was a long time ago.”

“That song—”

“Could be about anybody. Or nobody. I’m not the only one who drives a white Corvette.”

“You’re the only one I know.” Larry lowered his chin. “That song was written recently. You bought your Corvette just this summer.” He let out a defeated breath. “I can’t help but feel the fool, Rosa. You and Miguel havin’ a secret past.”

“It was no secret.”

Larry’s eyes caught Rosa’s. “It was to me.”

Rosa felt sheepish. “Can I make it up to you?”

“I just need a bit of time.” He leaned over and gave Rosa a quick kiss on the cheek. “I told Dr. Philpott I’d stop in at the morgue and catch up on some paperwork.”

Rosa couldn’t tell if Larry had planned to go back to work all along or if he suddenly preferred to spend the rest of the day without her.

“All right,” she said. “Bye.” Then to her faithful cat, “Let’s go, Diego.”

The Forrester mansion housed six family members—Aunt Louisa, Grandma Sally, Clarence, Julie, Gloria, and Rosa—along with several staff members who worked in the house and the yards. There was always someone about, and Rosa made a point of remembering names and greeting each one with a smile.

Releasing Diego, she raced him upstairs to her bedroom, where she slipped out of her shoes and removed her hat and gloves. She washed her face and had just reapplied her makeup when one maid, Doris, knocked on her door. “Señora Gomez sent me to look for you. You have a telephone call.”

Rosa got to her feet. “Do you know who it is?”

“The police, miss.”

Rosa picked up the call from her aunt’s office.

“Got it, Señora Gomez,” she said into the receiver, and when Rosa heard the click from the housekeeper hanging up the kitchen telephone, she said, “Miss Reed here.”

“Rosa, it’s Miguel.”

“Hi.” Rosa’s mind flashed to the uncomfortable encounter at the farmers’ market. “If you’re calling about Carlotta,” or the song, “it’s nothing.”

“Carlotta is famous for talking before she thinks, but that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Okay?” Rosa prompted, her curiosity piqued. Miguel was quick to appease it.

“We have another body.”

“Oh no. Is it related to the Orlando Belmonte case?” She couldn’t think of reason why Miguel would feel compelled to tell her otherwise.

“Not officially, but I think there’s a connection.”

“Oh?”

“Jerry Glass is dead.”

13

Rosa recognized Miguel’s unmarked car parked at the curb when she reached Mr. Glass’ studio. Other Ford police cars—with black hoods and trunks and contrasting white doors and roofs, the latter with single large red dome-lights protruding from them—were parked in front and behind. Climbing out of her Corvette, Rosa walked to the front of the renovated building and turned the corner to the grated iron steps that led to the attic. At the bottom of the stairs, the crumpled form of Jerry Glass lay. Rosa was moved with sadness. She’d been with the man, who’d been alive and well, the day before. Mr. Glass hadn’t seemed like the type of person one could imagine dying, let alone so tragically.

Miguel, Detective Sanchez, and two uniformed policemen encircled the body. Officer Richardson’s camera rapidly clicked as he took official photographs.

“Hey, Rosa,” Detective Sanchez mumbled. An unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. “What brings you here?”

“A little bird told me. Mr. Glass was a person of interest to me.” She made a point of staring at Detective Sanchez’s feet. “Nice shoes.”

She wasn’t being facetious. Detective Sanchez had always reminded Rosa of an adult version of the Peanuts character Pigpen—with a constant swirl of dust and dishevelment—so seeing him in new shoes, a crisp suit, and a wrinkle-free tie surprised her.

“Thanks.” Detective Sanchez peered at his feet. “Aldens. Fall catalog.”

Rosa caught Miguel’s eye, and he tipped his hat. “Thanks for coming.”

“To be honest, I’m surprised you’re here,” Rosa said.

“Delvecchio doesn’t see a connection, so he okayed me.”

Rosa nodded. “What do you think happened?”

Before Miguel could answer, Detective Sanchez announced, “Medical is here.”

Larry walked around the corner, paused briefly on seeing Rosa—who took an impulsive step away from Miguel—then strolled to the body with determination.

“Howdy, Detectives,” he said genially. “Hello, Rosa.”

“It’s Jerry Glass, Larry,” Rosa said, desperate to ignore the awkwardness that radiated between them and Miguel. Only Detective Sanchez seemed oblivious to the tension. “I just spoke to him yesterday. Him being a photographer, I thought he might shed some light on the Orlando Belmonte case.”

Miguel cocked his head. “And did he?”

“He suggested Grund was up to something and that the stagehand Terence Lincoln knew something.”

“What did Mr. Lincoln know?”

Rosa held in the smile of satisfaction she felt at Miguel’s assumption she’d already followed the lead. But what Mr. Lincoln had told her, that Miguel’s cousin had had an affair with the head stagehand’s wife, wasn’t something she was going to say in front of the others, especially since she didn’t know if it was true.

Her eyes darted to Larry, who naturally filled the lull in the conversation.

“Pretty straightforward as far as death is concerned,” he said as he closed his black doctor’s kit. “He was stabbed in the back with a large knife. If that didn’t kill him, the fall down three flights of these stairs headfirst woulda done it. Broken neck. The autopsy will reveal more, but it looks like a broken arm from the fall, maybe ribs too. I could guess a perforated lung from the knife, but it might have gone directly through the heart judgin’ from the angle of the puncture. I’ll get back to you on the estimated time of death.”

Rosa looked at Miguel questioningly. “Can I go up?”

Miguel turned to Detective Sanchez, and belatedly, Rosa realized her slipup. For whatever reason, the chief of police hadn’t put Miguel as lead in this case, probably unhappy that Miguel wanted to keep the case of his cousin’s death open.

“Detective Sanchez,” Rosa said smoothly. “Would it be all right with you if I went up?” She nodded at Miguel. “It’s in the interest of my client.”

Detective Sanchez finally lit up his cigarette. “We’ve already searched the place, so ya, go ahead. Just don’t step in the blood on the top landing. You’ll see a bit of it spattered on the black grating. It’s the only blood we’ve found so far.”

Rosa removed a pair of rubber gloves from her purse and put them on.

Letting out a puff of smoke, Detective Sanchez continued, “Damn bird in there. Got animal services coming for it.”

Right, the parrot. Some types could live to be ninety-five years old. Homer, she remembered the parrot’s name, would’ve likely outlived his owner, but in this case, that scenario had come much sooner than either Mr. Glass or Homer had expected. Rosa wondered what would happen to the bird now.

In case there were more blood spatters she should avoid, Rosa stuck to the outer edge of the stairway. She headed inside the studio, going first to the kitchenette. On the counter was a wooden block that held several knives of varying sizes. Each knife had its slot. The largest knife in the set was missing.

A crime of passion? If premeditated, the killer would have brought a weapon instead of leaving such an obvious clue.

She went into the small darkroom, closed the door, and switched on the red light. The smell of chemicals filled her nose, but there were no pictures anywhere. The trays were dry, and nothing hung on the line.

Back in the main studio room, nothing looked out of place. The birdcage was draped in a brown blanket probably used to help the parrot to sleep. Everything else seemed to be exactly the way it was when she’d been there last. The dishes were cleaned and neatly put away. There were no dirty tracks on the tile floor to examine, no tipped over lampshades or any other signs of struggle.

Mr. Glass had known his killer.

14

After leaving Jerry Glass’ studio, Rosa returned to the Veterans Theater and headed to Leonard Radcliff’s second-floor office. She knocked on the door and received no answer, and when she gingerly tested the doorknob, she found it was locked.

Blast!

With no other option, Rosa descended the stairs, hoping she might find the theater manager wandering about the building. Gentle acoustic guitar music drew her to the main theater, and she pushed through the double swinging doors that opened to the seating area.

Onstage were two slender young men with quiff hairstyles and dressed in cuffed denim pants and collared short-sleeve shirts. They could be brothers, Rosa thought. Even their black acoustic guitars were matching.

A man wearing black-framed glasses stood at a sound console near the back of the auditorium and spoke loudly, “All right, guys, let’s try that again.” He pushed up on his glasses and continued, “I think I have a better mix now on those guitar microphones.”

No one seemed to notice Rosa as she slid into one of the seats to watch.

One of the young men onstage replied, his accent like Larry’s, distinctly southern. “I think the B string on Don’s guitar is a bit flat, just a sec.”

The other man adjusted one of the tuning pegs on the guitar and started plucking one of the strings. Rosa found the process intriguing as she was still learning how to tune her guitar properly. After a moment, the two musicians nodded to each other and stepped up to the lone vocal microphone which they shared.

“Let’s try that new one,” the man on the right said.

His partner nodded in agreement.

In a wonderful harmony, the men started singing as they strummed. “Dream, Dream, Dream . . .”

The lonesome melody reverberated through the theater, and Rosa sat enthralled by the beauty of it. It seemed the melancholy lyrics were matched perfectly to the tender melody. “I can make you mine, kiss your lips so fine . . .” The harmonies of the two young men touched her deeply, and she felt like she was rooted to the spot as they sang, “All I have to do is dream.”

The song was only a few minutes long, but Rosa felt like she had just been transported. Although it was not very British of her, she couldn’t help but stand up and applaud loudly. “Bravo! Bravo!”

The two young men onstage looked surprised. The one named Don put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the spotlight and found her standing in the aisle. “Oh hello. We didn’t know anyone was listening.”

“Yes, yes. That was simply wonderful. Please tell me where I can buy that song. Is it out on 45 yet?”

“Oh no, ma’am.” The other young man spoke up. “We just learned it ourselves last week from the fellow in Nashville who wrote it.”

The other musician stepped in. “We are talking about recording it someday, though. We’re so glad you like it. You’re the first person to hear us sing it.” The two young men looked at each other in agreement.

Rosa walked toward the stage. “I think it is one of the most beautiful, wistful songs I have ever heard. Please, please do record it!” She put her hands together in a pleading gesture.

“Well, maybe we will if you like it so much!” returned the man on the left as both smiled at her. “My name’s Don, and this is my brother Phil. We’re the Everly Brothers and are very excited to be opening for the main act, The Johnny James Band, here in a few days. We were just coming through town today on our way to Los Angeles, and the head stagehand, Mr. Grund, was good enough to allow us to check out the theater and let Hank, our sound engineer, get a bead on our sound in this room.”

“Well, I will try to make it to that event to hear you play. Actually, I’m looking for Mr. Grund. Have you seen him?”

Phil pointed to the rear stage left. “I just saw him step into his office.”

Backstage, Rosa found the office marked, Head Stagehand Walter Grund, and knocked softly on the half-open door. “Hello, anyone here?”

A voice came from behind her. “Miss Reed. How can I help you?”

Mr. Grund, dressed in his uniform—a red cap and denim overalls—marched toward her from the back of the building.

“Oh hello, Mr. Grund,” Rosa said. She smiled, hoping to look unthreatening, wanting the man’s cooperation. “I was wondering if you could take a few minutes to talk about the night of the concert.”

“Yes, I suppose.” He adjusted his black-framed glasses and shifted his cap on his bald head. “Though, I gave my statement to the police. I thought the matter was over with. Suicide, the papers said. Such a shame.”

“Do you think it was suicide?” she asked.

“What else could it be?”

Rosa thought the answer obvious and wondered if Mr. Grund was being purposely obtuse, or if he was sincerely naive.

Mr. Grund looked behind her at his half-open office door. “Hey, let’s go to the staff room. I am tired of sitting in my office all day. It’s got no windows. Sometimes, I feel like I’m in a cave.”

Rosa followed him through a hallway and down a set of stairs.

He glanced at her over his shoulder and asked, “Why are you investigating this anyway?”

“Someone has hired me to look a bit deeper.”

They came to a small room where Mr. Grund went straight to a large coffee urn. He picked up a cup and nodded to her. “It’s probably not fresh, but it has been kept warm.”

“No, thank you.” Rosa claimed a seat at a table, and once Mr. Grund poured himself a cup, he joined her.

“Someone hired you to look deeper, huh?” He ducked his chin and gave her a knowing look. “Someone suspects murder, you mean.”

So not obtuse or naive. Cunning, perhaps?

“Please tell me anything you might know in that regard,” Rosa said. “For instance, did Orlando Belmonte have enemies?”

Mr. Grund narrowed his eyes, which looked larger behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “You don’t suspect me, do you?”

“Did you have any grievances towards him?”

He sipped his coffee as he considered her question. After a moment, he said, “I suppose you have been interviewing the other stagehands.”

“Yes.”

“Then you probably know that Belmonte and my wife, Helga, had an affair.”

“That has been mentioned, yes.”

“Yeah. We’re getting a divorce now.”

“I’m sorry.”

He flapped a thick palm. “It wasn’t a good marriage anyway. Was bound to happen, I suppose, one way or another.”

He brought his coffee mug down on the table a little too hard. Brown liquid spilled over the side and onto the table. “It was the way it happened that angered me. They met one night at a Roy Orbison concert down in Oxnard.”

Rosa had heard that artist’s name mentioned on the radio a few times, though a tune didn’t instantly come to mind.

“I couldn’t take her myself because there was a production going on here, so she went by bus, all on her own. I shouldn’t have let her, but she has a mind of her own, that woman, I’ll tell you. Somehow, she and Belmonte connected. I suspect Helga always had a thing for the artistic, troubled type, ya know. She once dated a poet. Turns out, she likes Mexican men. How was I supposed to know?”

Rosa bit her tongue.

“When I confronted her about it,” Mr. Grund continued, “she admitted it straightaway and moved out that evening.”

“Did you confront Mr. Belmonte?” Rosa asked.

Mr. Grund shook his head and smirked. “I am sure you already know that I did.”

Rosa nodded.

“I bet that someone probably told you that I threatened to kill the son of a gun.”

Again, Rosa nodded, keeping her promise to Terence Lincoln that she wouldn’t reveal her source.

Mr. Grund leaned back in his chair. “Yes, I confronted the man. There was shouting, and I lost my cool. But that’s not the end of the story.”

15

“What is the entire story, Mr. Grund?” Rosa asked.

“Orlando and Helga stopped seeing each other soon after I confronted him. He broke it off.”

“He broke it off? How do you know?”

“He told me. He came to me again a month later and apologized for the whole thing. That took some guts.” Mr. Grund shook his head and blew air out of his cheeks. “To come back to me after I threatened him? Yeah, that took some chutzpah. Anyway, we made amends. I know it’s hard to believe.” He leaned in, and Rosa could smell the strong coffee on his breath. “I’m not saying we became good buddies or nothing, but I didn’t kill the man, Miss Reed. In fact, as you recall, I helped cut him down from the rope.”

“Do you know Jerry Glass?”

Mr. Grund jerked at the sudden change of subject. “Of course I do. Everyone in the theater business around here knows him.”

“Were you working this morning, Mr. Grund?”

“I came in late. Took a hike to clear my head. Why? What’s this about?”

“Jerry Glass was murdered earlier today.”

Mr. Grund’s mouth dropped open.

“Did you go hiking alone?” Rosa asked.

“Yes.”

“Did anyone witness the meeting you had with Mr. Belmonte when you made amends?”

“No, it was in my office. Such conversations are private.”

Rosa let out a short breath. When would she encounter an alibi that she could check and confirm? “You realize that your alibi in both cases is not exactly unassailable?”

“I . . . uh.” He pinched his lips together and shrugged.

“Did you have anything against Jerry Glass?”

“No, nothing. I mean, he’s a member of the press. Those guys get on my nerves, but I have nothing personal against him. Dear God, two deaths in one week!”

“Have you ever been to his studio?”

“No.”

“Do you know anyone Mr. Glass might’ve considered an enemy?”

Mr. Grund placed a thick finger on his round chin. “Yes. I do,” he finally said. “I hate to say it because the guy has had a rough go of it, ya know? But if you’re looking for a connection between Orlando Belmonte and Jerry Glass, for someone who might have had it in for both of them, I’d be looking at Bernie Sawchuck.”

“Why is that?”

“Bernie hates those press photographer types. He told me repeatedly that he doesn’t trust them for a plugged nickel.”

“What does he have against the press?”

“Bernie was arrested years ago when he was barely of legal drinking age and charged with beating up a man so badly he had to be taken to the hospital. Apparently, the guy made a pass at Bernie’s girl at a bar, if you can believe such a cliché thing. Bernie tore into him, and it took three guys to pull him off.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“The fella was a press photographer for The Los Angeles Times by the name of Fred Simpson, one of the most well-known photographers in the entire state. You wouldn’t believe the army of lawyers the man brought down on our friend Bernie Sawchuck. Poor Bernie didn’t have a chance. They put him away for five years. After he was sprung, he came here looking for work. Told me his story and didn’t try to hide anything. I felt sorry for the guy, so I hired him.”

“But why would Mr. Sawchuck kill either Mr. Belmonte or Mr. Glass? Just because he resented the industry? That doesn’t seem likely.”

“No, it doesn’t, does it? Only . . .” He pushed up his glasses, his big eyes flashing with a dilemma.

“Yes, Mr. Grund?”

“Aw, heck, I might as well tell you, and if Bernie did it, well then, he deserves whatever is coming to him.” He let out a deep, coffee-tinged breath. “A few weeks ago, when the Chordettes played here, I was backstage and noticed Bernie looking at Jerry and Orlando, who stood near each other as they took pictures. Bernie raised his right hand and mimicked a pistol with it like this.”

Mr. Grund raised his right hand and pointed his finger at Rosa. “He aimed it slow at both reporters and made like he was shooting them both. Bang, bang. He then blew on the end of his fingers and slowly put his hand back in his pocket. I tell you, a shiver went down my spine when I saw that, yes, ma’am. He didn’t just resent those fellows, Miss Reed. It was pure hate!”

After leaving Walter Grund, Rosa stopped in again at Leonard Radcliff’s office at the theater. Perhaps he’d returned? When she got to the top of the carpeted stairs, she saw that his door had been left ajar. She knocked softly twice and then stepped in.

Reading a newspaper at his desk, Mr. Radcliff stiffly smiled when he saw her.

“Oh hello, Miss Reed.” His smile was tinged with curiosity. “What can I do you for?”

“I just have a few questions. Do you mind?” Rosa motioned to an empty chair.

“Be my guest.” He folded his paper and put it aside. “Are you still investigating the suicide?”

“Actually, I’m inclined to believe it was not suicide.”

“Oh, really? Are you sure you’re not just trying to . . . you know, legitimize your investigation to your client or something?”

“I would never do that, Mr. Radcliff.” Rosa ignored the offending comment. She’d often watched her mother shrug off similar inferences from people who didn’t appreciate a lady investigator. “Let’s just say there’s been an incident that looks very much like it could be connected to Mr. Belmonte’s demise. I’m just following the trail.”

Mr. Radcliff picked up a pen and threaded it between long, slender fingers. “And that trail led you here?”

“In a roundabout way. You told me last time we spoke that you thought Jerry Glass and Orlando Belmonte had had a falling out?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He abandoned the pen and reached for a cigarette from a pack on his desk.

“Jerry Glass denied it,” Rosa said. “In his words, all press photographers were in some kind of rivalry relationship—just part of the business—but that it wasn’t personal between him and Mr. Belmonte.”

Mr. Radcliff struck a match, held it to the cigarette held between his lips, and inhaled. After a slow release of smoke, he said, “Well, I guess I could have been wrong. You hear these things bandied about, you know. Probably just gossip.”

“Can I ask you where you were this morning? Were you here in your office?”

“More or less.” He lifted his pack of cigarettes and belatedly offered one to Rosa.

A polite man would’ve offered me one first, before lighting his own.

“No, thank you,” she said, then pressed on with the next question. “Did you have any dealings with anyone? Anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”

“I’m getting the idea, Miss Reed, that you’re suspecting me of some wrongdoing? Maybe it would help if I knew what you were talking about?”

“Jerry Glass was murdered in his home studio today.” Rosa watched him again for his response.

“What?” Mr. Radcliff tapped ash into the ashtray and rested his cigarette in one of the grooves. Smoke billowed to the ceiling and, thankfully, out the open window. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Rosa said. “I saw his body myself.”

Mr. Radcliff stiffened, and Rosa could almost see his wheels turning. How unbecoming for a lady.

“Two press photographers in one week. I’d say that’s a news story.”

Rosa agreed. “It’s rather shocking.”

“A second suicide?” Mr. Radcliff asked. “These kinds of things come in threes.”

“I’m sure that’s superstition, Mr. Radcliff. And I can verify, based on the medical examiner’s assessment, that Mr. Glass was murdered.”

“How?”

“I can’t divulge that,” Rosa said. “It’s under police investigation.”

Mr. Radcliff picked up his half-burned cigarette, took a puff, then said, “Why are you here, Miss Reed? Surely, you don’t think I had anything to do with Glass’s demise?” His voice was edged with anger. Rosa was used to this. Most people, guilty or not, were offended when they realized they were under suspicion.

“Not at all. I’m just following up on a perceived discrepancy in what you said about Orlando Belmonte and Jerry Glass.”

Rosa stood, sensing it was time to take her leave. Leonard Radcliff didn’t have an alibi for either death, but he wasn’t alone in that. She had no proof, no good leads, and making an enemy out of the theater manager would not help her cause.

16

At a loss as to what to do next, Rosa realized she might learn something from Orlando Belmonte himself. Miguel had made it clear his sister Carlotta and Orlando had been close. Perhaps she’d be willing to help.

Stopping at a payphone, Rosa called Miguel’s home phone number, and as fate would have it, Carlotta Belmonte answered. After polite greetings, Carlotta agreed to meet Rosa at Orlando’s apartment in the north end of town.

Rosa pulled her Corvette to the curb just as Carlotta arrived. She smiled and waved at Rosa as she got out of the car. Like the last time Rosa had seen her, her outfit was bold with matching red fingernail polish and red pumps.

“I have an extra key,” she said after they had greeted each other on the sidewalk. “Orlando wanted me to have one, just in case.”

The exterior of the two-story building had been recently whitewashed, and though the structure looked about thirty years old, it appeared fresh and well cared for.

Carlotta slid the key into the door lock of the ground-floor apartment, pushed open the door, and immediately the faint smell of photographic chemicals filled the air. “He must have left the door to the darkroom open,” she said as they stepped inside. “He converted a closet at the end of the hall. Normally, that smell isn’t noticeable.”

The apartment was nicely furnished, if sparse. The large tiled living room was tidy, and the adjoining kitchen had modern fixtures and appliances. The whole place had been freshly renovated with new speckled linoleum and green starburst wallpaper.

“Do you like it?” Carlotta asked. “I helped him choose paint colors, tiles, and furniture.” Her dark eyes flashed with pride.

“Yes, I like it,” Rosa said. “Well done.”

Rosa scanned the room, unsure what she was looking for. Several framed photographs from the war hung on the wall, and a photo album lay open on the coffee table. “Do you mind?” Rosa asked, nodding toward the photos.

Carlotta smiled, “Please, do.”

Sitting on the low-backed sofa, Rosa flipped through the photographs. The largest, a five by eight, showed a group of five US Army soldiers in a crouched position surrounded by palm trees and dense vegetation.

“Orlando didn’t like to talk about the war,” Carlotta offered, “but I know he thought about it all the time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Rosa said.

Carlotta lowered herself onto the couch beside Rosa. “He was assigned to the Sixth Marine Regiment in the Gilbert Islands, Second Battalion, and was in some of the worst battles including Iwo Jima and the Tarawa Atoll. That last one was very harrowing from what I’ve read.”

Rosa had read about both terrible battles. One didn’t return from those types of conflicts unchanged. Rosa walked over to the wall display and studied a picture of a much younger-looking Orlando Belmonte wearing battle fatigues, a shot of him smiling as he leaned on a tank covered in palm branches and grass camouflage. In another photo, a wounded soldier lay in a metal-framed hospital bed with bandages covering both eyes, a cigarette in his mouth. A third shot showed Orlando from a side angle leaning into a camera mounted on a tripod.

All the pictures were captivating and evoked the feeling of deep story and history.

“He was a talented photographer,” Rosa said.

“Yes,” Carlotta agreed sadly. “He was.”

“You don’t mind if I look in his bedroom?” Rosa asked.

“Not if you think it might help.”

Orlando’s bedroom was simply furnished, his bedsheets twisted and unmade. The room doubled as an office, with a desk and file cabinet tucked into one corner. Rosa started there, hoping to find something out of the ordinary, perhaps with his banking records. One thing that niggled at the back of her mind was how Orlando had so much money that he could afford new apartment renovations as well as loan money to Terence Lincoln for his sister’s medical bills. Certainly, photojournalism didn’t pay that well. Earnings from gambling alone seemed a bit of a stretch unless Orlando Belmonte had been very good at poker and was playing with men who had deep pockets.

It just didn’t add up.

In one drawer, she came across a checkbook, a receipt book, and other random documents. The balance of the bank account was modest. No big deposits or withdrawals were apparent. The bottom drawer of the oak desk seemed to be shallower on the inside than it looked on the outside, and Rosa’s investigator’s mind immediately suspected a false bottom. She pulled the drawer out all the way and placed it on the top of the desk. She removed a pile of receipts then did a quick perusal. They were for photography supplies, and invoices made out to various newspapers—she tapped on the bottom of the drawer. The hollow response proved her hypothesis. She tested the ends of the faux bottom and found a small indentation, gripped it with one finger, and pulled. It came off easily and revealed a metal lockbox.

Carlotta stepped into the room. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I found it hidden in the bottom of one of the desk drawers,” Rosa said. “Would you have any idea where the key for this would be?”

Carlotta shook her head. “Afraid not.”

Rosa reached into her purse, strapped from her shoulder to her hip, and took out a small zippered leather pouch. Inside were a dozen steel-handled instruments with flattened steel shanks of various shapes and sizes. She’d bought the lockpick set from a locksmith on the same day that she had opened her office at Reed Investigations. No good detective ever went without one.

“Wow. That’s keen!” Carlotta said.

Rosa offered a soft shrug. “Tools of the trade.”

After trying and failing with several combinations of picks, she finally heard the click she was after. She gave Carlotta a sideways glance and whispered, “ Voilà.”

They both gasped when Rosa flipped open the lid of the metal box.

Inside were three thousand-dollar US Savings bonds and six large bundles of cash. Digging further, Rosa found a key that looked like it would open either a safe-deposit box or a very high-quality padlock.

Rosa took out her camera and photographed the contents, then she sat down and motioned for Carlotta to help her count the cash. Carlotta grabbed a nearby wooden chair, and Rosa slid half the bundles to her.

Carlotta could not keep the shock she felt from her voice when they added it all up.

“Eighteen thousand, five hundred dollars! There’s no way he made this much money taking pictures.”

“Gambling?” Rosa suggested. Perhaps Orlando Belmonte was good at cards, after all?

A knock at the door made them start.

“I can’t imagine who that might be,” Carlotta said. “Orlando’s death was published in the papers. Surely, everyone in this building who knew him is aware.”

“You answer it,” Rosa said. “I’ll put this away.” What they’d discovered was evidence, and once Rosa convinced Detective Sanchez, and by extension, Chief Delvecchio, that a murder had been committed, she’d want them to see this.

Carlotta rushed to answer the door, and Rosa could hear the conversation through the wall.

“Oh hello,” a female voice said. “You’re Orlando’s cousin, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Orlando spoke fondly of you. I’ve seen you in passing when you’ve visited before.”

“Oh, I remember now,” Carlotta said. “How are you?”

“Better than you, I expect. My deepest condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“Such a shock to hear about, um, what he did.”

The stigma attached to suicide was huge. Carlotta’s voice took on an edge. “We’re not sure what happened, exactly. It’s still under investigation.”

“Oh, but I read—”

Having completed her task, Rosa stepped in in time to rescue Carlotta from what appeared to be a nosy neighbor. The lady had friendly eyes with deep crow’s feet, salt-and-pepper hair, and wore a house dress covered by a full apron, lightly stained with flour dust.

“Hello there,” Rosa said brightly. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I’m Rosa Reed, a friend of the family.” She reached out a hand. “And you are?”

“Hello, dear. I’m Mrs. Prescott, poor Orlando’s neighbor. I used to bring him fresh buns when he was home. The young man was much too thin, probably due to all that traveling he did.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary, Mrs. Prescott?” Rosa asked. “In the last few weeks or months? Any unusual comings or goings?”

Mrs. Prescott reached for her neck. “Well, attempted robbery is out of the ordinary!”

“Robbery?” Carlotta said. “Orlando said nothing to me about that.”

The crow’s feet around Mrs. Prescott’s eyes deepened. “You mean, you don’t know? Someone tried to break into here last week. My husband chased him away. The thief was trying to climb in through the kitchen window. That’s the trouble with being on the ground floor. My husband heard a sound and went out to investigate because Mr. Belmonte wasn’t here although he arrived minutes later. For some reason, he begged us not to call the police. Anyway, that’s why I came over just now to see who you were. You can’t be too careful, you know?” She shook her head. “We thought this was a safe neighborhood!”

“Did your husband get a description? Maybe I should talk to him.” Rosa dug in her purse for her notepad.

Mrs. Prescott lifted a hand. “He’s not home right now. Anyway, he said he didn’t get a good look at the guy. It was too dark, and the guy was dressed in all black. I’m afraid my husband doesn’t have the best eyesight even with his glasses. He can yell real loud, though. The robber was halfway through the broken window when Dick shouted.” Mrs. Prescott craned her neck to gaze behind them. “I see it’s been fixed since then already.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Belmonte want to let the police know?” Rosa asked.

“Yeah, that’s odd, isn’t it?” Mrs. Prescott shrugged rounded shoulders. “I really couldn’t tell you. He just said he would rather keep the police out of it.”

17

Rosa felt it was time to check in with Miguel, but when she asked Carlotta if she’d like to join her, Miguel’s sister got strangely quiet and became preoccupied with a perceived wrinkle in her skirt.

“I’ve actually got something else going on,” she said to the ground, then gave Rosa a big hug. “Thank you for all you’re doing for my family. Say hi to Miguel for me!” Carlotta hopped into her car and spun away from the curb, leaving a short skid mark on the pavement.

How odd.

And darn. The thought of being alone with Miguel made Rosa feel vulnerable in ways she didn’t like to admit, and Carlotta would’ve been a good buffer.

There was only one thing left to do.

A short while later, Rosa arrived at the Forrester mansion. She felt bad about hoping to miss seeing anyone, something rather easy to do in a house this size, because she only wanted to breeze in and out without obligation to chitchat or worse, answer questions about the case.

Thankfully, the foyer and staircase were empty, and when Rosa reached her bedroom, she found the prize she was looking for.

“Diego!”

Her tabby stared at her with feigned interest, uncurled himself from his position on her bed, and stretched out his back in one deep arch. Rosa was tickled to find him so easily since a cat could quite literally get lost in a house this size, though Diego favored the kitchen, where his food bowl was, and Rosa’s bed.

“Oh, little boy. I’m sorry for leaving you alone for so long today.” Rosa picked up her soft kitten—he is getting so big already—and pressed him to her face. “How would you like to visit Miguel with me? I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Diego purred loudly in assent.

“Brilliant. But first, I need a change of clothes.” California was beautiful but hot, and Rosa found she had to change more often to stay fresh.

As she dressed in a white button-down blouse along with a narrow pencil skirt, her gaze landed on her lonely guitar, propped on its stand in the corner. She had bought the guitar from a music shop in town intending to practice every day. She’d even bought a whistle tuner and a fancy leather strap with ornamental musical notes inscribed on the brown leather. Rosa was aggrieved that she hadn’t played it as often as she’d intended, especially after enduring the pain of soft fingertips until they had hardened into calluses. She tapped at the fingertips on her left hand and grimaced. They were already getting soft again.

“Blast it,” she muttered. “Once this case is over,” she said to the guitar, “I promise.”

Choosing a satchel to match her skirt, Rosa inserted her smaller purse, then placed Diego inside. “If you keep growing like this, I’m going to have to buy bigger satchels.”

Rosa tiptoed down the stairs, peered through the balusters, and ensured the coast was clear. She could hear the television playing down the corridor—Grandma Sally’s favorite pastime was watching TV—and the ominous musical intro of the police procedural drama, Dragnet, reached her ears: Dum, de dum, dum. Dum, de dum, dum. Dum. Then the voice of the lead character, Joe Friday. Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Rosa sighed. Poor Grandma Sally—she was left alone so often. Aunt Louisa was very busy running the family business and her many charities, Gloria was focused on her schooling, and Clarence was busy with his young daughter, Julie.

Rosa checked her watch. It was still early evening, so she decided she could spare a few minutes to visit.

Grandma Sally sat with her thickening ankles crossed, and her arms folded over her soft stomach. She smiled when Rosa entered, her crepe-papery skin folding over folds.

“Hello, Rosa,” she said.

“Hi, Grandma Sally. I’m just on my way out, but I thought I’d say a quick hello.”

The smile slipped off her face. “I didn’t even know you’d come home, and now you’re going out again.”

“It’s work.”

“Nonsense.” She patted the space beside her. “You’re a Hartigan. You don’t have to work.”

Rosa and Grandma Sally could both claim membership to the Hartigan clan: Rosa being the granddaughter of the late George Hartigan and Sally his widow. Hartigans and Forresters were technically never in need of money. Still, Rosa thought it important that one worked at something, not only for one’s self-esteem but to be a contributing member of society.

“Very well,” Rosa said, not wanting to start a debate. She took the proffered seat. “I’m helping a friend.”

Diego, sensing his journey was stalled, jumped out of the satchel and fell into his normal bathing routine. On the television, Joe Friday began his weekly investigation.

“It’s a repeat,” Grandma Sally said. “The new season doesn’t start until later this month. A young man is found hiding in an empty train car with a strangled woman beside him.”

Rosa couldn’t keep her astonishment out of her voice. “Grandma Sally, how gruesome.”

Grandma Sally’s mouth twisted in a smirk. “That’s rich, coming from you. You see worse than that whenever your ‘friends’ need your help.”

Rosa chuckled. There was no pulling one over on Grandma Sally.

The half-hour program went quickly, and Rosa collected Diego once again and rested him inside her satchel. She offered an arm to help Grandma Sally to her feet. She was fairly mobile for a lady her age but didn’t turn down the offer of help when extended to her.

“Thank you, Rosa,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Rosa returned lightly.

Grandma Sally pierced Rosa with watery eyes. “No, I mean for staying to watch TV with me. Thank you.”

This time Rosa gave the older lady a gentle embrace. “Thank you. I enjoyed watching it.”

And she had. Especially when Joe Friday said he was going to “lean” on his suspect to get him to talk. Rosa grinned to herself. She had to pick up these American phrases if she wanted to fit in. She idly wondered exactly how one “leaned on” a suspect.

However, she had procrastinated enough. She would go to Miguel’s and give her report and then come home. No dillydallying.

She knew where Miguel lived, but she realized as she pulled to a stop in front of his house, that she’d never been inside. Why would she? Since her return to Santa Bonita, they’d both been busy with work. He’d had Charlene, and she had Larry—but now that he no longer had Charlene . . . well, that was why she’d brought Diego.

Rosa half hoped that Miguel wouldn’t be at home. She’d have an excuse to wait until the morning and catch him at the precinct. But his lights were on, and she could see a silhouette of him moving from one room to another.

What if he wasn’t alone? Perhaps she should just go home. Her news could wait another day. She was just about to start the engine when the front door swung open, and Miguel’s form filled the space.

Dressed in tan trousers and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt, Miguel’s suave form filled the doorway. Her heart stammered.

“Rosa?”

Drat. He recognized her car. Served her right for parking so close. No turning back now.

She waved. “Hey, Miguel,” she shouted. The top of her Corvette was down, so he could easily hear her. “I was in the neighborhood and thought perhaps you’d like to hear what I’ve learned so far regarding Orlando.”

He welcomed her with a wave of his arm. “Of course. Come in.”

His dimples popped in full force when his warm brown eyes landed on Rosa’s satchel with Diego’s cute head sticking out.

“I see you brought the deputy,” Miguel teased.

“Well, since he is leading this case, I thought it only fair.”

The house was small, but nicely furnished and kept clean, at least for a bachelor’s pad. The furniture matched the color scheme, which was Spanish inspired, like so many homes in Santa Bonita. There were terra-cotta floor tiles underneath a thick area rug in the living room, and the paintings on the wall showed Mediterranean-inspired outdoor themes with lots of blue skies, emerald-colored oceans, and whitewashed buildings.

“Nice place,” Rosa said.

“It’s no mansion, but it’s home.”

“Believe me, it’s tough to make a home out of a mansion. This is much more welcoming.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Rosa jumped at the squawking voice of a parrot. “Home sweet home.”

She hadn’t noticed the cage in the shadowy corner. Miguel clicked on a lamp. “Yep, that’s Homer. Believe it or not, the guys down at the precinct want to adopt him. Tomorrow ‘Homicide Homer’ will spend his first day on duty at the Santa Bonita Police Department headquarters.”

“Homicide Homer?”

“I didn’t pick the nickname.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders innocently. “Two of the officers have already started building a little holding area for him in the corner of the main office. But we needed someone to take him home at night because the guy on the night shift says that birds make him sneeze and cough.” He chuckled. “I think he’s afraid of our feathered friend.”

Miguel’s copper-brown eyes gleamed, and deep dimples formed, causing Rosa’s heart to flutter. She forced herself to stare at Homer and choked out, “I didn’t know you were fond of birds.”

Thankfully, Miguel didn’t seem to notice Rosa’s discomfiture. “Not little ones,” he said, “but I’m intrigued by parrots and macaws and the like. They’re more intelligent than we realize.” He gestured toward one of the upholstered chairs in the room. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I have a nice bottle of rosé in the fridge.”

“That would be nice.” Rosa lowered herself to the chair and rested the satchel on the floor. Diego crawled out, but the moment he spotted Homer, he froze—his fur stiffening. His tail, once again puffy, swept the wood floor.

When Miguel returned with her glass, Rosa was giggling.

He caught what was making her laugh. “Homer’s almost as big as Diego.” Then to Diego, “I wouldn’t go after that one, pal.”

“I wouldn’t have brought him if I’d known.”

Miguel folded his long legs and took the chair that angled toward Rosa. “They just need to get used to each other. They’ll be friends in no time.”

Hmm. He assumed there’d be more opportunities for Diego and Homer to be brought together again. “Yes, I suppose so,” Rosa said. She took a sip of wine, and the room fell into an uneasy silence. Eager to bypass such moments, Rosa got down to business. “I thought it might be a good idea to review the details of the case.”

Miguel rubbed his chin, and Rosa couldn’t ignore the shadow of beard growing there, nor how sexy the look was. How inappropriate! She cast her glance at her cat. Buffer me, Diego. Diego seemed too enthralled with the parrot to take any notice of his owner’s needs.

Miguel seemed unaware of Rosa’s constant struggle in his presence, and if he wrestled with similar feelings, he was a pro at hiding it.

“Orlando’s case remains closed,” Miguel said. “Ruled a suicide by Delvecchio, who also continues to warn me against investigating. I believe that Jerry Glass’ murder, which I am assigned to, is somehow connected. Solving one will solve the other.”

Rosa agreed. “What do you know so far?”

“Well, not much yet,” Miguel said. He placed a large envelope on the coffee table. “We dusted for fingerprints and the usual stuff, but nothing matches anything on the known files. Cause of death is obvious.”

“Yes, I’ve been in touch with Larry.”

A long pause followed the mention of Larry Rayburn, then Miguel graciously added, “Dr. Rayburn is a fine ME, and if anything came up that could help the case, I know he’d contact Sanchez or me.”

Rosa noted Miguel’s purposeful use of Larry’s formal address, even though the two men were friendly enough to be on a first-name basis.

“What about Mr. Glass’ work colleagues?” she asked.

“No real leads yet. No motives we know of, and everyone has a solid alibi. Mr. Glass’ neighbors live a fair distance from the place, so no one saw anything. We checked the usual stuff like bank records and so on. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. A thorough search of the darkroom and all film in his camera came up empty. Nothing that would give any additional evidence related to my cousin’s death.” He let out a frustrated breath. “We’re hitting a brick wall.”

“Murder weapon?” Rosa asked.

Miguel shook his head. “We searched everywhere inside and outside of the place. The killer must have disposed of it somewhere else.” After a sip of wine, he continued. “We found something on Glass, though.”

Rosa raised a brow. “Oh?”

“He was arrested twice for bribing an officer, once in Los Angeles and once in Santa Monica. He wiggled out of one, but the other stuck, and he was convicted. Did six months in jail and paid a fine. Mr. Glass got on to crime or accident scenes to get ‘exclusive’ shots.”

Miguel paused, released a quick smile, then asked, “What about you? I hope you’ve had better luck.”

“Not yet. All my suspects lack alibis.”

“Ah, yes, the opposite problem to everyone having one. Hard to narrow down a suspect.”

“Precisely.”

“Who’s on your list?”

“Well, as a regular colleague, Mr. Glass was on the list. According to the theater manager, Leonard Radcliff, Mr. Glass and Orlando had a falling out. Apparently, your cousin accused Mr. Glass of stealing a story.”

“I’m sure it happens,” Miguel said. “Hardly a reason to kill for.”

Rosa only shrugged. “The head stagehand, Walter Grund, has a pretty compelling motive as well.” Rosa stared at Miguel over the rim of her wine glass. She hated that she was about to soil his cousin’s reputation with her next words. “It turns out that Orlando had a brief affair with Mr. Grund’s wife, but in Grund’s own words, the marriage was already on the brink of failure.”

Darkness fell behind Miguel’s eyes at the news. “Anything else?”

“There are the two stagehands, Bernie Sawchuck and Terence Lincoln. Mr. Sawchuck has a temper and once had a grievance against a photojournalist that ended in a fistfight and time in jail.”

“Was that journalist Orlando?”

“No, so of all of my suspects so far, I’d say Mr. Sawchuck’s motive is the weakest.”

Miguel nodded. “What about the other stagehand?”

“Mr. Lincoln’s sister had some high medical expenses. It turns out that Orlando lent him the money then started charging a high interest rate.”

“How much money?” Miguel asked.

“Six thousand dollars.”

Miguel whistled. “Belmontes don’t have that kind of money lying around.”

“Well, actually,” Rosa started, “some do.”

Miguel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Rosa relayed what she and Carlotta had found in Orlando’s apartment, and Miguel’s jaw dropped. “Eighteen thousand dollars? But—”

“I’ve also learned that Orlando liked to gamble.”

Miguel stared at Rosa long and hard, making her squirm inside. She shifted her weight and sipped her wine.

“You’re good,” he finally said,

Rosa smiled, the effect of the wine making her bolder than usual. “I know.”

“But did you know that we found a similar metal box at the Glass studio?”

Rosa shook her head slowly. “I did not.”

“He also had a lot of money stashed away. More money than one would think would be hidden in a press photographer’s desk.” Miguel shifted his weight and placed an ankle on his opposite knee. “The question is, where did all this money come from?”

Out of the blue, the parrot squawked, “How dare you!”

Diego had been creeping along the floor on his belly, inching his way toward the parrot.

“Diego,” Rosa said. “You’re upsetting poor Homer.” She moved from her spot on the chair and swooped her pet into her arms.

“How dare you!” squawked the bird again.

Miguel smirked, “I haven’t heard him say that before.”

They’d just finished laughing when the bird spoke again.

“Are you blackmailing me?”

Rosa stopped in her tracks, looked wide-eyed at Miguel, then slowly spun her attention back to the birdcage.

“Blackmail,” the bird squawked. “How dare you!”

18

Rosa almost missed Diego’s cat training class the next morning, and as it was, she arrived huffing as she ran into the in-session class twenty minutes late, a bewildered Diego getting bounced about.

“I’m so sorry,” Rosa said to Mrs. Randall. “I lost track of time.” Since Rosa had taken Miguel on as a client, she’d been completely obsessed with the case, and each day ran into the next.

“That’s fine,” Mrs. Randall said genially. “We’re just getting ready to take our furry friends to the park for a walk. Just the little one around the corner.”

Rosa wrestled Diego into his harness. For a change, he didn’t fight back . . . at least not like before.

“Hey, you made it.”

Rosa turned to the warm tones of Terence Lincoln.

“Oh, Good morning, Mr. Lincoln.”

With a satisfying snap of the leash to the harness, she turned her full attention to the stagehand who remained rather high on her suspect list. “I was hoping I’d see you here again.”

Mr. Lincoln huffed. He reached to pet Diego. “Hey, Donato, or is it Django?”

“Diego,” Rosa said firmly.

“Right, Diego,” Mr. Lincoln said to her pet. To Rosa, he added, “Suzi and I will see you outside.”

The small group of cat wranglers carried their feline cargo in the crook of their arms with leashes grasped, then followed their instructor outside. Some cats were fidgeting and struggling to get free, but their owners held them tight.

Once they hit the newly mowed lawn, Mrs. Randall instructed them to set the cats on the grass. “Don’t be alarmed if they spend some time nibbling. It’s good for their digestion.”

Over time, the other cats wandered about, sniffing and exploring. Rosa pursed her lips as she watched her pet, stretching out languidly in the sun.

Terence Lincoln sidled up beside her. “Not much for walks in the park, is he?” The corner of his mouth pulled up in a half smile. Suzi, tugging on her leash, seemed ready to go in the opposite direction.

“Diego has many talents that are less obvious,” Rosa said, trying to deflect the jibe.

“Uh-huh.”

As Mr. Lincoln stepped after his pet, Rosa scooped Diego into her arms and followed the man. “When I talked to you last, you told me you didn’t know Mr. Belmonte very well. That you had no dealings with him.”

“Uh-huh.”

Rosa dropped her ace in the hole. “Your sister’s medical bills?”

Mr. Lincoln narrowed his coal-black eyes, considering her. “You know, to be honest, I didn’t think you would dig that deep.”

“You withheld important information, Mr. Lincoln. You do realize that is quite incriminating.”

“Incriminating in what way? The man killed himself!”

“It is fast becoming a proper murder investigation, I’m afraid. And there’s been a second murder—no question of it this time.”

“I don’t know anything about no murder; I can promise you that.” Mr. Lincoln capped his hat with his big hand and sighed heavily as if this was a tiring conversation. “Who was it? Who died?”

“Jerry Glass.”

“What? The photographer? Now, why on God’s green earth would I kill him? I hardly knew the fellow. Only met him once or twice.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Lincoln. I am just telling you that I, along with the police, suspect a connection between the deaths of Mr. Glass and Mr. Belmonte. Now, why don’t you tell me about your sister?”

He snorted, then relented. “Darlene needed an expensive life-saving operation, and I didn’t have the cash. No one in my family did. Belmonte said he could loan me the money. Then, after the fact, he charged me interest if I didn’t pay him in full before the end of the year.”

“Where do you think he got the money to give you that kind of loan?” Rosa asked.

“I don’t know, but he had it, all right. Coughed up six thousand clams. I asked him where he got the money, but he just said not to worry about that. I suppose I should’ve asked more questions, but—” He shrugged, letting the sentence die.

“Is your sister okay now?” Rosa asked.

For the first time, light entered Mr. Lincoln’s troubled eyes. “Yes, she recovered fully and is now back with her two kids.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask this,” Rosa started, “but where were you yesterday morning?”

Mr. Lincoln ducked his chin. “Is that when Jerry Glass was murdered? Ha! I suppose that’s the question of the hour, isn’t it? Unlucky for me, it was my day off. I spent it fishing at Tramonte Lake.”

“I don’t suppose you were with anyone?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What do you plan to do about your debt to Mr. Belmonte, Mr. Lincoln?”

The big man folded his arms over his summer suit jacket. “Well, I don’t rightly know.” His lips twitched into a half smile. “Nothing, I expect.”

Diego chose that moment to wriggle out of Rosa’s arms to chase after a squirrel, his leash trailing behind him.

Another lousy alibi and with a great motive for murder, Rosa thought as she broke into a run. Okay, Diego, the game’s over!

Rosa was worn out by the time she returned home from the park. She’d chased Diego around a tree and through a prickly hedge, and she had angry red scratches on her arms to prove it.

“Diego,” she said once she’d dumped him on her bed. “I think we’ve finished with cat training school.”

Diego blinked slowly and let out a soft mew of consent.

Having taken time to clean up in the bathroom and put on a fresh dress, she, with Diego, headed to the kitchen to see if they could scrounge up a bit of lunch. Squirrel chasing had proved to work up an appetite.

“Miss Rosa! Master Diego!” Señora Gomez said as Rosa entered the kitchen with Diego at her heels. “Come, come. Lunch is served on the patio.”

“Fabulous, Señora Gomez,” Rosa said. She opened the cabinets to get a set of dishes. “Plates or bowls?”

“I can do it for you,” the housekeeper said. “Just go.”

“I’m standing here already,” Rosa said. “It seems a shame to send me out empty-handed.”

“Bowls then. It’s chicken tortilla soup. Come, Diego. I’ll fill your bowl.”

Rosa hesitated when she saw her aunt and Gloria chatting amiably in the shade of a patio umbrella. Seeing the two of them together brought her mother to mind, and she felt a strong pang. She missed her mother—perhaps she’d have time later to write, or blast it, she’d splurge on a long-distance telephone charge! Clarence and Julie sat nearby at the picnic table eating lunch.

Gloria caught Rosa standing there and waved her over. “What are you doing, silly? Join us!”

Rosa smiled as she saw Clarence pouring juice for his daughter and coaching her to blow on her soup to cool it down.

“So, Rosa,” Aunt Louisa started, “I understand you are keeping busy investigating the death of that press photographer who died at the Veterans Theater. I thought it was a suicide.” Aunt Louisa gazed at Rosa over the rim of her cat-eye sunglasses.

“It’s looking more and more like that’s not the case.”

“Is that so?” Aunt Louisa pushed her sunglasses snugly against her face. “Did I tell you that I know Leonard Radcliff, the owner of the Veterans Theater?”

“He mentioned that he knew you,” Rosa said.

“Hmmm, yes,” Aunt Louisa murmured. “Did you know that he not only owns that building, but many others as well? A right land baron, though he doesn’t like the public to know it. He’s very afraid of being taken advantage of.”

“I see.”

“He plans to run for mayor next year,” Aunt Louisa continued, “so, he’s very concerned about appearances right now.”

Gloria wrinkled her upper lip. “I don’t like the man. Something about him makes me uneasy.”

“Don’t be too hard on Mr. Radcliff,” Aunt Louisa said. “He served as a sergeant in the Marine Corps in the Battle of Tarawa, and you know how hard it was for men on the field.”

Aunt Louisa and Gloria always grew somber when talk of the war came up as it was during those years that Rosa’s Uncle Harold had lost his life. A husband and father, gone, leaving Aunt Louisa to steer the big ship Forrester.

Rosa’s thoughts were suddenly fixed on the words ‘Battle of Tarawa’ and something that Carlotta had said earlier. She stared straight ahead, suddenly deep in thought.

“You haven’t forgotten about Mother’s charity event tonight?” Gloria said, looking curiously at Rosa.

Right, the Santa Bonita Veterans Foundation Charity Music Night! Rosa hadn’t been diligent about checking her calendar lately. She snapped back into the moment. “No, of course not. I’ll be there. It’s on my calendar.”

“Good,” Gloria said with a twinkle in her eye. “I hope you’re bringing a date.”

19

Through the crowd, Rosa spotted Larry, patiently waiting near the theater entrance. He’d been such a good sport when she’d called him in a near panic, confessed how she’d forgotten about her aunt’s event, and how she’d meant to ask him to attend it with her.

“Relax, Rosa,” he’d said, his smile reaching her through the phone lines. “I’ll be there with bells on.”

Not wearing bells, exactly, but Larry looked fine in his blue sports jacket, black tie, and felt fedora. Rosa wore a “little black dress” with a double pearl choker and thought they made quite an attractive couple.

Larry grinned as she approached him. “You look lovely, my darlin’.” He pecked her cheek and grabbed her gloved hand.

The room wasn’t quite as full as the night of the Elvis Presley concert, and the people were generally older. Taking their assigned seats on the seat risers, the couple sat just four rows from the dance floor in front of the stage. Rosa searched the perimeter for what were now familiar figures. Along with Bernie Sawchuck, Walter Grund peeked out from the side of the stage in front of the curtain. Leonard Radcliff, dressed in a three-piece suit, talked animatedly to a small group of well-dressed people at the foot of the stage. The stage was set up for a big band with drums, amplifiers, and several small podium-like boxes, each with the name The Johnny James Band stamped with large gold letters and used as a sitting area for the horn section. The band name written on a black stage curtain behind the band hung from a scaffolding and rope-pulley system, probably the very same one that Orlando Belmonte had been hanging from just four days earlier.

Pushing that gruesome memory from her mind, Rosa looked around to see if she could identify any press photographers. She spotted three, all carrying around large cameras and snapping pictures of the stage and audience.

The lights dimmed, inspiring a hush from the audience. A spotlight shone on center stage where a gray-haired man in a black suit walked to the microphone.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m John Linden from the Santa Bonita Veterans Association, and I welcome you here to this fine auditorium. I’m so glad to see you all here tonight to support our wonderful foundation. As you know, all proceeds from tonight’s ticket sales will go toward our charity. The Santa Bonita Veterans Foundation assists both World War One and World War Two military personnel and their families with financial support, scholarships, housing, and so much more. Later this evening, we will hear from the owner of the Veterans Theater, Mr. Leonard Radcliff, a war veteran and chairman of the SBVA.”

Polite applause filled the auditorium.

“But first,” the man continued, “before I bring out The Johnny James Band, I would like to introduce two fine young men, who I’m sure we are going to be hearing from a lot more in the near future. All the way from Knoxville, Tennessee, please give a warm welcome to the Everly Brothers!”

Rosa jabbed Larry in the ribs. “Those are the talented musicians I told you about!”

Dressed in matching black suits and shiny patent-leather shoes, one brother leaned into the microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Then without another word, they started their first song.

“I love this tune,” Larry said. “It’s a Marty Robbins hit from a few years back.” He sang along to the chorus, “I’ll go on alone,” and Rosa had to smile. Larry wasn’t a brilliant singer, but what he lacked in pitch control, he made up for in enthusiasm.

Again, the brothers’ harmonies were beautiful and perfectly synchronized as they went through two more songs. Near the end of the third number, Larry asked Rosa to dance and took her by the hand to the dance floor, where they joined about a dozen or more couples slow dancing to the gentle country ditty.

After dancing through another song Larry said, “I’ve grown fond of you, Rosa.”

Rosa smiled in return. She felt the same way, though she couldn’t help but think that perhaps Larry’s feelings were stronger than her own. Rosa coddled the guilt she felt at not experiencing the same emotions. Before she could put something gentle and encouraging into words, she was startled by Miguel, appearing from nowhere, who interrupted their dance by tapping on Larry’s shoulder.

“May I cut in?” Miguel’s voice was smooth.

Rosa was caught by surprise and didn’t quite know how to respond. It was Larry who rescued the moment, bowing out graciously. Smiling her gratitude toward Larry, Rosa allowed Miguel to take her hand as he placed his other on her waist. The weight and warmth of his palm penetrated through the fabric of her dress, and Rosa resisted the urge to shiver, remembering the times they’d danced together through the war years. What another world that was!

“I was going to call you first thing in the morning,” Rosa said, rushing to find a neutral topic to talk about, something that wouldn’t have her focusing on Miguel’s aftershave or the copper pools of his eyes. “I found out something curious,” she continued. “A new connection between Orlando and Leonard Radcliff.”

Miguel lowered his gaze to her face as he expertly led her around the floor. “Oh, what’s that?”

“They both served in the same marine regiment in at least one major battle in the Pacific. The Battle of Tarawa.”

“Really?” Miguel’s dark brow arched deeply. “Now, that is interesting. The Battle of Tarawa was a particularly nasty clash. I think it was the first time that American forces encountered strong Japanese resistance. Morale was low, and casualties on both sides were very high.”

“I plan on asking Mr. Radcliff if he knew your cousin during the war,” Rosa said. “The chances are good that he did. There were only a few photographers assigned to each unit. Apparently, Mr. Radcliff was a sergeant. I find it strange that he didn’t mention a connection to Orlando.”

Miguel hummed. “He’s over there—” Miguel pointed his chin toward Mr. Radcliff, who stood to the side. “Let’s ask him now.”

Rosa and Miguel stopped dancing and shimmied past other dancers, careful not to knock into anyone. As they approached Mr. Radcliff, he seemed to force a congenial smile.

“Well, hello, Miss Reed, Detective Belmonte. Nice of you to support our event.” Friendly words, yes, but his expression was not.

“I’m enjoying myself immensely, so far,” Rosa said. “I’m sure it’ll be a tremendous success.”

“It is going very well. Almost a full house, as you can see.” Mr. Radcliff gestured toward the room full of people, many of whom were now eating food bought from the lobby concession. “How’s your investigation going?”

Rosa was surprised by the question. She was looking for a way to broach the subject without being rude.

“Now that you ask, I have discovered an item of interest.” She glanced at Miguel, who ducked his chin, a subtle encouragement for her to continue.

Mr. Radcliff’s brows pinched downward. “What’s that?”

“I understand you were a marine.”

“Yes, that’s right. A veteran. Like many of the men in this building.” He looked at her in annoyed surprise. “It’s why I named the theater the Veterans Theater and why I hold charity events to raise money to look after the families.”

“Yes,” Rosa agreed. “A good cause. Am I correct that you fought in the Pacific theater?”

“Well, you’ve certainly done your homework.” His focus darted around the room like an agitated deer looking for a way to escape a perceived threat.

“In fact, you were in the Second Battalion at Tarawa Atoll and Iwo Jima. Those were horrible conflicts, weren’t they?”

“Miss Reed, I don’t know what your point is,” Mr. Radcliff huffed. “I told you I don’t enjoy discussing the war. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

Miguel gripped his arm. “Please, hear the lady out.” He released his hold. “It’s only polite.”

Mr. Radcliff tugged on his vest and straightened out his suit sleeves. “Very well, but do get to the point. I have to be on stage in a couple of minutes, and I would like to go to the backstage dressing room and compose myself.”

“Of course,” Rosa said.

“So?” he said, not bothering to hide his impatience.

“Well, I just find it rather curious—from what I understand, there were only one or two military photographers assigned to follow a regiment.”

The theater owner’s jaw tensed as he held her gaze with a glare.

Rosa continued, undaunted. “To my thinking, it may have been likely that you knew, or at least you might have known the name of, the photographer that had been following your battalion into battle. Don’t you think?”

Mr. Radcliff responded gruffly, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Orlando Belmonte, Mr. Radcliff. Don’t you think it a very odd coincidence that he was assigned to your battalion? I’m sure you must’ve known.”

“No, I did not. Just a fluke and nothing to do with me.”

At that moment, Terence Lincoln and Bernie Sawchuck wheeled out a wooden podium to the front of the stage and set it in front of a microphone.

“I’m afraid I’m needed. Good evening.” Leonard Radcliff pivoted, walked brusquely toward the stage, and disappeared through the backstage door.

20

Rosa pursed her lips and shrugged in Miguel’s direction. They couldn’t very well chase Mr. Radcliff onto the stage, and as it stood, she had no proof to support her presumptions. She could see Larry staring their way with an uncharacteristic frown.

“I’m going to go back to my seat,” she said.

Miguel nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on Radcliff.”

Just as she returned to her seat, gathering her skirt and requisite crinoline underlaps, the man from the radio station approached the podium.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the man responsible for this outstanding event, Mr. Leonard Radcliff!” He stretched his arm out toward the side of the stage and held it there while the audience applauded appreciatively.

The applause faded as Mr. Radcliff failed to appear. Mr. Stewart dropped his arm, his expression moving from anticipation to uncertainty.

“Oh no,” Rosa muttered.

“What’s happenin’, darlin’?” Larry returned.

“I don’t know.”

Folding a palm over his microphone, Mr. Stewart mouthed words to someone offstage. He then turned to the audience and held up a finger. “Just . . . just a moment, please,” he said, his voice edged with bewilderment. He then walked off, stage right.

A surprised murmur rose from the crowd.

“Well, this sure is strange,” Larry said, nudging Rosa with his shoulder.

Rosa felt a growing concern as she craned her neck and scanned the room.

Where is Leonard Radcliff?

After another moment, the MC of the evening returned to the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to go ahead with the music program for now . . .”

Murmurs rose from the audience.

“. . . From San Francisco, California, The Johnny James Band!”

The audience applauded appreciatively, the curtain rolled back, and a twelve-piece band complete with horn section and backing singers filled the stage.

A dark-haired man in his mid-thirties and dressed in a sequined suit sprang up to the microphone. “Hi, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Johnny James. Are you ready?” He turned and cued the band which broke into a popular Frank Sinatra song. Johnny James leaned into the microphone and sang, “Come fly with me; let’s fly, fly away.”

Scores of people left their seats to join those already on the dance floor. Rosa noticed the dance styles differed completely from the teenagers at the Elvis concert. Tonight, it was all about waltzes and foxtrots rather than the jitterbug or boogie-woogie.

“Something’s not right,” Rosa shouted, looking back onto the stage. “I just need to check . . .”

Larry shot her a questioning look. “Do you want me to come?”

“No, that’s all right, you enjoy the show.” Larry seemed to have relaxed after being subjected to watching her dance with Miguel. She felt obligated to let him enjoy the rest of the evening.

Rosa navigated her way through the crowd of exuberant dancers until she reached one of the side doors. After slipping inside, she jogged down the hallway to the backstage area where the MC was talking animatedly to Walter Grund.

“Well, where the heck is he? He said he’d be there precisely at eight o’clock. It’s now ten after!”

“I have no idea,” Mr. Grund returned, his face purple with exasperation. “He’s not in the dressing room.”

Rosa ran up to them. “Has anyone checked his office?”

The MC’s eyebrows formed a sharp V. “Who are you?”

Mr. Grund answered for her, “Marvin, this is Miss Rosa Reed.”

“How do you do?” Rosa said as politely as she could, given the circumstances. She then sprinted toward the back door. Standing near the exit was Bernie Sawchuck.

“Oh, hi, Miss Reed. I don’t know what’s gotten into Mr. Radcliff.” He gestured toward the parking lot. “I tried to tell him he needed to be onstage but—”

Rosa ran to the overflowing parking lot in time to see a bright-red Ford Thunderbird racing away. She faced Bernie. “Is that him?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Where does he think he’s goin’?”

Rosa juggled her purse, which was strapped diagonally from shoulder to waist, then ran—rather ungracefully—for her Corvette parked in the next row. Her two-inch pumps pinched her feet, and she wished she had a comfortable pair of blue suede shoes like Larry had.

Jumping into the Corvette, she quickly turned the ignition, and the famous “Blue Flame” engine roared to life. She jammed the gearbox into reverse, pulled from the parking stall, shifted to drive, and stomped on the gas pedal. With the rear tires squealing on the pavement, the car shot forward like a bullet, and adrenaline coursed through her body.

Just as she was about to roar out of the lot, Miguel came bursting through the side door. She slammed on the brakes and shouted, “Get in!”

The Corvette rocketed through the parking lot and onto the road that led to the main boulevard. Miguel clung to the handgrip. “Whoa!”

“Hang on!” Rosa yelled against the wind.

Catching sight of the T-Bird far ahead, she weighted her foot against the accelerator.

Miguel shot her a look of astonishment. “Who taught you how to drive?”

“My mother!”

Rosa weaved through traffic to close the gap between herself and the Thunderbird. She needed to get closer before he sped through a traffic light but was too late. As soon as the light turned green, Rosa slammed the pedal, and the car roared forward.

“You realize you’re not the police here, right?” Miguel shouted, his hand pushing against the dash as if that would slow the car down. “You don’t have the authorization to drive through Santa Bonita in a high-speed pursuit.”

Rosa shouted back. “Can’t you authorize me?” She shot a look at Miguel, who stared ahead with wide eyes.

“Oh, sure. We have a special ceremony just for that. Can you pull over?” he said, his voice rising in exasperation. “I’ll get you to raise your right hand and swear on my police notepad to be especially careful when you are rocketing through school zones!”

It took Rosa a moment to register the sarcasm.

“You’re the one who wrote the song!” she shouted. “You know, the one about the ‘pretty little lady in a white Corvette…. who leaves you standing at the traffic light’!”

As Rosa straightened out the car after taking a sharp corner with the tires squealing, Miguel shouted back, “I wrote that song about my grandmother, Sofía!”

Rosa shot a surprised look at Miguel. Even though his eyes were still wide with fear and staring straight ahead, two dimples appeared around his mouth. “The first draft of the song was ‘pretty old lady in a white Corvette’.”

Miguel glanced over at her and they both burst out laughing.

Once they got through the green light at the next intersection, Rosa let up on the gas pedal. She didn’t need to catch Mr. Radcliff; she just wanted to know where he was going in such a hurry.

“Obviously, my line of questioning hit a little too close to home,” she said to Miguel.

Miguel agreed. “Something caused him to retreat.”

Rosa got within two blocks of the red T-bird and then slowed down to a more civil speed though she had to remain ten miles per hour or more over the speed limit to keep Mr. Radcliff in sight.

The T-Bird led her south on the Coast Highway toward Los Angeles and then exited east toward the mountains. As the traffic thinned, Rosa slowed further behind the red Ford because there were fewer cars to obscure her presence. Her white Corvette convertible didn’t exactly blend in with the crowd.

The T-bird shot forward, and Rosa heard the roar of its engine even from a hundred and fifty yards away.

“He’s spotted us,” she said. “I either have to give up chase or match his speed.”

Miguel shot her a look. “I think you should slow down.”

Rosa lifted her foot off the gas and hovered it over the brake pedal as the Corvette slowed. Taking a deep breath, she released it slowly. She glanced into her rearview mirror. The traffic behind her was light with only two cars visible. Far ahead was a rapidly disappearing T-Bird.

Suddenly, a line from a song playing on the radio caught her attention: Look out boys, I’ve got a license to fly!

She gave Miguel a sideways glance, flashed him a mischievous grin, then stomped on the accelerator. The immediate sensation of being pressed back into her seat had her smiling and Miguel shouting, “Rosaaaa!”

Beneath her, Rosa felt the pull of every single one of the 150 horses that were suddenly unleashed under the hood. The speedometer climbed to fifty. Sixty. Seventy. Then eighty-five miles per hour. The lines on the road shot past her, and Rosa didn’t dare go any faster. At this speed, the Corvette settled onto the road. The engine thrummed like a contented tiger, and the steering wheel was free of road vibration—it was almost like riding a cloud. If it were possible for a car to have feelings, then Rosa’s Corvette was having a pleasant moment right now. However, the warm wind tore at her hair like an angry beast—her hat had long gone—and her sunglasses threatened to fly right off her face in the tempest.

Far ahead, she saw the red T-Bird slow and turn onto a secondary road. Rosa followed and was thankful that it was paved. She would’ve hated to subject her car to high-speed driving on gravel or dirt; the polo-white paint job would certainly suffer in that situation.

The road had very little traffic, and the T-Bird raced ahead, disappearing over a small hill. Rosa took the corner with the rubber squealing and sped up again, the engine roaring in agreement with the command her right foot was giving it.

Miguel had become strangely quiet as he white-knuckled the handgrip.

Going over seventy miles an hour, Rosa crested the top of the hill and then let out a yelp. Miguel joined in with a long scream. About eighty yards ahead, a farmer’s tractor, pulling a trailer full of hay bales, had just pulled onto the road. Barreling in Rosa’s direction was a green delivery truck in the oncoming lane. Rosa had no choice but to hit the brakes.

Desperately trying to avoid going into an uncontrolled skid, she calculated that at her current rate of deceleration, she couldn’t prevent a collision with the rear of the farmer’s trailer. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest as she careened toward the wooden platform that threatened an unpleasant decapitation experience if she didn’t act fast.

She had no choice but to jerk hard on the steering wheel and aim for the drainage ditch, hoping beyond hope that she could keep control of the car and not flip it.

Rosa feathered the brake pedal to keep the car from skidding. The angle of the car changed dramatically in an instant but it remained on all four wheels as she clung to the wheel. When the Corvette hit the bottom of the ditch, dry dirt flew up on all sides.

Miguel held his handgrip with both hands. “Watch out!”

Directly in front of them was a cement wall that had a drain culvert running through it. The wall supported another crossing point where the farmer could access his fields with his tractor. Rosa headed straight for it, knowing it would be impossible to stop her Corvette in time.

Instead, she stomped hard on the accelerator to make use of the car’s inertia, which caused the Corvette to rocket up the other side of the five-foot ditch. When it reached the top, she felt all four wheels come off the ground, and for a moment time slowed. She and Miguel were flying. Miguel’s mouth moved, but Rosa couldn’t hear what he said.

Then suddenly, they landed with a thud, squarely on the edge of the field. Rosa wrenched the steering wheel to the left to avoid hitting the rough barbwire fence. Finally, the car came to a stop in a cloud of dust and hay.

Rosa sat motionless as her heart hammered, and her hands shook on the wheel. She had missed the fence by mere inches. Turning to Miguel, who looked like he’d just stared death in the face, Rosa asked. “Are you all right?”

Miguel wiped his brow with the sleeve of his suit jacket then reached for his hat, which had been trapped by his feet, and placed it firmly on his head. “Unless we crashed, and this is heaven, I’m all right.” He pierced Rosa with a steely glare. “But seriously, Rosa?”

Rosa groaned. “We lost him.”

She scanned her surroundings, but couldn’t see the T-Bird anywhere. The farmer and his tractor trundled down the road ahead unaware of what had just happened. She must have hit the ditch exactly as the green delivery truck passed by on the other side of the tall load of hay bales, hiding her from view. The truck continued driving west and disappeared over the crest of the hill. The whole thing had taken only two or three seconds.

Rosa wiped her eyes as the last of the dust settled around them, turned off the ignition, and sat for another moment to let the wave of lightheadedness pass. Still shaky, she climbed out of her car and leaned against the fender with her palms resting flat on the hood. Saying nothing, Miguel joined her. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing in the cool evening air.

“We could’ve died . . .” Miguel said.

Rosa was about to apologize when Miguel added, “. . . But for your amazing driving skills.” He shook his head as he looked at her. “I don’t know if I should be amazed or appalled.”

Facing Miguel, Rosa risked a weak smile. “Be amazed.”

She patted the car on the hood in a gesture of gratitude, smoothed out her black dress, covered in hay dust, and slowly climbed back into the driver’s seat. Once Miguel was seated beside her, she carefully backed the Corvette along the fence until she came to the farmer’s access she had narrowly missed. Getting back on the road, she pointed her car west and drove the entire way back to Santa Bonita at five miles per hour below the speed limit.

21

“That road follows the edge of Los Padres Forest and then joins the 123 Highway,” Miguel said as they entered Highway 99. “I’ll bet he’s trying to flee the country.”

Rosa’s office was closer than the police precinct, so they decided it would be faster if Miguel used her telephone to call in the incident. She briefly thought about Larry and the fact that he was probably still at the theater, but she didn’t have time to do anything about that now. She’d have to explain later.

Parking near the front of the building, she quickly circled her Corvette to assess the damage from their wild ride through the farmer’s field. Other than a coat of dust and bits of hay marring the red-leather interior, the car seemed to have come through without a scratch. She let out a pent-up breath of relief.

“Leonard Radcliff is guilty of something,” Rosa said as they climbed the stairs of her office building. “The question is guilty of what?”

While Miguel used her telephone, Rosa entered her darkroom, switched on the red light, then examined the five-by-seven-inch photographs she’d taken at Orlando Belmonte’s apartment that hung on the line. The prints were dry. She unclipped them, then returned to her desk where she scattered them for viewing.

Miguel hung up the receiver, then said, “Sanchez has an APB out. We’ll get him at the border if nothing else.” He stared at the prints. “What do you have there?”

“I took these when Carlotta and I visited Orlando’s apartment. They’re close-ups of the metal box,” she said. “And other items.”

One print showed the key, and it looked like something was stamped on its face. Rosa opened the top drawer of her desk and removed a magnifying glass then held it over the image.

“Ten digits,” she said. “A bank account, perhaps? How many digits do most bank accounts have in America?”

“Ten sounds about right,” Miguel said.

“Perhaps it’s a key to a safe-deposit box?” Rosa asked. “It wouldn’t be in evidence, would it?”

“It’s not considered a crime, so no,” Miguel said. “I’ll get the key to Orlando’s apartment from Carlotta and collect this key as well. I’d like to know what Orlando felt he needed to secure in this way.”

Rosa scanned another photograph. “I snapped pictures of the personal papers left on Orlando’s desk.” She pushed a print over to Miguel. “There’s a bank statement. First Republic Savings and Loan.”

“That’s where I’ll start.” Miguel returned his hat to his head. “Come to think of it, the police found a safe-deposit key in Jerry Glass’s house as well. That one is in evidence.”

“Now, isn’t that interesting?” Rosa remarked.

“We haven’t checked it out yet. I’ll put Sanchez on finding out the bank Mr. Glass dealt with.”

Rosa collected all the prints into a pile and created a new file for them.

“Hey, Rosa,” Miguel started, “since it appears our two cases are merging, would you like to visit both banks together? I’ll get Jerry Glass’s safety deposit key as well.”

Rosa held his gaze. “Yes. I think that’s a good idea.”

Now, with the intense car chase behind them, and a plan of attack in place, an awkward silence dropped like a wall between them. Rosa and Miguel made a good investigative team, but anytime the situation moved from that, it was as if they couldn’t find their way to normal chatter.

“Well, I should go,” Miguel said.

Rosa remembered that Miguel’s car had been left behind at the Veterans Theater. “Do you need a ride back to your car?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll walk to the precinct from here; it’s not far. Then get one of the boys to give me a ride.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. See ya later, Rosa.”

Rosa slowly lowered herself into her chair, feeling confused by her swirl of feelings, especially when in the presence of Detective Miguel Belmonte. She did what any sane person in her position would do. She picked up the receiver and called Larry. He would be home by now and worried about her.

At nine o’clock the next morning, Rosa strolled through the entrance of the First Republic Savings and Loan. On a prominent corner on the main street, the bank was housed in one of the oldest brick buildings in the area. Miguel was there when she arrived and grinned at her like the cat who caught the canary.

“We got him,” Miguel said before even saying hello. “Radcliff was caught trying to cross the border at Tijuana four hours ago. San Diego police are sending him up to Santa Bonita. He’s en route.”

“Brilliant!” Rosa said. “Now, let’s find something to hold him.”

Miguel held up the key to the safe-deposit box. “I got this and a copy of Orlando’s death certificate for clearance. A bank clerk is ready to take us inside. It turns out that Mr. Glass banked here as well.”

Rosa fell into stride with Miguel as they followed the bank clerk to the safety deposit boxes. The brightly lit room was about fifteen feet wide and twenty-five feet long with linoleum floors. Filling both walls, numbered safety-deposit boxes were stacked on top of each other in tight columns.

“Mr. Belmonte ordered his box scarcely a week ago,” the clerk said. He inserted his key into one of two key slots on the box and waited while Miguel put his key into the other slot. He nodded, and they turned their keys in synchronization. The small metal door swung open, and the clerk pulled out a lidded metal drawer and placed it on a table in the middle of the room.

They repeated the exercise with Mr. Glass’s box.

“Mr. Belmonte and Mr. Glass both used the same size boxes, both an uncommon size,” the clerk announced. “Most are five by ten inches, but these are ten by ten. We only offer a few of these this size.”

“Thank you,” Rosa said, her eyes darting to the door, hinting to the clerk they were ready to be left alone.

“Of course,” the clerk said, his hands tucked behind his back. “You’ll have all the privacy you need. No one else will be permitted back here until you’ve gone.”

Miguel flipped open the top of Orlando’s box. The reason for choosing this size became obvious. Inside was a roll of film in a black metal cylinder, and a large manila envelope. There was nothing else.

“Let’s open the other before we look at this,” Rosa suggested.

Miguel flipped open the lid of Mr. Glass’s box. Inside were the same two items: a roll of film and a manila envelope.

“Let’s begin with Orlando,” Miguel murmured. He picked up the envelope and took out six full-size prints then laid them all out on the table side by side. The photographs were variations of the same subject and shot from about forty feet away. Judging from the first picture, which was slightly obscured by what looked like a blurry mound of dirt, the photographer had taken the pictures while lying on the ground. In the background of all the photos was a jungle clearing, and all six pictures showed a man wearing a marine sergeant’s uniform. The soldier was pointing a revolver at two unarmed Asian men in civilian clothing. One was a man of about forty years of age while the other was no older than sixteen.

In the first two pictures, the captives were kneeling with their backs to the photographer and their hands raised. The sergeant’s face, three-quarters visible, was a mask of rage.

“By the look of their ratty clothing, I’d say they were Koreans,” Miguel said. “The Japanese used thousands of them for slave labor.”

The next two pictures showed the two Asian men lying face down on the ground.

“They were executed,” Rosa whispered, horror lacing her words.

The fifth photograph showed the sergeant looking into the distance as if checking for any witnesses. The last picture showed him holstering his gun, walking away, and glancing over his shoulder; his expression showed no emotion.

Though younger and slimmer, the man’s face was unmistakable: Leonard Radcliff, philanthropist and would-be mayor of Santa Bonita.

Rosa then opened the other envelope. There were only two photographs inside. One of them was taken from on top of the scaffold of the Veterans Theater, looking down. It showed a furious-looking Leonard Radcliff staring up at the camera from offstage, the profile of a man playing an electric guitar just catching the frame.

“These were taken the night of the Elvis Presley concert,” Rosa said. “I recognize the view from the top of the scaffold, and that man was a guitar player in the band.”

The other print showed Leonard Radcliff having reached the top of the scaffold. His face was contorted into an angry grimace as he reached one hand toward the camera.

22

Later that afternoon, a bedraggled-looking Leonard Radcliff sat at the table in the interrogation room at the Santa Bonita Police Station. Wearing the same suit that he had had on the night before and his bloodshot eyes flashing baleful defiance, he regarded Miguel and Detective Sanchez. Beside him sat a young, smart-looking man in his early forties, in a black three-piece suit and with short, cropped brown hair. He’d introduced himself as Ronald Mackie, from the prestigious firm of Caldwell and Mackie, and acting counsel for Mr. Radcliff. An expensive-looking briefcase sat on top of the table in front of him, and he exuded an air of knowing confidence and stern authority that meant to fluster police detectives.

Rosa, as a private citizen, wasn’t permitted to be part of the interrogation team. However, police chief Delvecchio had agreed to let her sit in the observation room behind the one-way mirror.

Miguel sat at the table directly across from Mr. Radcliff and Mr. Mackie while Detective Sanchez leaned against the opposite sidewall holding a file folder in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. Today, he had chosen not to wear a fresh shirt, opting for a more ‘slept-in’ approach, which was his trademark. His black trousers, however, looked new and pressed, and his hair set in place—a combination of the old Sanchez and the new one who’d put in a bit of effort.

“Mr. Radcliff,” Miguel began. “You left your charity event in a hurry last night. Why is that? I thought the evening was going great.”

“I got nervous,” Mr. Radcliff said stiffly. “I’m not good in front of crowds.”

Miguel leaned back in his chair. “That was one extreme case of nervousness. It took you to the border of Mexico!”

Mr. Radcliff and his lawyer said nothing.

“Do you always keep a suitcase fully packed in your office?” Miguel asked.

“No, but I was planning a trip to Rosarito sometime soon anyway. Last night seemed like a good opportunity to go a bit early.”

“Because of stage fright?” Detective Sanchez asked snidely. He sauntered to the table and took the empty chair beside Miguel.

“Yeah,” Mr. Radcliff returned. “Because of stage fright.”

Miguel jutted his chin toward Mr. Radcliff, his gaze landing on the wrinkled suit. “Rough night, huh? Did you sleep in your car waiting for the border to open?”

“Is there a point to this?” Mr. Mackie said. “My client is tired and wants to go home. Where he spent the night is irrelevant.”

Detective Sanchez took a loud sip from his mug. “Oh, we’re getting to a point, all right.”

“You’ve severely infringed on my client’s freedoms—apprehending him on drummed-up charges,” Mr. Mackie admonished.

Though speaking to the lawyer, Miguel stared at Leonard Radcliff. “He is under arrest for the murders of Orlando Belmonte and Jerry Glass. I don’t drum up charges like that on anybody.”

Mr. Mackie threw his pen on the table. “That is ridiculous!”

Leonard Radcliff’s nostrils flared.

Miguel cast a casual glance at his partner. “Hey Sanchez, isn’t that exactly what every lawyer says when their clients are charged?”

Detective Sanchez waved his mug around. “You would think they could come up with somethin’ more creative.”

“You have no proof,” the lawyer said.

“Well, let’s get to that too.” Miguel stared at Mr. Radcliff, who had scorn written all over his face. “You were a marine in the war, weren’t you?”

“What of it?”

“In the Battle of Tarawa?”

Mr. Radcliff tightened his lips.

“After the war, it was discovered that the Japanese brought in roughly twelve hundred forced Korean laborers to build their defenses,” Miguel said. “Almost ninety percent of those were either killed in battle or summarily executed by the Japanese. Care to jump in here, Mr. Radcliff? You were there.”

Mr. Mackie leaned forward. “You’re wasting our time here, Detective. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Ignoring the attorney, Miguel pressed on. “Many were just caught in the crossfire. Isn’t that right, Mr. Radcliff?”

Mr. Radcliff blew a blast of air out of his nostrils and shook his head slowly in derision.

Mr. Mackie was undaunted. “Detective, I really—”

Rosa thought the lawyer had tenacity, but not enough to intimidate Miguel.

“Imagine this,” Miguel continued. “You’ve been conscripted into forced labor on some island by a longtime brutal oppressor. But maybe they didn’t just get you. Maybe they also got your son. Then you’re forced to work under extreme and dangerous conditions, barely surviving. Then, the American army rolls in. Maybe they’ll be able to liberate you at long last. You begin hoping. Maybe this will all be over soon. And then one day, you come face to face with one of their soldiers. Imagine what a lucky day that would be, eh?”

Mr. Mackie went off again. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Detective!”

“I guess you didn’t count on someone capturing it all on camera. Why did you do it, Mr. Radcliff?” Miguel kept his dark-eyed gaze on Leonard Radcliff. “Those men were innocent.”

He turned to Detective Sanchez and nodded. The burly detective slipped prints out of a file and laid them on the table side by side. They were the ones from Tarawa found in Orlando’s safe-deposit box.

The room fell silent.

“Any guess who took those photos?” Miguel said.

No one spoke for another moment. Miguel nodded to Sanchez again, who placed the other two prints on the table.

“Jerry Glass had these put away in a bank safe-deposit box, but I suspect Orlando Belmonte took the pictures. My theory is that Mr. Glass must have taken the film out of Orlando’s camera at the concert. He told Miss Reed that he was close to the stage when this happened. In all the panic, it would’ve been easy to jump onto the stage. He must’ve seen the camera lying there, taken out the film, and wiped the camera clean of prints. Maybe he wanted to steal the pictures of Elvis to get the jump on the competition. Or maybe he actually saw the murder and recognized an opportunity for blackmail. Maybe he even saw you, Mr. Radcliff, leaving the scaffolding. He could have already gone onto the stage before the show ended for a shot from behind. Strangely, at the last moment, he didn’t take a shot from the audience. Anyway, a plan must have come to him. Mr. Glass had been an unscrupulous man from time to time. So, instead of going to the police with what he saw, he leeched a little money from you.”

Miguel ducked his chin. “Am I close, Mr. Radcliff?”

Mr. Mackie opened his mouth to speak but Miguel interrupted. “As far as your packed suitcase is concerned, I think you were suspecting that our friend Miss Reed was asking questions that were a little too close to home and you decided to get ready just in case.”

Leonard Radcliff trembled, causing a stern look from his lawyer. Rosa had seen this kind of response to guilt under the spotlight.

A word exploded out of Leonard Radcliff. “Blackmail!” His shout seemed to fill all the space in the room.

Mr. Mackie stared at his client, looking mortified.

“Yes,” Miguel said. “A little birdie told us that blackmail might be part of this whole equation.” He glanced at Sanchez who smiled in amusement.

“Mr. Radcliff,” Mr. Mackie said. “I urge you to refrain.”

“It’s that fiend Orlando Belmonte who should have been arrested!” Mr. Radcliff’s jowls were pink with rage. “He harassed me for ten years with those photos. I paid him thousands of dollars, and when I announced that I planned to run for mayor, he doubled the price! Doubled.”

Mr. Radcliff extracted a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped spittle from his lips. “And then, he mocked me at the concert! He took my picture from on top of that gangway and laughed at me.” Mr. Radcliff spat out the words, while his lawyer sighed in apparent defeat. “Me. He mocked me!”

Most killers, Rosa knew, if they planned on murdering someone, would take the time to get an alibi in place. In fact, that was one of the challenging things about both cases. No one had alibis, putting everyone on an even level as a suspect. It seemed to her that this murder had been carried out in the heat of the moment.

“Afterward, while the rest of you were all bent over poor Mr. Belmonte, I searched for the camera,” Mr. Radcliff said, “but I couldn’t find it. Didn’t matter. That snake, Glass had already taken the film out. The next day, he called me and threatened to continue the blackmail Belmonte had already been doing. Apparently, Belmonte had bragged to Glass about the money he was making off me one night after too many tequilas.” Mr. Radcliff laughed bitterly. “Quite an entrepreneur that Glass. Anyway, you can guess the rest.” His voice lowered somewhat as he resigned himself. It was like the fuel in his fire had been spent. “I went to his studio to plead with him. He laughed in my face. The rest is a blur.”

“What d’you do with the knife?” Sanchez asked.

“Tossed it off the pier. It’s somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.”

“Did you try to get the pictures by breaking into Orlando’s home?” Miguel asked.

“That was stupid.” Radcliff shook his head. “I didn’t even make it inside. Belmonte told me later he had the photos hidden elsewhere. I guess you found out where.”

There was another moment of silence. Ronald Mackie sat back on his chair, staring at the wall and shaking his head.

“Why in God’s name did you shoot those men at Tarawa?” Miguel asked.

“I watched our guys throw themselves against those pillboxes and bunkers, most of them built by those Koreans. Thousands of good American soldiers perished!”

“It was forced labor!”

“Sure, that’s what they’ll tell you! I don’t believe it for a minute. Everyone knows those yellow scum are the same and in league with each other.”

Rosa squirmed at the man’s blatant racism.

Mr. Radcliff blew his nose into a handkerchief, a resounding snort underlining his position. “I did the right thing,” he said, stuffing the soiled hankie into his pocket. “I don’t regret it one bit, even after all of this.”

23

Rosa stepped out of the observation room just as Miguel entered the adjoining corridor, and they practically ran into each other.

“Excuse me,” Rosa said.

“No, that was me,” Miguel insisted. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Rosa paused, then said, “I suppose that is that.”

Miguel nodded with a solemn expression. “When will people stop hating someone because of skin color?”

“Indeed.” Rosa’s personal experience with racism came as a teen when she had first fallen in love with Miguel. Aunt Louisa’s strong biases contributed to the ending of their relationship. As a Latino on the police force, Miguel encountered it regularly.

“I’m greatly troubled that my cousin felt like he had to resort to blackmail,” Miguel remarked. “Such a low thing to do. He should have just gone to the war authorities from the beginning.”

“What about Jerry Glass?” Rosa asked. “He witnessed a murder and didn’t go to the police.”

“Greed.” Miguel shook his head. “Both my cousin and Glass had that particular sickness.”

Rosa could think of nothing further to say about the case, other than she was no longer in the employ of Miguel.

“So, we’ve finished too,” she verified.

“Oh, yes. Thank you for your work, Rosa. My family appreciates it. I’ll come by your office soon to finish it up officially.”

“All right,” Rosa said. With everything moving so quickly with the case, its sudden ending seemed, well, sudden. “I’ll see you later, then.”

They parted slowly, and Rosa pivoted on her ballet flats, resisting the urge to fool with her hair.

“Rosa?”

Rosa turned to face Miguel. Her heart pitter-pattered, and she wondered if she’d live the rest of her life with this ailment when it came to her favorite detective. “Yes?”

“Do you want to grab an ice cream? There’s a great shop on the corner, and I think we deserve a small reward for a job well done.”

Rosa smiled. “I think we do too!”

It was a beautiful day, with a burst of tempered fall sunshine and a fresh breeze coming off the ocean. For a moment, Rosa missed the defined change of seasons she experienced in England, where, by now, the English were wearing fall jackets, hats, and gloves, and stomping through leaves when they weren’t getting rained on.

The moment of nostalgia passed as they walked down the sidewalk, unassaulted by the weather.

Miguel came to a sudden stop.

“What is it?” Rosa asked. Then she saw why Miguel’s jaw had dropped and found that her mouth had dropped open too.

Before them, leaving the ice cream shop, were Detective Sanchez and Carlotta Belmonte!

Miguel stared, dumbfounded at the sight of Detective Sanchez and Carlotta laughing together. Rosa couldn’t hold in a gasp when Miguel’s sister stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed the detective.

“That explains a few things,” Rosa said, her eyebrows reaching. “That’s why his wardrobe—”

“That’s why she’s hanging around so much!” Miguel’s voice rose in pitch. “I thought it was strange that she wanted to hang around Santa Bonita so much lately.” He picked up his pace. “I thought it was just about the case. My partner has seduced my sister!”

Rosa burst out laughing. “Calm down, hombre!” She tugged on his sleeve. “Carlotta doesn’t look like she needs you to walk over there and defend her honor or anything.”

“But…”

“Slow down.” Rosa grabbed his hand, pulling him back.

He slowed to a stop, his eyes focused on their clasped hands. Rosa had meant to grab Miguel’s arm, but . . .

The sensation of his flesh against hers made her shiver, taking her back ten years to when they’d ripped each other’s hearts apart. She slipped her fingers out from his, swallowing hard.

Rosa glanced at Detective Sanchez and Carlotta and felt a pang of jealousy, which surprised her. They looked so happy. Perhaps we’re looking at a Belmonte romance that can go the distance, she thought wistfully.

Some things you just cannot say out loud.

Later that week, Rosa sat poolside at the Forrester mansion under the shade of a brightly colored umbrella, strumming her guitar. A few feet away, Diego sat on his haunches as he watched a butterfly lazily floating from bloom to bloom.

“Dadgummit!” Rosa exclaimed as she stopped playing and shook her left hand. It was a term she had learned from Larry Rayburn, and it seemed an appropriate thing to say when one’s fingers were cramping. Her fingertips had deep, dark-colored grooves in them from pressing down on the strings. It didn’t hurt as much as it had when she’d first bought the guitar, but there were still moments when the familiar sharp pain caused her to take a break. Seeing the Everly Brothers performance had inspired her to practice her guitar more seriously.

“One day, I am going to surprise that Miguel Belmonte,” she said to Diego, who was expertly ignoring her.

And that was all she was going to think about when it came to Miguel today.

Rosa gingerly put her fingers on the neck of her guitar to play that painful F-major chord again. She strummed it once, but her fingers protested again. “Dadgummit!”

“Where on earth did you learn that silly hillbilly slang?” Careful not to spill her glass of wine, Aunt Louisa sat down on one of the lounge chairs and stared at Rosa over black-and-white-striped cat-eye sunglasses.

“I’ve heard it being used occasionally,” Rosa said dismissively. “I think it’s rather charming.”

Aunt Louisa nodded at the guitar. “You’re starting to sound like you know how to play that thing.”

“Thank you. I’m trying.”

“I suppose that Elvis Presley boy further inspired you? He plays guitar, doesn’t he?”

“Actually, I’m rather taken with a new group called the Everly Brothers. They have a style I am much more inspired by. I think it’s gentle and more romantic.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I certainly can understand that. I don’t care for that Elvis fellow. He’s too… I don’t know, manic.”

“I loved his performance!” Grabbing a towel to dry off, Gloria climbed out of the pool and sat down on a lounge chair next to her mother.

“Yes, I know. You’ve only gone on about it every day all day for the last two weeks.” Aunt Louisa sipped her wine then rested her head on the back of the lounger. “I much prefer the smooth tones of Frank Sinatra.”

Señora Gomez entered the patio area. “Miss Gloria, telephone for you. It’s a gentleman.”

Gloria attempted to hold in a smile, but the glint in her eyes gave her away.

“Is it that Applebaum boy?” Aunt Louisa asked tersely.

Without answering, Gloria cast a sly look over her shoulder at Rosa then skittered into the house before her mother could admonish her further.

Aunt Louisa tutted. “I swear that girl lives to vex me.”

Rosa rarely sided with her aunt in social proclivities, but in this case, she wondered if Aunt Louisa was right to worry. Rosa’s only two encounters with Ben Applebaum had been on the film set and at the Elvis concert. That night he’d seemed too busy with his hands all over Gloria to bother extending a greeting to Rosa.

Once again, Señora Gomez entered the patio area, this time, her face flush with excitement. “Miss Rosa, you have a visitor.”

The sun shone from where the man had stepped forward, and at first glance, Rosa thought it was Miguel. She hadn’t seen him since the day he’d come to the office to close Orlando’s case officially. Her heart skipped a beat in anticipation. Why had he come and not simply called?

The man moved into the sunlight, revealing not Miguel, but Larry.

Rosa mentally chastised herself then put on a big welcoming smile. She set her guitar to the side and rose to greet him. “Larry, how wonderful of you to drop in.”

He took both her hands. “I hope you don’t mind, darlin’. I was out drivin’, and next thing I knew, my truck was rumblin’ up your drive.”

Larry was a bit of an oddity in Santa Bonita in that he drove an old Ford pickup truck that he had inherited from his father’s ranch. He kept telling Rosa that he was going to trade it in one day and get a car to better fit in, but so far, that hadn’t happened. Rosa found the old truck charming, very non-British, and didn’t mind riding around town in it.

“Of course not,” Rosa said, then to Señora Gomez, “Would you mind getting Dr. Rayburn a drink?”

“A cola would be fine,” Larry said. He settled in on a patio chair and started chatting comfortably with Aunt Louisa . . . like he was a member of the family.

The contrast between him and Miguel in that regard was startling. Larry would make a good Forrester. He’d make a wonderful husband, and truly, Rosa enjoyed his company.

At that moment, Rosa decided. She was going to put every effort into falling in love with the assistant medical examiner.

Intercepting Señora Gomez, she took the glass of Coca-Cola and brought it to Larry herself.

“Here you go, love,” she said.

He stilled for a moment, at the first use of a very common British term of endearment.

“Thank you, darlin’,” Larry returned. “Your aunt was just telling me about an excitin’ charity event comin’ soon—stock car racin’! I can’t wait to support that one.”

Rosa sat next to him and took his hand. “Neither can I.”

* * *

When Norm Strauss isn’t co-writing the Rosa Reed Mystery series, he works as a singer-songwriter and concert musician.

LISTEN TO the original 1950s-style song written just for Murder and Rock ’n’ Roll ~ Pretty Little Lady in a White Corvette.

https://laplumepressmusic.bandcamp.com/releases

* * *

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Eager to read the next book in the Rosa Reed Mystery series?

Don’t miss Murder at the Races A Rosa Reed Mystery # 6.

Murder is a wreck!

Rosa Reed attends a charity stock car race in Santa Bonita and expects to have an exhilarating time shared with family and friends. That ends when a driver inexplicably crashes into a guard rail and dies. When local assistant medical examiner, Dr. Larry Rayburn determines the death is suspicious, Rosa once again finds herself working with the handsome Detective Miguel Belmonte in an awkward and uncomfortable alliance to solve the murder.

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Rosa & Miguel’s Wartime Romance

PREQUEL - excerpt

Rosa Reed first laid eyes on Miguel Belmonte on the fourteenth day of February in 1945. She was a senior attending a high school dance, and he a soldier who played in the band.

She’d been dancing with her date, Tom Hawkins, a short, stalky boy with pink skin and an outbreak of acne, but her gaze continued to latch onto the bronze-skinned singer, with dark crew-cut hair, looking very dapper in a black suit.

In a life-changing moment, their eyes locked. Despite the fact that she stared at the singer over the shoulder of her date, she couldn’t help the bolt of electricity that shot through her, and when the singer smiled—and those dimples appeared—heavens, her knees almost gave out!

“Rosa?”

Tom’s worried voice brought her back to reality. “Are you okay? You went a little limp there. Do you feel faint? It is mighty hot in here.” Tom released Rosa’s hand to tug at his tie. “Do you want to get some air?”

Rosa felt a surge of alarm. Invitations to step outside the gymnasium were often euphemisms to get fresh.

In desperation she searched for her best friend Nancy Davidson—her best American friend, that was. Vivien Eveleigh claimed the position of best friend back in London, and Rosa missed her. Nancy made for a sufficient substitute. A pretty girl with honey-blond hair, Nancy, fortunately, was no longer dancing, and was sitting alone.

“I think I’ll visit the ladies, Tom, if you don’t mind.”

He looked momentarily put out, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He joined a group of lads—boys—at the punch table, and joined in with their raucous laughter. Rosa didn’t want to know what they were joking about, or at whose expense.

Nancy understood Rosa’s plight as she wasn’t entirely pleased with her fellow either. “If only you and I could dance with each other.”

“One can’t very well go to a dance without a date, though,” Rosa said.

Nancy laughed. “One can’t.”

Rosa rolled her eyes. Even after four years of living in America, her Englishness still manifested when she was distracted.

And tonight’s distraction was the attractive lead singer in the band, and shockingly, he seemed to have sought her face out too.

Nancy had seen the exchange and gave Rosa a firm nudge. “No way, José. I know he’s cute, but he’s from the wrong side of the tracks. Your aunt would have a conniption.”

Nancy wasn’t wrong about that. Aunt Louisa had very high standards, as one who was lady of Forrester mansion, might.

“I’m only looking!”

Nancy harrumphed. “As long as it stays that way.”

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More from Lee Strauss

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THE ROSA REED MYSTERIES

(1950s cozy historical)

Murder at High Tide

Murder on the Boardwalk

Murder at the Bomb Shelter

Murder on Location

Murder and Rock ’n’ Roll

Murder at the Races

Murder at the Dude Ranch

Murder in London

Murder at the Fiesta

GINGER GOLD MYSTERY SERIES (cozy 1920s historical)

Cozy. Charming. Filled with Bright Young Things. This Jazz Age murder mystery will entertain and delight you with its 1920s flair and pizzazz!

Murder on the SS Rosa

Murder at Hartigan House

Murder at Bray Manor

Murder at Feathers & Flair

Murder at the Mortuary

Murder at Kensington Gardens

Murder at St. George’s Church

The Wedding of Ginger & Basil

Murder Aboard the Flying Scotsman

Murder at the Boat Club

Murder on Eaton Square

Murder by Plum Pudding

Murder on Fleet Street

Murder at Brighton Beach

Murder in Hyde Park

Murder at the Royal Albert Hall

Murder in Belgravia

Murder on Mallowan Court

LADY GOLD INVESTIGATES (Ginger Gold companion short stories)

Volume 1

Volume 2

Volume 3

Volume 4

HIGGINS & HAWKE MYSTERY SERIES (cozy 1930s historical)

The 1930s meets Rizzoli & Isles in this friendship depression era cozy mystery series.

Death at the Tavern

Death on the Tower

Death on Hanover

Death by Dancing

A NURSERY RHYME MYSTERY SERIES(mystery/sci fi)

Marlow finds himself teamed up with intelligent and savvy Sage Farrell, a girl so far out of his league he feels blinded in her presence - literally - damned glasses! Together they work to find the identity of @gingerbreadman. Can they stop the killer before he strikes again?

Gingerbread Man

Life Is but a Dream

Hickory Dickory Dock

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THE PERCEPTION TRILOGY (YA dystopian mystery)

Zoe Vanderveen is a GAP—a genetically altered person. She lives in the security of a walled city on prime water-front property alongside other equally beautiful people with extended life spans. Her brother Liam is missing. Noah Brody, a boy on the outside, is the only one who can help ~ but can she trust him?

Perception

Volition

Contrition

LIGHT & LOVE (sweet romance)

Set in the dazzling charm of Europe, follow Katja, Gabriella, Eva, Anna and Belle as they find strength, hope and love.

Sing me a Love Song

Your Love is Sweet

In Light of Us

Lying in Starlight

PLAYING WITH MATCHES (WW2 history/romance)

A sobering but hopeful journey about how one young German boy copes with the war and propaganda. Based on true events.

A Piece of Blue String (companion short story)

THE CLOCKWISE COLLECTION (YA time travel romance)

Casey Donovan has issues: hair, height and uncontrollable trips to the 19th century! And now this ~ she's accidentally taken Nate Mackenzie, the cutest boy in the school, back in time. Awkward.

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About the Authors

Lee Strauss is a USA TODAY bestselling author of The Ginger Gold Mysteries series, The Higgins & Hawke Mystery series, The Rosa Reed Mystery series (cozy historical mysteries), A Nursery Rhyme Mystery series (mystery suspense), The Perception series (young adult dystopian), The Light & Love series (sweet romance), The Clockwise Collection (YA time travel romance), and young adult historical fiction with over a million books read. She has titles published in German, Spanish and Korean, and a growing audio library.

When Lee’s not writing or reading she likes to cycle, hike, and watch the ocean. She loves to drink caffè lattes and red wines in exotic places, and eat dark chocolate anywhere.

Norm Strauss is a singer-songwriter and performing artist who's seen the stage of The Voice of Germany. Short story writing is a new passion he shares with his wife Lee Strauss. Check out Norm’s music page www.normstrauss.com

For more info on books by Lee Strauss and her social media links, visit leestraussbooks.com. To make sure you don’t miss the next new release, be sure to sign up for her readers’ list!

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Copyright © 2020 by Lee Strauss

Cover by Steven Novak

Cover Illustration by Amanda Sorenson

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Murder and Rock ’n’ Roll / Lee Strauss.

Other titles: Murder and Rock and Roll

Names: Strauss, Lee (Novelist), author.

Description: Series statement: A Rosa Reed mystery ; 5 | "A 1950s cozy historical mystery."

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200242709 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200242725 | ISBN 9781774091173

(hardcover) | ISBN 9781774091159 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774091166 (IngramSpark softcover) | ISBN

9781774091135 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774091142 (Kindle)

Classification: LCC PS8637.T739 M68 2020 | DDC C813/.6—dc23