Till Beth Do Us Part (A Jamie Bravo Mystery Book 2) Read online

  That's even worse than a wedding. So much worse. I lean against the counter and sip my skinny latte with hazelnut flavoring and chocolate sprinkles. It's pretty good. Travis made it for me with his new espresso machine.

  When I chided him for spending so much money on the contraption, he argued that it was fiscally responsible. He'd found some book by Suze Orman and she told him to stop spending so much money at Starbucks. So he paid hundreds of his hard-earned dollars for a machine to make his own lattes at home. It should only take him three years to have the machine paid off from the money he's saving by not going to Starbucks and after that it would only take another twenty years to become a millionaire if he invests his latte money in a tax-free bond municipal stock portfolio. Or something like that.

  All I know is, I get great coffee every morning.

  “Good coffee,” I say, hoping he'll forget about the high school reunion.

  “Thanks,” he replies. He pats his non-existent tummy. “Those caramel macchiatos were making me fat. That's why I perfected the skinny latte.”

  I nod and pretend to be interested. “Well, this one is great. I really like the sprinkles. They give it that extra something.”

  “Who are you taking to the reunion?”

  I sigh inwardly. I should've known he wouldn't be deterred so easily. “I really wish you'd stop opening mail addressed to Jamie Bravo and not Travis Tilden.”

  “I open Ivan’s mail. He doesn’t mind,” Travis says, making himself another latte.

  “Ivan is a dog and does not get mail.” I hold out my cup for a refill.

  “Fat lot you know,” he says. “Ivan is a major contributor to the Home for Ugly and Unadoptable Dogs as well as Best Friends of the Humane Society for helping him find his forever home. He gets lots of letters.”

  “I don’t think he's the one writing the donation checks.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Uh, he doesn’t have opposable thumbs for starters.”

  Travis puts a saucer of latte on the floor for Ivan. “You’re being a thumbist and it’s not very attractive.”

  Veronica-the-Cat yowls from the counter. She has an innate sense of fairness. If the dog gets his saucer, so should she. Travis quickly puts down a saucer of milk with a tiny dash of coffee in front of her.

  “Has anyone told you that you’re weird?”

  “Only every boyfriend I’ve ever had,” Travis says. He hands me another latte. I have to admit his lattes are keeping me energized. Without them I'd probably stay in bed and bemoan the fact that my bizzness isn't very bizzy. In fact, it's so slow it's dead.

  “Latte! Latte!” screeches the parrot. Fruit Loops is his name. He was also an accidental roommate. The thing is I don't know how to get rid of him. That means our living space has a cat, a dog, and a bird. All we need is a fly and a spider and we could re-enact that story “The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly.”

  Ivan barks at Fruit Loops. Fruit Loops barks back. Veronica arches her back and hisses. Fruit Loops hisses back. He's an excellent mimic.

  “Latte! Latte!” he squawks again.

  Travis pours a small cup of latte for the bird and sets it on top of the fridge for him. It's a caffeinated zoo around here and Travis is the zookeeper. What does that make me? I'm afraid to ask.

  “So what are you going to wear?” Travis asks. Obviously, his lattes have already kicked in—he's doing calf raises. Up on his toes, then down. Up on his toes, then down. I'm getting seasick just watching him.

  “I'm wearing what I always wear,” I say. I do a Vanna White with my hands, showing off my work uniform of black pants and black T-shirt. It's what I always wear. As a P.I. you never know when you might have to blend into shadows.

  “Not today,” Travis says, balancing on his toes. “I meant what are you going to wear to your reunion?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That's a bit risqué,” Travis says. “Are you sure the Lady Godiva look is appropriate for your advancing age?”

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “And it might get you arrested which wouldn’t do wonders for your private investigator business. People don’t like to hire people with a police record.”

  “I meant I am not going to the reunion,” I clarify. I stalk to the hall closet and grab my fedora. I smash it down on my head. I'm a little put out about the advancing age remark. Just because I don't do calf raises while I wait for my coffee to perk.

  Travis follows me to the closet. “You have to go. It’s your twenty-year reunion. You have to go while you still look good. When you go to your twenty-five, thirty, and on into infinity, everyone looks all wrinkly and tells boring stories. And pictures of the grand kids are pulled out.”

  “God forbid.”

  “I’ll pick out an outfit while you’re at work. Reggie, our personal darling of Nordstrom sales staff, will help me,” Travis says.

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’m not going so I don’t need a new outfit. Besides this month has been kind of slow which means so is the cash flow. Don’t buy anything. I can’t afford it.”

  I head out the door with Ivan at my heels.

  “No worries,” Travis calls after me, “That’s what credit cards are for.”

  I shut the door behind me. No way am I giving Travis my credit card. I feel pretty smug for averting that disaster as I get in Silver and start up the engine.

  Then I remember something: Travis opens all my mail. He probably has my credit cards.

  Three

  I have an office in a strip mall. It looks like crap, has a mouse problem, and the air conditioner never works. It also has a weird smell. It could be from the Chinese take-out place next door, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's actually the green carpet. In fact, I don't think the carpet's natural color is green. On the plus side, the rent is cheap.

  I sit at the desk with my head in my hands. I don't have the light on so it's pretty dark in here. I would like to have light, but unfortunately the utility company likes to be paid or they cut you off.

  Ivan naps on the floor beside me. I stare at my phone. “Ring, ring, ring,” I command. Then I add, “I command thee to ring.”

  It doesn't ring.

  I furrow my brow and wrinkle my nose and squint my eyes at the silent phone. I stare at it and will it to ring. My sister, Juniper, and I used to do this when we were kids. We had seen some TV show where a man could make things happen just by thinking about them. Juniper and I spent many teenage hours, lying on our backs on my bed, staring at the overhead light and willing it to flicker. We'd concentrate real hard, sending our brain waves out to do our bidding. We chanted over and over and over, “Flicker, flicker, flicker.” It never worked.

  It doesn't work on the phone either. And my face gets tired of scrunching. I cross my arms and look down at Ivan. “That positive thinking seminar I took didn't work. You think I can get a refund?”

  Ivan licks his butt. I guess that means no.

  Just then my phone rings.

  “Whoa. . . maybe it did work after all.”

  Ivan looks up expectantly. “Don't worry, boy. If this is a work call, I'll buy you some dog food. Not those Thrifty Bits either. I'll spring for the expensive kind.”

  I pick up the phone on the second ring (I don't want to appear desperate) and use my professional voice to answer, “Bravo Detective Agency.”

  “Jamie,” a sandpapery voice says. I know that voice. It belongs to Frankie Smith. (Smith isn't his real name.) He's a capo in the mob. I did some work for him a while back and went undercover in a dog show. Ever since then he hires me to do 'debt resolutions' for his 'company.'

  What that means is if somebody owes him money, he sends me to the debtor's family and I try to sweet talk them into paying. It's a solution that's worked pretty well so far. Everybody comes away happy—Frankie gets his money plus the vig, I get a chunk of the ol' cashola, and the debtor doesn't have to wear cement underpants and go swimming in the lake. It's a win-win for everybody.<
br />
  Frankie continues, “One hour.” Then he hangs up.

  That's code for he wants me to meet him in an hour at Giovanni's Gelato. That's where he hangs out with his cronies. He hung up before I could say yes or no because. . . well, because no isn’t really an option.

  I hang up the phone and smile down at Ivan. Work, paid work, is on the way. “Well, Ivan, looks like we can pay the electric bill soon. And get you those Ritzy Bits. Good news, huh?” I stride across the tiny room in three steps and grab my trusty fedora from the hat rack. The office came with the hat rack. It's missing a leg so it's tipsy, but if I hang my hat just so it evens out.

  I barely have my hat on my head when the door opens and a woman enters like she's being blown in by a hurricane. The woman has long shapely legs made even more shapely by high heels and a dress up to yon. She has boobs that cost more than I make in a year. For a moment I feel like Mike Hammer about to meet a dame in distress.

  Then I recognize the dame. It's my ex, Veronica. She's a giant pain in my tokus. “Don't you ever knock?” I say by way of greeting.

  “Why? You know it’s me,” Veronica says. She prances across the room like a show pony in a circus and sits on the edge of my desk. She stacks her pins one on top of the other, her dress hikes up, and even in the dark I can see the expanse of silky thigh calling my name.

  “You could’ve been a client,” I say.

  “Not true,” she retorts, “Clients knock first.”

  That's the kind of logic she uses. She's a lawyer and uses that same logic to get her clients off scot free. I don't argue back. Veronica is hardwired for winning and never admits defeat.

  Ivan pokes his nose out from under my desk, bares his pointy little teeth, and growls at Veronica. This is yet another reason I love him. He's a great judge of character.

  Veronica looks down at Ivan, raises her botoxed upper lip and growls back at him. Ivan yips and disappears back under the desk. I feel sorry for him. I know how scary Veronica can be.

  “Why you have that hideous creature I will never fathom,” Veronica says.

  I chuckle. Not because anything is funny, but because I have a pretty good idea what Ivan's next move will be.

  “You have that hideous cat.” That's not entirely true. Veronica brought home a cat and after two days she dumped it at my place. She said she was allergic to cats, but I think she's allergic to anything that doesn't obey her unconditionally. Now I'm stuck with the cat. I named it Veronica because it's self-absorbed just like its namesake.

  “Cats are superior beings. Even the Egyptians thought so. I don’t see a dog immortalized,” she says.

  I could argue with her on that one. I could point out such immortalized dogs as Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, and that dog in the Taco Bell commercials. But I'm not going to be drawn into an argument about the superiority of cats vs. dogs. It's just a smokescreen for the real reason she's here. Just like her flashing her legs at me is designed to get me flustered so I'll do what she commands.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  She reaches out one well-manicured hand, grips me by the front of my shirt, and reels me in close. The smell of her Poison perfume engulfs me. I try to hold back a sneeze.

  She fiddles with the buttons on the front of my shirt. “I want you to take me to our high school reunion. I can’t possibly show up alone. How will I ever get a date with Beth Ellen Warren if I arrive alone? I’ll look like a loser.”

  So that's what this is all about. Veronica has had a thing for Beth Ellen since high school. She was Veronica's fantasy girl. The elusive cheerleader everyone wanted. Especially the gay girls. Beth Ellen wouldn't give Veronica the time of day, which is probably why Veronica's still crushing on her.

  I back away from Veronica's clutches and smooth the front of my shirt. “You mean to tell me you still have a thing for Beth Ellen? Give it up. She’s not even gay.”

  “My sources tell me something to the contrary. She left her husband six months ago and she’s in the market for some big time girl love,” Veronica says.

  “I don't believe it.”

  “Jealous?” Veronica asks.

  “Au contraire, mon frère.” That was a low blow. I know that Veronica and Beth Ellen were in the same high school French class together. When Beth Ellen spoke French it made Veronica's heart go pitter patter. It didn't matter that Beth Ellen was only conjugating verbs.

  Veronica ignores my poke at the past. She uncrosses her legs, flashing some well-toned inner thigh, and re-crosses her legs to the other side.

  “Why, Jamie Bravo,” she says in an accent reminiscent of Scarlett O'Hara, “I do believe you are jealous.”

  I unglue my eyes from her legs. “And just who are your sources? Those kinds have tendencies to tell you what you want to hear. Especially if you pay them.”

  Veronica puffs out her chest—no small feat—and says huffily, “I did not pay them. I would never sink that low. The info came from a trusted source. Tiffany.”

  “Which Tiffany?”

  “The one we went to high school with.”

  “Tiffany A.?”

  “No, the other other Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany T.?”

  “Not that one.”

  “Tiffany J.?”

  “I don't know a Tiffany J.”

  “Then which Tiffany was it?”

  “The Tiffany that tends bar at the Good Time Girls.”

  “I don't know that Tiffany,” I say. “I thought I knew all the Tiffanies in our graduating class.”

  “Anyway, she saw Beth Ellen dancing sexy and locking lips with some skank.”

  “It’s funny how every woman is a skank if they happen to be someone else’s girlfriend,” I say.

  I watch out of the corner of my eye as Ivan slinks out from under the desk. He raises his little black nose and sniffs the underside of Veronica's dangling shoe. The way his nose twitches I gather he doesn't like what he’s smelling.

  “I’m saying Beth Ellen could definitely get someone better than Deb Smucker.”

  “And you just happen to be that deserving soul.”

  Unseen by Veronica, Ivan sniffs her other shoe.

  I slide past Veronica’s shapely gams and walk to the lop-sided hat rack. I reach out for my fedora and only then do I realize the hat is already on my head. I thumb the brim back on my head at a rakish angle, wink at Veronica, and head for the door. I might have to beat a hasty retreat, judging by Ivan's raised leg.

  “Where are you going? I’m not done talking to you,” Veronica says to my retreating back. Even though I can't see her I know that she's doing the sexy lip-pooching thing.

  I have one hand on the doorknob when I say, “I have an appointment. Besides you’re going to want to leave in a moment yourself.”

  Ivan lets loose with a stream of well-aimed pee. It arcs high in the air and splashes down on the toe of Veronica's red high heels.

  Veronica’s face explodes. “What on earth!” She hops off the desk. “You horrid little beast!” She kicks out at Ivan, but he's too fast. He tucks his tail between his legs and runs in my direction. Veronica kicks nothing but air, and just like Charlie Brown kicking the football Lucy holds for him, she slips, and crashes down onto her gym-toned gluteus maximus.

  I hold open the door and Ivan rushes through. “Lock up when you're done!” I shout, shutting the door behind me.

  I can hear Veronica yelling, “Do you have any idea how expensive these shoes are? Manolos don't grow on trees, you know!”

  I can't help myself. I open the door a crack and yell back inside. “You still have one shoe left.”

  I quickly shut the door as a barrage of swear words are hurled my way. I scoop Ivan into my arms and duck inside the Chinese restaurant next door. I watch through the plate glass window as Veronica limps out of my office, one wet shoe in her hand, and heads toward her car.

  She stops and howls, “That's my car!”

  I laugh when I see a tow truck pulling away with her fancy new Lexus hit
ched to its back. I've told her a million times not to double-park, but she always thinks the law applies to everyone but her.

  Veronica chases after the tow truck, waving her solo Manolo in the air. A puff of black smoke belches out of the truck's tailpipe and directly into Veronica's face. She coughs and waves at the smoke. As the truck turns onto the main road Veronica winds up like a baseball pitcher and hurls her shoe after it. It bounces off the bumper of her Lexus and comes to a standstill in the middle of the road.

  Two seconds later the shoe is flattened by an SUV.

  I laugh until I almost pee my pants. Even Ivan is laughing. “Good boy,” I say, scratching him behind the ears. “She deserved it.”

  This is why I always park in the alley behind the strip mall. I hurriedly exit through the restaurant kitchen, avoiding the stares of the cook and dishwasher. I pile into Silver, secure Ivan in his basket, and head for Giovanni's Gelato.

  I keep giggling about Veronica. She's probably limping down the side of the road, furiously dialing her phone for help.

  The day is suddenly looking up.

  Four

  You've probably heard of the famous Chinatown in San Francisco. Well, Lakeland is home to the infamous Little Italy. It's a part of town that is insular. Meaning, it has its own culture, rules, societal norms, and fashion. It's a proud part of town. Italians are a proud people. Shop owners sweep the sidewalks and women still scrub their front stoops.

  You can drive down the streets of Little Italy and see men wearing gold necklaces, women with high, teased hair, and the smells. . . My God, the smells are enough to drive you to the brink of sanity. Wafting from every window is the aroma of gravy simmering (us Italians don't call it sauce, it's gravy), garlic, fresh bread, and my personal favorite—baked ziti.

  If I had to have a last meal it would be my ma's ziti. Some women have great legs, a big set of knockers, a lovely smile, or a sparkling personality. My ma has ziti. According to the men of Little Italy, my ma also has those other things. The ziti is just icing on the cake.

  Speaking of desserts, I pull Silver over to the curb right in front of Giovanni's Gelato. It's the gangster hangout. Or as I call them—the goombahs. I lock up the car, tuck Ivan under one arm and stroll inside. The bell over the door announces my arrival. I put Ivan down on the floor. I don't have to worry about health codes here. Since this place is just a front for Frankie's business, the only health code is whether or not Frankie is going let you live or die.