Chapter Forty

It was like a dream come true. I dropped my bags and stepped toward her, fearing she was an apparition. Wait, there was something different about her. I couldn’t quite place it, but while the eyes belonged to Delia, her face looked different. It didn’t matter. Delia was home, and my heart swelled with such joy it hurt to breathe.

“Del,” I squealed, glee spilling over as I rushed toward her. “When did you get back?”

To my surprise, she retreated behind a heavy white-washed log chair. “I was about to call you.”

I paused at the edge of a sand-colored rug, sensing she didn’t want me to come any closer. As she shifted, her hair parted, revealing small flesh colored bandages. I spotted others near the corners of her chin and at the edge of her hairline. “What the hell happened to your face?”

She didn’t reply, tilting her head toward me. Her face looked smooth and nearly flawless and the truth hit me like a smack to my own face.

“You had your face done!”

Delia finally spoke, her thick lips barely moving. “This is the third time. You’ve never noticed before, have you?”

“You told me you did liposuction and botox sometimes and about the boob and nose work, but that was years ago.”

Her sudden laugh was mirthless. “Kimmie, you’re so clueless sometimes.”

I shook off the deprecating humor as I’d been doing since college. “I’m so glad you’re here. You wouldn’t believe the latest chapter in this never ending saga. Hank tells me they’ve got an arrest warrant out for me. Hell, I’m officially a wanted woman.”

Delia didn’t smile at my shaky laugh. “What are you doing here?”

A new predicament occurred to me. “I was going to stay until I can get this thing straightened out. Oliver is not going to do a damn thing if I go to jail, and Sam’s in the hospital. I’m on my own, babe, and I better not stay. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”

This time she did smile, though it was crooked and strained. “That doesn’t sound like the Kimmie I know. She lets everyone else do the dirty work.”

“No more. I’m becoming self-sufficient. Hell, I’ve been figuring things out. I’ve almost got it solved.”

She blinked. “You do? Do you want help?”

“I’d love it,” I squealed. Then I shook my head. “No. You’re my dearest friend. I can’t get you in trouble.”

“At least let me pour some champagne and tell me what you’ve got.”

I checked my watch. I needed to think, and Delia’s clever, devious mind might come up with answers. “Okay, but I can’t get silly. I need to keep my wits about me.”

“I’ll get the Dom.”

She walked out of the room and I retreated to the foyer. I picked up the bag with my laptop and hooked it up to my phone to download the latest picture of my chart. Perhaps as I explained it, something new might occur to me.

I frowned at the small size as the picture came up on the screen. “Hey, Del, can we use Walter’s computer? I can’t see my chart.”

“Sure,” she called back.

Walter’s office was across the foyer and I walked over and turned on the light. The wood paneled office reminded me of an old fashioned men’s club, with its heavy furniture and rich wood. Unlike his business office, his home desk was cluttered with papers, and drawers hung open. A Chanel clutch bag sat on one side of the desk.

I turned on his computer and hooked up my phone. Delia returned with two crystal glasses filled to the brim and a bottle of Dom Perignon tucked under her arm. She handed me a glass.

“To the return of the dynamic duo,” she said with a laugh, and we clinked glasses.

The champagne was icy and slid down my throat in a welcome journey. Champagne, my best friend, and my bag of jewels. What more could I ask for in what might be my last few hours of freedom?

“Tell me who you think did it?” she asked, leaning over to study the chart on the computer screen.

I stood back and stared at the color coded list and began giving her the lowdown.

“First someone had been giving Rick lots of money. I’m not sure why, maybe for gambling or keeping the shop out of hock. I’m not sure what that means, but here are my suspects.”

“Miles Brookings?” she said with a laugh. “Bobbi? Benito Dominguez?” She turned and blinked at me. “None of them makes sense...”

That was when it hit me. Just like Sam said it would. My clever board with all its cute colors and all those motives had not computed. And for one very good reason. One name flashed in front of my eyes.

“The killer’s not on there…” I said, choking.

She blinked. “What? Then who did it?”

“Bridget. The mystery woman who was going to Vegas with him and…giving him all that money…”

She began to laugh and waved a red tipped finger to me. “Of course!”

But something else hit me too, and it chilled me to the bone. “I can’t get over your face,” I said. “Did you have that done in South America?”

“Hell no! You think I’d let some foreign quack fuck with my face?”

Tears filled my eyes. The shock was so swift, so painful it was as though I had been shot. The other woman—Bridget D. When we were in college we made up names to give to guys. Cute names. Like Gidget or Danielle. Or Bridget? My made up names often used the initials DK, the opposite of Kimmie D. She would be BD instead of Delia Burnett.

My hands began to shake and I turned away, dropping my glass on the desk. The heavy crystal didn’t break, but the champagne spilled, dampening my sweatshirt and as I reached forward, my hand hit the bottle and liquid spurted over the desk top.

Delia cursed. “Damn!” She hurried from the room to get towels.

Frantically, I looked around. Now what? Could I be wrong? I reached over and grabbed her small clutch bag and stuffed it inside my hoodie as she appeared from the adjoining bathroom with a wad of towels.

I walked past her to the bathroom. “Excuse me a minute.” With the door closed, I reached into her purse with fumbling fingers. I didn’t know what I was looking for—maybe proof about when she’d returned home. Or left.

The purse was heavy and I touched something smooth and hard, something metal. I wrapped my fingers around the cylinder and pulled, watching in stunned amazement as my gun emerged.

I unzipped an inside compartment, feeling around, fearing what else I might find. I opened a tiny coin purse with shaking fingers and stared inside. My breath caught. A tiny diamond pendant glistened inside. My pendant—the one taken from the neck of Betty Arguello.

“Kimberly?” Her muffled voice came through the closed door.

I jumped, closing the coin purse and stuffing it back into the Chanel bag. I slid the gun into the back of my jeans, much as I’d seen people do on TV.

Fighting nausea that threatened to overwhelm me, I walked out to confront Rick and Betty’s killer. Summoning every ounce of acting skill I’d ever possessed I tried to keep a straight face. Could she have run down Toby? Yes. It explained how my car had been stolen so easily. Delia and I had keys to each other’s house and cars.

Delia, who was always taking spa weekends, or maybe they were trips to Vegas with Rick.

Delia, who had not gone to South America. No wonder she would never leave a hotel number.

Delia, who knew my every move.

Delia, who believed in retribution for betrayals.

Yes, it all added up to Delia.

Okay, I’d solved the damn thing. Now what? What came next? Well, it was a mystery, right? Next came the acknowledgment and the fight where the killer tries to do in the heroine.

Wait! Not if she didn’t know I had it solved. I would drink champagne until the confession was made, pull out the gun and call Hank. It sounded so simple. I might have slid into a movie mystery scenario, except there was too much at stake. I needed to keep my mind clear. No time for Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes. I needed to focus.

Delia had cleaned up the mess. She waved at the computer screen. “Fuck that. Let’s get fresh champagne and talk this out.”

We walked back to the living room, the gun jabbing my lower back. Was the damn thing loaded? What if it shot off my ass? I couldn’t sit down. While Delia poured fresh drinks, I paced the room, touching the various pieces of large Santa Fe furniture, the beige and pink sculptures of Native American chiefs, large white pots filled with dried plants. I couldn’t live here, even if the furniture looked plush and comfortable.

“You’re a terrible detective,” Delia said, coming back into the room with a new bottle of champagne. She handed me a full glass and poured one for herself from the bottle. “I’ve already figured this out. How are you going to find Bridget? That’s not her real name, right?”

A burst of air blew past my lips. Was she going to admit it?

Our eyes met and we both recognized what the other knew. We’d spent too many years together when we didn’t need words to communicate.

“Why?” I asked, putting down my glass. “That’s all I want to know, Del, why?”

Her laugh was pure Delia, but to me, it suddenly sounded evil. “Oh, Kimmie, I’m going to miss you. Maybe we need to figure out someone to pin this on.”

The thought hit me. Maybe that was...no... The last few weeks had been hell. And someone had been trying hard to make it look like I did it. I was beginning to understand why she might kill Rick. Even Betty and Toby. But why would she let me take the blame? My oldest, closest friend, BFF, willing to let me take a murder rap. The Queen, stabbed by her most favored Duchess.

“Why?” I repeated, fearing a massive breakdown. The woman facing me was evolving into a stranger. This new face was not my gal-pal.

“Can’t you guess?”

I didn’t want to. But there was something I needed to know. “How long were you sleeping with him? The whole time?”

She shrugged, showing no remorse. “You knew he was a stud. Why did you think he’d be faithful? Yes, he spoiled you, but that was guilt. You’re so damn self-centered, you sucked it in like it was your right. You couldn’t imagine anyone preferring another woman to you.”

Her voice had taken on the cruel note I often heard her use on others. I’d taken her denigrating remarks toward me as joking, but were they?

“Do you hate me that much?” I asked, my throat dry.

The thick unnatural lips tightened. “I don’t hate you. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re not my friend if you let me go to jail. Was Toby an accident? We can go to Hank. He knows Toby was blackmailing me. He’d understand if he was doing the same to you. Why did you have to hurt him?”

“Toby saw me following you at the pier that night, so I took him on a ride to Santa Monica. And it’s not my car with blood on it. No one will ever prove I did anything.” Her laugh was demonic, maniacal. Mrs. Danvers with the house burning down around her in Rebecca.

“Hank knows I didn’t do it. He was with me that night.”

“Like you were with Miles the night Betty died?” She shook her head in disgust. “Why is it you can always get a man whenever you need one?”

“Why did you kill her? Jealousy?”

“Hell no. I knew he fucked around. She knew about me. That was your fault. All your poking around. She left a message after you talked to her, that she was going to tell you about me. She’d figured out I was using a phony account to give him money.”

“The BD account.”

“And she had that necklace. He used my account to buy the damn thing, but he gave it to her instead of returning it. She was so damn cool about it.” Her stiff face contorted in rage as her voice rose to a raspy shout.

Her deranged anger only made me calmer. “Now what?”

The familiar eyes in the unfamiliar face flamed. “I have a gun in my purse. Your gun. The one I took from Sam. It’s the gun that killed Betty. I was going to plant it in Paula’s car. If I don’t use it to make your death look like a suicide, I may still do that. So it’s your choice. Would you rather drink champagne filled with drugs or blow off your perfect face?”

Neither choice excited me. I smiled. “The gun is no longer in your purse and I’m not telling you where I put it.” I eyed the glass of champagne. It had tasted different than the first one, and I’d barely touched it. I reached out and knocked over the glass. “Oops, I’m so clumsy.”

Again that incredible anger ran across her face, but now there was something else I’d never seen before. Hate? Contempt? It frightened me more than the anger.

“I’m not letting you beat me this time,” she said. “The damn Queen is dead. Even if I have to kill her myself.”