The next day Viv was pleased to confirm that one phone call was all it took. Plus she'd have an opportunity to wear her newly purchased skirt suit sooner than she thought. Glancing at her image in the mirror, she turned to the left then the right to see if everything worked.
The navy-blue pencil skirt fit closely over her hips. Hitting right at the knee, above her tan kitten-heel pumps. The navy-blue matching blazer, with one button in the front, fit effortlessly over a white linen sleeveless shirt. She'd ignored Jason's advice about the pink button-up. Pink and blue remind me of babies. Tugging at her shirt, she noted how the neckline of the blouse dipped just slightly, exposing a glimpse of her cleavage.
Viv felt a shiver of excitement remembering her early morning phone call.
"Hello, is this Mrs. Carmine Nelson?" She'd used her professional voice. Soft but firm.
"Yes, it is," came a mature woman's throaty response.
"First, may I say I'm so sorry for your loss."
Viv had experience with loss, working with so many families and new babies over the years. Because it turned out doulas often had to deliver bad news. Not all babies were perfectly healthy or easy to bring home. And mothers had issues with postpartum depression, which required delicate conversations.
Even dads collapsed into tears on occasion. Over the years people had told her she was a compassionate woman and that she'd made a difference in their lives at very difficult times.
Viv knew it had taken a few mishaps to get her to that point. Once she'd been able to cross the threshold from her own emotions to be present for others, she'd become a better doula.
Her words of condolence began to sound more genuine because she felt them in her gut. The pull of her heart. And the resonant tears that came to her eyes when she shared someone else's grief made a difference as well.
When the grieving woman on the other end of the phone began to weep, Viv knew she should remain silent. She waited patiently, consciously inhaling in, then out. It wasn't until she heard sniffing and then a slight cough that the woman asked, "Who is this I'm speaking to?"
"We haven't met. My name is Vivienne Rose. I was there the night your husband's body was discovered. It was a coincidence, by the way, but I'd like to send a card if you don't mind. Just to say I'm still thinking about him and now you. May I assume that you are his wife…"
"Yes, I am." The woman sniffed and then hiccupped.
Viv kept her voice smooth. "My friend Jason Knew said you wouldn't mind if I called. He gave me your number."
"Oh, Jason. He's such a dear." A fresh burst of sobbing filled Viv's ear.
"I can call back later," Viv offered, as soon as she heard the woman blow her nose.
"Instead of mailing a card, why don't you come by?" An unexpected invitation lay in the air. "Come to the wake we're having for Carmine. I'm sure there will be people here interested in hearing how you found him. It's this afternoon at four o'clock."
Viv could not believe her luck. Maybe while mingling with Carmine's family and friends, she'd find out more about his life. Then she could report to Rex and Sutton and sit back as they admired how she'd gotten information on her own without any help. And without being a tech savvy genius either.
A final inspection in the full-length mirror brought a smile to her lips. I look pretty good, she concluded. Maybe not bombshell good like Sutton, but good for a sixty-year-old woman who has some serious game left in her after all.
The Nelsons lived in the expensive part of Palm Desert. Clean lines of mid-century modernism were evident throughout the neighborhood. Perhaps due to planning restrictions, none of the houses looked exactly like each other.
Named after Ronald Reagan, the custom-built Reagan Estates homes reflected expensive construction materials, including expansive glass exteriors. Each one had a different flair, but all were alike in their charming take on high desert California architecture.
Even the landscaping looked more natural than it did in her neighborhood. Money had been spent to bring in enormous boulders and stretches of river rock, which were surrounded by native cacti and succulents. If you looked carefully you could see drip irrigation, laid just under surrounding gravel, which kept the plants alive.
The hot months, nearly half the year, made watering necessary, especially if you wanted healthy-looking plants. But the water was recycled. That was how Palm Desert got past any complaints from the California State Water Board.
Viv parked along the curb and took a minute to watch people file inside the house. Most wore black, some in equally saturated dark colors. One woman had a hat with a veil over her eyes. Now that's old Hollywood, Viv concluded. And kind of classy too.
She felt confident in her skirt suit. The self-assurance showed in her erect posture and assured walk as she approached the front door.
Viv was used to entering unfamiliar homes. Offering her hand to a greeter at the door, she began the introduction, establishing her connection to leave no doubt as to why she was there. "My name is Vivienne Rose. Beverly Nelson invited me to pay my condolences."
The man nodded. His eyes took in every aspect of her dress before he offered his hand to shake. "Thank you for coming. The body is to the left and the reception to the right. There's a line, but it should move quickly."
Viv's stomach lurched. She'd not expected to view the body. She moved forward to make way for the next person. A quick glance over her shoulder at the man greeting newcomers confirmed her suspicion.
She felt certain the greeter carried a gun in a shoulder holster. She'd seen police officers’ jackets bulge the same way. And even if that guy was sporting a two-thousand-dollar Armani suit, the bulge could be detected.
Viv walked into the foyer, her low heels clicking against the glossy marble floors. She instantly recognized a Carolyn Sale sculpture placed in the center of the room. Ceramic on steel. That must have cost a fortune. She edged closer to glance more closely. Yep, that's an original.
Though Viv was not an art expert, she'd taken a class. The local High Desert of Modern Art Museum, called the MAM by locals, had offered a seminar that was attended by several well-known artists who gave talks.
She stepped away from the statue. Taking her place at the end of the line, Viv assumed a pleasant but serious expression. She tried to look detached. She planned on doing a lot of listening to the people around her. The couple standing ahead of her in line would be her first target. Fortunately they were talking loud enough for her to overhear.
"Beverly must be devastated," said the woman with the hat and veil.
"We've taken care of everything." Her companion wore a black suit and a red tie. And a hat. A fedora tilted back on his head, exposing gray hair.
Viv stepped slightly to the side to get a closer look at his profile. He seemed familiar. Then she knew. That's HOA Frank. She moved back in line, this time an inch closer to the couple to hear even better.
"Have you seen Joey?" the woman asked.
"He's in the dining room. Acting real nervous, you know, offering people drinks and interrupting like he does when he's hiding something."
"Do you think he's the one?" the woman asked.
"Wouldn't surprise me at all," the man said matter-of-factly. "Joey and Carmine had issues going way back. Maybe it finally came to a head and batta boom, batta bing. Carmine is dead."
The woman reached into her purse, pulling out a hankie. "That's so terrible, Frankie. I can't bear to think about it." She dabbed at her eyes.
"You women get emotional. But I'm telling ya. The older you get, the deadlier you've got to be. You take your age and you make it a strength. A real businessman is even more dangerous the longer he lives,” Frank said, then added, "I never cared about dying. That's just life."
His words sounded rehearsed to Viv. Not as if he didn't mean them, but as if he'd said them often and was trying to convince himself.
But Viv didn't entirely disagree with him. Hadn't she just been tiptoeing around the same idea, wondering how to turn her age into her strength? Maybe the dying part was a bit much, but being strong until the end? That philosophy had some merit.