The After Wife (37 page)

“Too soon,” I said. “I feel like I’m betraying Patchett. I liked her. I didn’t know I could like a perfect person.”

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I don’t know, I’m just confused. The whole thing’s overwhelming. I’m just very grateful to you.”

“So that was a gratitude kiss? With tongue?” I said, teasing him. “Just … give me another hug. I miss hugs.”

He opened his arms and grabbed me, pulling me to his chest. I inhaled, deeply. Why do men smell so much like … men? I loved that. I missed that.
Why can’t they smell like … paper?

“Oh,” I said, “I have something to show you.”

I went back inside, and came out with a ledger.

“I was going to come in Monday. Take a look,” I said, as I handed Tom the ledger. He ran his eyes over it. I saw his expression change.

“You’re paying off the note,” he said. “Hannah, I’m so happy for you.”

“I’ll be all paid up, at least through this month, and then we’ll take it a month at a time—”

“That’s fantastic,” Tom said. “Well done, Hannah.”

We hesitated, our bodies inches apart, our minds hovering around what damage we could inflict upon each other and the furniture—at least, that’s what I was thinking. Financial security is my aphrodisiac.

“You should go,” I said.

“Right,” Tom said. “I’ll call you. Tomorrow morning. We’ll start with coffee.”

I waved as every NoMo mom’s wet dream got into his silver BMW and drove away.

Seven
A.M
. The doorbell was ringing. Casa Sugar was crawling with ghosts. I stepped around the pill-popping producer who’d been watching me sleep, the Hollywood wife complaining in my hallway, and the character with the beer gut lying on my couch with a remote in his hand.

I looked out the peephole. Detective Ramirez held up his badge.
What the neighbors must think! I had more police cars outside my house than the SMPD parking lot
.

I sighed and opened the door.

“Good morning, Rude Awakening,” I said. I was barefoot, wearing my favorite robe, which is a mess, as all favorite robes are. Ellie and Brandon were still asleep.

“Ms. Bernal,” he said. Under his arm was a stack of files.

“I’m about to make coffee. Do you want any?”

“No,” Detective Ramirez said.

“You turn down coffee? Is coffee so hard? Is everything about you gruff?”
Why was I suddenly thinking about his kissing skills?

“What do you mean by that?” he said, sounding hurt. “I’m here on official business.”

“You found the Range Rover?” My heart nearly leapt out of my chest.

“No. Ms. Bernal, are you running a business out of your home?”

“A business?” I asked, stalling.

“Yes, a business,” he said. “Are you being paid in cash?”

“I’m not running that kind of business.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“But I could if I wanted to,” I said. “Someone would surely pay for my services after seeing me in this ten-year-old fleece robe with the coffee and formula stains.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared at me.

“You’re here to harass a middle-aged working girl?” I asked. “Really?”

“I’m not harassing you,” Ramirez said. “The Santa Monica Police Department does not harass. We encourage.”

“You nudge.”

“Yes. That’s right. And I’m asking a simple question. Maybe you’ll give me a simple answer. Are you running a business out of your home?”

“No. Well. Maybe.” I was never a good liar. “Detective, I’m trying to pay off my mortgage. I was on the verge of losing my house.”

He handed me a card. It was my business card. The Happy Medium was suddenly less happy.

“What you’re doing is illegal,” he said. “You need a business license.”

“Did someone complain?”

“We’ve had complaints.”

“Complaints plural? Or complaint singular?”

“You’re too much, you know that?”

“Who was it? Tell me or I’ll just keep asking.”

“I can’t tell you that, Ms. Bernal,” Ramirez said. “I don’t care how many times you ask me, there’s no magic number.”

“Was it Dee Dee Pickler?” It had to be Dee Dee. Who else? She’d lost her commission. Labial bling doesn’t come cheap.

“I’m prepared to make a deal,” he said.

“Oh, great,” I said. “I hate deals. Anytime anyone wants to make a deal, I get dealt.” I knew I wasn’t going to like whatever he was going to sell me. But I also knew I had to buy.

“You help me, I help you,” he said, handing over the files.

“I’ve watched enough TV, I know how this goes,” I said. “I’m the plain housewife with the special gift, and you’re the detective who needs my help.”

“That’s right,” Detective Ramirez said, “we need each other, but can’t stand each other, but want each other. In the TV version, of course.”

“At the very least, I want Benjamin Bratt to play the detective.”

“And I get Elizabeth Montgomery,” he said.

“She’s dead.”

“I don’t care,” he said. “She was the best.”

“She was.” I had to agree. I found myself getting jealous over a forty-year-old character from
Bewitched
.

“Cold cases,” he said, regarding the files. “Maybe you have a gift. Maybe not. But if you do, the City of Santa Monica needs your help.”

“What do you mean, maybe?” I asked. “People are paying good money for my services.”

“Great. Be sure to let the IRS know,” he said. “Take a look. See what you see. Or hear, or whatever you do.”

“How many unsolved mysteries do you have in here?” I asked. “Santa Monica’s a vast, crime-ridden metropolis? Since when?”

“You’d be surprised. We have an unsolved murder just a few blocks west of here.”

“I feel like Angela Lansbury, only older,” I said.

“I loved that show,” Ramirez said. “I think she’s a very good-looking woman; I’m not ashamed.”

“Ever thought of getting a life?”

“Never. What would I do with it?”

Ellie ambled into the living room, took one look at Detective Ramirez, and went for my leg, clinging to me, thumb in her mouth.

“Hi, there,” he said, taking off his sunglasses.

“Can I touch your head?” she asked.

“Ellie,” I said, “that’s inappropriate.”

Ramirez smiled and knelt to her level, so that they were looking at each other, eye-to-eye. He bent his bald head down. “Give it a try,” he said.

She rubbed his head ever so lightly with her chubby little fingers.

“Good?” he asked.

“Good,” she said, giggling. Ellie was flirting with Detective Ramirez. Ramirez looked up at me and smiled. Is this the first time I’d seen his teeth?
Without me being afraid of getting bit?

“I wanted to let you know,” Detective Ramirez said, looking at me. “We’re going to trial next week. On, you know”—he hesitated—“the hit-and-run.”

“Mr. Del Toro didn’t do it,” I said. Ramirez stood and wiped imaginary creases from the front of his pants. He was buying time.

“Please,” I said, grabbing his hand. “You believe in me now, and I’m telling you. That guy is innocent.”

“I’m sorry, Hannah.” He turned, waving at Ellie as he left. He walked like an English bulldog, side to side.

I shook my head, and found myself wondering if he’d ever ask me to dinner. I liked the way my name sounded, coming out of his mouth. I squeezed my hands around the stack of files. My workload had just doubled.

I had dropped Ellie off at school, and was meeting Jay and Aimee for coffee at the Pirates before medium hours. Ramirez’s files were in my Whole Foods “Yes, This Is My Bag” bag. I took out the pile and placed them on the table in front of me.

I sipped my vanilla soy latte and opened up the first file.

A little girl. Pigtails. Freckles. 1978.

Oh my God
. I closed my eyes, just briefly. Immediately, I saw a man’s hands. Rough. Carpenter?
Someone who’d been working on the roof
. I put that one aside, for now. I needed a moment.

Next one. A grandmother, killed in her bed. No sign of forced entry. I looked at the date. August 2, 1987.

Okay, this one, I could handle
. I closed my eyes, then opened them again. The woman was sitting across from me.

“My grandson,” she said, her voice low and sad. “He’d been doing drugs. He was stealing from me. He’s dead now, too.”

I nodded. I heard dogs barking. I looked up and saw Chloe tying her dog menagerie to the lone newspaper vending machine outside the coffee joint. Waving a copy of the
Santa Monica Mirror
, she rushed inside and sat across from me. She was breathing hard and her eyes were spinning.

“Chloe, do you have rabies?” I asked.

“Bakasana … I want to talk to Bakasana,” Chloe said, as Jay and Aimee walked in, Aimee waddling and Jay prancing like a Lipizzaner stallion.

“Bakasana?” I asked, acting dumb. “What do you mean?”

“Angel killed him,” Chloe said. “I know it. She came back last night and tried to snatch my Jack Russell mix, Mulabunda.”

“Angel?” Aimee asked. “That weird dog?”

“Angel isn’t a dog,” Chloe whispered, slapping the newspaper against the table.

“What do you think she is?” Jay asked, although he already knew the answer. “A unicorn?”

“She’s a coyote,” Chloe said. “Look at this. Look at the picture. I had a coyote living in my home, eating my gluten-free food.” She pointed to the newspaper. On the front page was a picture of a coyote, wandering 16th Street, a small animal in its jaws. The byline read:
COYOTE TERRORIZES NORTH OF MONTANA
.

“And your dogs, apparently,” Aimee said, looking at the photograph. She read the first few lines of the article. “… female coyote responsible for latest spate of pet killings in exclusive North of Montana neighborhood … Oliver, Beckett, zoe, Miles … Keats.” Aimee looked up. “Someone named their dog Keats? Really?”

“That’s her. That’s the hemp collar I bought online,” Chloe said. “It’s from a Peruvian transgender co-op, took me forever to find it.”

“So … Bakasana’s a dog chew …,” Jay said, glancing at the article.

“Chloe, I saw Bakasana … in a vision,” I confessed, putting my hand on hers. “The good news is, he looked happy. For a Pomeranian.”

“Chloe, is Angel loose?” Aimee asked.

“Well, she’s had a couple litters, I think,” Chloe said. Jay and I looked at each other, suppressing an urge to laugh. “I have to stop Angel’s killing spree, and I’m going to take care of this. My way.”

“Meditation and thistle tea?” Jay asked.

“How can you guys joke about this when I’m hurting?” Chloe said.

“Nobody likes Pomeranians, Chloe,” Aimee said. “They never have. It’s all a lie.”

“Whatever. I’m going to find that bitch,” Chloe said. She stood up, and shook the newspaper. “In the name of every Fluffy, Scooter,
Lucky, Keats, and Bakasana, I’m putting an end to her reign of terror.”

She strode out, untied her dog from the vending machine, and rushed down the street.

“Wow,” Jay said, “she’s very Joan of Arc this morning. Or should I say, Joan of Bark.”

I thought for a moment. Something nagged at me.

“Guys,” I said, setting my latte down, “does Chloe still have that gun?”

We ran up 17th after Chloe. At her house, we were surprised to find Billy, dressed in tight yoga shorts and a
Spiritual Gangsta
tank top, answering the door. An Om meditation tape played loudly in the background.

“Billy, didn’t you join the Marines?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, those mini-shorts are very
all that you can be
,” Jay said.

“I tried,” Billy said. “Boot camp is hard. I was competing against eighteen-year-olds. Plus, I couldn’t use my smartphone. I got an honorable discharge, though.” He looked shorter when not dressed to invest. I hadn’t seen him in months. “I’m sorry about your husband, Hannah,” Billy said. “I don’t think I ever got the chance to say that. I liked John a lot.”

John thought Billy was a blowhard. Billy thought John was a sandal-wearing omelet maker
. Either times had changed drastically or death brings out the dishonest in people. I let it go.

“Thank you, Billy,” I said. “Is Chloe home? We’re looking for her. It’s important.”

“She dropped off the dogs a few minutes ago,” he said. “I don’t know where she went. Try the co-op. Or wait, Whole Foods?”

Whole Foods was the Santa Monica fallback location. If you were searching for a spouse, boyfriend, dog, child, Jimmy Hoffa, the first place you look was the deli counter at Whole Foods.

“Billy,” I said, “did she take that shotgun with her?”

He looked at me, alarmed. “Let me check.” Billy left the room,
then walked back a minute later. “It’s not here,” he said. “Hannah—is Chloe okay?”

“Fuming in silence tires me out, especially in my condition,” Aimee said. “Your wife is crying out for help. You left her alone with I don’t know how many kids and dogs, and what about this yogini girlfriend?”

“Tatiana?” Billy said. “She wasn’t my girlfriend.”

“Tatianas are always girlfriends,” Aimee said. “Have you ever heard of a wife named Tatiana?”

“Whatever it was … it’s over,” Billy said. “I love my wife. My kids. And my practice.
Namaste
.”

“Billy,” I said, “this isn’t about you. Chloe needs our help. Now.”

“I’ll use my Marine training,” he said. “We’ll find her. Let me get my gear on.” He hurried to get dressed.

“I hear you rolling your eyes, Jay,” I said, as I watched Billy bolt the stairs in his teeny-tiny shorts.

Marine training only works on water, apparently; it was for shit on land. We spent hours driving from 26th to Ocean, from San Vicente to Montana, and back again. We didn’t bother with SoMo. Angel knew her neighborhoods: NoMo meant steak from The Farms, and a higher ratio of pets to clueless owner.

Chloe wasn’t answering her phone. As we sat at the curb on Alta and 20th, I remembered my conversation with the coyote lady, months ago.

“Coyotes hang out in abandoned houses and empty lots,” I said.

“There’s a ton of those in NoMo,” Jay said.

He was right. Older homes were being bought up like gold bars and demolished overnight, so fast that you couldn’t remember if they’d really been there, or if they were part of a dream.