Blues at 11 Read online

  A young woman in a baggy T-shirt and worn jeans that hung from nonexistent hips hunched over the desk, sorting through papers. This must be the new producer. Mousy hair the color of a dirty spider web hung in an uneven curtain around a pale, hawkish face. She looked two years out of high school.

  “All I know is what I wrote down. Can’t you say that?” Her apologetic tone was lost on Gwen.

  “Then what? What do I do after that?”

  “I don’t know!” The girl lifted thin shoulders, looking ready to burst into tears. Bright red spots dotted sunken cheeks. “We could get on first. No one else is on the air.”

  I jerked my gaze to banks of monitors that ringed the upper newsroom walls. Sure enough, stations were broadcasting infomercials. Only our station had a red stripe with a news crawl along the bottom of the screen, mentioning the earthquake.

  Adrenaline surged through me, erasing my cobwebs. Quake size might be the number that mattered at the moment, but tomorrow the ratings’ numbers would reign, along with who got on the air first.

  “I’ll do it,” I said, and they whirled toward me. Gwen’s eyes narrowed to brown pinpoints of anger, and a startled look flashed across the young producer’s face.

  I sensed confrontation in the making. Gwen was early weekend anchor, but I knew Alan, our news director, would want me on the air.

  Gwen’s gaze shot daggers my way. “You’re not ready. You look...”

  She paused, but I knew how bad I must look. I’d seen the bags under my eyes that resembled steamer trunks when I got dressed. In my current condition I knew I was unrecognizable without makeup.

  “Give me two minutes.” My voice rang with more confidence than I felt. It would take longer than that to fix what ailed me, but I couldn’t back down. Gwen had made it clear that she’d love to claim my job.

  “Why should you go on? I’m the morning weekend anchor.” Gwen appealed to the producer to make the decision.

  I tried to keep from sounding catty. “I know what to say. Are we getting any calls? What about on our website? Any people sending in comments on what they felt or if they have damage? Fire up the camera. Let’s go!”

  The girl blinked at my orders, caramel eyes darting to Gwen for permission.

  My pounding head was like a snare drum. Tired of hesitation, I snapped my fingers. “Come on, Laurie.”

  “Lindy,” she corrected, not moving.

  Gwen started to argue, but Reba marched into the newsroom. Her curly red hair tumbled around padded shoulders and she teetered on three-inch mules that made her nearly six feet tall. Her oversized sweater was a jumble of red and orange streaks over neon pink tights and her fuzzy mules were crimson. She began firing orders in a sharp tone that would make a drill sergeant proud.

  “Gwen, get on the air until Kimberly is ready. James is in Las Vegas, but Brad Singer’s on his way.” Brad was her evening co-anchor, and she bristled again.

  I ignored her and smiled at Reba. “How did you manage to put on makeup so early in the morning?”

  She never wore foundation over her perfect white skin, but her emerald eye shadow and thick black liner that made her green eyes resemble a cat’s were in place.

  “I do it in the car at red lights.” She winked, and without missing a beat, turned to the producer. “Lindy, we need information. Surely people are tweeting what they felt.”

  I snapped my fingers as a sudden thought hit me. “Call James on his cell. He should have felt the quake in Vegas. We’ll do a phone report. Also, call Earl’s Diner in Baker. It’s open 24-7. See if anyone will talk.”

  “Is there anything else you need?” The girl’s voice was no longer questioning.

  “Coffee, Laurie. Lots of coffee.”

  I started to turn toward the makeup room, but caught a look of dismay on her face. I could hear the story now—I marched in like a diva, demanded to be put on the air and ordered her about like a waitress. And her name wasn’t Laurie.

  A sudden jolt sent everyone scrambling. The girl stared at me with wide, terrified eyes.

  I smiled, voicing bravado I didn’t feel in my shaken insides. “It’ll be okay, Lindy. Feed me info, and we’ll get through this.”

  ****

  Four hours later the crisis had passed and the floor director counted me down.

  “Thank you for tuning in. We’ll update today’s quake throughout the day, and join Brad and Gwen at five for the latest.” I nodded at Brad beside me and presented a wide smile until the red light on the studio camera went dark.

  He removed his microphone and held out both hands. “You are phenomenal.”

  Brad was a new anchor who had come over from the network, but he resembled an L.A. boy. Tall, photogenic, and oozing charm. His sandy hair sported a style that would fall into place no matter how the wind blew and his suit was Armani, though he’d arrived in a T-shirt and jeans and still wore his Nikes.

  I nodded and winced as my head resumed its earlier pounding. At least aspirin and coffee had slowed the tympanic symphony in my head to an occasional bongo solo. Lifting my shoulders, I stretched and rolled my aching head around.

  “Feeling better?” he asked.

  “It shows?”

  “Only the red eyes.” His grin was playful as he reached over to brush his fingers over my temple.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated on the soft circular motions of his moving fingers. “All I need is a good massage.”

  His hands dropped to the shoulder of my Escada suit. “I’ve been told I have great hands.”

  My eyes flew open. Was he flirting? I might be a free agent, but there was my rule about dating coworkers. I eased away.

  Reba appeared at the edge of the set and clapped. “My heroes! We beat everyone in town. Paula Gardner and Joe Harte didn’t show till an hour ago. Wanna be my permanent team?”

  “Keep paying me what I’m getting and I’ll work weekends.” I moved toward her, farther from Brad’s tempting hands.

  “Pay me half of what you pay her, and I’ll do anything you want.”

  Ouch. My salary was a major sore point. Every time Jim or I signed a new contract, our salaries were open topics of discussion. I’d been told reporters once counted up words in an hour-long script to determine how much I was paid for each word.

  “I’m buying mimosas,” Reba announced.

  My stomach revolted at the idea. I’d barely made it through the morning. I patted her arm as I left the set. “Next time.”

  Escaping the bright studio felt good, but the searing lights of the makeup room were nearly as bad. After dimming them, I sank onto one of the padded chairs. Seeing my reflection in the wall of mirrors was painful. My eyes were bloodshot and I’d applied so much makeup even Picasso might be proud. I felt like one of his paintings filled with rich, distorted color.

  My cell phone buzzed on the counter, informing me I had messages. I reached over and checked the numbers—my mother, my sister Nancy, Delia, and Rick.

  Rick the Weasel? What did he want? We hadn’t talked since “The Great Break Up” one week ago today. The prick could rot in hell.

  I punched “call” and said, “Mom.” She answered so quickly she must have been sitting on her phone.

  “You looked wonderful, Mija,” she cooed. “Que bonita.”

  Four hours on the air, calming the city, and all Mom could say was that I looked pretty? At least she hadn’t spotted my hangover. If I looked haggard on the air, she would tell me.

  “I don’t think that shade of orange is a good color in the morning. It’s too bright. You should have worn your green suit. It brings out the green in your eyes.”

  “I’ll remember next time.” It was pointless to say I didn’t have time to think about clothes. Ever since I took her with me to shop before my first reporting job, she had appointed herself my style expert. She considered it her duty to keep me looking good.

  “What time will you be here for dinner?” she asked.

  “I’ve been up since five...” I s
ighed. Normally I scheduled Delia’s martini lunches around Mom’s Sunday dinners, but this weekend had been our only opportunity to discuss Rick’s betrayal before Del left town. Now I faced driving to Pomona with a raging hangover and Mom wouldn’t accept an earthquake as an excuse. As the orchestra tuned up in my head, I agreed to arrive by three.

  “Bueno. Next time remember the green suit.”

  My phone beeped as I was about to tap off. I feared the sound of my sister’s strident voice as I hit the talk button, but it was worse.

  “Good morning, you were great today,” Rick said as though we were still friends.

  The throbbing returned in the form of a persistent thump, like an unwanted guest at the door. “What do you want?”

  “You’re certainly in a mood.” His voice grew teasing.

  “Goodbye, Rick.”

  “Wait! We need to discuss things...”

  I started to click off, but caught the words “clothes” as he continued to talk.

  “I must return your belongings,” he was saying. “And I left things at your place.”

  Oh, hell. Some of my clothes and shoes remained at his house. “Pack them up and I’ll get them. I may dump your crap in the alley behind your store.”

  “Not my silver bat.”

  “Your silver-plated bat. You left it at my house.”

  Trust Rick the baseball fan to focus on that stupid bat. He claimed it once belonged to Duke Snider when the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn.

  “For your protection, but then I got you a gun. You can keep that, and we talked about not returning gifts like jewelry...”

  “Good,” I snapped, glancing at the Rolex he’d given me.

  “One thing...” Why did the man never finish a thought? How had I put up with that for so long? “That diamond pendant I sent you last week...”

  The one I’d used to subdue the Bimbo and her pal? “Yes?”

  “You realize I bought it out of guilt. You wore it today and it upset Bobbi.”

  I was on the verge of yanking it off, but his comment stopped me. “So?”

  “Why did you tell her about it?”

  So Rick had been lurking as Delia and I suspected. We spotted his car as we left Geneva. We’d even tossed a nasty note onto the front seat.

  “I need it back, Kimberly, and please don’t make any more scenes.”

  “Scenes?” What was he talking about? Had he seen me fall off the barstool?

  “You need to find better ways to spend weekends than getting drunk, becoming disorderly, and tormenting girls.”

  I’d had enough. “Wells, you low-life fucking piece of crap! You really want to know how I spent the day? Planning the best way to kill your lousy, lying ass!”

  I threw the phone on the counter with such force that it shattered on the tile, sending plastic shards bouncing in all directions.

  A gasp came from behind me, and I swung around. Gwen and Lindy stood in the doorway, mouths open, eyes filled with shock. Behind them, Brad stared at me as though he was looking at a deranged stranger.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, midnight

  “Screw you, miserable prick,” I muttered as I guided my car along Pacific Coast Highway toward Rick’s wine shop.

  The last thing I wanted to do on a Friday after work was see the Weasel and return his shit. But he’d been calling all week, pestering. I should simply toss it on the doorstep.

  My cell phone vibrated. Probably Rick checking to see if I was coming. I knew it couldn’t be Delia. She’d be boarding her flight for South America. When Brad’s name appeared, I picked up the phone and answered.

  “Thanks for giving me background information for my story tonight,” he said. “Feel like dancing? The night crew is headed over to that retro place, Azure.”

  “Unfortunately I’m on my way to see my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Ex?” Was that surprise in his voice?

  I hadn’t told anyone at work about Rick, nor had I explained my outburst the previous Sunday. I’d been looking for a reason to let Brad know. “Extremely ex. At least he will be, once I return his shit.”

  Rick’s belongings were heaped into three boxes in my trunk. Everything except that diamond pendant. I’d sent it to him by courier earlier in the week.

  “Come by after you’re done. If not, may I buy you dinner this weekend and help you make a fresh start?”

  Should I take a chance with a coworker? Delia had been right about one thing—it had been ages since I’d been without male companionship. A Queen without a consort? I didn’t like the idea. “Call me tomorrow.”

  “It’s late to be driving alone. Where are you?”

  “Just entering the business district in Mira Loma.” I rounded a bend into a familiar sweeping boulevard with its welcome sign surrounded by palm trees.

  “Isn’t that a dangerous area? Maybe I should come help.”

  “Thanks a lot. I live not too far from here. It’s safe enough. Besides, I’m armed with a baseball bat and a gun.”

  “I didn’t know you could shoot.”

  “Rick bought it for me, and I took one class. I never liked it, so I’m giving it back. He’s lucky I’m a lousy shot. I’d be tempted to shoot him.”

  “Now, be cool.”

  “I’ll be cool as a cucumber in a chilled salad.” Easy to say, but I didn’t feel cool. Despite the chilly breeze that swept in from the beach, sweat dampened my skin, sticking to me like a clammy veil. “I’m here. I’ll carry the bat for protection, though he’d scream if I used it. You’d think it was the Holy Grail.”

  “Stay calm. Talk to you later.”

  ****

  My attempt at calm lasted until I stood at Rick’s front door. My stomach wiggled like it contained a bowl of nervous goldfish as I pushed the after-hours buzzer. The RW Fine Wines logo caught my gaze. I helped design the stylized script graphic.

  Prick!

  My hands shook and I felt as though I grasped a greased rope, dangling over a cauldron of seething emotion. I gripped the bat. My palm was wet against the metal. I felt like a major league hitter coming to bat in a World Series. Score tied, bases loaded and two out in bottom of the ninth.

  “Keep cool,” I whispered. “You’re Kimberly delaGarza, Queen of TV. This is the last time you ever have to face him.” Like Robert Redford in The Natural, I’d end this game in a victorious shower of fireworks.

  Seeing no movement inside, I jabbed the buzzer again. Maybe I should toss the bat into the ocean across the street. Let him spend the rest of his life combing the beach for it. I should dump his crap here so homeless scavengers could scramble like fans in the bleachers after a home run ball, taking their pick of Ralph Lauren shirts, Tommy Hilfiger sportswear, and Armani suits. Someone might use the gun to hold up the store. Even as I imagined the event, light enveloped me and the door slid open.

  Rick greeted me with a smile. Handsome enough to be a male model, he maintained a year-round tan that emphasized salt-and-pepper hair and soft brown eyes. His well-defined cheeks and cleft chin might have been sculpted by a GQ photographer.

  I refused to say hello as I stepped inside, tapping the bat on the tiled floor.

  “Good show tonight,” he said.

  I froze and studied him like a batter sizing up an opposing pitcher. For once Mr. Impeccable was a mess. His hair was mussed as though he’d run his hands through it. Wrinkles creased his blue shirt and the sleeves were rolled up on his arms. His eyes were bloodshot. I stifled the urge to ask if the Bimbo was wearing him out.

  “Your crap is in the car.” I pointed the bat toward the door.

  He offered an easy pitch in a soft voice. “You want a glass of wine? I’ve opened a new red.” He gestured toward the area where he hosted wine tasting parties.

  I spotted a bottle and two glasses. Trying to strike me out with a seasoned Pinot Noir?

  I stood my ground, the batter digging into the box. “I’d rather go home. Get your stuff.”

  As I started to han
d him my keys he pulled a key ring out of his pocket, held up a duplicate, and walked out the door.

  Ouch! He’d delivered a nasty pitch that brushed me back. I stared at my key ring, realizing not only did he have my keys, but his house and car key remained on my ring. Like the commitment we’d made when keys were exchanged, this was the ultimate moment in the other direction. The Return of the Keys.

  My grip on the composure rope slipped. Maybe I no longer loved him, but did all those years count for nothing? What about loyalty? I shook my head. We were on opposite sides. Wearing uniforms of different teams.

  Huffing with exertion, he returned with a box. “There’s a lot there.”

  I nodded, a knot forming in my throat. “I’m leaving your keys on the counter.”

  He blinked in surprise, as though The Key Exchange just hit him too. “Okay.”

  While he made two more trips, I paced the shop. Together we designed the layout when he expanded. Delia and I labored for hours over handwritten labels above wine bins.

  Taking a deep breath, I fought nostalgia. The last couple of years hadn’t been hot on the romance scale, but they were fun—chatty evenings at favorite restaurants, getaways to Mexico, weekends of Saturday parties and Sunday brunches, baseball games and movie premieres.

  He returned with the final box. “Sure you don’t want wine? We should talk.”

  “We have nothing to discuss.” I had to get away before I broke down. Crying was a certain strike out. I still held the bat. Tapping it against the floor helped me keep a grip on my emotions.

  “What about our business plans?” His eyes darted sideways. “We should...uh...discuss money...”

  We had money invested together through our shared accountant—his buddy, Carl. Rick had even given me a partnership in the shop as repayment for money I’d loaned him. “I’ll have Adrienne call Carl.”

  He drew back and hurt flashed in his eyes. Foul ball. “Your lawyer? That’s cold. These are personal deals.”

  “We no longer have a personal connection.”