HOLY MOLE MURDER
Available for: KINDLE & Other E-book Formats ($3.99)

CHAPTER ONE

     When Bernardo ‘Bunny’ Contreras ambled into my private office and closed the office door behind him, it meant one thing.  It used to mean two things, but based on the current state of our relationship, a new client must have walked in our front door -- a prosperous client, I hoped, because our balance sheet read red with a capital R.
     Bunny is the part-time secretary for my P.I. service, Berger Investigations, Inc.  He’s also my karate instructor and swing dance partner in addition to earning his chops as a standup comic on the weekends, which is why he only works for me part-time.  At the age of twenty-six, he’s ten years my junior.  Well, ten years that I admit to.
    “You’ll never guess who’s here,” Bunny said, grinning his lop-sided grin.
     My heart sank. “Do I wanna know?”  I asked, sounding grouchier than I felt.  Monday mornings are not my best suit
     “Y’all might,” Bunny drawled.
     I sighed. "Okay, fill me in. How long’s it been anyway?”
     “Two months.  Enough time for her to shut down The CatWalk and open La Gringa’s, 'the best Mexican food.'" Bunny grinned again, "west of east L.A.  She’s been for open two weeks but you’ve kept me so busy running errands for the shyster frats, I haven’t had time to give it a try.  Wanna go there for lunch later?”
     “Depends on whether I have any appetite left. Show her in.”
     I took a deep breath preparing to face my previous client whose murdered husband almost led to my own death, though not by her. I’m a P.I. by name as well as by trade, Pauline Isabel Berger.  I go by Polly, and no, I don’t want a cracker.  My offices are located seven blocks from the intersection of Hollywood and Vine, on the wrong side of the tracks and I’m not talking about railroads here.
     I stood up and shook hands with my former and prospective client.  We weren’t at the hugging stage in our relationship and I wasn’t sure we ever would be.  
     “Morning, Cinda Mae.”  I said, trying to sound welcoming but my voice gave me away.
     “Well, well, Counselor.  Long timey no see.”  Cinda Mae Bradbury, pseudo southern belle executed clichés better than a fan dancer in a Paris honky-tonk.  I wish she’d drop the Counselor tag.  Just because I have a certificate from a phony law school hanging on my office wall doesn’t make me anyone’s personal attorney and particularly not hers, though Cinda Mae wasn’t one to stand on formalities.  
     I looked her over.  No her red dress and matching heels today. I stared at the pricey blue suit conservative enough for a Wall Street banker. She could pass for a mid-level manager instead of an ex-stripper turned restaurateur, though I doubted the Michael Kors ocelot pumps would make the Madison Avenue dress for success list.
     “How’s Sancho?”  I asked, curious if she was still seeing the same boyfriend.
     “Pedro’s great.  We’re getting married,” she said, correcting my use of his former nickname.  Sancho is Hispanic slang for a man sleeping with married women. I knew the label no longer applied given the death of her husband and her new grieving widow status but the name switch might require some effort on my part. 
     “I’m glad to hear he’s making an honest woman out of you,” I said.  Cinda Mae wrinkled her nose.  I tried not to smile.  “When’s the wedding?”
     “Two months, one week and five days and you’re invited, can you come?”  she said, blinking her baby blues. 
     I tried to redeem myself. “Sure, and I appreciate the invite,” I said trying to redeem myself.  I did appreciate it.  In spite of everything I’d been through with Cinda Mae, including the murder of her husband and a series of lies on her part that turned my former investigation into a traveling circus, I liked her, at least I like to think I liked her.  It’s just that she tested the limits of my sanity. 
     Kind of like my ex, Hollywood Detective Johnny Birdwhistle, who is my second ex though he’s pushing to update us to current again, a contingency I haven’t yet signed onto. Birdwhistle sounds Native American, but it's British, though if you met Johnny you might mistake him for Geronimo reincarnated. 
     “I’m sending Bunny an invitation, too,” Cinda said.  “Do you wanna bring Johnny-O or will that complicate matters for you?”
     “I’d appreciate bringing Johnny, thanks.  Is that why you stopped by,” I asked, “to invite the three of us to the wedding?”  I hoped my phrasing would stem any questions about the status of my male relationships. 
     “So what’s the deal?  You back with your ex again?” I should have known better. Psychological ploys never work with Cinda Mae.
     “Sort of.”  I changed the subject. “Are you here on business or pleasure today?”
     “You remember about me and Pedro starting our own restaurant, right?” Cinda Mae never answered a question without asking one of her own, which was one of the things about her that chafed my oats.  
     I practiced my deep breathing exercises.  
     “Of course, I remember,” I said,  “since I drive past your restaurant every day, said business being located only two doors down and across the street from my own establishment.”
     “No need to get huffy, Counselor.”  Cinda Mae batted her eyelashes.  I noticed she was still shelling out for the high priced variety that paste on one at a time, even though she no longer danced at strip joints for a living.  
     “Do you remember meetin’ our sous-chef,” she said,  “when you and Bunny came over to see what we were doing to the place?” Two questions for the price of one.
     I thought I'd give her a taste of her own medicine. “Your sous-chef?  Isn’t that a little uppity for a fry-cook?”  
     “Isn’t fry-cook a little insulting for an assistant chef who makes the best Mole Poblano this side of the border?”  
     “I apologize, you’re right.” I said, conceding the point.  It’s difficult to score in a give and take with Cinda Mae.  “Henry seems like a nice guy.”  
     “I think you mean was a nice guy, don’t you?”
     “Is this a hint?” I asked, getting in another question for my side.
     “Henry’s disappeared without saying a word to either Pedro or me.  Split, vanished, vamoosed.  You know any other way to put it?”
     I did, but increasing Cinda Mae’s vocabulary wasn’t on my to-do list today. “Maybe he found a better job,” I suggested, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for the disappearance of an hourly-wage worker in the food service business.
     “Honest to gooseberries, Counselor, sometimes you don’t know your elbows from a bunch of Lupita’s bananas.”  
     Lupita was the soon to be mother-in-law of Miss Southern Comfort. She ran Carnicería Lupita, the family’s Mexican market where Bunny and I now shopped on a regular basis. Lupita’s had a food bar with tacos to die for. If Cinda Mae’s new restaurant even came close, Bunny and I might switch our lunchtime venue.
     “Fill me in,” I said, “since you seem to know something I don’t.”
     Cinda Mae glanced at me like my gray matter had disappeared with her sous-chef. “Who’s gonna go job hunting in the middle of the night?”  I decided to wait this one out, assuming the question was rhetorical.
     “And leave all the lights on in the process?”  Cinda Mae paused, and I cocked my left eyebrow signaling her to continue.  I inherited my mother’s facial musculature and in addition to lifting my eyebrows one at a time I can also wiggle my ears, not a talent I brag about except to close friends when I've had one Margarita too many.
     “You want to hear more?”
     “I do,” I sighed.  “I need the whole story from start to finish since I’m not very good at mind reading.”
     “In that case, maybe you should ask Rosa for a lesson. She can tell your fortune and read your mind.
     Rosa was the Tarot card reader in the shop downstiars. "I'll keep that in mind," I said, "no pun intended. You didn't come here to tell me about Rosa, right?"
     “Counselor, are you having brain cramps today or something?”
     “Maybe,” I admitted, since my brain tends to do funny things in the presence of Cinda Mae.  “Let’s get back to the reason you’re sitting in one corner of my office.  Your sous-chef is missing.  Are you hiring me to find him?”  
     “Of course,” she said, “why do you think I’m here telling you about it?”

Back to the Bookstore Page