And perhaps a question or two about the dead woman.
6
Rosa sat at the antique dressing table in her bedroom and stared back at her reflection in the oval mirror. She’d placed a wide, pink satin headband over her chestnut-colored hair—styled with tight curls pushed behind her ears—and held a tube of red lipstick. Her gaze latched on to the green eyes in the reflection of the oval mirror, and suddenly, it wasn’t her mature, modern face looking back, but a rounder, youthful version, with long hair swooped into a fishnet hairpiece at the back of her head. The deep V of her neckline became a schoolgirl’s outfit, but the blush on her cheeks was for the same boy.
Miguel Belmonte.
If she’d known he’d moved back to Santa Bonita, Rosa was sure she’d have chosen another destination to run away to. There was always the south of France, for instance—they had family friends there—or Boston, where Mum had acquaintances, or even to Canada.
Rosa let out a long breath. She knew no one in Canada, though she’d heard it was lovely, and indeed, was part of the Commonwealth, so she’d quite likely feel at home there.
But Rosa wasn’t in those places. She was here, and so was Miguel. She’d just have to make the best of it.
Placing the lipstick pad on her lips, Rosa began to draw. The young lady she used to be no longer looked back at her. She was well and truly gone.
The local American Legion Hall was a large, nicely painted wooden building that featured a large open room with oak parquet flooring. A very American look, Rosa thought. Not a single stone was used in its construction or any material over a hundred years old. Rows of foldable chairs were set out in front of a raised wooden stage area, and along one wall was a restaurant bar with round tables and booths. Hanging prominently on the wooden walls were black and white photographs of army battalions from both world wars, along with plaques commemorating various charities for which the organization had raised money.
After paying for their tickets at the entrance, Rosa and Gloria took a booth not far from the stage and ordered drinks. Rosa’s only interest was to see one particular person’s face, and though she tried to keep her search from looking obvious, Gloria was quick to notice her unrest.
“Who are you looking for?”
“No one. Just enjoying everyone’s outfits.”
The place quickly filled with people of all ages, but the majority were young people like Rosa and Gloria. Some young men sported pompadours. Others wore generously oiled ‘duck tail’ haircuts, while the ladies wore various styles of bouffant or waved coiffure styles.
But no Miguel.
Which was fine. No, good. Rosa told herself she hadn’t come to see him anyway. She was only there at Gloria’s request. Nothing more.
Various performers took the stage—a juggler, a folk music trio, and a young comedian. The crowd filled with laughter then applauded after the comedian Don Rickles finished his jokes.
“He’s great!” Gloria said.
The ‘headline’ act, as everyone in the room knew, was Miguel’s band, and yet Rosa still hadn’t spotted him. Was he hiding out in a back room?
Her question was answered when the host took the microphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the advertised band for tonight is a local favorite, Mick and the Beat Boys. However, most of you know that Mick, otherwise known as local Detective Belmonte, was called away on important police business and couldn’t make it tonight.”
A groan went up from the crowd, and Gloria blew a loud raspberry through her full lips. “Figures.”
Rosa felt a disarming mix of disappointment and relief. Not seeing Miguel again, ever, would be the best thing for her. Oh dear, what would Winston think if he knew how her emotions were stirring? Here, after three years with a man she had professed to love, she was pining for someone new?
No, not new. Someone else.
Someone with a fiancée.
“However,” the announcer continued, “the band will carry on with Terence Knowles, the band’s piano player and manager. He will take over for Detective Belmonte tonight.”
A half-hearted round of applause rose from the crowd as the tuxedo-clad musicians bravely jumped into a rendition of “Ain’t that a Shame”. Mr. Knowles’ singing was adequate, but obviously lacked the strong voice of a lead singer. About a dozen young people jumped up and danced in front of the stage, and the crowd seemed to settle in and enjoy the entertainment despite themselves.
“I much prefer Miguel’s voice,” Gloria remarked. “He reminds me of Elvis Presley or Carl Perkins.”
For Rosa’s part, she continued to embrace the news. Instead of an evening of conflicting emotions, she could now just have a drink and enjoy herself. She recognized Raul Mendez, the accountant for the California Polio Research Foundation, playing bass guitar for the band. He looked unsteady, and Rosa wondered if he had been drinking. Her suspicion was confirmed when, after playing a thirty-minute set, he wandered over to them during the break carrying a drink in his right hand and a cigarette in his left.
“Well, well, well,” Mr. Mendez said without introduction. “Nice to see you young ladies again, ya know? Can I sit here? I only have ten minutes, so I promise not to bore you too much.” He loosened his bow tie, pushed his half-rimmed glasses up on his nose, and without waiting for an answer, sat down next to Rosa on the padded bench seat. He pulled out a red and white pack of cigarettes and offered it to the ladies. “Delicados brand. I buy them in Mexico. Much cheaper, ya know? Menthol helps freshen the breath.”
It wasn’t working, Rosa thought as she leaned back and declined.
“I know what you’re th-th-inking. That I’ve had too much.” He grinned
