“Vanessa, this is my cousin Rosa. She lived with us during the war. Rosa, this is Vanessa Forrester.”
Rosa and Vanessa studied one another, both knowing that the other knew about their mutual marital failures—Vanessa’s divorce and Rosa’s altar run. Gloria could keep a secret if she wanted to, but that desire rarely surfaced.
“Hello,” Rosa said.
Vanessa offered a weak smile. “Hi.”
Facing Rosa, Gloria said, “I'm guessing you’re ready to go home, right?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Rosa admitted. “Is there a phone booth nearby to call a cab?”
“I’ll drive you. I’ve had quite enough for one night too.”
Vanessa shifted in her chair, and Gloria said, “We’re going to go now. Should I find Clarence?”
Vanessa shook her head. “I came with a friend. I’ve got a ride.”
“We’ll see you then.” Gloria gave her former sister-in-law a quick hug. “Stay strong.”
Rosa and Gloria walked to the parking lot, the car keys jingling in Gloria’s hand.
“Poor girl,” Gloria said. “Such a shock to find a dead body.”
“Was she questioned?” Rosa asked. Miguel had stepped away from the scene for a brief time, and she wondered if he’d tracked her down. It’s what Rosa would have done were she the lead in the investigation.
“Yes, but it was a quick interview. Vanessa really didn’t have much information. She was walking along the beach, staring into the sunset, and almost stumbled over the body. She screamed, of course. Well, I guess you know the rest.”
After returning to the Forrester mansion, Rosa took a long bath in the oversized porcelain soaking tub in the bathroom attached to her bedroom which had been updated with soothing sea foam green and black tiles. She almost fell asleep as she soaked. It took some willpower to climb out, but afterwards, she dried off, put on her silk nightgown, and collapsed into her king-sized canopied bed. It felt luxurious to be horizontal on a comfortable mattress. Her bags remained only half unpacked on the marble floor beside the bed.
As she drifted off, the vision of Lord Winston Eveleigh at an altar passed through her mind’s eye. It morphed suddenly into the image of a Latino man wearing cotton chinos with a guitar strapped over his shoulder. A smile formed on her face as she drifted into sleep.
A blast of sunshine through her window woke Rosa the next morning. Southern California mornings were bright, and she pinched her eyes against the glare and vowed to close the curtains that night.
The hands on the round-faced alarm clock indicated it was only six a.m.; however, she calculated that she had gotten around seven hours of uninterrupted sleep. For the moment, she felt quite rested, but she also knew that a wave of fatigue would likely hit her in the afternoon. To speed up acclimatizing to Pacific Standard Time, she would have to resist the powerful urge to nap.
Using her toes, she located her slippers that stuck out from under the bed. Rosa headed down the vast staircase and through a wide corridor to the kitchen in search of something for breakfast. The staff at the Forrester mansion had yet to arrive, but she was too famished to wait. Upon opening the refrigerator, she saw a large container filled with homemade Mexican-style granola. She remembered the Forresters’ chief housekeeper, Señora Gomez, had a delicious recipe, and Rosa’s stomach almost leapt for joy when she saw it. It always tasted superb when mixed with blueberries and fresh milk.
After pouring a glass of fresh orange juice, she found a serving tray and carried her full glass and bowl across the terra-cotta tiled floor to the morning room. Like the morning room at Hartigan House, Rosa’s home in Kensington, the sliding glass doors opened to the back garden.
As a teenager, the patio had been her favorite place to sit and have breakfast. It overlooked a tennis court, a huge flower garden that featured a terraced lawn with carefully manicured hedges, and a large kidney-shaped swimming pool with a beautiful stonework deck, which was surrounded by padded lounging chairs. Three tiled Mediterranean-style water fountains with the soothing sound of trickling water greeted her as she stepped outside into the warming air. The sun cast the whole scene with a golden filter.
Palm trees, planted in a border around the yard, swayed gently in the warm breeze. From the pool, one could enjoy a view of the town below and just beyond that, lay the Pacific Ocean, which sparkled in perfect blue in the early morning sunshine. Rosa felt a sense of contentment rush over her. It would be a gorgeous day.
Claiming a cedar wood pool lounger, Rosa took a sip of orange juice and, closing her eyes, felt the warmth of the sun on her face. After Aunt Louisa’s comment on her pale English skin, she was determined to get a tan, even if it meant an unleashing of freckles. She was glad she’d come to California and sighed contentedly.
Then as if a curtain were quickly drawn, the memory of the shocking turn of events from the night before returned. Her eyes snapped opened.
She must still be suffering from jet lag to have such a dramatic event slip her mind, or maybe her hunger pangs had taken her focus. A lady had died, which was tragic, but Rosa didn’t have the authority of WPC Reed in California. She had no investigative rights here, and she’d do herself a big favor by turning off her compulsion to butt in.
Not to mention how unsettling it had been to run into Miguel Belmonte. She and Miguel had lost touch after the war—despite initial promises to keep writing—and Rosa had thought he’d be living in his home city, Los Angeles. She’d never expected that he’d settled in Santa Bonita, and she certainly hadn’t known he’d joined the police force, much less made the rank of detective.
Rosa exhaled through pursed lips. None of this had occurred to her when she had impulsively flown to California.
“Hola, señorita!” Señora Gomez’s cheerful voice rang out across
