Oh, did she look too sophisticated? Did this dress make her look older than her twenty-eight years? If only Gloria was awake, she’d get her advice. Staring at her image in the mirror, she chastised herself. She was overthinking this. Miguel wasn’t coming to take her on a date. He might not even want to see her.
She was overthinking this.
A knock on the door produced Aunt Louisa. “Good, you’re awake and dressed. That Mexican detective is here, asking questions about Florence.” She frowned. “For some reason, he wants to see you, though I can’t think why. You didn’t know Flo, and you’ve only just arrived.” Aunt Louisa’s right eye twitched. “Should I tell him you’re indisposed?”
Rosa wasn’t fooled. Aunt Louisa knew full well who Detective Belmonte was and was likely afraid to leave Rosa alone in the same room with him.
“I’m a trained police officer,” Rosa said, unnecessarily, “and I was one of the first at the scene.”
“It’s all rather moot, isn’t it?” Aunt Louisa said. “Flo drank too much and fell off the pier. It’s tragic but hardly unusual.”
“I’m sure he’s only after my professional impressions.”
Aunt Louisa narrowed her eyes suspiciously, then walked away. Rosa called after her, “Where is he?”
Her aunt spoke without looking back. “Front parlor.”
Rosa’s heart drummed in her chest most annoyingly. She felt like a schoolgirl being picked up for a prom, rather than a professional about to speak to another professional. Before she entered the front parlor, she put her shoulders back, took a deep fortifying breath, and told herself, “I’m Woman Police Constable Reed of the London Metropolitan Police. I’m confident and trained. I’m the daughter of Ginger Reed.”
Miguel sat on the sectional couch, his legs crossed, and his dark eyes studying a notebook. He wore a detective’s plainclothes uniform of trousers—or as she was now in America—pants and suit jacket, with a white shirt and blue tie. When he saw her, he stood, his hat in hand. Rosa and Miguel stared at each for an awkward moment.
“Well, this is sure a surprise,” Miguel remarked. “How long has it been since you were last in Santa Bonita?”
Did he not remember? She, for one, would never forget. “Eleven years.”
Rosa wondered if he would offer his hand or perhaps an embrace between old friends, but the tear in their relationship was too ragged.
Rosa fanned out her skirt, sat down gracefully—the way her mother had taught her—and crossed her ankles to one side. Miguel stared as she did this, and then seeming to catch himself, he returned to his seat on the sofa.
He tipped his chin. “I’ve heard you’ve become a police officer too?”
“Yes. You might remember that my mother has an investigation agency in London. My father was a superintendent at Scotland Yard until his retirement, so I guess you could say the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Oh, yes, I remember that.”
There was a moment of awkward silence until Miguel cleared his throat and recited a short account of his history. “I entered the academy in Los Angeles a few months after the war, then worked as a patrol officer for some years. Later, when I was promoted to detective, I was transferred here to Santa Bonita.”
The air was thick with questions neither dared to ask, such as Did you marry? Are there children?
Miguel pulled at his collar to loosen his tie. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about yesterday?”
“Go ahead.”
“Did you see anyone you would call suspicious last night? I know you don’t know many people, but given your training, you may have noticed something. I should tell you that we are tentatively treating this death as suspicious. At least, until the official pathology report.”
“I may have noticed a few things,” Rosa said as Miguel opened his notebook again. “I witnessed a heated exchange between Shirley Philpott and Florence Adams not long before the body was found. I couldn’t hear what it was about, but it took place away from the main party. I did hear Florence yelling at the end of it. She said her drink was empty, and she needed more.”
Miguel scratched at his notebook. “How long was this before the body was found?”
“I would guess not more than half an hour.”
“And did Miss Adams appear intoxicated to you?”
“Actually, she did appear tipsy when Aunt Louisa introduced her to me when I first arrived at the party.”
Miguel nodded and continued to write. “Anything else?”
“A few minutes after the argument, I saw Miss Adams meet up with a man on the opposite side of the pier. I’d started walking along the shore when I came upon them. The sun was almost down on the horizon, so I didn’t get a clear look at him. I saw him try to kiss her—”
Inexplicably, Rosa’s gaze landed on Miguel’s lips. How often had she kissed them! Those adorable dimples jumped out at her. She blinked, then coughed into her hand.
Drat! She felt a flare of red creeping up her neck. Had Miguel caught her staring at his lips?
“And?” Miguel prompted.
Swallowing hard, Rosa mastered her emotions and forced herself to remain professional. “And then she rebuffed him and started back in the direction of the party again.”
Miguel hummed and jotted her story down. “Is there anything else? Can you describe the man who tried to kiss Florence?”
Rosa thought back. “Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him. He had medium-length hair which he wore loosely without any oil or it being slicked back, at least it blew in the breeze, so I’m assuming so. He was lean and wore a loose Hawaiian floral shirt.”
“Very good,” Miguel said appreciatively. “Obviously, you have an eye for detail.”
“One more thing.” Rosa raised a finger. “I saw
