Glamour Puss Page 5

  What Mac didn’t know at the time was that Stella had gotten word that she was through in Hollywood and that there would be little for her in Aubrey’s estate. Equity in the house was about it. She’d never said it outright, but Mac was her only salvation.

  Their love renewed, they saw each other secretly through the end of the year. Then, on Valentine’s Day, when Stella was four months pregnant, they’d married at the Chapel of Perpetual Happiness in Las Vegas with first Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable,” then Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight” playing softly in the background.

  Troy was born in July. To Mac, the whole thing was incredible, leaving him in a daze. In a few months short of a year, he’d gone from a carefree bachelor to the married father of a child.

  As he stood staring at his pool, his mind still on the central tragedy of his life, Mac heard the doorbell ring. Checking his watch, he couldn’t imagine who it was, unless Bri was back. His heart lifted nicely at the thought. The prospect was unlikely, he knew, but he wanted to hope—he wanted to escape the gloom of yet another failed relationship. He hurried downstairs, but the woman standing on his porch wasn’t Sabrina Lovejoy. The face was familiar, but he momentarily drew a blank.

  “Hi, Mr. McGowan,” she said. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”

  The twinge of an accent in her speech brought it all back. She was one of the pool maids, Manuela Ordon˜ez. Seeing her out of the context of work had thrown him. He remembered it clearly now. Her mother had had a stroke at the beginning of the year and the family was in danger of losing their home. Art Conti had told him the story.

  “She’s a fox,” Art had said. “Sweet little Chicana. Bouncy as the dickens with big black eyes and the hugest hooters God ever put on a chick that small. Did three years in Mule Creek for involuntary manslaughter, but she’s been a hell of a good worker.”

  “What man did she slaughter?” Mac had asked.

  “Live-in boyfriend.”

  “I take it you’ve had the good sense to stay clear of her.”

  Art Conti grinned. “Not due to any virtue on my part, boss.”

  Mac hadn’t cared about how hot Manuela was, considering he never got personally involved with his employees. But he did believe in looking out for his people. Taking compassion on Manuela, he had arranged for the company to make her an interest-free loan. Sometimes getting a little breathing room was all a person needed to get on their feet again. She’d been so touched by the gesture that she’d come to his office all teary, gushing her appreciation. She’d hugged him and thanked him and given him a big wet kiss. Then she’d sobbed like a little girl.

  After that she’d come by his office every once in a while with little gifts for him, usually food her mother had made, but other things, as well—a CD or a video. Once a book of poems. Mac could tell she was taken by him, but he’d interpreted her attention as signs of gratitude and maybe admiration. Her gifts, he considered tokens of appreciation.

  “What a surprise,” he said in response to her appearance at his door. He noticed she had a small plastic sack in her hand. The prospect of another gift went through his mind. But he couldn’t imagine why she was coming to his home, or even how she knew where he lived. Mac also noticed her miniskirt and low-cut blouse which revealed about as much cleavage as your average Bond girl. It would have been unkind to compare her to a hooker, but she was definitely dressed for that sort of allure.

  “Yeah,” Manuela said, beaming. “It was my day off and so I thought I’d maybe come by and say hello. It’s been a while since I seen you.”

  “Yes, it has, hasn’t it?”

  Mac had the definite impression Manuela was waiting to be invited inside, which he hesitated doing.

  “I got a little something for you,” she said, indicating the sack in her hand.

  “What sort of something?”

  “A present.”

  “You don’t have to give me presents, Manuela. You’ve already been very generous.”

  She laughed dismissively. “Not so generous like you, Mr. McGowan. Or, can I call you Mac? Since we’re like friends already, you don’t mind if I call you by your first name, do you?”

  “No, I don’t stand on ceremony,” he said.

  Manuela didn’t understand the allusion, but seemed to get his meaning. She snapped the gum she was chewing. “So, can I come in?”

  Mac didn’t want to be impolite. “Yes, but I do have an appointment in a while, so I have to be leaving soon.”

  Manuela frowned. “That’s too bad.” Then she smiled. “Of course, maybe it’s not so important as you think. You can always change your mind.”

  He’d figured a little white lie might help him get out of an awkward situation gracefully, but he wondered now if all he’d succeeded in doing was dig himself into a deeper hole.

  Manuela seemed amused by his consternation and entered, moving past him into the entry. She was tiny standing beside him, five-one or -two at the most.

  “Carumba! What a beautiful house, Mac,” she enthused, looking around. “And so big!” She peered at the Waterford chandelier then went to the entrance to the dining room. Next she crossed to the other side of the entry and gazed at Mac’s large front room where he’d sat with Bri earlier. “You have a really nice house. I love it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Manuela, facing him now, did a little shimmy that was blatantly sexual. “So, is anybody else here?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you have somebody to cook and clean?”

  “My housekeeper’s on vacation. I’ve got a service coming in temporarily and I’m eating out a lot.”

  Manuela smacked her gum, then tapped her teeth with her long, red nails. “You like Mexican food?”

  “Yes,” Mac said, still wary, “I do.”

  “Maybe I’ll come over and cook for you sometime. I’m not so good as my mother, but some people say my chicken mole´ is the best.”

  Mac didn’t know what to say, but he could tell they were getting into an area where he didn’t want to go. Manuela’s confidence seemed to be building.

  “Should we go in here?” she asked, tossing her thumb toward the front room.

  Mac glanced at his watch, a gesture which Manuela ignored. Turning on her heel without waiting for a reply, she went into the front room, swinging her butt, the hem of her short skirt dancing against the backs of her shapely legs. Mac followed her as far as the doorway, where he stood watching her move in a big circle about the room, stopping now and then to touch a table or chair. At one point she picked up his ostrich egg, an artifact that his decorator had used to adorn an end table. She shook it.

  “Some chicken.”

  Mac smiled.

  Manuela put the egg back on its little stand. She eyed Mac. “So, how come you’re just standing there?”

  He wasn’t sure if he should remind her he had to leave soon, or just accept the fact that he’d be wasting his breath. Manuela, growing more brazen by the moment, strode over to him and took his hand.

  “Come on, Mac, it’s your house.”

  She led him to a sitting group and they stopped in front of the wingback chair Bri had sat in. She still had hold of his hand.

  “Mmm,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “So big and warm.”

  Then, when she drew up his hand and pressed it to the bare tops of her breasts, Mac was certain where she was headed. But he was so taken aback that he didn’t know what to say.

  “Does this feel cool?” she asked in a coquettish tone as she looked up at him through her lashes.

  “Manuela…I don’t think…”

  She giggled, refusing to be discouraged. “Come on, it’s time for you to see your present.” With that she guided him to the chair, almost pushing him down. “Okay,” she said coyly. “You ready?”

  Manuela had opened the plastic bag and pulled out some sort of lacy undergarment. Tossing aside the bag, she held the frilly thing up in front of her. “It’s a teddy,” sh
e announced. “I thought I’d model it for you. What do you think of that?”

  Mac’s mouth sagged as he watched her pose, twisting her body back and forth, putting first one leg in front of her, then the other as she pursed her lips. “I don’t understand what you’re doing. Are you under some sort of impression that—”

  “Look, Mac,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, just where her waist nipped in, “don’t worry about it, okay? I know you’re the boss, but I’m not going to make no big deal about it. I’m just trying to make things easy for both of us.”

  “Manuela, what are you thinking? That by giving you an interest-free loan I was trying to—”

  “Mac, it’s okay, really. I know you can’t say nothing direct because you’re the boss. So, I’m trying to let you know it’s okay with me if you want to get it on. Nobody can blame you that way. No judge, nobody. You didn’t tell me to come over here, right? I’m here because I want to be here. I think it’s pretty obvious I like you as much as you like me, and there’s nothing illegal about that. I mean, how can some lawyer get pushed out of shape if I’m the one who comes to you?”

  “I’m not concerned about a lawsuit. You don’t understand,” he said.

  Manuela began unbuttoning her blouse. “Yes, I do. You want it to come from me.” She kicked off her shoes. “I’m going to give you a little treat. First because you’ve been so nice, and second because I want to be nice, too. I hope you know now how much I like you, Mac.”

  “Manuela…”

  “You know what? I think about you all the time. It’s really true. I think you’re the nicest man in the world.” She pulled off her blouse, dropping it on the floor. Then she grasped the place on her bra between the cups.

  “I bet you noticed my tits,” she said with a grin. “Everybody does. Guys say I got the best set they ever seen.”

  “Manuela…”

  Mac started to get to his feet, but she stepped forward and gave him a gentle shove back into the chair. In practically the same motion she sat astride his knees, leaned forward and kissed him square on the mouth.

  By now she’d unfastened her bra and lifted the cups off her melonous breasts, which she shook back and forth in front of his face. Mac knew he had to stop this and stop it now. Taking her by the waist, he lifted her off his knees and set her back on the floor.

  “You misunderstand me, Manuela,” he said emphatically. “This is not what I want.”

  She stared up at him, her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. The things I did, the loan, weren’t a play for your attention. I wasn’t trying to buy any sexual favors. That’s not what that was about.”

  “Huh?”

  “Manuela, I don’t have a sexual interest in you.”

  “You mean you don’t think I’m pretty?’

  “Of course I think you’re pretty. You’re a very attractive woman, but that doesn’t mean I have romantic intentions.”

  “Are you saying you don’t even want to screw?”

  “I’m tempted, believe me…I mean, sure you’re very appealing, but…well, who wouldn’t want to…under normal circumstances, I mean. But that’s not where I am, Manuela.”

  “Because of your wife? I thought you were separated.”

  “I am.”

  “You got somebody else, then?”

  Mac saw an opportunity. “Yes, I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Nobody said nothing about that.” She actually looked shocked.

  Mac was embarrassed for her. Surprisingly, having bared her breasts seemed not to faze her nearly so much as his disinterest. She casually leaned over and picked up her bra and put it on. Then she retrieved her blouse, a grimace of displeasure on her face as she buttoned it up.

  “Is it serious?”

  “Is what serious?”

  “Your girlfriend.”

  The ploy seemed to be working. “Yes.”

  Manuela looked up at him. She bit her lip. “So, how come you were so nice to me, then?”

  “Your family had problems, Manuela. You’re my employee…I…”

  Her eyes filled. “But I really liked you,” she said, almost in tears. “And I thought you really liked me.”

  “I do. But not the way you think.”

  “I don’t take off my shirt for just anybody,” she said, tucking her blouse under the waistband of her skirt.

  “I’m flattered you…well, think of me in those terms, Manuela,” he said. “But it wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of you just for…sex.”

  She shook her head, her eyes shimmering. “I was so sure you liked me. I told my mother, ‘I really think he does.”’

  “I’m truly sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  Her eyes brimmed. She stared up at him for a long moment, until finally tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. “I hate you,” she sobbed. Then, snatching up the teddy, she walked briskly from the room.

  Mac heard the front door open then close. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ,” he said, shaking his head. First Bri, now this. Glancing toward the front window, he saw Manuela’s car zip out the drive. It was a dark blue Chevy. “Christ,” he said again.

  Mac was unsure what had just happened. Had that been an innocent mistake, or did Manuela have something more sinister in mind? If she’d been trying to set him up, he couldn’t imagine what she hoped to gain, unless she’d gotten pregnant by some penniless lout and decided to pin the wrap on somebody with a few bucks. No, that was unlikely, paranoia on his part. This business with Manuela had been building, and she did genuinely seem to have misread him. The woman was not the brightest thing to come down the pike.

  He felt sorry for her, though. Maybe it was understandable she misconstrued his intentions. Not every employer was as generous. Mac knew he had a tendency to be overly compassionate. That had been his downfall with Stella— that and a propensity to take in strays. He’d been that way his whole life. “Believe it or not, Joseph, a man can have too big a heart,” his mother once told him. His mama was right.

  It was getting toward the dinner hour and he had no desire to cook. As he so often did, he decided to run down to Westwood and grab a bite. When he got to the entry he snatched his car keys from the hall table, noticing the envelope that had been under the mat when he’d arrived. He picked it up and turned it over. There was nothing written on the back. He tore it open and removed the single sheet of notepaper. On it was a brief message, written in block letters. It said:

  I KNOW WHAT YOU DID ON FRIDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1978.

  It was unsigned.

  West Hollywood

  Jade Morro drove north on Fairfax Avenue and was maybe two miles from her bungalow—on which the rent was now past due a month—when the engine of her Ford Escort began to miss. It had been running well, so she wondered what could be wrong with the damn…. Then, glancing at the instrument panel, she gave the steering wheel a solid rap with her fist. “Shit!”

  The engine sputtered, then died. Jade swung over and the car rolled to a stop at the curb. She was out of gas.

  “Dammit,” she said.

  That morning as she’d arrived in Malibu she’d noticed the gas was low, and she’d made a mental note to fill up before heading home. And so, of course, she’d proceeded to forget. The clock on the dash confirmed she was already late. Ruthie was probably there at the house, waiting for her. Jade could picture her friend pacing on the sidewalk out front, her hands on her hips and saying something like, “Girlfriend, where the hell you been? Don’t you know I took off work early just to help you find a dress for the ball?”

  Jade sagged forward and let her forehead rest on the steering wheel as she tried to figure out what to do. She could look for a service station, buy some gas and lug it back, or she could hoof it home. Then it occurred to her, she had her bicycle on top of the damn car. She’d spent the morning and afternoon on a fifty-mile bike ride up the coast. What was another two
miles or so? Of course. What was she thinking?

  Jade hopped out of the car and went around to the passenger side where she could remove the bike from the roof without getting her butt knocked off by a passing vehicle. As she unfastened her bike from the rack, she wondered if she might have unconsciously wanted to run out of gas. Ruthie would undoubtedly agree with that theory—“Easy way of getting out of buying that dress, girl.” Jade couldn’t deny it. The fact was she’d had mixed feelings about going to this dance ever since Art Conti had asked her.

  Thus far Art had taken her to lunch and to dinner—with the ostensible purpose of talking about her doing some investigative work for Pool Maids. And, even though he had gone over the problem with the company in some detail, Jade knew he had another agenda, as well. But when she’d complained to Ruthie about it, her friend had been adamant. “That so bad?” Ruthie had asked. “It is natural to get laid occasionally, you know.”

  “Laid? Listen, that’s the very last thing I’m interested in,” Jade told her. “The only reason I’m seeing the guy is because I got to deal with him to get to Mac McGowan, the owner. And believe me, Conti’s not making it easy.”

  “He hitting on you?”

  “Nothing too blatant yet, but that’s where he’s headed.”

  “He must know how bad you need that job.”

  “I think the guy has a nose for desperation, Ruthie.” When it came to men, Jade relied heavily on Ruthie Gibbons, first because she was her best friend, and second because Jade had been away from the dating game so long she was practically the “recycled virgin” Ruthie accused her of being. They had known each other since they were rookies on the force. Ruthie, having become a community relations officer for the police, was confident she knew people. And as for men, “Honey,” she’d said once, “I was born knowing all there is to know about the rascals.” Then, in the ghetto rap she favored when she joked around, Ruthie said, “Shoot, girl, there ain’t all that much to ’em if you think about it. You got what they want. They know it. You know it. Simple as that.”