Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery) (19 page)

Selma’s face had taken on the paranoid tinge I was becoming familiar with as she surveyed the surrounding areas. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“Excuse me?” A high-pitched voice came from behind us. One of the people who’d been at the bar walked toward us, towel thrown over her shoulder.

Angling my head to the side, I raised my hand. “If you’re going to tell me this is a nudist resort, I already know.”

She stopped a few feet away from me, feeding her towel through her small hands. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

I eyed her warily. “You’re not the nude police?”

“No such thing.” She chuckled softly. “But that’s a good one. We should have them here just to keep out the riffraff.” Moving a step closer, she dropped her voice. “You’re looking for Jennifer Wallace’s boyfriend?”

My first potential nude informant! “That’s right. Do you know him?”

“Not really, but she and I were good friends. I know she was into him. He saw her for who she really was and didn’t want anything from her.”

And she didn’t want anything from him—like a trophy of a basketball jersey or a photo.

“I ran into her once on the outside,” the woman continued. “She was with a man. No one I’d ever seen before, but they seemed comfortable. The thing is, this place was Jennifer’s home and I’ve known her forever. She and I always helped out with deliveries and in the front office, but this one time, when I saw her on the outside, she looked right at me, almost seemed scared, and then she turned her back like she didn’t know me.”

“So she didn’t want whoever she was with to know she came here,” I said. “Interesting.”

Selma stiffened and widened her stance. “It’s the contract we sign. She didn’t want to lose her job.”

“No, I knew about her morality clause,” the woman said. “I think it was more than that. If you’re married, you can’t come here alone, and they bent that rule for her, but I don’t think she wanted to rub anyone’s face in her new relationship.”

Lucy and I shot a glance at each other and Lucy covered the ring on her left hand. She was married, but they’d let her in. So much for rules.

“Wait,” I said. “So was Jennifer married?”

That didn’t seem to fit what I knew of her. Unless it was her groupie relationships with the ballplayers that broke up her marriage.

The woman nodded. “To Craig. But they were separated for a long time. Finally got divorced last year.”

“Who’s Craig?” Lucy asked.

Selma piped up. “He owns the place.” She stared at the woman. “They were married? She never told me that.”

“Still friends, too. That’s the thing about this place. You get deeper and really understand people. She took one of the cottages just down from him when they split up.”

Selma was stiff as a corpse. I thought she might snap at the waist if a gust of wind came along. She’d been friends with Jennifer but hadn’t known this fact about her, and obviously it upset her.

My head felt ready to explode with this new information but I kept focused. “Can I get your name?”

The woman hesitated, but then said, “Deirdre. I don’t give my last name to people here.”

I wouldn’t, either, but I questioned her about it anyway. “Why not? I mean, if you go for this sort of thing, the people here think just like you.”

Deirdre shook her head vehemently. “Perverts are everywhere. I’ve heard people say that they feel safer here than anywhere else. Some folks even bring their kids and think they’re better off here than at the mall, but”—she worked the hand towel, twisting it around and around—“this side of my life is private. Completely separate from life on the outside.”

She was more like Jennifer, apparently, than she realized. Now I was curious. Deirdre seemed fairly normal if you overlooked the fact that she was standing here talking to us not wearing any clothes. “So you don’t socialize on the outside with anyone you know from here?”

It sounded like we were in prison.

“A few people, but generally, no.”

“Do most people here feel that way?”

Deirdre checked behind her. “I can’t speak for most people. I have children. Coming here”—she spread her arms—“is my time out. I don’t
want
to mix my two worlds. It’s private, and most people on the outside don’t understand.”

Selma wrapped her towel around her hips, shifting her weight from one bare foot to the other, her sandals swinging from her hand. “Just like I told you.”

So none of them wanted to let their two worlds collide. Was that why Jennifer had kept her apartment on the outside, even though she had a cottage here?

“Where’s her cottage?” I asked Deirdre.

“Down there,” she said, pointing toward a long building that looked more like a motel than a series of cottages. “Number Five.”

I thanked her as she started to walk back to the restaurant, tossing her towel over her shoulder.

“Let’s go,” I said when she was gone. I’d managed to keep myself covered, but my grace period would be up before too long. I wanted to sneak a peek at Jennifer’s cottage and then talk to the widower, Craig. If he was upset about his failing marriage, about Jennifer’s boyfriend, and about her life outside
Cuerpo y Alma
, then he had a damn good motive for murder.

…

The three of us—Selma stark naked; Lucy topless, her bottom half wrapped in a towel; and me in my bikini and sundress, just praying the nude police didn’t show up and haul me away—stood in front of Number 5.

“I don’t know about this, Lola. What if someone catches you?” Lucy whispered at my back as I put my hand on the knob.

“Breaking and entering. All the more reason to keep quiet about our visit here,” I said. “Or just entering,” I amended when the knob turned and the door opened.

Once inside, I found the light switch, flipped it on, and stared. This place was the complete opposite of Jennifer’s other apartment. Her Natomas place had a barely lived-in feel, and the furniture and ambiance had been minimal and unwelcoming. But this place was warm and inviting. From the bright floral cotton couch, the striped armchair, and pine square coffee table to the leaf-green Roman shades and seafoam walls, this place felt like a home.

“Huh.” A hypothesis had instantly formed in my head. “She only kept the other place for appearances.”

Selma’s eyes glassed up. “It’s like she’s still here.”

I didn’t believe in ghosts like my grandmother did, but I said a quick prayer anyway. Never hurts to be cautious.

I did a quick search, but nothing struck me as unusual. There were a few pictures scattered around, but not of anyone I recognized. An entire set of dishes was stacked in the kitchen cupboards, along with cooking supplies, food, pots and pans, and everything an ordinary kitchen would have.

The bedroom matched the front room. Same pale green walls; a solid, coordinating dark-green comforter; and even an assortment of clothes in the bureau drawers and closet. Everything a person needed to live comfortably, and mostly unclothed.

“No trophies.” I searched under the bed, in the closet, in the bathroom, but there wasn’t a single plastic bin with basketball jerseys, pictures, or any other memories from her sports conquests. “She kept everything separate.”

“Look at these,” Lucy said, holding up a set of silver and royal-blue pompoms. “I was a cheerleader in high school, you know. For about twenty minutes.”

“What happened?” Selma asked.

“I didn’t really want to sleep with Dirk the Jerk. Star football player,” she explained. “Apparently
that
was one of the hazing requirements. Can you believe it?”

She shivered, as if the mere memory of it still disgusted her, but grabbed hold of the pompoms, threw her arms up, and shook them around. Just as quickly, she dropped them back into the bottom dresser drawer next to a box of atomizers and old Courtside Dancer costumes.

We searched for another ten minutes, but not a single thing struck me as unusual.

“I need a computer,” I said as we traipsed toward the clubhouse.

Selma grabbed my arm. “You’re not leaving, are you? We have to find her boyfriend!”

“We don’t know anything about him. She didn’t have any pictures of him in her cottage. No notes. No journal. Are you sure he was real? She didn’t just make him up?”

Selma waggled her head as she whipped the towel off her hips, trembling even as she tried to come off as defiant—while naked. “No. I did not make him up. He’s real.”

I got the feeling that Jennifer Wallace had been damn good at keeping secrets—and at keeping her two worlds separate.

“I need to do research,” I said. “Try to see who she knows from here that she also knows on the outside. Besides you, of course,” I said to Selma, but that one sentence sent my mind reeling. What if Selma Mann was a superstar actress? What if she…?

No. I shook the thought away. I liked Selma. I didn’t want to believe she could have killed Jennifer.

But Manny had taught me to form hypotheses and I couldn’t ignore this one.

“I’m staying,” she said.

“I don’t think you should. Are you sure?”

She was a little skittish, but she nodded. “Parker’ll be here soon.”

She disappeared into the darkness as she passed by a series of outbuildings on her way back to the pool area. As Lucy fell into step beside me, I held my pinkie out to her. “Swear to me that you will not tell Zac we came here tonight.”

She held her pinkie up. “I already promised.”

I amended the pact. “Until this case is wrapped.” She and I both would have to come clean at that point. Just not before.

We laced fingers and shook.

“Can’t go back on a pinkie promise,” she said.

“Deal.”

…

In the clubhouse, the former Mr. Jennifer Wallace was nowhere to be seen.

I turned to Tiffany. “Let me level with you.” I held out the business card I’d retrieved from my car. “I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find Jennifer Wallace’s killer.”

Sort of. To ferret out a rogue letter-writer was more the truth, but I was becoming more and more convinced that the two were related and I couldn’t not try to answer the
why
behind Jennifer’s death.

“She was married to another nudist?” I asked.

“And she had a boyfriend here?” Lucy threw in, still naked from the waist up. She definitely got into her roles whenever she helped me with a case.

I shot her a warning. We didn’t need to play good cop/bad cop, and I wanted Tiffany to be helpful, not feel alienated.

The color drained from Tiffany’s cheeks and her hand trembled as she read the card then cupped it in her hand. Her voice dropped and from her quivering chin, I wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened. “I’d help you if I could, but I already told you, I didn’t know she was seeing anyone. Sh-she and Craig are divorced, but she must have w-wanted to keep her new friend a secret. I don’t know, really.”

An older man burst into the room, bringing a truckload of energy with him. He ripped off his shirt as he entered, the pile of graying hair on his head matching the thick, curlier hair on his sun-damaged body. But the guy was fit. He gave Lucy and me a cursory look, immediately putting his temper in check. “Who do we have here?”

“Two prospective members,” Tiffany said, sticking out her pudgy chin. Her eyes had rounded suddenly and I followed her gaze. She’d left my business card on the counter. Holy mackerel, was
this
Craig?

I’d thought the younger guy we’d seen in the office earlier had been the ex, but Tiffany’s spooked expression made it clear that
this
craggy man was actually Jennifer’s estranged husband. He didn’t seem particularly mournful at just having lost his wife. And he was too busy making flirty faces at Lucy to notice Tiffany moving across the office and slyly retrieving the card.

I didn’t know why
she
didn’t want Craig to know I was a P.I. investigating Jennifer’s death, but that was definitely my preference. The fewer people who knew—particularly those with motives—the better.

“Prospective nudists,” he said. “Nothing I like better than that.”

I sidestepped in front of Lucy, holding my arm out. “Great place you have here.”

He shook my hand, chuckling. “So formal, miss…”

“Cruz.”

“Ms. Cruz. We’re very casual here. Call me Craig, and I’ll call you…”

Ms. Cruz
, I thought, but I said, “Lola.” Better to give my nickname than my real name, and better than having Lucy give her name.

I stopped at the rack of sunglasses, hats, and T-shirts. Lucy picked up a tank top, snapped it open, and examined the logo: male and female silhouettes danced in the center of a scroll design. The
Cuerpo y Alma
slogan,
Dare to Go Bare: All Natural, No Additives
, was printed underneath.

Ironic
, I thought,
sitting next to protein powders and sunscreen
. Even nudists wanted to look good and avoid skin cancer.

“Is this your place?” I asked.

“It certainly is.” He handed me a brochure just like the one Jennifer had had in her Natomas apartment. If Craig owned the place, did that mean Jennifer co-owned it? Had she kept her percentage after the divorce?

“It’s a lot to handle by yourself,” I said, trying to sound like a curious nudist and nothing more. “It’s a great place.”

His giant grin faltered for the briefest moment, but he kept it wide and said, “Used to have a partner, but now it’s just me. Tiff here is my right hand,” he added, wrapping his hairy arm around Tiffany.

I had a hard time picturing Craig and Jennifer together, but I tried to remember Selma’s edict: people here weren’t concerned with the outside appearance. Jennifer must have seen something wonderful in Craig—before they split.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, loping to the door and holding it open for us.

“Oh yeah,” Lucy said, waving her hand like we were old hat at being nudists. “We’ve been to the hot tub and the bar. Strolled by the cottages and the volleyball courts. Great place.”

“We’d love to have you come again,” Craig said. He snapped suddenly. “Saturday night.”

I sputtered. “W-what?”