Wine, Dine and Christmas Crimes by Maria Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📕

“Ever heard of short-term rentals? We are buying it furnished.” He winked at me.

I shook my head. If only I could have his attitude.

“Kid,” he said, “Cheer up. We are not dead or headed for prison. Think about Ana and Walter. That poor schmuck. He did care about Ana. That’s a fact. I don’t know what got into him, a roofie? Walter? He doesn’t even know how to drive. Where did he get that stuff?” He shook his head again. Apparently Dale Wolf had a soft spot for the underdogs. Underdogs, what a strange word, had me conjuring up images of Dior being squashed by a larger beast.

“I bet it was the new place where he moved.” A long sigh showed a serious side I hadn’t seen before. “His new roommates, had to be. He told the detective he gave her a pill so she would agree to go to the Christmas party with him. After she got sick he went to wash her dress in the sink so she could look pretty—while she was dying in the pool.” Mr. Wolf conveniently avoided any mention of Kay or Diazepam. True friend? Ah. None of your business, Monica, none of your business. Let the police do their job, and hope the law is equal for all.

And then Brenda entered the front glass door of The Nest, and everything got better. Officer Clarke trailed close behind her—in uniform.

She hugged me, nodded to Dale Wolf. “Thanks for what you did for my Monica,” she said.

My Monica. That was my cue. I started to cry.

Five minutes later I was sitting in the back of Bob’s squad car, next to Brenda who spoke a mile a minute to reassure me about everything past, present, and future. And she spilled details about the temporary bartender working Kay’s dinner party.

He washed the wine glass Ana had drank from, along with the glasses and gadgets he had used, all in the same dishwasher load, in the makeshift kitchen and bar. And he told the detectives that the doorman came up to the bar twice, looked around, and then left again, never going to the pool area.

I had to let go, clear my mind. Everything connected with The Nest and poor Ana made me so sad I couldn’t stand it. All so avoidable and senseless.

“Tristan called,” Brenda said.

And time stood still.

Did he cancel the dinner? I ran my fingers over my swollen cheek. It may be a blessing, said my head. I would die, answered my heart.

“He spent the day at the ranch, didn’t know a thing about what was happening at the Nest. And you weren’t answering the phone. He will be at your door at seven. That’s all I know.” She waited. My heart beat so loud I wondered if Bob could hear it from his driver’s seat.

“Brenda, what am I going to do? I have no car. I look like a wreck. Why? Am I being punished because he’s a married man?”

“I can’t speak for God,” said the snarky aunt, “but in general people get punished for things they have done, not for feelings they haven’t acted upon. But I’m not catholic. Oh, almost forgot. Lisa, your hairdresser, is coming by at five o’clock to blow-dry your hair.” She picked up my hand and pretended to inspect my nails. “I think I can slap some nail polish on those nails of yours. And I did suggest a dark restaurant with private booths.”

I think my eyeballs got so big they could have rolled down my cheeks any minute now. Happy surprises tended to have that effect on me.

“I guess you are happy with what I told you? You can close your mouth now, Monica, and forget about the Fiat, you were due for a new car anyhow.” She handed me a tissue. I blew my nose while nodding.

I ate some bread with Nutella to make sure I could chew without making a face. Then I decided to adopt that Americanism that suggests you go with the flow and amid the chaos of well-meaning souls coming to help and the million doubts crowding my head, by six forty-five I sat on my couch, admiring my sparkling Christmas tree, holding a light sweater, my purse with tissues, wallet, phone, keys, a comb and a lipstick.

And I had on a cute red dress and makeup. Well, not your usual makeup, but what Lisa called concealer...of course to make everything look right I would have needed to take a bath in a tub filled with concealer. Everyone left, and I waited for the knock on the door. The hardest part was sitting without trying to peek. To his credit he didn’t bring me flowers, I would have felt like we headed for a funeral. He smiled and kissed my forehead, I could smell his familiar soap-clean scent while he politely avoided looking at the swollen side of my face.

In the car, he fiddled with my safety belt, so close I could feel the heat of his body through his shirt, under his coat. I fought to control the impulse to run my hands up his back, between the starchy linen of his light blue shirt and the silky lining of the dark suit.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his lips inches from my face.

I nodded silently.

His vehicle idling in my driveway, not a word was said by either of us regarding the morning incident at The Nest. There was no hiding my swollen face. He wasn’t even trying, he had looked at me square in the face when I opened the door and brushed his lips on mine ever so slightly while helping me to get in the SUV. Would I dare to ask where he was taking me?

“We have reservations at Houston’s on Scottsdale Road,” he said. “The darkest corner booth.” He smiled, patted my hand.

“Perfect,” I said, and I meant it. He turned to me and handed me a