Ralphie's Wives. Christine RimmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
she’d decided that goddess, with an apostrophe and an s at the end, didn’t sound right. She’d settled on queen, in honor of Phoebe, Rose and Tiff—and the Prairie Queen Music Hall, long defunct and torn down.
“I’ve got more.” Goddess was on a roll. Phoebe tried to remind herself that at least the call wasn’t about one of her mother’s visions. Goddess had visions all the time. She swore she had second sight. Goddess said, “A good friend will come and bail you out of jail, but a true friend will be sitting next to you in that cell saying, ‘Damn. That was fun!’”
“Mom.”
Goddess accused, “You are not laughing.”
“I got in at three.”
“Don’t whine, hon. Whinin’ makes those ugly little lines between your eyebrows—though I do know what’s got you down. It’s that will, isn’t it?” Goddess had received her copy the same day as Phoebe, Darla and the other Queens—and probably everyone else in central Oklahoma. “I still can’t believe he left me that foosball table. How could he have known I always wanted one of those? He was a genius that way, now wasn’t he?” Goddess paused to indulge in a long, sentimental sigh. “Ralphie. More faults than Swiss cheese has holes. But didn’t he always just know what a woman might want? Now, if I can only find somewhere to put the dang thing—and I know, I know. Figuring out where to put a foosball table doesn’t exactly stack up against discovering you’ve got a partner you’ve never even met. Any news on this Rio Navarro character?”
It was not a question Phoebe wanted to be asked.
Her mother, using her psychic powers no doubt, read Phoebe’s silence correctly. “He showed up. Oh, my. What’s he like?”
Black hair, black eyes, lots of muscles and a great ass. “He’s okay. I guess. He got in from California yesterday. On a Harley.”
“Ooooo. Black leather jacket? Tight jeans? Interestin’ tattoos? Chains hangin’ off him?”
“Get a grip, Mama.”
“Your new partner got a job out there in California?”
“He’s a private investigator.”
“Hmm. Not exactly your average nine-to-five. But still refreshing. A friend of Ralphie’s who works. What’s he going to do—about the bar?”
“He hasn’t decided yet.”
“I do hate a man who can’t make up his mind.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“Hon, you do sound down.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“You’re lyin’. You have a nice birthday lunch with Tiff and Rose?” Not giving Phoebe any chance to answer, Goddess kept right on, “Thirty years old. I can hardly believe it. My baby is thirty years old…”
“Happens to everyone eventually.”
“That it does. And you’re still all broke up, aren’t you? You haven’t made peace with the fact that Ralphie is gone.” Phoebe decided not to reply to that. After a pause long enough to drive a fifth wheel and a horse trailer through, her mother said, “I am picking up nothing about that hit-and-run. But you wait. The spirits always come through. In fact, I’ve been thinking that we all need to make ourselves more open to communications from—” her mother’s voice cut out and Phoebe heard a beep on the line “—the grave. After all, the spirits can’t be heard if nobody’s listening and—”
“Mom, I have to go. I’ve got another call.”
Goddess harrumphed. “And if you think I believe that, I’ve got some swampland to sell you. You can build you some condos on it.”
“’Bye.” Phoebe punched the call-waiting button. “Hello.”
“Just checking to see if you gave me your real number.”
Already, she recognized his voice. Probably a bad sign. “Rio.”
“Too early for you?”
“Yeah. But don’t let that stop you. It never stopped my mother.”
“Goddess. Now, there’s a name for you.”
She tightened her grip on the handset. “How did you know my mother’s name?”
“Ralphie told me. It’s not the kind of name a man forgets. Ralphie also said he knew your mother from back in the seventies. And that he knew you and his other ex-wives back then, too, when you three were only kids.”
“Ralphie talked too much.”
“True. Rose and Tiffany. Your friends from the bar yesterday. Right?”
“What about them?”
“You know what. They’re the ex-wives I just mentioned. And I’ve been nosing around a little….”
“Nosing around, where?”
“Various places.”
“Oh, I’ll just bet—and why have you been nosing around?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know.
“Information is power.”
“Hold the phone. Let me write that down.”
“Don’t be crabby, Reina.” His voice changed when he said the unfamiliar word, became softer, more musical.
“What’s that, Spanish?”
He made a sound in the affirmative. “Reina. Queen.”
She started to tell him not to call her that, but couldn’t quite do it. Why not? It was a question she refused to analyze. She said, “I’d be a lot less crabby if you’d agree to sell me your half of my bar.”
“Help me get what I want. Then we’ll see about the bar.”
“And you want?”
“Take a wild guess.”
She didn’t have to guess. She knew. She muttered, “Answers.”
“Got it on the first try. And my take is that you really cared for the old SOB. I can’t figure out why you don’t want answers, too—unless you already have them.”
She tried to whip up a little outrage, but it just wasn’t happening. Wearily, she accused, “Meaning that you think I had something to do with what happened to him.”
“My instincts tell me you’re not involved.”
She ladled on the sarcasm. “I am so relieved to hear that.”
“But I do wonder…” He let the sentence wander off. She waited, refusing to prompt him. He went on at last. “Maybe there’s someone you feel you have to protect.”
“Why would I be protecting some drunk driver I never met?”
“You wouldn’t. If it was some drunk who hit him. But what if it wasn’t?” Before she could respond to that one, he said, “He was killed by a flat-fronted, high vehicle—an SUV, a full-sized van or a big pickup.”
“And you know this…how?”
“Accident description. Force applied above the body’s center of gravity. Forward projection—the body is flattened against the high front of the vehicle, accelerated to the speed of the vehicle, then thrown to the roadway ahead of the vehicle. In Ralphie’s case, the vehicle went right over him after hitting him.”
Phoebe’s stomach was suddenly queasy. She shut her eyes—and saw Ralphie’s lined, leathery face; his too-charming scam artist’s smile. Her eyes popped open—wide—and she argued, “They never found the vehicle, so there’s no way to know for sure what it was.”
“But they do know what I just explained to you. And they got paint transfer.