ears like a cocker spaniel or poodle, the short legs of a dachshund, and the genitalia of a small buffalo. But by far his most endearing quality was that he adored Jared and despised Precious.
Buck squatted to pat the Labra-doodle-cocka-dachsie while watching the sky.
When Nikki came around and lined up to land, Lucille said, “She’s due a break.”
“Damn straight,” Buck replied.
There were only two cars at Drake’s house when Nikki, Buck and the kids returned—the housekeeper’s old Camry and Dixie’s Acura. Nikki breathed a huge sigh of relief. The open house was over and she didn’t have to face anyone from Drake’s firm. The mere thought of never having to deal with his secretary, Mona, again almost filled her with glee.
She found her friends in the living room, seated on the sofa, grim-faced. Dixie tilted her head toward the dining room and Nikki looked for the source of the problem. Ah, yes. Her mother. Who else? Opal sat in a straight-backed dining room chair, her expression dour, her poodle curled up on her lap. “Well, finally,” she said by way of greeting. Precious stirred at her words.
The kids headed straight for the kitchen. Nikki dropped her leather shoulder bag on a living room chair and draped her funeral clothes over it. She hadn’t bothered to change out of the greasy mechanic’s jumpsuit and boots. “Sorry, Mother, but the kids just weren’t up to any more. They’d had it.”
Buck and Pistol sauntered in. Precious wriggled upright, and with his back legs on Opal’s lap and front legs on the chair arm, snarled meaningfully. Pistol trotted toward him and snarled back, message received.
“You could have at least attempted to get here in time to say hello to a few of Drake’s mourners,” she scolded.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mother, he was my ex. If it weren’t for the kids, I wouldn’t even be here.”
But Opal wasn’t listening. She was transfixed by the ensemble Nikki wore, complete with unlaced steel-toed boots. “Good Lord, Nicole, what is that you have on? Merciful heavens.” She stood slowly from her chair, holding Precious and clucking in disgust. “I believe I’ll just go lie down. My head pounds.”
Opal toddled down the hall with her poodle, past the master bedroom to the guest room. She went in and closed the door. Nikki, who had watched her departure, turned a stunned expression back to her friends.
“That’s where I’ve been sleeping,” she said. “I just couldn’t make myself use Drake’s room.”
“I believe your mother knows that,” Carlisle said. “She mentioned something about it being…what was it? Disheveled.”
“Well, Christ.”
“Cheer up. Maybe she’ll tidy up while she’s in there.”
“I guess I probably owe you two for sticking it out with her all afternoon,” Nikki said.
“Sometimes your friendship comes at a mighty fine price,” Dixie drawled. “But Opal wasn’t near as bad as that secretary of Drake’s. Mona? She was all pissed that you and the kids weren’t here.” Dixie shook her head. “She’s one black-hearted bitch.” For Dixie to give a review that bleak was saying something. This sweet Texas beauty queen’s greatest failing was not seeing the worst in people soon enough. Mostly men.
“A very unpleasant woman,” Carlisle agreed, shaking his head. He stood up and stretched. “She completely ruined a perfectly nice funeral.”
Buck’s shoulders shook. He draped an arm around Carlisle. “Come on, cupcake. Let’s see if old Drake left any decent whiskey in the liquor cabinet.”
While the men went to the wet bar in the family room, Dixie followed Nikki to the kitchen to find the kids and Drake’s housekeeper, Lydia. April and Jared sat at the kitchen table while Lydia fluttered around them, serving them sandwiches, drinks of soda, chips and cookies, all the while patting their heads affectionately and cooing to them in Spanish.
“Have you figured out what I owe you, Lydia?” Nikki asked.
Immediately a troubled expression clouded the woman’s tanned and crinkled face, and she seemed to be wringing her hands on the dish towel she held. “Miss Nikki, Mr. Drake got a little behind for me.”
“That’s okay, Lydia. Just tell me how much.”
The housekeeper moved closer to Nikki but didn’t make eye contact. She simply gazed down at the floor and whispered, “Twenty-five hundred.”
“Twenty-five hundred?” Nikki replied in a near shout. Hoping it was pesos, she asked, “Dollars?”
The kids looked up from their food. Dixie clapped a hand over her heart. Buck and Carlisle entered the kitchen with a bottle of Scotch just in time to hear. Lydia actually flushed in embarrassment and began to fan her face.
“Sí. It was in dollars.”
“How long has he been behind?”
“He say when the tax return come, but then—” That was all she could seem to get out.
“Oh, brother. I’m surprised you kept coming back.”
“Sometimes he pay me,” she said. She went to the laundry room on the other side of the kitchen where her purse and sweater hung on a hook. She got them both, then took a notebook from her purse and passed it to Nikki. “I keep track,” she said.
Nikki ruffled the pages briefly. It was clear the woman had documented her earnings carefully. She was telling the truth. It looked as though Lydia worked for several families, and if she hadn’t, she might have starved to death. Nikki handed back the small spiral notebook. “I’ll get my checkbook,” she said with resignation.
A little while later, Lydia left with her check and a promise from Nikki that she would be called to help with cleaning again once they got their bearings.
Drake had let himself get twenty-five hundred dollars behind in paying a Mexican woman of simple means whose entire family struggled to get by? What was he thinking? Did he have no consideration?
“You can repay yourself when the will is settled,” Dixie suggested.
But something in the pit of Nikki’s stomach tensed. Could there be a reason other than greed that Drake had not paid her? Could he have had, as April would say, financial issues? But why borrow trouble? She was seeing the lawyer the next day.
“Ice,” she said, indicating the bottle Buck held. “We need some glasses and some ice. Right away.”
The lawyer who handled Drake’s will had also handled his divorce, and Nikki found it hard to be in the same room with him.
“You’re not technically family,” Richard Studbeck said in lieu of hello.
What a cold bastard. “I’m technically the parent of the minor children who will be represented in the will. Besides an estranged sister, they’re his only family, as far as I know.”
“Have
