Here’s another shocking moment from my work-in-progress, VIVA ACAPULCO: Detective Emilia Cruz Book 9.
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Emilia swallowed the
reluctance tasting like lead in the back of her throat as she surveyed Monica Montoya’s bedroom. It was always a hard thing to paw through the life of a murder victim.
The bed was made, although not as tidily as Emilia’s own, thanks to the housekeepers who came unseen into the penthouse in the Palacio Réal every day. One sheet
corner drooped longer than the lumpy woven bedspread and the pillows were piled up haphazardly.
“You do what you have to do,” Señora Vasquez said from the doorway and disappeared down the hall.
Emilia stepped further into the room. The wooden blinds shielding the mid-morning sun were uneven, slanting contrasting rays of light and shadow across a floral rug and an armchair half hidden under abandoned clothes and empty shopping bags. More clothing was tossed on a pale blue painted desk, along with a stack of novels, bottles of nail polish and perfume, and a small basket of tangled bracelets.
No laptop, cell phone, or address book.
The en suite bathroom was small but well-appointed, with a marble-lined shower stall and fluffy towels. The vanity top was
crowded with an entire department store’s inventory of lipstick, eye shadow palettes, tubes of mascara and bottles of foundation. Emilia caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sink. Her eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. She quickly turned away.
With so many items of clothing strewn about the bedroom, Emilia half
expected to find the closet empty. But it was full of expensive office wear including suits, dresses, leather pumps and a shelf of handbags in cloth bags. Tailored blouses, neatly pressed jeans, pretty sundresses and casual flats. Built-in dresser drawers yielded neatly folded underwear and sports clothes. Even Monica’s yoga togs were a fashion statement.
Vaguely envious, Emilia shut the closet door and took another look around the bedroom. Standing on the carpet with the sun striping her jeans, she saw the anomaly.
The discarded clothing didn’t fit the lifestyle of the person who wore the tasteful wardrobe in the closet. Store tags were
still attached, too.
A sequined barely-there halter top. Skinny satin trousers with mesh inserts. A sliver of a red dress, suitable for a porn star at the low, low price of 2900 pesos.
Obviously, Monica had recently bought and tried on a new look, but ultimately decided to wear the conservative pants and jacket she’d been found in. Did she lose her nerve or did her plans change at the last minute?
More importantly, who did she hope to impress with such blatantly sexy
outfits?
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