the fact I'd already had plenty of caffeine for the day. I ordered a decaf mocha with whipped cream, and while I waited for it, I caved and added a chocolate croissant to my order. I scanned the shop patrons, but it appeared that I'd beaten John there, as I didn't see him among them. Order in hand, I found a table near the windows and settled in to wait. I ate the croissant slowly, savoring its flaky butteriness, as I sipped my decadent drink.
I was about halfway in when a grey sedan pulled up to the curb across the street and I watched John Delmoore emerge. He was alone, and I studied him as he entered the shop and took a spot in line. He was dressed sharply in a blue and white striped shirt, navy slacks, and black leather loafers. Again I was struck by how opposite to his father John's style of dress was. I wondered if it was just a personality difference or if John purposely dressed conservatively as a sort of rebellion to his dad's street style.
He glanced around the shop briefly before his eyes met mine and he raised a hand in greeting. A few minutes later, he'd gotten his order of what appeared to be black coffee and slid into the seat across from me. I tried not to feel self-conscious about my thousand-calorie snack next to his plain coffee.
"Thanks for meeting me here," he said.
"Sure." I gave him a smile. "How are you holding up?"
He sighed, letting the air out slowly. "I'm fine." He raised his eyes to meet mine and gave me a sad smile. "It's going to take us all some time to come to terms with the fact that he's gone."
I nodded, sending him what I hoped was a sympathetic look. "The death of a parent is never easy."
"Well, my father wasn't an easy man in life either." He sucked in more breath. "Sorry. I, uh, I don't mean to disparage his name."
Which was a change from the day before. Either he'd had some time to calm down or someone had clued him in that speaking ill of the dead might not look so good for the family.
As if he could read my thoughts, he added, "Chloe said holding on to anger now is only going to hurt me, not him."
I nodded. "Chloe seems like a smart girl."
"She is." He sipped at his drink. "She's the one who convinced me to try to reconcile with my father in the first place. So much for that now, I guess."
"I'm sorry." I felt a pang of sympathy for him again. "I wasn't close with my father growing up either. I know it's hard."
"Fernando?" he asked.
"Fernando is my stepfather," I clarified. "And he's been wonderful. My own father left my mother and me when I was young."
John looked surprised at my admission. "Really? Was it another woman?"
"Sort of," I hedged. I'd always been told he took off to Vegas with a showgirl named Lola. It hadn't been until I was an adult that I stumbled on the real story—he'd actually taken off to Vegas to become a showgirl named Lola. But that was a whole other story.
"Anyway," I went on, not going into my personal details, "I know these sorts of relationships aren't always easy."
He nodded, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. "No, they're not. My father was…a complicated man."
I bit my lip. He was obviously trying to choose his words carefully, and I had the distinct feeling someone had put him up to this meeting. "You said on the phone that there was something you wanted to clear up?"
He nodded, his gaze going down into his paper cup of coffee. "After you left yesterday, a detective came by our house."
"Oh?" I asked, hoping that detective hadn't been my husband and no one had mentioned a nosy blonde had just been there. "What did he want?"
"He was asking us a bunch of questions about my dad. About if he had any enemies." His eyes came up to meet mine. "Yesterday when you visited, you asked if the police had been by to see us then. Why?"
I licked my lips. "I take it you didn't read the L.A. Informer this morning?"
He scoffed. "After my dad's third very public divorce, I made it a policy never to read the tabloids."
That I could well understand.
"Why?" he persisted, eyebrows drawing down. "What did they say?"
I paused. "It's possible that your father's death was not accidental," I