Free Rosemary's Gravy by Melissa F. Miller Page B

eloquent.
    “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, more to himself than to me.
    “Felix—”
    He continued, “I mean, the affair with Santos. I can believe that. Now that I think about it, it fits. He never brought any girlfriends home when I was growing up. He never talked about women.”
    “Then why would he marry Amber?” My curiosity overcame my social ineptitude.
    He shrugged. “For the publicity, if I had to guess. The label hadn’t had a big hit in a while. Sales were slumping. But their marriage was huge news. Everything spiked after that.” He said it as if it were a no-brainer: Record sales down? Marry a movie star.
    “Then what’s so hard to believe?”
    “That he’d allow her to blackmail him—or that he’d resort to killing her. That’s not dad’s style. He doesn’t shy away from a fight.”
    I hated to be the one to point it out, but I figured it would be better coming from me than from Detective She-Devil Sullivan. “Unless he was trying to protect you,” I suggested in a soft voice.
    His head snapped back and he searched my eyes with his. “Me? What do you mean?”
    I cleared my throat. “Like you said, your dad isn’t exactly a shrinking violet. But he lived a closeted life for who knows how long? The most reasonable explanation is that he wasn’t sure how his sexuality would affect you. And if the protective shell he’d worked so hard to create was threatened … I don’t know, Felix. I don’t have kids. But I understand the instinct to protect them can be overwhelming.”
    My eyes actually filled with tears as I thought of Felix’s father denying his own sexuality to protect his son and, inevitably, contrasted that behavior with my own parents, who turned their backs on their three daughters and left us to clean up their expensive mess. Get a grip, Rosemary. Felix needs a friend right now. You can blubber about your bad luck later.
    His lower lip trembled. “Do you really think that he could have killed her—to protect me? ”
    “Maybe?” I ventured.
    At that moment, the uniformed officer who’d accompanied Detective Drummond poked his head out the back door and swiveled his head toward us. “Sir, Detective Drummond said you can have five minutes with the suspect. Understand that I will remain in the room and he will be restrained in handcuffs.”
    Felix’s entire body sagged. “Thank you, officer. But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t need to speak to him.”
    The police officer cocked his head. For a moment, I thought he was going to try to convince Felix to talk to his dad but then he nodded. “That’s your call.” And then he was gone.
    That left me to do the convincing. “Wait a second. I didn’t say your dad did kill Amber. Just that you should consider the possibility. Don’t turn your back on him. You should talk to him, Felix.”
    “I just … can’t. Not yet.” His eyes met mine with a pleading look, and I remembered he was barely into his twenties.
    I opened my arms to hug him, and he stepped close to me. I could feel his heart racing through his thin shirt. I rubbed his back in a constant, circular motion until the rhythm of his heart slowed to something less frantic than a hummingbird’s.

9
    I slinked into the kitchen in a pair of boxers and an oversized UCLA tee shirt, both borrowed from Felix. The quiet, spotless space with its gleaming appliances and wide expanse of counters looked completely different in the pre-dawn light, approached from the rear stairs as a well-rested overnight guest rather than through the employees’ entrance as a harried, if highly paid, worker bee.
    I was standing on tiptoes on the cold terrazzo reveling in the feeling when a voice drawled, “So how do you take your coffee?”
    Felix. I immediately crossed my arms in front of my chest in embarrassment and wished I’d taken the time to get dressed. “Uh, just some hemp milk, please. And thank you.” Another new sensation—Felix waiting on me in this kitchen.
    He