Free Bare-Naked Lola (A Lola Cruz Mystery) by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez Page A

the windows again, and told her to be good.
    A minute later, Reilly and I stood on the driveway staring at the monstrous house with its enormous fountain, lion statues, and the soaring ceiling of the porch. I marched past the fountain, Reilly on my heels, and rang the doorbell. A tune chimed from inside. I tapped my booted foot, finally ringing the bell again when no one came.
    “Darn. After all that, she’s not home?” Reilly said, but the words had barely left her mouth when a figure appeared from behind the beveled glass and the door swung open.
    Rochelle Nolan stood before us, a pristine white Maltese in her arms. Now that I was standing in front of her, I recognized her from past publicity shots. She was every bit as glamorous as she was supposed to be, considering she was Sacramento’s version of Khloe Kardashian. The thrill of being near a celebrity went through me. My knees wobbled. Imagine what it would be like to actually meet Juanes. Or Jennifer Lopez. Or Selma Hayek.
    I shut the door on those thoughts and got to work. Rochelle’s stick-straight blond hair was like a perfect sheet of golden ash. It made me wish I’d taken even just a second to run my fingers through my hair instead of haphazardly clipping it up in the back with a claw. Being painted and primped for the basketball games had made me want to do pretty much nothing when I wasn’t at a game. Au naturel , that was my new motto.

    From behind me, I heard Salsa give an exploratory bark. Rochelle’s dog responded instantly, straining in her arms. It yelped, and Salsa’s deep, baritone bark responded back in a full-on barking frenzy. Oh boy.
    Rochelle peered over my shoulder. “You bring your dog on your deliveries?”
    “Sometimes,” I said. “A girl and her best friend.”
    “Ah,” she said, as if she knew exactly what I meant. She pointed to the flowers. “Are those for me?”
    “What?” Reilly stared blankly at her.
    “The flowers,” I said under my breath. Reilly was a total reality-show junkie. She was starstruck.
    “Oh! Yes. Sorry. Flower delivery!” She thrust the arrangement toward Rochelle, but the former dancer didn’t take it.
    She lifted one shoulder, showing us her yapping Maltese. “Do you mind putting it there?” she said, turning to point to a brass-rimmed glass occasional table.
    Reilly hesitated, but I put my hand on her lower back and gave a shove. Getting into Rochelle’s house was exactly what I wanted, and she’d invited us in.
    Reilly put the flower arrangement on the table, stepping aside as Rochelle bent over them and breathed in. “No card?” she asked, straightening.
    “Oh? I guess not.” I forged ahead before she could question us about who’d sent the flowers. “You were on that reality show, weren’t you?” I said, infusing admiration into my voice.

    It worked. She stroked her hair with her free hand, preening. “Good memory,” she said. “I’ll give you an autograph if you want.”
    I gave a thrilled smile. Rochelle Nolan’s autograph was the last thing on my mind, but it was a handwriting sample. Booya! I dug my notebook out of my purse. “Very exciting! I’ve never met a real live celebrity before.” I handed her a pen and as she scrawled her name across the page, I cleared my throat. “You’re not on the Royal Courtside dance team anymore, are you?”
    Her face tensed, almost imperceptibly, and she shook her head as she scrawled her name. All loops and curlicues. Not the note writer. Damn. “I’m not, no.” She held out her left hand. Reilly and I stumbled back, nearly blinded by the sparkling rock on her ring finger. “I’m engaged—”
    “To one of the players, right?” Reilly blurted. “Number Seven? But isn’t he married?”
    I tried to mouth “cállate” toReilly, but I couldn’t catch her gaze. Rochelle was going to kick us out before I could uncover anything.
    Her lips froze, but she spoke through her teeth. “They’re separated.”
    “So you haven’t set