Finding Harmony (Katie & Annalise Book 3) by Pamela Fagan Hutchins
Authors: Pamela Fagan Hutchins
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grieving widow. My husband loved me, even if I still had leftover bulges from the twins. I resolved to control myself and forced a toothy smile.
Mrs. Monroe said, “Sí, yes, hello, very nice to meet you. Call me Elena. Please come into our living room and find a chair,” she said. Her accent was heavy on the “eeeeez” and rolled R’s. Sexy talk.
We entered a darkened room full of Mexican women. Sisters? Friends? Neighbors?
“Mamá, por favor vas a la cocina?” Elena said to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to the Charo of “cuchi cuchi” fame in the 1970s.
Elena’s mother rounded up the other women and herded them reluctantly into the kitchen, where they hovered by the door closest to us.
A knock sounded at the front door. Elena walked to it, her steps a slink slink slink motion, and greeted a man who spoke to her in rapid Spanish.
I put my lips on Nick’s ear to whisper, “I feel completely out of my element.” I hoped not only to get my message across to him, but also to tear his eyes away from Elena as she raised her arms to rake her hands through her mane of hair, exposing her concave brown midriff and about a quarter inch of the underside of her unrestrained breasts. I was pretty sure I might vomit at any moment.
Elena began her shimmy back toward us and the visitor followed her. I recognized him immediately. He had attended our meeting earlier and had really pissed off Ramirez during the heated interchange en español about Eddy Monroe’s computer. What was he doing here? I looked at Nick and saw fury on his face.
“Mr. Kovacs,” said the visitor, “we met earlier today, no? I am Antonio Jiménez, the manager of Human Resources for the refinery. I will be sitting in on your interview with Mrs. Monroe.” His smile did not reach his eyes.
“I wasn’t informed that you would be present, Mr. Jiménez. This is very irregular,” Nick replied. His tone lowered the temperature in the room by five degrees.
“Pero, it won’t be a problem, no? Petro-Mex cares so much about Mrs. Monroe, and I think she would like for me to be here.” Another five-degree chill.
Nick looked at Elena. “Is it your wish that Mr. Jiménez be present, Elena?”
She looked at Mr. Jiménez, and then at the floor. “Ahhh, sí, sí, yes, it is OK,” she said. She put one hand over the other.
We took a seat, but Mr. Jiménez chose to remain standing behind Elena. So we began our interview, sandwiched between the whispering females and the glowering Petro-Mex HR manager. Nick and I had planned that I would interview Elena, one woman to another, so I took the lead now. He would add any questions he thought I missed. I had conducted countless depositions and questioned hundreds of witnesses in court, but this strange scenario flummoxed me a bit. I cleared my throat and pulled out a yellow pad.
“Elena, we are going to record our meeting. Will that be OK?” I asked. Nick set his iPhone on the arm of the chair and pulled up the audio recording app.
Elena turned around 180 degrees to seek permission from Mr. Jiménez. Not a good sign. He nodded.
“Sí,” she said to me.
I started softly with her. “I am very, very sorry about your husband.”
“Gracias,” she said.
“Tell me, how long had you and Mr. Monroe been married?”
“Six months.”
Shorter than I’d imagined. “How did the two of you meet?”
Once again, her head rotated back to Mr. Jiménez, whose face this time was impassive. She turned back to me and fumbled over her words. “Eddy, my husband, well, I met Eddy through friends. Friends here at Petro-Mex on St. Marcos.” Her eyes remained dry, but her face looked tight enough to crack.
Everything about her answer said it was not the answer. Should I push her on the question? I decided to let Nick be the hammer if he wanted to.
“Elena, the police said Mr. Monroe may have killed himself. What do you think happened? Do you think he killed himself?” I cringed as I said it; I
Mrs. Monroe said, “Sí, yes, hello, very nice to meet you. Call me Elena. Please come into our living room and find a chair,” she said. Her accent was heavy on the “eeeeez” and rolled R’s. Sexy talk.
We entered a darkened room full of Mexican women. Sisters? Friends? Neighbors?
“Mamá, por favor vas a la cocina?” Elena said to an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to the Charo of “cuchi cuchi” fame in the 1970s.
Elena’s mother rounded up the other women and herded them reluctantly into the kitchen, where they hovered by the door closest to us.
A knock sounded at the front door. Elena walked to it, her steps a slink slink slink motion, and greeted a man who spoke to her in rapid Spanish.
I put my lips on Nick’s ear to whisper, “I feel completely out of my element.” I hoped not only to get my message across to him, but also to tear his eyes away from Elena as she raised her arms to rake her hands through her mane of hair, exposing her concave brown midriff and about a quarter inch of the underside of her unrestrained breasts. I was pretty sure I might vomit at any moment.
Elena began her shimmy back toward us and the visitor followed her. I recognized him immediately. He had attended our meeting earlier and had really pissed off Ramirez during the heated interchange en español about Eddy Monroe’s computer. What was he doing here? I looked at Nick and saw fury on his face.
“Mr. Kovacs,” said the visitor, “we met earlier today, no? I am Antonio Jiménez, the manager of Human Resources for the refinery. I will be sitting in on your interview with Mrs. Monroe.” His smile did not reach his eyes.
“I wasn’t informed that you would be present, Mr. Jiménez. This is very irregular,” Nick replied. His tone lowered the temperature in the room by five degrees.
“Pero, it won’t be a problem, no? Petro-Mex cares so much about Mrs. Monroe, and I think she would like for me to be here.” Another five-degree chill.
Nick looked at Elena. “Is it your wish that Mr. Jiménez be present, Elena?”
She looked at Mr. Jiménez, and then at the floor. “Ahhh, sí, sí, yes, it is OK,” she said. She put one hand over the other.
We took a seat, but Mr. Jiménez chose to remain standing behind Elena. So we began our interview, sandwiched between the whispering females and the glowering Petro-Mex HR manager. Nick and I had planned that I would interview Elena, one woman to another, so I took the lead now. He would add any questions he thought I missed. I had conducted countless depositions and questioned hundreds of witnesses in court, but this strange scenario flummoxed me a bit. I cleared my throat and pulled out a yellow pad.
“Elena, we are going to record our meeting. Will that be OK?” I asked. Nick set his iPhone on the arm of the chair and pulled up the audio recording app.
Elena turned around 180 degrees to seek permission from Mr. Jiménez. Not a good sign. He nodded.
“Sí,” she said to me.
I started softly with her. “I am very, very sorry about your husband.”
“Gracias,” she said.
“Tell me, how long had you and Mr. Monroe been married?”
“Six months.”
Shorter than I’d imagined. “How did the two of you meet?”
Once again, her head rotated back to Mr. Jiménez, whose face this time was impassive. She turned back to me and fumbled over her words. “Eddy, my husband, well, I met Eddy through friends. Friends here at Petro-Mex on St. Marcos.” Her eyes remained dry, but her face looked tight enough to crack.
Everything about her answer said it was not the answer. Should I push her on the question? I decided to let Nick be the hammer if he wanted to.
“Elena, the police said Mr. Monroe may have killed himself. What do you think happened? Do you think he killed himself?” I cringed as I said it; I
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