“Are you blackmailing someone?” he asks.
Ruby clasps her hands together and rests them on the table. “I prefer to think of it as receiving compensation for withholding information that someone does not want to be made public.”
“Are you going to tell me or not?” Drew waits five seconds, and when she doesn’t answer, he stands. He has no idea what game she’s playing, but they’re finished here. He selects the pack of Twizzlers from the snack pile for the long drive home. “I’d thank you for your time, but all you’ve had is time.”
She nods toward the issue of People he never got to read. “So sad about Jimmy Peralta, isn’t it? We used to watch The Prince of Poughkeepsie in here all the time. Fascinating case. Murdered by his fifth wife, who was almost thirty years younger than he was. Did you know she’s a Filipina?”
Drew did not know that, because he doesn’t pay attention to celebrity marriages. “A Filipino woman murders an older white rich guy? Sounds familiar.”
“You should do your next podcast about it.” Ruby settles back into the chair, looking pleased with herself. “When you’re done with me, of course.”
Drew sticks the Twizzlers in his back pocket. “Ma’am, I am so done with you, there isn’t even a word for it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Though Drew is exhausted when he gets back to Toronto—an hour with Ruby Reyes would do anyone in, not to mention the ten hours of driving—he heads for his mother’s place. Since Junior’s is on the way, he impulsively stops for takeout, and makes small talk with Charisse while waiting for his food.
Fifteen minutes later, he arrives at Red Oak Senior Living, where Belinda Malcolm has lived for the past two years. He gets to her apartment just as one of the staff nurses is leaving.
“Hey, Maya,” Drew says with a smile. “She good today?”
“Blood pressure’s a little low, but we’re keeping an eye on it. I’d like her to eat more.” The nurse glances at Drew’s takeout bag. “Ooh, Junior’s. That should help. Enjoy your dinner, you two.”
“Well, aren’t you a sight,” his mother says warmly, when Drew closes the door behind him. She’s seated in her wheelchair, and he bends down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Is that curry goat I smell?”
“Yes, ma’am, and I got plantains, too. I hope you’re hungry.”
He sets the takeout bag down on the table and tidies the half dozen magazines his sisters have left here. Same as the prison, it’s mostly celebrity crap and a couple of fashion magazines. He begins unpacking the food.
“Maya likes you.” His mother wheels herself over. She says this every time Drew visits. “You know she’s single, right?”
He takes a seat across from her. “You’ve mentioned it.”
“She’s cute. Those big brown eyes. And I saw you looking at her booty.”
“I only look at women above the neck.”
“She just bought her own condo.”
“She’s also twenty-eight. Way too young for me.”
His mother gives him a sideways glance. “How do you know how old she is?”
“I looked her up,” Drew says, and they both burst out laughing.
His mother opens the bag of takeout and starts eating. Her second bite goes down with more enthusiasm than the first, and he notices she’s lost more weight. She was hit by a drunk driver four years ago, and two surgeries and several complications later, she’s permanently in a wheelchair. It was her suggestion to move into assisted living. As a retired teacher, she has an excellent pension, so at least there’s no financial burden. She seems to like it here. The staff is friendly, and there are plenty of activities. She even has a gentleman friend his sisters have seen her giggling with a few times, which Belinda refuses to acknowledge.
“I did have a nice chat with my granddaughter today,” his mother says.
“Sasha calls you more than she calls me.”
“I don’t grill her about her love life.”
“She’s too young to have a love life.”
“You were living with Simone when you were her age,” Belinda says pointedly.
“Yeah, and look how that turned out.”
The TV is playing an episode of Real Housewives. Drew can’t tell which city it is, but all the women are blond and drunk. He reaches for the remote to switch the channel, but his mother stops him.
“Don’t,” Belinda says. “I’m getting into it. These ladies are crazy. All this money, and they still fight about the pettiest things.”