The Lola Cruz Christmas Story



  The Lola Cruz Christmas Story

  A Lola Cruz Novella

  Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Visit the author website at www.misaramirez.com

  ISBN 9781458175472

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition 2010

  Discover other titles by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez:

  Living the Vida Lola

  Hasta la Vista, Lola!

  Bare-Naked Lola

  Sacrifice of Passion, book one in the Dead Legends Romantic Suspense Trilogy

  Deceiving the Witch Next Door, book one in the Bloomington Witches Series

  Flight of the Sunflower

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this story or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information, email Melissa Bourbon Ramirez at mailto:[email protected]

  Melissa Bourbon RamirezCopyright 2010 by MelissaBourbonRamirez

  Dedicated to Christmas lovers everywhere

  The Lola Cruz Christmas Story

  “Help me, Lola. You’re my only hope.” The words echoing in my head were familiar, only they hadn’t come from Princess Leia’s hologram, imploring Obi-Wan to save her. No, they’d come from the woman who’d been my brother’s unrequited high school crush. The woman I was now on my way to help, at the ungodly hour of five a.m., on Christmas Eve morning.

  And she was a Callaghan, to boot. Figured.

  I tamped down my guilty conscience as I maneuvered my car through the deserted streets of Sacramento. Christmas lights rimmed rooftops and big blowup Santas and reindeer adorned lawns, but the heavy blanket of fog made everything look like it was behind a misty white veil.

  I shivered. Was it betraying Antonio to rescue Margo Callaghan? She was a few years older than him and it wasn’t like they’d actually dated. I knew he’d run into her around Valentine’s Day this year, but he’d been uncharacteristically quiet about it and hadn’t seen her since. But it was never wrong to help someone in need. Mama had drilled that lesson into all of her children, and when we slipped, she’d dragged us by the earlobe to work at Loaves and Fishes or to the priest to reinforce the message. I shoved a loose strand of hair behind my ear, bolstered by my reasoning.

  As I wound through Fair Oaks, I couldn’t help but think of Jack Callaghan, my own unrequited love. He lived 232 miles away--I’d Mapquested it--in San Luis Obispo, but that hadn’t stopped him from invading my senses. No matter what, I couldn’t ever fully escape my obsession with Antonio’s best friend. I mean, it was all to common for Jack to take root in my gray matter and not let go, but now it was his cousin who had her claws in me. She was the reason I’d snuck out of my flat at the crack of dawn, sacrificing sleep and warmth and buñuelos.

  The Callaghan’s hold on me was spreading.

  I turned onto the Green Meadow Drive, still replaying Margo’s early morning phone call. It had knocked me for a monumental loop--at first because it made me think of Jack. El guapo. I’d shot countless photographs of him in high school while practicing my surveillance techniques. They showed his disheveled hair, unbuttoned jeans, and a smolderingly satisfied expression on his face--and were safely tucked away in my dresser at home.

  The nerves in my stomach tumbled. Just talking to Margo on the phone had felt disloyal. I mean, by not giving Antonio the time of day in high school, the bruja was probably single-handedly responsible for creating the charming, commitment-phobic “rogue” he was today. But had disloyalty stopped me from agreeing to meet with her? Chale. Of course it hadn’t. She’d sounded desperate, and now here I was--exhausted from a late night of pre-tamalada preparations with Mama and un poquito paranoid that I’d be spotted by some distant Cruz relative and turned in to my family for betraying Antonio.

  Guilt gnawed at my insides, pero Dios mio, I was a P.I.--okay, technically I was still just an intern for Camacho and Associates, but my licensing exam was only weeks away and I knew Manny Camacho, my super detective boss, was going to make me lead investigator on a case very soon. I couldn’t turn Margo down without at least hearing what she needed, even if listening to her might doom me to praying a hundred Rosaries. And Rosaries notwithstanding, what was the worst my family could do to me for helping a woman in need, even one who’d caused Tonio such angst? Deny me tamales?

  Anxiety knotted my chest. Could there be anything worse than no tamales at Christmas?

  I slammed on the brakes. Buñuelos! Being denied buñuelos would be worse. Argh! For a moment, I gripped the wheel, my stomach urging me to turn the car around and crawl back into bed where I’d be safe, guilt free, and guaranteed a future of fried pastries. What to do, what to do?

  Finally, my curiosity made me ease my foot back onto the gas pedal. Whatever trouble Margo Callaghan was in, it had to be big for her to have called me. I’d given my word to her, and Lola Cruz’s word was like gold.

  I finally found the house. It was a dark shadow on the street. No blowup Santas. No reindeer. No twinkling colorful lights. I looked up and down the sidewalk. It was the only house on the block without Christmas decorations. No Christmas spirit. Is that what Margo wanted me to find for her?

  As I climbed out of my car, a hushed sound came from behind the trees.

  I searched the darkness. “Margo?” I whispered.

  “Lolaaaaaa.”

  My heart climbed to my throat, but I shoved it back down. Ay caramba. I had to get a grip.

  It was Noche Buena, not el Dia de los Muertos, for crying out loud. My imagination would not get the better of me. Whipping my head around, I peered into the shadows, but didn’t see a thing. “I’m a black belt in kung fu,” I reminded myself, but when the bushes rustled, my heart thundered in my chest and my thoughts suddenly went kamikaze on me. What if Margo had some vendetta against me for the pictures I’d taken of her cousin, Jack?

  Slowly, I crept forward, easing my feet along the uneven sidewalk as I reached into my purse for my pepper spray. “Margo?” I whispered with a hiss.

  The rustling came again, followed by a low moan, and my lungs seized. Before I knew what my legs were doing, I ran to the nearest tree, threw my arms around the lowest branch, and swung my legs up. My calves scissored around the cold branch and I struggled to swing myself up and over. Not my finest moment.

  “Lola?”

  I peered down from my precarious perch. “Margo?”

  “What are you doing?” the shapeless voice said with a hiss.

  Good question. I snuck a look around, half expecting to see Sadie Metcalf pop out from behind a blowup snow globe, snapping pictures of me hanging from the limb to show Manny how inept I was. I dropped back to the ground. Heat crept up my neck as a shadowy figure rose from behind the bushes.

  “Lola,” the voice said, “it’s me.”

  I let out a breath, only now realizing I’d been holding it. “Margo Callaghan,” I snapped, “you have some nerve—" I froze when she stepped closer. Holy Mary, Mother of God, the girl had changed. Her hair had been long and blonde back in high school. Now it was chestnut brown and cropped short. She’d been a waif, too—far skinnier than Anotonio’s women--but now she looked, um, curvy, the outline of her shoulders and hips
visible from behind a bundle of blankets she was carrying.

  “It’s been a long time, Lola.” She had a forced smile on her face and was talking to me in a sing-songy whispery voice like we were old friends.

  I had the sudden thought that more than Margo’s hair color had changed; visions of straight-jacketed sugar plums danced in my head. “What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff?” I asked, my loud Cruz voice even louder in the still morning. “You scared me to death!”

  “Shhhh!” she hissed, throwing a furtive look over her shoulder.

  Before I could even contemplate what to say to her, she turned her back on me and in a flash she threw open the back door to my car, set the pile of blankets down, fiddled around for a few seconds, and then threw herself into the front passenger seat. Now she was gesturing and mouthing at me, a frantic look on her face, urging me to hurry. “Let’s go.”

  I stared at her. “Uh uh. Not until you tell me what the problem is. You were--” I paused. “... little cryptic on the phone.” More like obtuse, but I didn’t think she’d take kindly to my saying so.

  “I’ll tell you. But let’s drive.”

  I was guilt-ridden over having a clandestine conversation with Margo Callaghan, but driving with the woman would have me really teetering on the family loyalty line. Her gaze flicked nervously to the deserted-looking house. I noticed