Jane Kelly 03 - Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

“What happened with Renee?”

  But Sean, having realized I was fishing, decided to shut down. He shrugged and said, “She didn’t like Violet, either, I guess.”

  I thought of my timeline and said, “What time did she get to the wedding? Was she with Gigi at Castellina, getting ready?”

  “I don’t know…” He glanced over his shoulder. “You know, we’re gonna be playing some good stuff. You wanna get ready?”

  “I’ll stay for some of it,” I promised. He was clearly trying to get me off track and I wasn’t ready to give up.

  “No, I mean. Ya wanna get ready?” He inclined his head toward the rear of the building.

  I looked in that direction. “You mean, get high?”

  “Hey, alcohol’s way worse than weed,” he said, apparently hearing some condemnation in my tone I hadn’t meant to voice.

  “I’ve got my poison, thanks.” I hoisted my empty glass.

  “Well, okay…I guess we’re done, then.” He made a face and headed toward the back.

  I hesitated a moment, then returned to my seat. Apart from some leftover questions concerning Renee Hatchmere, I felt I’d gotten all I could from Sean. I managed to stay through the first set before heading for the door. Either I’m growing old or my tolerance is shrinking, but I couldn’t handle the pounding beat and roaring, amplified electric guitar. Everything inside my head was throbbing with the music. I slipped out into the icy night air and drew a deep breath. Outside, the din was muffled and almost okay.

  I walked quickly to my Volvo, climbed inside, switched on the key and shivered until I was almost home. Hurriedly, I ripped off my clothes and threw a T-shirt over my head. When Binkster gave me a blinking, hopeful look, staggering to her feet, I threw back the covers in an invitation and we both settled into bed with a sigh.

  I fell asleep with doggy toenails planted against my back.

  In the night I heard a peculiar ringing sound I didn’t associate with any noise I knew. I lifted my head reluctantly and saw it was after 3:00 a.m. Vaguely I discerned that the noise, now silenced, had come from my cell phone, which was lying on my nightstand, being charged. I grappled for it and knocked an empty plastic glass onto the floor. “Shit,” I muttered as Binky snorted loudly but refused to lift her head.

  I punched a button to light up the dial and saw that I had a text message. Aha! That was the undefinable ring. I pressed the button with the little envelope on it, and a message popped up:

  party at Do Not Enter broke up at one. Since then, lots of crying at Rebel Yell. Something’s definitely wrong. Need you to investigate.

  DAD

  I set the phone down and drifted back to sleep. Dwayne’s initials are DAD for Dwayne Austin Durbin. Now he wanted me to investigate what was happening across the bay?

  “He’s around the bend, Binks. Completely around the bend,” I mumbled.

  She answered with an inhaled doggy snort that I swear made the bed thrum as if it were equipped with Magic Fingers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  T he next morning I made my usual run to the Coffee Nook and poured myself a cup of basic black coffee while Julie, the shop’s proprietress, and Jenny, Julie’s number-one employee, served up a rush of customers. One of the regulars I know only as Chuck had been to a charity auction and had bid on, and won, a ride-along with the Lake Chinook cops. I was slightly amazed anyone would be interested. I pictured the cops racing out, sirens screaming, to rescue a cat from a tree. Of course with the current sensibilities of Lake Chinook, it would probably be rescuing a tree from a cat. Either way I was glad it was Chuck who’d parted with his hard-earned money for this treat rather than myself.

  “The cop’s name is Josh Newell,” Chuck said, reading from his “certificate,” a page with a glued on gold seal that said he was a WINNER!!! “Ever heard of him?”

  Jenny shook her head, but I said, somewhat surprised myself, “I have.” Everyone turned to look at me. “I gave his sister Cheryl a ride from the airport. She told me Josh was with the LCPD.”

  “I thought you avoided the police,” said Julie.

  “I’ve never met the guy. Just his sister.” I’d tucked the information away for future use, but hadn’t expected it to pop into my world so soon.

  “Wanna go with me?” Chuck invited eagerly. “It’s for two.” He waved the certificate in my direction.

  No…thank…you…please…God…

  “I don’t think I could fit it into my schedule,” I demurred.

  “Hey, it’s not for any specific time. Any time next week work?” Chuck looked at me hopefully. He’s around sixty with a barrel torso and close-cropped Homer Simpson hair.

  “Not really.”

  “Thursday?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, right. Weekends’d be better. Friday. I’ll take you to dinner, and then we’ll ride around with Josh.”

  “Take her to Foster’s on the Lake,” Jenny said. “Her favorite place. She won’t say no.”

  I gave Jenny a long look. She was grinning.

  “Foster’s it is,” Chuck said merrily. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said. He threw an arm up as a good-bye and I turned to Jenny as soon as he was out the door. “Judas.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “Free food at Foster’s? Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”

  “We’ll come and meet you. Right, Julie? Jane, tell Jeff Foster to comp us a meal.”

  I laughed. We all knew Jeff Foster was a major cheapo and ice cubes would freeze in hell before he comped the likes of me a meal.

  “Tell him it’s for me and Julie.”

  I snorted.

  “Come on, Jane. Go with Chuck. It’ll be fun.”

  Right up there with root canals.

  “We’ll all meet at Foster’s,” she said. I could practically see the wheels turning inside Jenny’s head as she planned to weasel a meal. I appreciate this about her.

  “All right,” I said on a sigh.

  My cell phone rang as I was taking a shower. I don’t know what it says about me, but I have a hell of a time letting a phone ring, any phone, and I half debated on jumping out and running naked for it. It was with a supreme effort of self-control that I let it go to voice mail, and so I was perturbed when there was no message and the number on caller ID was one I didn’t recognize.

  I threw on my jeans, a blue V-necked, long-sleeved T-shirt and my black jacket, then punched in the digits to see who’d phoned. A woman’s voice answered in irritation: “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Jane Kelly, returning this number’s call.” I grabbed for my brown boots and encountered the wriggling body of The Binkster as she decided she needed some attention right then and there. I began petting her and she grabbed my hand with her mouth, a surefire sign she would prefer food over attention.

  “Oh.” A pause. “This is Gigi Hatchmere.”

  “Oh,” I repeated in surprise. The last time I’d seen her was on the opposite side of her quickly shutting door. I’d had a brief glance of short dark hair, angry brows and a mouth turned down in what looked like perpetual displeasure.

  Binkster gave a sharp yip when her ploy failed. I ignored her so she grabbed my pant leg with her teeth and growled. Her growls sound like they were made by Mattel: cute and puppyish. I pushed her aside but she came back for more.

  “Sean told me you went to see him last night. What a dope head. I hope you didn’t listen to anything he said. He should be committed, he’s so screwed up. And he has no family loyalty!”

  “He seems to want to know what really happened to his father.” Not exactly what he’d said, but she didn’t have to know.

  It incensed Gigi. “Well, of course he does. We all do. What do you think? Violet killed him! And she gets to just walk around with all her money? That’s just plain wrong! Why don’t you stop harassing us and put her in jail where she belongs? Jesus, I can’t believe this. The police are doing nothing. Nothing.”

  That w
asn’t exactly the truth, either, but I saw an opportunity to push my own agenda. “I’ve been hired to investigate your father’s death and find out what really happened.”

  “I know! By Violet. You’re working for her.”

  “If I learn Violet’s involved at some level, I’m duty-bound to report that to the authorities.” Again, not exactly the truth.

  “Violet killed him. And she’s paying you.”

  What a stickler for detail. “Are you interested in finding your father’s killer?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then talk to me. Meet with me. Let me get some background. It may be just as you think, Violet could be guilty, but my loyalty’s to the truth.”

  I heard the ring of conviction in my voice and was impressed with my skills of persuasion. I crossed my fingers that Gigi was impressed, too.

  “You would really turn on Violet even though she’s paying you?”

  “What do you care, as long as justice is served?”

  “I don’t, I guess…”

  “Who knows how long it will take the police to follow leads? I’m working on the case right now. I want to know what happened that day.”

  “Hunh,” she said, rolling that around. My quest for might and right seemed to have mollified her somewhat. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I could come by the house?” I suggested. I was taking a chance, as my last trip there hadn’t ended well. But Gigi and Emmett had moved into her father’s house after Roland’s death, and, as it was the scene of the crime, I wanted to see it for myself.

  “I guess we could meet here,” she said reluctantly.

  “Terrific.” I pounced on it, afraid she might talk herself out of it.

  “Maybe the end of next week?”

  “Well, yes…that would work. But…any chance I could stop by today?” I pushed. “I’d like to get moving on this and I’m sure anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

  “I don’t know about that. Violet was the one who was here that day. I was at my wedding. Or, my almost wedding. When Daddy didn’t show I just couldn’t go through with it. Ohmygod, I still can’t believe it. I mean, isn’t your day supposed to be perfect? Isn’t this the one day of your life that’s perfect?”

  I thought about all the divorces that occur after that one day but decided to keep quiet on that, too.

  “And then Violet kills my father and he can’t come and everything’s ruined,” Gigi went on, sounding as if she was working herself up. “I was waiting and waiting and he just didn’t show.”

  “It sounds—traumatic.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” She sniffed. “Can you be here around four?”

  “You bet.”

  “I really could use someone to talk to,” she said in a teensy, little girl voice.

  “It’s been a trying time,” I assured her as I hung up. I found myself already worrying that she might cry, hug me and need the kind of support I’m terrible at giving.

  I looked over at Binkster, who’d given up biting my pant leg and had retreated to her furry little bed, gazing at me with an injured expression. “Chicken strip?” I said, and she raced over to the cupboard where I keep her treats.

  My dog, I understand.

  I had to stop by Dwayne’s before heading to Gigi’s though I was reluctant to learn what he wanted me to do about his friends across the bay. I brought Binkster with me because I feel guilty leaving her alone in the house too many days in a row, and I had an inner hope that I could talk Dwayne into keeping her for a few hours and that the dog might divert him from his new obsession.

  Binkster loves Dwayne. Just loves him. It could seriously hurt my feelings except I’m a bigger person than that…most of the time. I watched her race up the sidewalk to his front door and dig one paw at the wood, scarcely able to contain herself. As soon as I opened the door she charged inside straight down the hall to the gap in the sliding glass door and out to the dock. I heard Dwayne exclaim as he saw her and I purposely took my time joining them, letting their bonding ritual run through its paces. By the time I stepped onto the dock, Binks was on Dwayne’s lap, giving his lips some doggy licks. He was laughing and I think she tried to French him ’cause he scooped her up and put her on the ground, his laughter even deeper while she wriggled beneath his chair and began barking, her tail wagging furiously, totally into the game.

  The game is simple. For Binkster it’s: I will squeeze myself beneath your chair, the bed, the couch, the bar stool or whatever and then bark my silly head off like I’m stuck. When you come to rescue me, I’ll pretend to snap at your hands, not to hurt, just to be a happy idiot. You, in turn, will laugh and pretend to drag me out, but you won’t really, because then I’ll just have to squeeze back in somewhere else and start the game again.

  The game is dumb, but we all play it.

  “I got your text message last night,” I told Dwayne.

  “Took you long enough to respond.”

  “Didn’t know I was on the clock for Slot A and Tab B.”

  “Tab A. Slot B,” he corrected. “Basic human anatomy, Jane. He’s Tab A. She’s Slot B.”

  “I get it.”

  Dwayne always says that everyone has secrets they don’t want someone else to know about. I agree with him. I just wondered why he felt compelled to learn the secrets of the people across the bay.

  He stretched and levered himself out of his deck chair. I leaned forward but resisted the urge to help him. I find myself shying away from physical contact, which really pisses me off at myself, but for the moment it’s how things stand between us. At least how it stands for me.

  I said, “Ogilvy’s selling my cottage.”

  Dwayne tipped his hat back and gave me a penetrating look. “He tell you that?”

  “Kind of announced it. Called me up and dropped the bomb. Looks like I’m going to be hunting for a new abode whether I want to or not.”

  “Why don’t you buy it?”

  “Great idea. With all the money I have.”

  “You have enough for a down payment.”

  “Look who you’re talking to.”

  “I’m looking.”

  We stared at each other for a full ten seconds. By God, I wasn’t going to turn away first. I said firmly, holding his gaze, “Inactivity has addled your brain. I’m Jane Kelly. I have nothing. Half the time my refrigerator’s empty enough to use as an extra room.”

  “You’re cheap. You’re not poor.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I’m luxury-challenged, not cheap. Since when do you get to call me ‘not poor’?”

  Dwayne smiled in that knowing way that sometimes intrigues me. I gazed over the bay, deciding I’d had enough of this meeting of the eyes. I wasn’t up to this challenge right now, and though I didn’t know where it was going, how it had begun and what it meant, I wanted to step out of it before something altered between us. Sometimes you recognize those moments when you’re in them with just enough time to save yourself; sometimes you don’t.

  “You own a fourplex unit with your mother in Venice. You horde every dollar you make. I’ve heard you barter with Ogilvy on the rent more times than I can count. You have enough for a down payment, and if you don’t, I’ll help you.”

  “I don’t barter with Ogilvy. I don’t even talk to him.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  That stopped me for a moment. “You’re thinking about years ago, when he was trying to jump the rent a hundred dollars a month. A hundred dollars!”

  “I believe you set him straight.”

  “You bet I did,” I harrumphed. I’m not sure what I think of rent control. My mother and I deal with it in our Venice four-unit. In some ways, it sounds great, but when costs spiral upward, repairs start becoming more and more expensive and pretty soon you realize you can’t afford the upkeep with the amount of rent you’re receiving. But I sure as hell didn’t want Ogilvy gouging me. There is no rent control in Oregon, as far as I know. There’s certainly none in Lake Ch
inook, and I don’t think it generally counts on single-family dwellings anyway. But if he was selling the place, none of it mattered. Any way around it I was screwed.

  “Did you say you’d help me?” I asked, reviewing our conversation.

  “Afraid of what that might mean?” He lifted one brow.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me how much money you’ve got.”

  “Hell no,” I said. “It isn’t polite to ask, don’t you know that?”