Jane Kelly 03 - Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s all I get? Maybe?”

  “We have the make and model of a van seen in the area.”

  “So you were doing surveillance,” I said, pleased that my own thoughts traveled along the same line as law enforcement’s.

  “Been a number of notable weddings since the Hatchmere homicide. No ‘Wedding Bandits’ anywhere near them. But homes have been burgled while the mourners were at a loved one’s funeral.” He finished the rest of his cola and slid his water glass in front of him again. “These burglaries weren’t planned as well, and the victims weren’t well known, wealthy families. Not as much money involved and therefore not the same dollar recovery per item.” He spoke slowly and carefully, clearly picking his words. “Then recently, another wedding was targeted. First one since Hatchmere. The groom’s parents’ home in Beaverton was burglarized. A van seen in the area was similar to one reported outside the home of the man who died in that six-car pileup on 205. Did you read about it? His house was burgled during his funeral. Stole their TV and DVD player.”

  “That’s low,” I said with feeling.

  “Not the same caliber of crime as the ‘Wedding Bandits’ pulled off. Certainly not at the last wedding. No expensive presents, silver, crystal, envelopes of cash. The groom’s parents lost their TV, like the man who died in the pileup, but it was an older model. Quite a bit older. Either we’re dealing with a different group of burglars, or they’ve lost their connection to the money.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “If it’s the same group, their targets shifted after the Hatchmere homicide. I can make a guess,” he said cautiously. Again, I waited, figuring the less I said, the better. I sensed eagerness would be a serious turnoff to learning more. “I think they stumbled across Roland Hatchmere’s dead body and it scared ’em. Whoever was their inside man, cut out. They lost their connection to the moneyed families when he or she left. Now they’re scrambling for whatever they can find.”

  “So you don’t think the Wedding Bandits are responsible for Roland’s death? And you don’t seem to be focused on Violet, either.”

  “Violet admitted to hitting him with the tray.”

  “And it’s definitely the murder weapon?”

  He nodded.

  “How many times was he hit with it?”

  “A number. I see why you’re Durbin’s girl. We’re not publicizing that fact yet.”

  “So you don’t want me to tell Violet, I take it.” I was struggling to get over him calling me Durbin’s girl.

  “I’d rather you didn’t, but I can’t stop you. Roland Hatchmere was hit twice. The first blow didn’t kill him. Did it contribute to his death? Possibly. Possibly not. The second one crushed his skull. Violet Purcell has maintained she hit him with the tray. Once. Either she’s very clever and actually hit him several times, hoping we’ll believe her and search for some other killer, or she’s telling the truth. In that case, we have a different killer.”

  I nodded. “But not the Wedding Bandits?”

  “Do you see the burglars stopping their looting to grab the tray and hit Roland Hatchmere? It could have happened, if he’d caught them in the act and tried to call for help. But he was likely lying right where Violet left him. I think Hatchmere was already dead. The burglars came in, grabbed a few things, discovered the body and took off. They’ve never killed anyone, as yet.”

  “Someone else, then,” I said.

  Larrabee said, “Learning the motive would go a long way to identifying the doer.”

  I nodded slowly, realizing I had only considered two possible motives: Violet’s anger at Roland, or the Wedding Bandits’ need to silence Roland to keep him from identifying them.

  “Do you have a theory?” I asked.

  “I got a lot of theories,” Larrabee assured me. “When we catch the ‘Wedding Bandits,’ maybe we’ll get some answers.”

  “Is that going to happen soon?” I asked.

  “Hard to say.”

  “Will you let Dwayne, or me, know?”

  Larrabee flashed a smile. He had very white teeth. “What’s going on between you and Durbin?”

  “We’re business partners.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Quid pro quo, Ms. Kelly. This is how the information game works. I give to you. You give to me. Dwayne understands that.”

  I nodded, but I felt nervous inside. I couldn’t tell exactly what he wanted from me. Dwayne had warned me to be careful and that, at least, I understood.

  “You have a brother with the P.D., don’t you?” Larrabee said into the silence.

  I felt heat rise up my cheeks. Could Dwayne have given him a healthy dose of my background information? Or had he done some research on his own? “Booth,” I said. “I haven’t spoken to him about this case.”

  “Your brother’s ambitious,” Larrabee said.

  I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. I let it pass, deciding I would dissect all the little nuances and meanings later.

  “You haven’t asked him for help.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Booth thinks I’d be better off bartending again. It’s that overprotective brother thing. Or maybe he just thinks I’m inadequate. Either way, I lose.”

  “Durbin seems to disagree.”

  My smile was noncommittal, though I was curious to know what Dwayne had said about my P.I. skills. He has a tendency to sing my praises and though I appreciate his faith in me, I sometimes think he’s full of shit.

  Larrabee walked me outside. We stood under the roof overhang for a moment, adjusting our rain gear. I swept my hood over my head. He simply bent his head to the rain and we both race-walked to our respective vehicles, his being a black Crown Vic. As I climbed into my car, he said, “Good luck, Jane Kelly.”

  I watched him back out of the lot and drive into the pounding rain.

  CHAPTER NINE

  T he rain was becoming an entity.

  I tried to count up how many days it had rained in a row and failed. We were living in a miasma of dreariness that just went on and on and on. This is a perception of Oregon weather that generally pisses me off because it’s not accurate. Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, so I guess, the law of percentages being what it is, those who claim “Oregon equals rain” are bound to be right sometimes. Still, I was getting pretty annoyed by the weather people gleefully pointing out how right they were. Wasn’t the weather just awful? Hadn’t they said it was? Wasn’t this what Oregon’s reputation was all about?

  It was Tuesday morning. I’d forgone my jog to the Nook because of the rain. Now, driving there for my morning coffee, The Binkster tucked into her fuzzy car bed in the passenger seat, her nose and face squished into the side, so wrinkled up she looked like a grub, I thought back to those hot nights the previous summer when I was drifting around the lake in either Dwayne’s boat or my neighbors and bickering friends’, Arista and Lyle Mooney.

  My cold was basically gone. Well, apart from an occasional wracking cough that sounded like I was hawking up a lung.

  Pulling out my cell phone, I dialed Deenie’s number again and left yet another message. What is it with people? I’d clearly missed the window of opportunity she’d allotted me because she would not pick up her phone. I should have taken her call when I was on my way to meet Larrabee. I wasn’t sure what Gigi’s maid of honor could offer, but I wanted to cross her name off my list if for no other reason than to make my report complete.

  At the Nook I poured myself black coffee from the help-yourself counter, glancing over the varying carafe choices of cream, two-percent and skim milk. Throwing caution to the wind, I tossed in some skim. Lactose, schmactose. My body’s reaction to it is unpredictable. Sometimes milk products send me into a purge. Sometimes nothing much happens. Black coffee is a safe bet but I was feeling reckless.

  I’d called Dwayne and told him about my meeting with Larrabee. He
’d absorbed the information with a grunt. I don’t know what I’d expected. Some major “Aha!” I guess, but he’d given me his usual “Put it in a report.” I tried to get him to talk about his friendship with Larrabee some more, but Dwayne clammed right up. Learning anything more about either one of them was going to be like pulling teeth.

  I didn’t stick around the Nook long. Heading outside, I tossed my hood up and pulled Binks reluctantly from the dry warmth of the car. Clipping on her leash, we took a stroll around the parking lot and up some concrete stairs along a bark-dust-covered hill toward the residential district behind the shopping center. I had a baggie in my pocket and Binkster snuffled her way through the drizzle nose down. She started circling around, looking for the perfect place to off-load. I dutifully cleaned up after her. She watched me, making little jumping movements, as if she were about to charge into a race. It’s a kind of “I feel so great now that I’ve pooped” thing, but with the leash, rain and mud, I had no interest in indulging her. I tugged on the leash and she got all recalcitrant, the collar squishing her skin and fur up her neck so that I could scarcely see her eyes for the wrinkles.

  “Come on,” I urged.

  Something about her attitude set something loose in my brain. Some memory or recall or synapse that I tried to latch on to, but it was slippery and amorphous and my brain couldn’t make the connection. I shook my head and tried to pick up my dog. She started leaping sideways and trying to run, but I held her fast. By the time I actually got her in my arms, her feet were covered in mud and her fur was soaking wet. Some of it flew off and stuck to my lips. I tried to spit it off but had to wait till I got her settled in her bed.

  “The weather sucks,” I told her with feeling.

  We drove home. I toweled Binks off, though that became a game, too. We played tug-of-war with the end of the terry cloth towel and Binks growled like she was going to tear it in half. Fat chance.

  I showered, changed into a clean pair of jeans and dark brown shirt, walked through the kitchen to the small adjunct that was my laundry room—basically a closet that was originally some kind of mudroom between the garage and kitchen but that has since been closed off and wired for a washer and dryer. Doing the laundry depressed me. Was I going to have to give this up, too? Find an apartment with community laundry facilities, if that?

  Damn Ogilvy for making this place perfect for me, then deciding to sell!

  The thought really put me in a black mood. If I’d had any food around I would have gone into one of those emotional eating binges I hear about from doctors on daytime talk shows. As it was, I knocked back the rest of my coffee, chewing angrily on the paper cup, and the tumblers in my mind suddenly slipped into place.

  Binks’s resistance while I’d pulled her leash was a metaphor for how I felt about Violet. About her lies, her obstinance, her prevarication. Sure, Violet doled out tidbits of information, but I was the one who had to come up with the right questions. Nothing was just offered up. It was all a fight.

  And I was sick…of…it.

  I grabbed the cell phone and punched in Violet’s number, a little surprised by the wave of feeling that had overtaken me. I was really mad at her. Part of it had to do with Dwayne, sure, but a lot of it was that she’d been working me these past few weeks, crying about her innocence, begging for help, assuring both Dwayne and me that she was a victim. And what had she given me? A tentative admission that she and Roland had been seeing each other. Like that was big news.

  In the back of my mind I sensed that I might be using Violet as a target for my own frustration, but I didn’t much care. She was the source. She was at Roland’s house the day he died. She hit him, for God’s sake. At least once.

  She answered her cell with a cheery, “Hi there. I sure hope you’re calling with good news.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve cracked the case wide open. It was Ms. Violet in the solarium with the goddamn silver tray! That’s who did it.”

  A weighty pause. “If you’ve got something to say, maybe you should just say it.”

  “Tell me about that day, Violet. The whole day. Every minute. Roland died from a blow to the head. What time was that?”

  “He definitely died from a blow to the head?” Violet asked, which damn near derailed me because she sounded so upset.

  “Yes,” I stressed. I wasn’t going to give her more details, but it wasn’t like this was exactly news. “What were you hoping for? A heart attack? Some kind of exotic poison? A gunshot wound that the pathologist missed when they autopsied his body?”

  “I get it that you’re mad,” Violet said coolly. “I just don’t know why.”

  “You’re still withholding. You’ve been withholding from the get-go. If Dwayne were the investigator, if he were at the top of his game…you wouldn’t have been able to bob and weave this long. He would have made you tell him every detail. He’s good like that.”

  “Dwayne believes in me.”

  “Make me believe in you, too. Tell me about Roland.”

  “I’m going shopping,” Violet said abruptly. “I’m not going to just drop everything so you can grill me. But if you join me, I promise I’ll talk to you about Roland.”

  There might be a catch in there somewhere, but she sounded more irked than resigned, so maybe not. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll meet you. Tell me where.”

  Bridgetown is a new shopping center on the Tualatin/Tigard border, just outside the Lake Chinook limits, half a block from I-5. It’s one of those “lifestyle malls” where all the stores face sidewalks and streets and have different facades as if Walt Disney had designed it. The problem is parking, and in Oregon, of course, the rain. The center actually has valet parkers, but using them comes with its own set of problems. I knew someone who tried to get them to park her car last year during the holidays and they acted like a parker wasn’t around. Like what the hell were the rest of them doing, standing around at the valet kiosk? Waiting for Godot? My friend, having seen an empty spot designated for “valet only,” offered to park her car there herself, which sent them into a Keystone Kops panic. One of them finally agreed to park her car, shooting his friends a “Can you believe this?” look. Sometimes I look at other employment opportunities and wonder why I’m not doing them because I could do a hell of a lot better job. Of course, this could be simply my way of looking around because I feel I’m falling behind in the information specialist arena.

  I ignored the valet parkers and drove myself to the three-story parking structure at the far end. It’s full a lot of the time and I hope to God the city planners and developer made structural plans for adding a few more stories in the future. As it is, even when you get a spot you’ve generally got a long, long walk to your destination.

  Violet apparently had a whole list of stores she needed to visit. I was to meet her at one that exclusively sold cosmetics, The Face. I beat her there and when one of the salesgirls asked me if I needed help, I asked her if it seemed right that The Face also sold products for The Body, as there were creams, rough-looking sponges that looked as if they’d been scraped from the ocean floor and various clippers and scissors and awl-like instruments that worried me and convinced me they were not to be used on The Face.

  My salesgirl did not find me amusing. In fact, she didn’t find me anything at all, I guess, because she just hovered silently nearby. At first I wondered if she thought I was planning to shoplift, and then I realized I was simply hers and she was staking her claim, warning the other salespeople to keep their distance, accomplishing this by staying about two arm’s lengths away from me but no farther.

  Violet breezed in, shaking rain from her umbrella. The sales team’s heads collectively turned her way, their faces brightening. My girl tried to dump me in favor of Violet, but a faster one jumped right up with a husky “Welcome to The Face” that sounded like she were auditioning for a role in a porn film.

  My girl was crestfallen, but I could see her mentally taking notes. When Violet met my gaze and smiled, my gi
rl perked right up. I might be slightly bedraggled in a soaked windbreaker, but I kept good company.

  There was no way we could talk at The Face. Maybe Violet had counted on that, maybe not. Maybe this was her answer for “what’s next?”: Endless shopping. I tagged along behind her as she bought items for The Cheeks, The Mouth, The Eyes and one of those hard sponge-bricks that was one hell of an exfoliate for The Skin, generally not for The Skin on The Face. I pointed this out as well, since it wasn’t exactly truth in advertising. This earned me scathing glances from my girl, who sidled up to her compatriot with the porn star voice, who in turn regarded me with tolerant benevolence as she had the buyer, Violet.

  This is why I find shopping exhausting. The energy required is enormous, and though I sense I’m in the minority on the shopping issue, I believe there must be more women like me out there. Either that or I suffer from some deep-seated neuroses, which has to be just plain wrong, because I know I’m very well adjusted. Just ask my dog. She knows I’m perfect.