Jane Kelly 03 - Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  The sky was a bright, light gray as I pulled to a stop beside the farmhouse, and I had to shade my eyes as I got out. I glanced at the sun, which was a fuzzy bright disc in a bowl of overcast gray. A man of about fifty-five in mud-splattered jeans, heavy work boots and a plaid shirt, a semicircle of white undershirt showing at his throat, walked up to me, a smile on his face.

  “Hullo, there,” he said. “We got some pumpkins left, but winter’s comin’, ain’t she?”

  “Are you Mr. Beaumont?” I asked.

  “Ron Ernsten,” he said, wiping a hand along his pants and examining it before holding it out to me.

  “Jane Kelly.” I shook his hand with care. Didn’t want to seem impolite when I was trying to make him my new best friend, but I had a mental picture of cow pies and general farm glop. “I met Tamara the other night,” I told him. “She gave me your address.”

  “Did she?” His face shuttered. “Beaumont’s my wife’s family’s name. Kept it ’cause it’s so well known,” he said, as if I’d asked.

  “Is Tamara here?” I asked.

  “Oh, she’ll be around, I s’pose.” He headed toward the back door and sat on a step, unlacing his boots. When I didn’t move, he gave me a look from the top of his eyes. “You plannin’ on waitin’ for her?”

  “Sure,” I said, a little worried on how long that might entail.

  “Come on in, then.”

  I followed him through the back door, wondering if I should take off my shoes, too. We entered a walk-through kitchen crowded with boxes of apples, pears and pumpkins. The cupboards were painted white, worn around the edges from age, not as some decorator’s idea of current style, and the laminate was chipped and broken out in a six-inch section near the refrigerator, which appeared to have been replaced at one time. The cabinets had been roughly redesigned to make room for the bigger, newer version.

  A middle-aged woman, her straight gray hair collected at her nape with a bejeweled clip, was chopping celery with abandon, not bothering with a cutting board. There were thousands of slice marks in the laminate and I imagined a host of germs congregating within.

  She looked up when I entered, a large-bladed knife pausing in midair. “Hello,” she said in surprise.

  “Janet, this here’s Jane Kelly. She’s waitin’ for Tammie.”

  “Oh.” The knife swooshed down and she hacked away at the remaining celery spears. She dropped the knife with a clatter and scooped up the pieces, tossing them in a huge pot. “You could be waiting awhile,” she said dourly.

  “That’s okay. You’re her parents?”

  “That’s right, honey.” Janet pulled up a sack of potatoes that had been sitting in the sink. “Might as well make yourself useful. Here.” She rummaged through a door and found me a paring knife. “Just leave the peels in the sink. We need about eight of ’em in the stew. You can wash your hands with this soap.”

  I was peeling potatoes before I could say, “I don’t know how to cook.” I’m sure it wasn’t necessary anyway, as I wasn’t the swiftest at my task. But it did give me something to do. I concentrated hard, keeping a safe distance from Janet and her flashing chef’s knife.

  Ron had gone off to clean up apparently, as he left the two of us alone in the kitchen. A medium-sized tan spaniel mix trotted into the kitchen and looked up at us followed by several gray and white cats, meowing and stroking our legs.

  “Get lost, Fluffy,” Janet said, shaking a cat from her ankle. Fluffy seemed to take this as a challenge as she pounced on Janet’s foot. The spaniel started barking madly. Fluffy hissed and got on her hind legs, claws extended. The other cat sat back in a corner, its tail twitching, watching the ensuing drama.

  Janet slammed down her knife and turned to the animals. They all looked at her expectantly and her fierceness evaporated. “They’re like children. Well, like children should be. You got any kids?”

  I shook my head.

  “Tammie’s got two. She tell you that? Lost ’em both to their daddies.”

  “That’s a shame,” I murmured.

  Janet slid me a look. “How do you know her?”

  “We met at a club,” I said.

  “Oh, really?” She sounded as if she were almost sneering. “That escort place? Tammie’s been raving about it and raving about it. Like we’d believe anything she said. Is it really a place to meet a millionaire?”

  “As I understand it.”

  She barked out a laugh. “You’re as gullible as her!” She shook her head. “Nothing ever changes with our Tammie. It’s all lies and cheap sex. You been to the truck stop?” There was a mean glitter in her eye that I couldn’t quite fathom.

  “On the freeway? I drove by it.”

  “Drove by it, huh?”

  “On my way here.”

  She tilted her head and eyed me up and down. “You sure don’t look like a hooker. This some new male fantasy, or something?” She gestured to my jeans and anorak. “You actually look like you’re dressed for the weather.”

  “I am dressed for the weather.”

  “Huh.” She gave that a long thought. “Tammie owe you money? ’Cause, babe, you came to the wrong place if you think you’re gonna collect. My family has property, but we don’t have ready cash. Y’hear me?”

  “I’m just here as a friend,” I said. I was getting an inkling to the roots of Tammie’s depression.

  “Tammie doesn’t have friends,” Janet said. “You sure she knows you’re coming by?” When I didn’t immediately answer, she said, “You’d have better luck at the truck stop. Go on over there and get yourself some apple pie. Those are our apples they use. It’s good stuff.”

  Janet turned her shoulder to me, clearly dismissing me. I silently worked on my fourth potato before setting down my knife. I felt kind of sorry I couldn’t finish the task. “If Tammie stops in, will you tell her I was here?”

  Janet suddenly put down her own knife, leaned down and grabbed Fluffy, pulling the cat into her arms. Fluffy instantly tried to scratch at her hair clip, but Janet held her tight. Fluffy looked stricken, meowing piteously. Janet closed her eyes. Bitterly, she said to me, “Maybe you should remind her that we’re here.”

  The truck stop was unremarkable—a rectangular box with a coffee shop on one end and a store of sorts on the other. I went through the coffee shop door and a little bell overhead announced my entrance. As it was my mission, I sat myself at the counter and ordered the deep-dish apple pie à la mode.

  It came on a dinner plate, loaded with soft vanilla ice cream. I’d skipped lunch and my mouth watered at the monstrous portion.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “I know,” the young waitress responded, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her apron, her eyes smiling. “It’s humongous.” She was probably in her mid-twenties and looked ready to give birth yesterday. The apron stretched over her round belly. “My due date’s Monday,” she alerted me.

  “Congratulations.”

  “It’s my third.”

  “Wow,” I said again. “I just learned for the first time that a friend of mine has two children.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Tamara Ernsten,” I said. “I came down to visit her.”

  “Oh, Tammie. How do you know Tammie?” Her demeanor grew remarkably cooler.

  I pretended not to notice as I dug into the pie. “Oh my God, this is good,” I said, feeling a sense of déjà vu. It took me a moment to place it. The Junior League Bake Sale. Jody’s apple bars. Melinda’s recipe.

  “If you’re looking for Tammie, you’re at the wrong side of the building.”

  I glanced toward the little store, confused.

  “Uh-uh,” she said, resting her arms on her belly. She jerked her head in the direction behind her. “The trucks. That’s where she’ll be. Though, it’s a little early for her to get going. Come about ten tonight, you’ll see her. She’s trying to be all fancy and snooty, but she’s a ho.”

  “Ho?” I repeated, just to clarify.

  The girl
leaned forward, resting her arms on the counter. I worried for a sec she might try to take my apple pie back, but she was just getting closer because she’d lowered her voice. “You really didn’t know she works at the truck stop?”

  I shook my head.

  “My husband tries to clear ’em off, but the truckers…” She waved a hand dismissively. “They aren’t complaining. A lot of those cabs have nice sleeping quarters, you know? Somebody like Tammie’ll bounce around a couple a night.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “Stick around. See for yourself.”

  I decided to do just that and so I paid for my dessert, feeling guilty about leaving a pool of melted ice cream and about four uneaten bites, then headed back to the Volvo. It was about seven when I moved it from the front of the building to park around the side, angling the car so I could get a view of the back parking area. There were already some semis jockeyed into position, and as I watched more big rigs began rolling in for the night, rumbling, headlights scouring the asphalt as they turned into their spots. In their illumination, I watched the men climb from the cabs, hitch up their pants, head into the building.

  I sank down in my seat, peering through my steering wheel. I waited about an hour, my butt nearly numb, till the truckers started returning to their rigs. It took about another hour, but then women seemed to materialize in the exhaust vapors, some of them under the men’s arms as they headed toward the trucks.

  A sudden rap on my window shot me up straight. I glanced up into a craggy, male chin. Tentatively, I hit the button to send my window down.

  “What you want?” he asked, his face shadowed by a baseball cap.

  “I’m a friend of Tammie’s…?”

  “Tammie ain’t here.”

  “Oh. She told me she would be.”

  He eyed me carefully. “You’d best go home now.”

  “She wanted me to meet someone,” I said. “Her man, y’know?” I couldn’t make myself say “pimp.” It sounded so corny, like a caricature word from television.

  “If you’re meanin’ Don, he ain’t around, either. You want my advice, little girl? Go on home. You got a nice enough car. What’re you doing here anyway? Now, go on.”

  “Is Don short for Dante?” I asked.

  “You’re askin’ a lot of questions for a friend of Tammie’s.”

  I didn’t mistake the quiet threat in his tone. I put the car in gear. He stepped back as I circled around, but he stayed as a sentry, watching my every move.

  There was nothing I could do but leave.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “H ow do you get from truck stop prostitution to the Columbia Millionaires’ Club?” Dwayne asked thoughtfully, as he had all week.

  “Dante,” I answered, as I had all week.

  We looked at each other across his kitchen bar. Dwayne was in sweats, T-shirt and jacket. He’d taken to walking/limping around the bay, strengthening his leg; he was chafing to be at full speed.

  My head was full of the Hatchmere case, which was fine with Dwayne, since as long as Violet was paying, we were still on the job. He was spending his time on the background check on Chuck’s daughter’s boyfriend, and he’d mentioned that some other jobs were stirring as well.

  I’d driven back to the truck stop a couple of times, using Dwayne’s surveillance car, parking in the front and staying out of sight of the truckers as much as possible. Dwayne had even come with me once, and we’d pretended to be a couple just stopping in for dinner. Dwayne had really stressed his limp, which attracted attention and was probably what any casual observer would remember if they wondered who we were. I wore my “disguise”—my glasses and baseball cap—and let my hair fall down the sides of my face. It turned out to be more an exercise in reconnaissance than a means to further our investigation, but I was glad Dwayne was engaged in the activity. I wanted him engaged in the business again, just as much as he did.

  The week had passed without much incident. I’d had to go into my cell phone coverage provider and order up a new phone. My old one’s trip to the ground had been fatal, apparently. Highway robbery on the part of the cell service company. Of course, they had a billion plans where I could get my new phone free!!! if I signed a contract for seventy-five years. A lot of the functions were the same as my old phone, but the few new ones I had to learn sent me into conniptions.

  Yes, this is a flaw in my character.

  It took me three times before I actually forced myself to wait to be helped, because each time I drove to the store the lines out the door of people needing help made me crazy. It was Thursday before I actually managed to bring myself to face the music, and then I began to seriously wonder if I had rage issues because I wanted to crack heads together over the customers’ asinine questions and insane requests. By the time my guy asked how he could help me I’d had to put myself in a mind-zone to keep from going postal.

  He showed me a variety of models—all X-tremely fancy, all X-tremely pricey. I finally picked one, pulling out my credit card with reluctance. I’m not one of those people who has to have the newest and the bestest. I just want the most reliable with the least amount of new things to learn.

  I waited while he reprogrammed my new phone with my number. I watched him push buttons on the phone, add things into his computer, push some more buttons, go into the back, return and on and on and on. He was pleasant and fast, but it still took up more time than I wanted to spend. I was definitely going to have to be more careful about my phone because I couldn’t go through this again ever.

  My new phone beeped at me while I was driving home. Voice mail message. I wasn’t exactly sure how to access it, so I left it for when I could use both hands. Then I forgot about it.

  Now, Friday morning, talking to Dwayne, I suddenly remembered. I pulled out the phone and looked at it. “I’ve got six messages,” I said. “Guess they’ve been stored up.”

  Dwayne took his coffee cup outside to the dock as I worked my way through the code to access my voicemail. I’d had my old phone set up to just push a button and it would automatically enter my password, but I hadn’t waited for the customer service rep to program that feature. I could have been sitting in a corner, thrumming my finger to my lower lip, if I’d had to wait much longer as it was.

  “Jane Kelly,” Dante’s mocking voice said on message one. A little breathier “Jane…Kelly…” was message two. Message three, four and five were about the same. In message six he told me he was going to see me soon.

  I froze, my cell phone to my ear, processing a cold rush of fear that spread through my body. I tried to pick up the phone number, but it was unavailable, which is the way mine should read on someone else’s phone. The logical answer was someone had given him my cell number. Someone who knew it.

  I glanced outside to Dwayne, my mind racing. It was Friday and I had a date with destiny at Do Not Enter tonight. Dwayne didn’t want me to go. I didn’t want to go. I had distinct butterflies in my stomach. But Josh Newell and the Lake Chinook police were just a speed-dial away.

  Dante…or Keegan Lendenhal. Of the two, Keegan was the better option. “Why did I get into this profession?” I asked out loud.

  Note to self: learn origami. Consider its instruction as new career option.

  “Did you say something?” Dwayne called from the dock. The binoculars were at his eyes again.

  Dwayne added, as if we were in the middle of a conversation, “Don—probably Dante—has Tammie working both the truck stop and CMC. He’s brought in other women to the parties, too. You didn’t get a sense of any of them as being connected to him?”

  “No,” I said. Again. I walked outside and told Dwayne about Dante’s messages.

  He dropped the binoculars and looked at me. “You’ve scared him,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You’re onto something.”

  “He doesn’t want me to talk to Tammie, or ask about Roland, or anything connected to the case and so he’s trying to get me to back off.”


  “I don’t like it,” Dwayne said.

  “You don’t like anything that involves danger and me,” I pointed out.

  “You got that right.”

  “That kinda defeats the purpose of me working for you.”

  He couldn’t argue with that, so he stared through the binoculars some more. Now that I’d had a little while to think about it, I wasn’t as scared as I thought I’d be. “Tomorrow, I’m going back to the truck stop and see if I can meet with Tammie.”