Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  First I called Marta’s office. Her receptionist snottily told me she was, as ever, in a meeting. I sighed inwardly, wondering what drives me to piss people off. Certain personalities just beg me to annoy them. I told her that I wanted to leave a message and was snottily told to go ahead. Meanwhile, Woofers prowled and growled somewhere along the edge of the car. My heart still thundered in my ears.

  “Tell Marta I can’t make the three o’clock with her today. Something’s come up.”

  “Could you be more specific?” she asked in a tone that held a world of judgment.

  “Why won’t ‘I’m busy’ just cover it?”

  Woofers began barking furiously again, having trotted back a few feet to spot me on top of the hood. The receptionist couldn’t help but hear. “Is that a dog?” she asked.

  “Could be.”

  “Just a moment.”

  I was clicked off for a second. Woofers was really going to town. I was going to have a headache before this ordeal was over and the hood was blistering hot. I shaded my eyes, glancing toward the door again. Gail was back. Her figure stood like a wraith in the deepened shadows behind the screen door. I waved at her, but it was more an acknowledgment. She had me treed with her miserable, vicious dog.

  Marta snapped on. “I’m in a meeting, Jane.” She sounded totally irritated.

  “I didn’t ask to be put through. I was just leaving a message.”

  “Yes?” she said tensely.

  “I’m sitting on the roof of my car. There’s a vicious beast barking its head off—”

  “I can hear.”

  “—and until its owner decides to CALL IT OFF!” I yelled, “I’m stuck.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell the client you can’t make it. That’s what you want, right?”

  “As soon as I’m free, I’ll be there,” I said, growing irritated myself. “Trust me. I’d much rather be with you than here.”

  “You need to be here on time, Jane.”

  “Do you get that I’m in a bind?”

  “Well, figure it out,” she ordered and hung up. I clicked off with a certain amount of righteous indignation, pushing a few extra buttons in the process. The phone beeped at me as if in distress before the deed was done. I sat cross-legged, debating what to do next. Should I call someone else? There was still some battery life left.

  The only person who came to mind…the only friend I knew who would really drop everything and help me out…was Cynthia Beaumont. Cynthia worked in an art gallery in the Pearl District in northwest Portland. She was a sometime artist, specializing in watercolors of evil cats peeking through dense forests thick with red, blue, mustard yellow and violent purple flowers and fanglike hovering grass. I considered it a plus, given my current situation, that she seemed to understand the animal mind.

  “Cynthia! It’s Jane. I need some help.”

  “Jane?” Her voice came in stuttered cell phone static.

  “Yes! It’s Jane! Can you hear me? I’m stuck on top of my car and I need you to come help me escape.”

  “What?”

  I repeated my words, debating on whether to mention the dog at this juncture. Despite her drawings Cynthia wasn’t exactly the model of heroism when it came to ferocious animals. Neither was I, come to that. Muzzles were invented for a reason and this slavering monster now lying in silent wait somewhere over the edge of my car sure needed one.

  “I can’t hear you,” Cynthia said in fits and starts. I heard more static. There was a bit of whining in her tone so I had to get stern.

  “I need your help!” I yelled directions into the phone, praying she’d hear them. “And don’t get out of the car. Just pull up beside me.”

  “Okay…”

  I sighed and turned off the phone. Woofers was challenging my paint job again. “Call off your dog!” I yelled to the front door but Gail The Tired seemed to have blended back into the house. Probably having one hell of a belly laugh at my expense. I could picture her doubled-over, struggling for breath, the stub of the cigarette dropping to the floor in her fit of hilarity.

  Three-quarters of an hour later Cynthia’s battered Honda pulled into the rutted driveway and slowly bumped its way toward me. As soon as she stopped she opened her door and I screamed at her as the Pit Bull charged her car. She yanked her foot back inside and slammed the door. Woofers leapt upward, jaws snapping at Cynthia’s surprised white face behind the window.

  I should have warned her about the dog.

  Motioning her to edge her car next to mine so that they would be side by side, making it possible for me to jump from one to the other, I stood up on the top of my hood and glared at the closed front door. There was a twitch of ragged curtains at Gail’s front window.

  Cynthia aligned her car with my Volvo. I leapt to her hood, trying not to make too much of a dent as I landed. Woofers also leapt and spun but could make no purchase against the Honda’s slick exterior…except for a few nicks that is. Actually, it was a couple of rather deep scratches. Luckily, her car was hardly the latest model. Luckier still, I’d managed to keep from dishing in her hood with my weight although my ribs felt bruised.

  I turned over and lay spread-eagled on my back, staring upward into the dusty blue heavens. Why was I so determined to stay out of the information specialist business and keep up with process serving? Today hadn’t been exactly good for my health.

  Cynthia rolled down her window. Her mouth was set. “Want me to back up?” she bit out.

  “Hell, no. I want you to move forward. Right through her front door!”

  Cynthia took me at my word, although mostly I was just railing at the sky. As the Honda jerked forward, Woofers trotted along beside us, barking so hard that I wondered if he might actually tear a lung or something. When Cynthia stopped just short of the porch Woofers gave up the call. His tongue lolled out and he glanced at the door of the house. He seemed lost in indecision. Apparently this was as far as his little pea brain could take him. Gail The Tired stepped outside—still with the cigarette between her lips—and made a shooing motion. Woofers suddenly scurried inside the house. I slid off the top of the car, found the 72-hour notice which was marked with a dog paw print and slapped it into her hand. She just looked at me and smoked.

  I slammed into the passenger side of Cynthia’s car. She turned to me, her spiky short dark hair standing straight up, as if in surprise. As this was her normal hairstyle I couldn’t blame it on the events with Woofers. She said dryly, “You forgot to mention the dog?”

  “I’m just sorry we didn’t get a good run at him.”

  She snorted, knowing me too well. She wore a black suit coat over a black camisole and one of the shortest skirts on record. I have to admire a woman with that kind of moxie; I’d be showing the world things not meant to be seen in the light of day even if you gave me a couple of extra inches. She shot me a look that could curdle milk.

  I would pay for my omission about Woofers.

  We backed down the drive to where I’d parked my car. Climbing out of Cynthia’s Honda, I checked the paint job on mine, swore, then opened the driver’s door and slid inside. Examining my watch, I swore again, and then I saw the small tear in my right Nike and I swore a third time.

  Cynthia gave me a look that warned the issue wasn’t finished as she drove away. I mouthed, “Thanks.” I would thank her more concretely later—with food and alcohol.

  As soon as I was behind the wheel I drove straight to Marta’s office, punched the elevator number to her floor, then burned into her outer office. The receptionist raised an eyebrow at me, but I sailed by as if I owned the place. I realized belatedly that my black top and pants were covered with dust, so I steered myself to the bathroom for a quick once over. “Shit.” I looked as if I’d been treed by a wild animal, which wasn’t that far from the truth.

  A few moments later I was knocking on Marta’s door. I heard her call for me to come in. When I entered she was sitting at her desk, hands behind her head. Though her expression was neutral, I c
ould tell she was grinning to herself. Bobby Reynolds had single-handedly delivered Tess to her, no matter what his crimes, and Marta was counting greenbacks in her head. Marta, it now appeared, had become a full-service divorce lawyer. Need someone to chat up your husband in case he’s been secretly aiding and abetting your murderous son? Just ask Marta. She could find you an information specialist, or a facsimile thereof. And payment to Marta Cornell did not hinge on Jane Kelly—said information specialist’s—success. Marta simply delivered someone to help—and her clients paid her for her trouble.

  I sat down in one of the two cream, faux-suede client seats on the opposite side of Marta’s Brazilian cherry desk; Tess Reynolds Bradbury sat in the other. I recognized the tight lips and blue eyes from her pictures in the paper and television interviews. I also recognized the pink scarf, now lying across her shoulders and down the front of her suit. She’d had it on this morning in the Coffee Nook. Wrapped around her blond hair. I hadn’t recognized her behind the Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.

  The hairs on my arms lifted. Had she come to the Nook in search of me?

  She pretended this was our first meeting, her smile of welcome brittle and tight.

  She still possessed the hardness I’d first seen on TV, and she had a tense, nervous quality about her that rattled my equilibrium. I inhaled and exhaled slowly. Tess fit right into Marta’s decor: all taste and money. If she was anything like Marta in determination she was a force to be reckoned with. In Marta’s opinion: rain forest be damned. Marta would cut down every tree herself if it meant the good life. It was only a first impression, but I would bet my bottom dollar Cotton Reynolds’ ex-wife felt the same.

  The question was: what did she really want?

  “Tess Bradbury, Jane Kelly,” Marta introduced. “Jane, Tess…” I reached out a hand. Tess held hers as if I should kiss it, but I clasped it and gave it a quick shake instead. A small line dug between her brows, but then it smoothed away a moment later. She withdrew her hand, folded both of them demurely in her lap, and said, “I’m so glad you decided to help me.”

  She had a faint southern twang. Texan, I believed, though I’m no expert. I really didn’t know what to say to her. Her son had been accused of multiple homicide. He’d killed his own family and bolted to escape prosecution. From what I’d read in the newspaper accounts, there was no doubt that he’d committed the act. Though no crime scene investigator had revealed any of the little forensic tidbits that so interest the scandal-hungry public, clearly the authorities had Bobby dead to rights.

  Still, I knew his mother wouldn’t want to believe it. I cleared my throat, my curiosity growing in spite of myself.

  “What exactly would you like me to do, Ms. Bradbury?”

  Chapter Three

  It felt like I waited an inordinately long time for Tess to answer. She shot me a look, glanced away, then gave me another cool, blue-eyed stare. In the end she turned to Marta who assumed command like the general she was.

  “Bobby’s been missing for nearly four years,” Marta started in. “The Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and F.B.I. and God knows who else haven’t been able to turn him up. They’re beginning to think he headed out to sea. A small boat was stolen during those same two days. Capsized, apparently. Pieces floated back along the coast about ten days later.”

  “But no body,” I put in, remembering.

  “But no body.” Marta nodded.

  “One theory is that he set it up to look as if he drowned,” I pointed out, “but that he’s living large and free.”

  “If he’s dead, I need to know.” Tess’s voice was flat, nearly emotionless. I gave her a careful look while trying to appear as if I were merely waiting for direction. Her hair was obviously bleached but done so expertly that it could almost be natural. It was cut in a short bob that curved in at the edge of her chin. She was probably in her late forties, but she could have passed for ten years younger. Her nails were lacquered a pastel pink shade, and she wore a pair of cream-colored slacks and matching jacket. I admired the suit’s lack of wrinkles. If I’d been wearing it, it would have looked like I’d pulled it from the bottom of the laundry basket. The pink scarf added the right touch, making her look like a confection. Hard candy, I thought, if the set of her mouth were anything to go by.

  Marta continued, “The authorities believe he killed his family, each with a shot to the back of the head, then left them on state forestry land outside Tillamook. There’s been precedent for this. Two other alleged family annihilators: Edward Morris and Christian Longo have been arrested for committing similar crimes in this state. Morris left his family in the Tillamook State Forest like Bobby, Longo dropped the bodies in coastal inlets off Newport and Waldport. Maybe they gave him the idea.” At this point Tess tried to interrupt, but Marta, once engaged, hates losing the floor, so she threw Tess a quelling look and added in an aside, “I’m just filling in background. Bobby may have been a victim as well, but this is what the authorities are thinking, I guarantee it.”

  Tess settled back in her chair but her body remained tense. I felt tense, too. Fighting off Woofers seemed like child’s play compared to this. I was already out of my league.

  “Familicide is fairly rare. Nationally, maybe 50 cases a year. For some reason, Oregon’s got more than its share. Usually these guys are white, in their 30’s or 40’s, and they feel intense responsibility for their families. Meanwhile, their lives are falling apart, usually financially. Oh, and they generally have a strong faith. Most often, once they’ve killed their families, they take their own lives. That happened with our third local family annihilator, Robert Bryant, who shot his family in his home then turned the shotgun on himself.”

  I threw another glance at Tess to see how she was taking this. The pink nails were digging into the arms of her chair. With an effort, she folded her hands back in her lap. Hands are betrayers, I thought. Tess Bradbury looked as if she wanted to claw herself out of this life.

  Marta pulled a slim folder from a drawer and laid it out in front of her, consulting her notes. “The perpetrators are usually depressed, often paranoid, men. They can’t face failure, so they see killing their families as their only option.” She put a finger to the page and looked up, studying Tess. “There’s a lot more, but you’ve heard all this before.”

  “Over and over again,” Tess gritted.

  “Do you mind if I give Jane this file? She can read up on it later.”

  Tess didn’t immediately respond. Finally realizing Marta was waiting for an answer, she flapped a hand at the file which meant “yes.” Marta slid the blue folder my way. I flipped open the edge and saw several reports off the Internet and copies of newspaper articles from the Oregonian.

  Switching gears, Marta said, “I handled Tess and Cotton’s divorce five years ago. Bobby was married to his wife, Laura, and they’d just had Kit. Their other two children were Aaron and Jenny. Tess, would you like to fill Jane in on what your thoughts are, what you’d like her to do?”

  Tess drew a long breath, then exhaled delicately. “My husband was seeing another woman. Dolly Smathers.”

  It was curious she went to her divorce first. I was having trouble keeping my mind off anything but Bobby and the deaths of his children. With an effort I pulled my thoughts to Tess herself, and her ex, Cotton. Let’s face it. Any man involved with both a Dolly and a Tess has got to have a country western fetish, big time. But then with a nickname like Cotton, you had to figure Reynolds was a man full of boots and bonhomie. I thought about voicing this opinion, but now didn’t seem the time.

  “I sued him for every dime I could get,” Tess went on. “I put the money in an art gallery in the Pearl District, the Black Swan.”

  My ears perked up. Cynthia had shown some of her art at the Black Swan. It was a trendy, spacious gallery in an area where the floor space went for mucho-grando-buckos per square foot. “I’ve been there,” I said.

  She smiled faintly. “I hardly made a dent in his fortune, but it was e
nough to get me going. He got the house, the boat, three of the cars. I went back to my maiden name.”

  Owen Bradbury…the name of Tess’s other son, Bobby’s older half-brother, crossed my mind. From the way we were talking, Bobby could have been Tess’s one and only. But Owen wasn’t Cotton’s son and since he went by Bradbury, Tess’s maiden name, it didn’t appear as if his real father counted for much. Maybe in Tess’s mind Owen didn’t count for much, either. Again, I kept my mouth shut and just listened.

  “Tess, we did well by you in the divorce,” Marta reminded her dryly.

  Tess raised a hand in agreement. “But Cotton still has a lot of assets, and the bastard told Bobby that he wasn’t worth one thin dime. His only child. That’s why Bobby was in financial trouble. And Cotton wouldn’t help him. At the time I was all tied up in legalities. I gave Bobby as much as I could, of course, but he’d made these investments…”

  I nodded, remembering. Bobby Reynolds had been floundering in a sea of debt. And some of his “investors” were purported to be out-and-out crooks looking for a way to tap into Cotton’s mega-assets. But Cotton had cut that off quick. He’d let Bobby deal with his own problems and apparently those problems had fast become insurmountable, at least in Bobby’s mind, hence the exit from reality. I wondered if Bobby were still alive if he was now horrified at his own actions. With an act so heinous, could anyone really accept his own responsibility, culpability?

  “I’ve had the F.B.I. all over me,” Tess went on bitterly. “Every cent I make, or lose, is examined by the goddamn government! They want to know if I’m helping Bobby. Because it’s a murder investigation, they seem to have the right to harass me forever!”

  Marta said, “The I.R.S. has been particularly diligent about fine-tooth-combing Tess’s income and assets.”