Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  “You’re really full of encouragement.”

  He was unperturbed. “I don’t know what Tess thinks she’s doing. The F.B.I.’s been hunting Bobby like the vermin he is. If they can’t get him, nobody can. Personally, I think he’s dead.”

  His attitude pissed me off some more. Not that he wasn’t right; I suspected he was. I just wanted some encouragement. “So, Bobby Reynolds is vermin?”

  “He shot and killed his whole family and ran away. What do you call him?” At this Dwayne checked his watch, reached across the bar for a bowl of nuts and shot a sideways glance toward Cotton’s table.

  “Sick. Twisted. Desperate. He’s definitely not at the top of my Mr. Nice Guy list.”

  “You know what I think?” Dwayne dropped his voice to whisper level. “Bobby was mollycoddled. Treated like a prince by both Cotton and his mom. Never had to be responsible for anything. Entitlement. So, he marries this gal who’s all wrapped up in her religion. Her family moves away and Bobby goes with ’em. They all belong to this fundamentalist church. The money gets tight. And she keeps popping out the babies and he gets scared. Then Big Daddy Cotton cuts him off and he’s got money troubles. Suddenly has to do something about wifey and the screaming kids. So, he blows ’em away. That’s his solution.”

  “I met Bobby. He didn’t seem the type.”

  “What type is that? The type whose dreams never materialize? The type who suddenly looks around at the old ball-and-chain and the ankle-biters and says to himself, ‘If it weren’t for them I’d be fine’? Can’t you just see that idea taking hold, Jane? Eating away at him. Can’t you just see him in church, watching the plate being passed and wishing he could steal the cash?”

  “Lovely,” I observed.

  “Think I’m wrong? Bobby was born and raised in Lake Chinook, on a private island, the only private island on the lake. He had everything his shriveled little heart desired. During the investigation people had a way of calling him a red-blooded American boy. Shaking their heads, wringing their hands, asking, How could it have happened? How could it have happened?”

  “Murphy called him that, too,” I admitted.

  “Everybody did.”

  “Except you, obviously,” I pointed out.

  “I met Bobby a few times,” Dwayne admitted. “When he used to run that Master Craft around the lake, breaking all the rules. I can remember him laughing his ass off at some friends he ditched in the water. Lucky they didn’t drown or get killed by another boat.”

  I absorbed that. “Murphy never believed Bobby was guilty.”

  “Oh, yes, he did,” Dwayne said sagely. “Just couldn’t face it, but I bet he knew.”

  I turned away. Hearing Dwayne’s assessment pounded the thought home. Maybe he was right. “Murphy never wanted to believe Bobby was capable of killing his family,” I said.

  “Who can blame him?”

  “You’re right though,” I said, capitulating even though I wanted to keep arguing. “Murphy had to know. The evidence was overwhelming. Law enforcement was crawling all over him. He just couldn’t accept the truth about someone he loved, so he moved away.”

  “Durango ain’t so far away, darlin’,” Dwayne pointed out, turning all cowboy on me all of a sudden.

  “Santa Fe,” I corrected, to which he faintly smiled. I realized belatedly that he’d set me up on that one. I ignored him and mentioned instead the benefit at Cotton’s on Saturday.

  Dwayne grunted. “Take Tess’s money. Have a little bit of fun. Be glad their problems aren’t yours.”

  I was absorbing this when Jeff Foster saw me and came over. “Why aren’t you eating?” he demanded, as if I’d personally maligned the food.

  Afraid his arrival might cause people to notice us, I turned a shoulder toward Cotton’s group and responded to Jeff in my usual fashion, “Because I could buy a small country with the amount I would spend on a steak here.”

  “For you, Jane, it’s on the house.”

  This was utter bullshit and we both knew it. I pretended to dig through my purse—a stylish burlap-type sack that I saved for boat trips as it was deep enough to hide a bottle of wine—and thereby kept myself further averted from Cotton’s view. “One of these days, I’m going to call you on that, Foster,” I threatened. I caught Manny’s eye. I wasn’t going to rat him out about the free beverages. Foster grinned, waved me away and returned to the kitchen.

  Dwayne said, “You ready to go?”

  “Just about.”

  Sensing that I wasn’t quite steady I carefully put one foot on the ground. Dwayne finished his beer, ignored my thrust-out hand full of crumpled dollars, settled the bill with Manny and slid off his stool.

  “Here’s my pizza,” he said as a server handed him a cardboard box. I looked up in surprise. I hadn’t even known he’d ordered. On The Lake’s menu is diverse; its mainstay steak and seafood. But it has a killer array of gourmet pizza listed on the backside of the menu, and I could smell the blue cheese and garlic as if that cartoon aroma finger were beckoning me near. In that vein I stumbled after Dwayne through the maze of small tables, embarrassed at the way my mouth watered, and damn near ran straight into Cotton as he pushed open the knee-high gate from the patio to the boat dock. Cotton, Dwayne and I stepped outside the eating area toward the boats. Dwayne threw an arm around me and pulled my head into his chest as we walked, giving the impression we were lovers. It was his way of hiding me from Cotton. I appreciated it, but my gut tightened for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely.

  We turned toward our boat slip and I risked a glance toward Cotton. He’d pulled out a cigar and was absorbed in the ritual of cutting off the end. He didn’t know I was alive.

  Dwayne stepped into the boat, pizza box held aloft. I followed a bit unsteadily and he held a hand out to me.

  I clambered inside with a lack of grace attributed to alcohol. “I haven’t seen Cotton out in ages. He’s been like a hermit. What happened all of a sudden? Has the limit on Bobby’s disappearance expired and no one bothered to tell me?”

  He handed me a piece of pizza. “There’s no expiration on murder.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I gave Cotton a long look from beneath my lashes. It had to be a struggle to keep up appearances. Bobby’s crimes had taken a real bite out of Cotton’s social calendar. Snap judgements being my specialty, I decided I didn’t like either Cotton or his wife.

  I bit into the pizza slice and nearly fell over with delight. Not just blue cheese, several other combos of the stuff as well lay a half-inch thick on the crust. And garlic. Tons of garlic. It was certain to clog up my arteries. I munched away with gusto. We ate in silence for a moment. I tried not to make too much noise but food had been scarce around the apartment and I was certain I’d lost five pounds in the last three days. All I wanted to do was scarf it down with as much haste as possible and damn the lactose intolerance.

  Note to self: go grocery shopping.

  After a second large piece of pizza my stomach suddenly seized up. I visualized an influx of cheese comprised of not only milk sugar but thirty percent fat. I could picture my overloaded stomach pushing the food through as quickly as possible in an effort to keep me from exploding. And then I could see the little villae in my small intestine sucking up that fat and shooting it straight to my bloodstream.

  “You don’t look so good,” Dwayne pointed out, working on his third piece. He, apparently, doesn’t suffer from anything beyond suffocating good humor. I shook my head when he silently offered me another slice. He chewed away in silence while I tried to pull myself together. Just as I was feeling better he closed the pizza box and started the engine.

  Ducks had gathered outside the low fence which opened from the patio to the boat dock and they looked eager for a crumb. A furry creature I first thought was a beaver stood on its hind legs, equally eager. A second glance had me realizing there was no paddle tail on the rodent. A muskrat. He twitched his nose at me, hoping for a handout. I lean
ed over said, “Sorry, buddy. No can do.”

  The critter actually placed a paw on the gunwale and looked for all the world as if he were about to jump inside.

  “Do it and die,” Dwayne growled. The muskrat took him at his word and moved back. Dwayne gently guided the boat into the bay. Ignoring the signs posted to not feed the wildlife, I tossed the muskrat a piece of crust. He raced over, sniffed it a few times and waddled off.

  “Did you see that?” I demanded, incensed. The flapping ducks appeared more appreciative but Foster, who’d happened to walk by at my moment of generosity, glared at me. I waved sheepishly and grimaced to myself. I wasn’t going to get that free meal unless I changed my ways.

  Dwayne hit the accelerator, trying to outrun the fading light. It wasn’t that you couldn’t boat after dark; it was that you couldn’t go fast. Lake Chinook was only a few miles from end to end, but it seemed like forever at six miles per hour—night speed. We had to slow down as we went beneath the bridge and through the tight curves of Half Moon Bay, a narrow inlet that connected Lakewood Bay to the main lake. As soon as he was able, he punched it up again and we were hurtling across the water.

  “Wait!” I screamed as we neared the looming tree-shrouded cliffs of Cotton’s island, his fortress completely surrounded by the moat of Lake Chinook.

  Dwayne ignored me.

  “Damn it, Dwayne! Slow down! Circle the island!”

  Swearing under his breath, Dwayne did as I requested and we knifed slowly through the restricted speed areas that surrounded all the shoreline. The boat cut beneath the private road that led from North Shore Road to the island and through the fading purple light I glimpsed the path that circled the Reynolds’ private compound. There was the black chain-link fence and I could faintly make out the trail just on its other side.

  I glanced around automatically for the Lake Patrol. They weren’t bad; an offshoot of the sheriff’s office. The Lake Chinook Police Department was another story altogether. Their motto was: no call too small. And they meant it. There was relatively little crime in Lake Chinook, and officers had nothing to do but dispense speeding tickets and M.I.P.’s, Minors in Possession, to underage drinkers and pot smokers. Once in a while they saved a cat in a tree. Their dedication worried me and I steered clear of them on general purposes. Having Booth as a policeman probably contributed to my overall paranoia.

  “We haven’t done anything illegal,” Dwayne pointed out, interpreting my glance around for what it was.

  “Yet,” I said.

  Dwayne smiled to himself. He thought he had me; I could tell. Maybe he did.

  Pulling back on the throttle, he coaxed the boat around the island at the regulation six miles per hour. Neither of us said anything as we both examined the fence, the oaks and Douglas firs with low sweeping boughs, the faint outline of the path, and the glimpses of rooftops: Cotton’s house and garage and outbuildings. The two Dobermans came to the fence and eyed our slowly motoring boat suspiciously.

  I said, “I bet the Coma Kid was running from the dogs.”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I’m not a fan of dogs.”

  “What’s that kid’s name?” Dwayne asked.

  I shook my head. There was a side of the island that was faced with basalt rock walls. Shivering, I pictured a body falling over that edge, possibly knocking himself out cold on the way, way down to the water.

  Light had faded to a thin glimmer on the western horizon when Dwayne suddenly swung the boat toward the main lake and turned up the gas. We roared across the water, just ahead of complete nightfall. He delivered me back to my place, cutting the engine and letting the hull slap softly on little incoming waves toward the dock. I climbed to the gunwale, expecting to lithely leap ashore but the rocking vessel coupled with my two-and-a-half glasses of wine caused my equilibrium to fail. I stumbled, stubbed my toe on a cleat, cried out, and watched my plastic flip-flop teeter on the edge of my bruised toe. I desperately tried to squinch onto it, but it slid off to slip gently into the murky, algae-furred depths of the lake.

  I stared down in disbelief. “It sank!”

  “It’s only three feet deep here. You can probably find it.”

  Like, oh sure. I’m going to walk along the muddy, duck-poop-slimed bottom of the bay. I silently mourned the loss. The pair had cost me $5.89 at the pharmacy and they didn’t even float.

  “They looked cheap,” Dwayne observed, which pissed me off anew.

  “They’re irreplaceable. I ordered them special.”

  “Yeah, right. Give me a push.”

  My toe was still hurting so I knelt down and shoved his hull away with my hands. When Dwayne’s bow had drifted clear of the shore he began putt-putting toward the West Bay Bridge in the direction of the main lake and eventually his cabana.

  “Want me to come with you Saturday?” he called, his voice clear and loud with the amplification of the water.

  “I have a feeling I’d better go alone. Thanks for the surveillance tour.”

  “Be careful.”

  He switched on his running lights and I watched the red and green and white lights move toward the bridge. I shivered and glanced around. I’d forgotten to leave any interior lights on in the bungalow. Carefully, I picked my way up the moss-surrounded flagstone steps to the back door. It was locked, but it was the same key as the front door and I let myself in and stood silently for a moment, listening hard. Dwayne had spooked me with his warning.

  I counted my heartbeats in my throbbing toe, strained my ears, called myself a fool, an idiot and a hatchery fish. Taking off my remaining sandal, I hobbled across the floor and switched on the lights. The living room burst into view. Not a shadow out of place.

  The file lay on the coffee table where I’d left it. I opened it and shuffled through a few of the papers. Marta had been thorough in collecting the information. Maybe Tess had supplied it. I thought about taking the file to bed and poring over it closely but then I suddenly found pictures of Bobby’s three kids. Faxed copies of grade school close-ups complete with goofy smiles, missing teeth and rooster tufts of hair. The nine-month-old was sitting in one of those baby chairs looking rather surprised.

  I felt a surge of rage directed at Bobby Reynolds. Was I seriously considering delving into this family tragedy? Even peripherally? I thought about Murphy. His acquaintanceship had brought me to this point. It was because of him that I knew anything about Bobby, Cotton and Tess. It was also because of him that I’d first flirted with this kind of work. He was the reason I’d taken criminology classes, the reason I’d come to Oregon, the reason I’d become a process server, the reason I was introduced to information specialist Dwayne Durbin.

  This wasn’t a “take the money and run” case, to quote Dwayne. It was so much more. But I’d promised I’d go to Cotton’s benefit. I could do that much. Then I would wash my hands of the whole sorry affair and let the authorities take over.

  I closed the file almost reverently. I made sure all the locks on my doors and windows were shut tight. Then I checked again.

  For a while I stood looking out my back window at the rippling sliver of moon-striped water, the length and breadth of my view.

  A long, long time after that I managed to fall asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday dawned an ominous gray and I pulled my red comforter over my head and groaned aloud. It never failed in the greater Portland area. Party = Rain. The equation was etched in stone. After weeks of beautiful sunshine, now the heavens would open and drench everyone at Cotton’s benefit. Fantastic.

  But acting like an ostrich wasn’t going to help, so I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Yawning, I padded barefoot to the kitchen and opened my refrigerator. As soon as the door was in motion I inwardly asked myself, “Why?” I already knew there was nothing inside. It’s sort of like when the power goes out and you hit the light switch anyway because it’s dark. Pure habit. Peering inside I was faced with a half-empty carton of skim milk, a tub of
margarine, a jar of tartar sauce that may have been left over from the ice age, a couple of dehydrated carrots and one lone diet cola. I don’t know why I expect anything else. The grocery elves hadn’t shown up during the night and stocked my shelves.

  Picking up one of the pathetically shriveled carrots, I waved its limp form several times before I dumped them all into the garbage disposal and ground them up. I hung on the refrigerator door for a while just because I can. That’s the great thing about living alone; no one to warn you about the electric bill.

  It occurred to me there might be something to eat in the pantry—the pantry being the cupboard above my microwave. To my delight and astonishment I discovered behind the cans of Stagg Chili and Campbell’s soup a miniature box of Krusteaz pancake/waffle mix and an equally tiny bottle of boysenberry syrup wearing a bright red bow, both part of a Christmas gift package. My eye had passed over this bounty for months but now I zeroed in on it like a sniper, aware there was probably just enough milk left to whip together breakfast, as long as I didn’t mind teaming it with water or…

  “Aha!” I declared triumphantly, pulling out the instant Folgers.

  With that I clattered through my pots and pans, outdated dregs from my mother’s cabinets which I’d managed to wrest away from her, until I found the piece of equipment I was really looking for: a waffle iron. The occupants before me had left this little housewarming gift. Upon discovering it, I’d pulled it out and examined it thoroughly. It seemed passable, so I’d scoured the waffle-iron-squares by hand, then run them through the dishwasher about five times to make sure there were no leftover cooties. Now I read the Krusteaz directions and realized I was short an egg. I asked myself how important an egg might be. If I threw in a few teaspoons of water to make up for the egg liquid, wouldn’t that cover it? I shrugged and went ahead. No question: I’m a gourmet.

  Ten minutes later I poured the batter onto the griddle and let my eye move back to the file I’d closed so carefully several nights before. But my mind shied away from Bobby Reynolds and turned instead to thoughts of the party itself. I tried to remind myself of all the reasons I might have a good time. There would be tiny, mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres and all the liquor anyone could drink. There would be music and people dressed in cool, expensive summer clothes. There would be Cotton Reynolds and his wife Heather, and there would be Murphy.