Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  Shutting my mind, I flipped a lightly toasted waffle onto a plate and drenched it in boysenberry syrup. I tried to concentrate on food, either my current waffle or the luscious array sure to be awaiting me at Cotton’s. Just because I’m eating one meal doesn’t mean I can’t think ahead. My motto’s like the Girl Scouts’: Be prepared. You never can be too sure where, or when, you’ll eat again. In my life, this is painfully, painfully true.

  The waffle turned out to be exceptionally good. Either that, or my standards have sunk exceptionally low. But it didn’t matter because I couldn’t keep my mind on anything but the benefit. Tonight loomed like the proverbial black cloud. I was filled with a low-level dread that infected everything I did. I don’t know if other people are this way, but I tend to instantly regret every serious new responsibility I take on. I always want to take it back. I certainly wanted to back out of my obligation to Tess Bradbury.

  I cleaned up slowly, taking my time. Not that I’m this terrific housekeeper, or anything, but there were still loads of hours ahead of me. I had oodles of time to regret being so eager to get my hands on five hundred dollars. Of course, rent would be due in a couple of weeks and the money would be nice. Still…

  I wiggled my toes. The injured one had recovered. I reminded myself to pick up another pair of flip-flops as my eyes traveled to the telephone. My mother’s request sounded in my ears and before I could think about it, and therefore stop myself, I was calling my brother. He had a new girlfriend. Mom wanted to know about her. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was learn all I could about her.

  I reminded myself that Booth could be at work; I had no idea what his rotation was. Being a cop means working different shifts. I could never count on him being on the same schedule more than a couple of weeks at a time, though I’ve never really tried all that hard to keep track. As the receiver rang in my ear, I began to hope that my mission was accomplished. Duty fulfilled. I’d made the phone call. I was free to go.

  I was just about to hang up when Booth suddenly picked up. “Hello,” he greeted, his voice sleep-drugged, his tone a few degrees short of welcoming.

  “Hey, Booth,” I said.

  “Oh. Hi, Jane.”

  “You work late last night? Sorry to call so early.”

  “Just catching up on sleep.” He yawned loudly.

  “Okay.”

  The conversation, such as it was, stalled. I wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. It wasn’t like me to just check in with no reason.

  “You want something?” he asked, sounding more awake.

  “No. Not really.”

  “Mom tell you to call?”

  His perception caught me up short. I debated on a lie and decided, why bother? “She says you have a new girlfriend and she wants me to find out all about her.”

  “I have a new fiancée,” he reported with a hint of self-satisfaction.

  Fiancée?

  “Good God,” I said. “You’re getting married?”

  “Not right away. But, yeah.”

  “And we haven’t even met her? Who is she? What’s her name?”

  “Sharona.”

  “Sharona?” I repeated. “Like ‘My Sharona’?” I felt mildly hysterical and attempted to hide it. My twin was getting married? And he hadn’t even bothered to inform me? “Is this a joke?”

  “Nope.”

  “You haven’t told Mom yet,” I accused.

  “Nor Dad.”

  I snorted. I knew he hadn’t told our father because Dear Old Dad departed when we were both still wee tots. And he departed into the arms of another woman, his secretary at work. The scandal pretty much kicked them both out of the law firm where they were employed. Dear Old Dad was now in private practice and our lovely stepmother had popped out three more children, my half brothers and sister, at an alarming rate. They all still lived somewhere in southern California. No wonder Booth and I both left the state for good, and Mom occasionally makes noise to that effect.

  “Mom wants me to meet her,” I informed him. “She wants information. But I’m not going to tell her you’re engaged. That’s for you, Bucko.”

  “She can call me.”

  “Pick up a phone.”

  “I’ll call her in a while. I just don’t want to, yet.”

  I could understand. When I have big news I sometimes have to pick my time to share it with anyone. It’s like I need to almost believe it myself. But I didn’t want Mom calling me every two hours and demanding information while I sat on this powder keg.

  “Come on, Booth.”

  “Why don’t you meet Sharona?” he suggested. “Come by tonight.”

  “The one night I have plans.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Will you call Mom before I come?”

  “Sure.”

  “I won’t walk in the door unless I know she’s talked to you.”

  “I’ll call her later today.”

  “I’m holding you to it,” I warned.

  “Jesus, Jane.”

  “Should we meet for dinner?” I suggested. “I’ll order pizza.”

  “Sharona’s a vegetarian.”

  Well, of course she was. I was getting the sneaking suspicion she might be too cool for me. Probably lived in the Pearl District, currently the most chi-chi, wildly growing part of Portland. “I’ll order gourmet veggie pizza. Will that work? I haven’t been struck by a miracle and suddenly learned to want to cook.”

  “Any chance we could invite ourselves boating with some of your friends?”

  Trust Booth to push the envelope. “My scintillating company won’t be enough?”

  “Just thought I’d ask.”

  I thought of Dwayne and his boat and immediately dismissed him. I hadn’t gotten over my fleeting attraction to him the other night. I next considered my neighbors, the Mooneys, remembered their constant bickering, dismissed them as well and returned to Dwayne. “Possibly.” I was cautious.

  “Great. See you around four?” he asked, then hung up after my grunt of agreement.

  I hoped this didn’t mean I was going to have to seriously play hostess. I’m not good at it. Playing hostess means serving food, smiling and welcoming practical strangers into your home. I wrinkled my nose. This was my twin’s fiancée. I had my Costco card. If worse came to worst, I could rush over and buy some frozen hors d’oeuvres—those little quiches, or chicken wings, or something.

  Groaning to myself, I stripped out of the T-shirt and sweats I used for sleeping, and stepped into the T-shirt and sweats I use for running. Within two minutes I was out the door and making for the Coffee Nook and a way to waste more hours until evening.

  I stayed at the Nook until my butt muscles were numb from sitting on the bar stools too long. Then I half-ran, half-power-walked home. At four o’clock I asked myself what I was going to wear, why it mattered, and, once again, what the hell I thought I was doing. I was no private dick. I was no dick at all, which was a good thing as far as I could see. But I was in need of cash and this seemed an easy way to earn some.

  I glanced outside. The clouds still hung low in the sky. No rain had fallen, as yet, but the air was sticky and close. I pulled on a white T-shirt, a pair of khaki capri pants—real, this time—and my Nikes without socks. Since I’d lost my flip-flops I was pretty much down to sneakers. I might look a little out of place but if, and when, the rain came, no one was going to care. I glanced down at the Nikes. Woofers’ bite marks still infuriated me. I was definitely going to have to buy new shoes.

  Dragging my hair into a loose ponytail, I corralled it at the nape of my neck into a funky bun thing. Stray hairs jutting out kept me from looking too coiffed. Can’t stand that super slick look on myself. It’s just not natural. I next did a makeup job in pink and peach that made me look like a washed-out imitation of myself. I wanted to fit in with the benefit crowd—mostly members of the Lake Chinook Historical Society whose mean age was probably fifty—as best as I could. Pastels felt like the answer. Maybe if they saw my
face, they’d forgive me my sneakers.

  There was an anxious little humming going on beneath my skin. Nerves. I snatched up my keys and headed out.

  Less than ten minutes later I pulled to a stop behind a blue Ford sedan already parked on the access road near the bridge which crossed to Cotton’s property. Drawing a breath, I stepped into evening air choked with battling barbecue scents from the island and homes along the shore. Lamb, chicken, beef, grilled onions and hot dogs were a heady concoction. I walked across the bridge. The gates were open and I could see people already dotting the property. Tiki torchlights flickered invitingly against the charcoal sky and restless water. Barbecue smoke wafted behind the house, a wispy gray curtain. I circled along a brick path with little ankle-high signs pointing the way to a greeter’s booth. I gave my ticket to a woman wearing a straw hat covered with fake cherries. She could have given Carmen Miranda a run for her money in fruity-style points.

  A waiter dressed in all black swung a silver platter with crab-stuffed mushroom canapes under my nose. My mouth watered instantly. Things were looking up.

  I wandered around the back of the house. Tables were scattered across a manicured lawn which stretched over a rise toward the lake. I followed a flagstone path and stood at a low wall. Tiered below me was an in-ground swimming pool, its aqua surface faintly dark beneath the clouds. The pool was surrounded by flagstones rather than cement and tiered to more flagstone steps and eventually the lake which lay green and dark beneath crowding fir trees.

  I caught a glimpse of the path, just inside the chain-link fence. There was a certain amount of overgrowth but it was clear enterprising youths were still vaulting over the barrier and running around the edge. Something was keeping the ground clear, and dollars to doughnuts it wasn’t Cotton.

  Shimmering glasses of champagne passed by me, tiny raspberries nestled in the V of the bottom. I snagged one and smiled at the cute waiter. He looked about eighteen. He said, “It’s Dom Perignon.”

  “Uh-huh.” Like I believed that. Cotton might be wealthy, but he wasn’t stupid.

  The waiter inclined his head toward a long table covered in white cloth. In the center stood a regiment of champagne bottles, all Dom Perignon. I strode over to get a closer look and saw the boxes of a cheaper brand tucked beneath a corner of the table.

  I snagged another glass of Dom. Might as well knock back the good stuff before it ran out or it rained.

  I sipped out of one drink and held the other as if I were waiting for my date to appear. A middle-aged woman with a huge purse nearly backed into me. I did a quick sidestep out of harm’s way.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you.” She was going to stick out her hand to greet me but realized my hands were full. “What a beautiful setting,” she said, almost on a sigh. “This is the most unique property on the lake. I’m glad Mr. Reynolds allowed this benefit before he sells it.”

  “He’s selling the property?”

  “That’s the rumor. I’m Lorraine Bluebell,” she introduced. “I’m a Realtor with Lakeside Realty.”

  “You’re Cotton—Mr. Reynolds’—agent?”

  “No…” She wrinkled her nose. Lorraine was about fifty-five, a shade plump, with a whitish streak of bangs against an otherwise dark blond bob. She was stylishly dressed in a taupe linen jacket and straight skirt. Her purse was an iridescent lilac shade and looked big enough to carry a bowling ball. A leaf-shaped brooch of amethyst-like stones sparkled on one lapel. Catching my look, she said, “They’re fake. Pretty though. I think Paula Shepherd’s got the lock as Cotton’s real estate agent, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find the buyer.”

  So, Cotton was selling. What did that mean? Anything? Or were he and his wife just ready to move on? “Why is he leaving?” I asked Lorraine.

  “I’m not sure. Lot of grounds to maintain, although he does a beautiful job.” She glanced around with admiration.

  “How much is he selling for, do you know?”

  “It’s all speculation at this point. If and when Paula gets the listing, she’ll put it in the RMLS for some exorbitant amount. Everyone will gasp and it will sell at a couple of hundred thousand less than what they’re asking. But it’s bound to be in the ten million plus range.”

  “Wow.”

  Lorraine slid me a sideways glance full of suppressed humor. “It would be a nice sale.”

  “Yeah,” I said with feeling. “What’s the RMLS?”

  “Realty Multiple Listing Service.”

  She signaled one of the waiters. I finished my first glass of champagne and started on my second. In tacit agreement Lorraine and I became “benefit buddies” and we toured the house and the grounds as the crowd around us grew larger and louder.

  “You remind me of my daughter,” Lorraine said, her hand hovering over the canapes. These were tiny rolls of roast beef, sour cream and some kind of green leaf. Possibly basil. “Her name’s Virginia but she goes by Ginny. She lives in Santa Monica. Works as a production manager on commercials. I don’t really know what that is, but she organizes everyone involved in the shoot.” She cocked her head. “What do you do?”

  Good question. I wasn’t sure how to answer her. I was saved from a response by the roar of a motor boat engine. We were standing on the grassy level above the pool. Both Lorraine and I looked toward the water where a deluxe Ski Nautique in mustard yellow was docking. Waves from the boat’s wake lashed the stone wall, rocking the boat violently. I winced, half expecting it to smash into smithereens, but a couple of party employees scurried over and managed to find safe mooring in a sheltered cove behind a wall of large screening rock. The new guest stepped onto a slippery rock step, half inundated with slapping water and made his way around the pool and up to the party. I was surprised to see I recognized him: my acquaintance from my night at Foster’s some weeks ago. The one who was thinking of moving here; it looked as if he had.

  Lorraine’s gaze followed mine. She seemed about to say something, just as a thin, forty-something woman with blond, spiky hair and a tense walk strode up to her. I recognized her immediately as half of the couple sharing a table with Cotton and Heather at Foster’s On The Lake.

  My curiosity was all but choking me. I couldn’t believe I knew not one, but two people, both of whom I’d met at Lake Chinook’s one hot dining spot on the lake.

  “Hello, Lorraine,” she greeted tautly. Her eyes swept past both of us to the man arriving below.

  “Hello, Paula,” Lorraine answered. There was cool reserve in her voice, one I hadn’t heard in our hour spent together.

  Paula Shepherd. Aha. I guessed Lorraine’s detachment was a form of professional rivalry. And to be honest, on first impression Paula Shepherd was not the warmest and fuzziest person on the planet. She seemed pent-up and tense, her eyes following the newcomer with laser-like intensity.

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  She turned to look at me, frowning. “Have we met?”

  I stuck out my hand. “Jane Kelly.”

  “Paula Shepherd. Are you with Lakeside?”

  “She’s not a real estate agent,” Lorraine informed her.

  “I’m just another Lake Chinook resident,” I said.

  “That’s Craig Cuddahy.” She jerked her head in the direction of Cotton’s latest guest. “We’re not supposed to arrive by boat. Since the accident last weekend Cotton specifically requested all guests come by car. The moorage isn’t safe and Cotton doesn’t want uninvited gawkers to just show up.”

  “The accident with the teenagers?” I asked.

  She nodded. “But the dogs are locked up, so no one’s going to stop him.” Her tone was full of contempt. She smiled at the end, as if negating everything she’d just said, but her feelings about Cuddahy were clear.

  “I didn’t think he lived here,” I said.

  “He doesn’t. He’s staying at the Shoreline.” Her lip curled. Hearing herself, she laughed. “He’s a developer. From somewhere in the Southwest. He wants to buy
this property for a song. I’m sure he hopes the accident will work in his favor.”

  And he’s not using you as his real estate agent, I thought. “He’s made an offer?”

  “There are always tacit offers, Miss Kelly.” She left abruptly and I looked around to realize that Lorraine had moved away to mingle with others. I couldn’t blame her. Paula Shepherd might be an effective real estate agent, but she wasn’t someone you could happily sip champagne with. Not when you were standing on a piece of property that had anyone involved with real estate salivating over it.

  I meandered toward the three-piece-string combo, strumming softly on a buried section of lawn away from the action. A few drops of rain fell on my head and I looked up anxiously. The fir trees rustled in warning, but the deluge held off for the moment.

  I’d caught glimpses of Cotton and Heather on my tour with Lorraine. They were always surrounded by a small crowd. I’d learned more about the dynamics of the house than what my host was all about. I’d even seen Heather’s and Cotton’s bedrooms, separate, but with a shared bath, and I’d been shown the closed door to Cotton’s den, situated at the far eastern corner of the house.

  In my head I was totting up the five hundred dollars Tess was going to pay and feeling a little self-satisfied. As long as no one wanted serious results, this kind of work was easy. I had to manage a few words with Cotton to make my job legit, but that was duck soup.

  Craig Cuddahy caught up with me as he was knocking back a glass of the cheaper champagne, reaching for another, knocking it back as well. The waiter tried to turn away but he stopped him and swept another glass off the tray, dropping off his dead soldiers with an alarming clink of glass against glass. I imagined there was “chippage” involved. Cuddahy didn’t even notice.