Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  I headed outside. My route to the Coffee Nook is shaded ninety percent of the way. I tested the air and thought I could make it. I hadn’t had the nerve to call Booth yet. I knew I was running away from the phone.

  Back inside I changed into sweats and Nikes. I was heading for the door when I saw the dog staring at the front door panels. Another tinkle trip, apparently, or else Binky was merely contemplating the value of oak versus maple.

  Hmmmm…

  “Come on, you,” I said, wondering if this were a fool’s errand. I found the leash Megan had left. The dog regarded me blankly. “I’m not going to call you Binky,” I said sternly to which the dog raced over and started furiously licking my hand. I jerked back, wiped my hand on my pants, clipped the leash on Binky’s collar and we were out the door. I wondered if this show of affection was because I’d mentioned its name. I was hoping it had understood me and was consumed with delight over the thought of being called something other than Binky. It made sense to me.

  Silently daring the dog to keep up with me, I took off at a slow lope. My challenge was a joke. Binky was fairly swift on her stumpy little legs. Of course, she nearly ripped my arm off every time she stopped to sniff, which was often. We ended up walking most of the route which was just as well because the weather was turning beastly.

  By the time we reached the Coffee Nook, my right arm was practically numb and this was my good one! The dog just kept yanking me to a stop. I was drenched in sweat and Binky, panting furiously, definitely showed signs of wear. I clipped the leash to a metal loop screwed into the building siding. The Coffee Nook was pet friendly. Not only were the metal loops ready for leashes, there was a large bowl full of water sitting invitingly under the roof overhang. Binky slurped noisily then flopped down beneath one of the outdoor chairs. She didn’t seem to mind cement.

  I wandered inside. Binky’s walleyes watched me enter. I waved at her and was surprised and a little thrilled to see her curly tail wag. The weekend employees smiled at me, high school or college-age girls who all are blond and bordering on anorexia. Not my usual crowd. I felt them watching me as I poured myself a cup of black coffee from the help-yourself counter. I loved that about the Nook. If it’s plain coffee you want, you can help yourself. The exotics have to line up for their caramel-mocha-frappe-what-the-hells. One of the coffee girls, Kate, the only one I truly know, caught my eye. I lifted my paper coffee cup and she nodded. I have a coffee card which is good for ten cups. They just mark me off until the card’s done. The eleventh one is free.

  I sat down on my usual stool but the weekend crowd didn’t contain anyone I knew. Finishing my coffee, I drank a paper cup of water for the return trip, then somewhat deflated, headed back outside. Binky barked in greeting. She’d recovered her stamina and was on her feet. She’d also garnered a small group of children while I was gone. They all wanted to pet her but were afraid.

  “Mad dog,” I whispered to them as I unclipped the leash. I felt glaring eyes digging into the back of my neck. Soccer moms. Lake Chinook was rife with them. And the two soccer moms standing behind me didn’t find me funny in the least. I often ask myself why I live in an area that is not single-woman friendly, and the answer continually escapes me. Murphy had introduced me to Lake Chinook and so I stayed.

  “Charity, Julianne…” Soccer mom number one waved two of the little girls over. Reluctantly they turned away from the Pug.

  “Whitney!” the other, shriller mom cried to the remaining girl.

  “What’s his name?” Whitney asked me, ignoring mom.

  “She doesn’t have a name yet,” I said.

  She gazed at Binky critically. “When does he get one?”

  “She,” I repeated.

  “He looks like a boy.”

  I silently agreed. That face…I finally buckled, “She responds to Binky.”

  “Binky?” Whitney brightened and Binks yelped and jerked eagerly against her leash as the little girl bent down to pet her.

  “Whitney!” The mother screeched as Whitney’s fingers reached toward Binky’s grinning, sloppy mouth. Binky promptly licked the girl’s whole arm, sending her into fits of laughter and turning mom’s face a brick red. Mom yanked on Whitney’s free arm, and the little girl nearly tumbled off her feet. She glanced back as mom dragged her to the car, waving forlornly to me and Binky. The dog gazed after her as if she’d just lost a best friend. Or, maybe she just wanted a ride.

  I suddenly thought of Kit, Bobby’s youngest, and realized she would have been around Whitney’s age if she’d lived. It hit me in the gut. Sobered, I pulled on Binky’s leash and we started the slow walk home.

  “Your real name is The Binkster,” I said, “which is okay by me but I don’t think I’m going to be using it all the time. I really will not be able to handle Binky. How about Binks?” For that I got a desultory wag of the curlicue. At least it was something. And for as long as I was going to have this dog, it was good enough.

  Booth called just as we entered the cabin. I told him I’d phone back as both Binks and I were done in from the heat. I checked to see Binks had enough water then poured a glass for myself. We both drank thirstily.

  A bit reluctantly I called Booth back. There were mere hours left before he and Sharona appeared.

  “I’ve got to cancel,” he said abruptly. “Work.”

  “Oh.” I sounded appropriately crestfallen—at least I think I did—until he insisted that we meet on Monday. He had Tuesday off, but then Sharona was leaving for a few days, so Monday was both the perfect—and only—opportunity for us to get together.

  I really, really wanted to postpone. I had enough on my plate right now. But visions of my mother’s inquisition had me rolling over and saying yes. At least it left Sunday night free. I had thoughts of going to Foster’s On The Lake…maybe in Dwayne’s boat. We settled on Monday, both glad duty had been dispensed with, at least for the moment.

  Thinking of Dwayne, I fired up my computer, planning my report for Tess. I started by writing down my impressions from the night before. I tried to remember everything Cotton had said about Bobby. After I wrote down his words, I added my own impressions.

  I typed in: DOES HE KNOW WHERE BOBBY IS?

  Staring at the words, I examined my feelings, struggling for some kind of thoughts on that. Finally I typed: NO, HE DOESN’T. I put a little jk after this, indicating this was a Jane Kelly thought rather than a fact. When I was finished I was rather proud of my follow-up skills.

  Tess called around noon, just about the time I’d remembered to feed Binks who was practically eating the baseboard by this time. I’d managed to run out and buy myself a slice of pepperoni pizza and a Diet Coke, so I was fed and once that happens, hey, everybody else can just get their own.

  Except now I owned a pet. Temporarily.

  So, while Binks plowed through her food, I reached for the ringing phone and encountered Tess.

  “Well?” she asked. “How did it go?”

  “It went,” I said.

  “Did you talk to Cotton about Bobby?”

  “It’s not exactly a subject you can raise at a first meeting.”

  “What am I paying you for?”

  I bit my tongue. “Cotton mentioned Bobby when he realized who I was,” I said in a flat voice. “He seemed sad and heartbroken, which you’d expect.”

  “Did he say anything about where Bobby is?”

  Like, oh, sure, that’s what he’d blurt out to me, a virtual stranger. “We didn’t discuss it.”

  “He has to know,” she insisted.

  “That’s kind of a leap,” I pointed out carefully. “If Cotton knows where Bobby is, he might feel compelled to tell the police.”

  “Bobby’s his son,” she said with an edge. “He’d want to protect him at all costs. I know he knows where Bobby is. He’s my son, too!”

  “I don’t know how I can help you any further,” I said honestly. “I met Cotton. He seemed to want to talk about Bobby but it caused him pain.”

&nb
sp; “Pain? How?”

  “Considering what Bobby’s accused of, I’d say it’s the pain of a parent whose child hasn’t…lived up to what’s expected.” That was putting it mildly.

  “Did you talk to Heather?”

  “Briefly.”

  “She thinks she’s getting Bobby’s money.”

  “Bobby’s money?” I questioned. “You mean Cotton’s?”

  “Bobby should inherit everything. It should be his.”

  I made a face, something I’m prone to do when something just plain smells bad. But then Cotton’s appointment with Jerome Neusmeyer crossed my mind and I suddenly remembered that Neusmeyer was an estate attorney, one of the more flamboyant ones. He might help you take care of your inheritance, but he spent his personal time with pretty young things. I think there was even a rumor of paid escorts. I would have to ask Dwayne, but I was fairly certain my memory was dead-on. “You want me to learn if Cotton’s still leaving it all to Bobby?”

  “That would be great!” she said in a rush, as if she’d just thought of it.

  “I’m not sure I can accomplish that,” I said.

  “Oh, sure you can. Scrape up a deeper acquaintance with Cotton. Or, better yet, Heather. She’s close to your age. I’ll pay you an appropriate rate.”

  Heather had seemed interested in furthering our acquaintanceship. I said to Tess, “Even if I don’t get results?” And where’s that first check, lady?

  “Find out any little bit you can about Bobby. I want to see my son again. I want to know he’s okay,” she said with a little catch in her voice. Bitch that I am, I wondered if she faked it.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said in a tone that suggested she was throwing her money away, hand over fist.

  “Good. Time is of the essence. I hate to be so pushy, but we’ve got to get on this thing.”

  I wondered if Tess knew about Cotton’s appointment with Neusmeyer.

  “Why don’t you call up Heather and invite her to dinner?” she suggested. “Just a girl thing. I bet she jumps on it.”

  “Great idea,” I said cheerily, crossing my eyes. Maybe I should have Tess just plan an itinerary for me and send me merrily on my way.

  I hung up wondering if I should have asked to see some greenbacks up front. I’m not good about demanding money. It always feels like begging, even if I’ve worked for it. I’m sure this is a flaw in my character. Tess didn’t seem to have qualm one about going after Cotton’s money, however. Her worries over Bobby were tied to his inheritance, or what she perceived his inheritance should be. I wondered if she expected some of that money to find its way to her pocket. Tess had stated that Cotton was ill and I had a mental image of circling vultures above his estate.

  I dug Heather’s card from my purse and dialed her cell. In a totally perky voice, I said, “Heather? It’s Jane Kelly. I was heading over to Foster’s tonight for a little R&R and wondered if you and Cotton, or just you if he’s busy, would like to join me. The weather’s just beastly but it’s perfect for a Mojito or two, don’t you think? I’ll be there around seven. Hope to see you. Bye!”

  I hung up and promptly bent over and made retching noises. Lying is easy for me, pretending I’m cute something else again.

  Binks eyed me worriedly then curled up in her bed and began studiously licking one paw.

  Chapter Eight

  I couldn’t reach Dwayne for a ride in his boat, so I had to climb into the Volvo and drive around the lake to the restaurant. Lake Chinook is girded by a couple of main drags, but close to the water myriads of lanes wind aimlessly through tree-shaded neighborhoods. Once you’ve learned these byways, you can cut through and knock off some time. Many times the residents post signs that read: NEIGHBORHOOD TRAFFIC ONLY. I do my damnedest to drive on those roads whenever I can. I’m in the neighborhood, therefore I’m neighborhood traffic. Their asphalt; my asphalt.

  Before I left the cottage Binky woofed and frantically guided me to her empty bowl. I scooped out a helping of dog chow from the Ziploc bag and refilled the bowl with the tiny kiblets. Binks ate so fast that the bowl hopped around the linoleum floor, bumped into the cupboards and chipped out a healthy chunk of wood from the corner cabinet. I looked on in dismay. I was glimpsing a whole new world—the world of dog ownership—and it was frightening.

  “You have got to go,” I said to the smushed-faced animal. She cocked her head and panted and we went out for another bathroom break before I took off.

  Foster’s was hot and crowded and thick with the scents of mesquite and hickory. The patio grills were going full blast. My mouth started watering before I crossed from the inside restaurant to the outside deck. I was so hungry I’d actually eyed Binks’ kibbles. How bad can it be? I’d read once that if you were stranded on a desert island, the best, most complete, food to have with you is dog food.

  Manny was at the bar and I squeezed up to place an order. This consisted of me elbowing out a guy wearing a white dress shirt, open to his navel, blue slacks with one hand deep into the pocket, making me suspect he was fighting a very frisky woody, and a godawful toupee that left a line horizontally across the back of his head. Always a good look.

  “Hey,” he said, not affronted, interested.

  Since I wore my black capris and a loose green top that quite possibly has a teeny tiny stain near the hem that I fear I’ll never get out, I wondered why he wasn’t hitting on the other women around the bar, the ones dressed to kill and cradling glittering glasses of Chardonnay. The slowly setting sun seemed to shoot rays right off the glasses, fracturing the light, sending dazzling spots over all the patrons. Hair-Piece must be pretty hard up to be turning toward me.

  “A Mojito,” I told Manny. “When you get a chance.”

  He winked at me. I turned to find Hair-Piece planted in front of me, his right hand digging away in his pants pocket. Maybe he was just looking for change, I thought hopefully.

  “I like a girl in a ponytail.”

  I gazed at him. Ponytails work for me. It’s true. I don’t look like I’m trying to be too young; I don’t look like I came from the Fifties. I appear mostly athletic. Kind of the girl-next-door thing. Also, it gets the hair out of my face. The only problem is sometimes it gets in the way of the Volvo headrest.

  I was pretty sure I was sorry I hadn’t tried harder with my appearance. If I fit in better, maybe I wouldn’t be garnering his unwanted attention.

  To my surprise Heather walked onto the patio at that moment. Had she accepted my invitation, or was she merely making the scene? She looked up, saw me, smiled a bit hesitantly and waved. That decided it. I scooted away from Hair-Piece and made my way toward her, fighting through the growing crush of Sunday evening diners and drinkers.

  “You came,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. I couldn’t wait! I love my husband to death, but today…” She shook her head.

  I was mildly surprised that Tess had been so right on the money about Heather wanting a night out with the girls. “I don’t think we’re going to find somewhere to sit. I’ve got a Mojito ordered at the waterfront bar.”

  “Oh, we’ll get a table.” She glanced around imperiously. As if by magic, Foster appeared, all smiles and solicitude upon seeing Mrs. Cotton Reynolds. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he realized I was with her. I gave him the cute little fingertip wave practiced by flirtatious females everywhere. He found us a table at once, pissing off other customers, I was sure, but he paid no attention. I think he might have been uncomfortable having me dining with one of his most notorious and wealthy customers. Oh, the damage I could wreak.

  Heather didn’t wait for us to get to know each other better. “You can’t believe the hell that’s gone on today.”

  “Yeah?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, her goggly eyes rolling around in their sockets in remembered dismay. “You just won’t believe what happened!”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Cotton got hit in the face. Not that he didn’t ask for it. But I’
m so worried about him,” she launched in. “I don’t know if you’ve heard…this town’s so small there are no secrets. Cotton has a heart condition and the stress over Bobby’s aggravated it. I’m just sick with worry.” She stopped long enough to wave down a waiter. “Could we get served some drinks, here? She’s got a Mojito at the bar and bring me a glass of Chardonnay.” She snatched up the wine list and pointed to a label that made me want to put a hand over my wallet in protection. As soon as he was gone, she said, “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him. He’s my rock.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Cotton got hit in the face’?”

  “He tried to punch out one of the developers. Craig Cuddahy.” She glanced at the appetizers. “Let’s get some coconut shrimp.”

  “And Cuddahy hit him?” I asked in disbelief.

  “It was just kind of pow pow, y’know? But they both connected. I was screaming. I was just so mad. And scared,” she added as an afterthought.

  “And Cotton has a heart condition?” Here was loads of information, but it was almost more than I could handle all at once.

  “For years and years, I think. Started before me, anyway. Probably brought on by living with that bitch, Tess.” She sniffed. “And it worsened with Dolly. Poor guy. Men are so dumb sometimes. He finally gets rid of Tess, then goes out and dates a woman just like her! He was so miserable when I met him, and his heart was acting up. If he hadn’t met me, I don’t know what he would have done.”

  I tried to picture Cuddahy and Cotton Reynolds in a fist fight and failed. The waiter brought us our drinks. I said lightly, tasting mine, “So, you saved him from Dolly?”

  “Yes…well…” She gave a pretty little shrug. “All this business with Bobby was starting. I helped him through some really bad days, and then we fell in love and got married. Dolly was just all concerned about her image, as was Tess. God, they’re awful.” She threw back a slug of Chardonnay that would have left me gasping. “Cotton was just devastated. Our marriage has really been a tonic. He says so all the time.” She dimpled in remembrance of something. I could feel heat steal up my neck at my remembrance of something. I looked away to give myself a moment and it was then that I saw Murphy stroll onto the patio.