by Nancy Bush
Binkster watched me dress with a definite lack of interest. If I wasn’t in the kitchen, hanging on the refrigerator door, wondering if food might somehow materialize, I wasn’t nearly as exciting.
I expected Murphy to call back with more information, but when that didn’t happen I phoned him—and ran into his voice mail. I left him a message, saying if he needed anything to call. After I hung up I was kind of pissed with myself. Had I sounded needy? God, I hoped not. We were doing that “are we or aren’t we” dance about whether we were “together.” I didn’t want to screw things up.
I could picture him trying to comfort a wailing Heather, who I suspected was dividing her time between lusty grief and her all-purpose calculator, kept handy to tot up her potential inheritance. My cynical viewpoint couldn’t be dislodged. Cotton had known she’d married him for his money. It wasn’t anybody’s secret.
Despite Dwayne’s warning to back off, I tried Tess again to no avail. As I drove myself to the Chinook Center for the Performing Arts—a lofty title for a one-time elementary school with bad heating and the possibility of asbestos inside every acoustic tile—I called Cynthia. I was desperate for information. She answered in a bored tone. I could tell she was driving.
“Have you been to the Black Swan recently?” I asked. “I’m looking for Tess and she’s M.I.A.”
“I’m pretty sure Tess hasn’t been to the gallery.” Cynthia turned the radio down so she could pay closer attention. “What’s going on?”
“No one seems to be able to turn her up. Maybe she’ll surface when she hears about Cotton.” I filled Cynthia in on the latest news.
“Death’s haunting that family, huh? Wouldn’t it be weird if Tess were gone, too?”
Her words stopped me. “Why do you say that?”
“No reason…I’d just love to have her gallery. If you find her, feel her out about selling.”
“Yeah, right.” I calmed down about Tess. She was lying low, that’s all.
“I’m serious, Jane.”
“Well, after we discuss her son’s death and then her ex-husband’s, I’ll be sure to turn the conversation around to art.”
“Just put it out there. That’s all I’m saying.”
“And if you should hear anything about her? From the people at the gallery? Give me a call.”
I wondered about Tomas Lopez. His card was still at my bungalow, on the top of my television set, right where he’d left it. Now that Cotton was gone, should I reveal his theories about Tess to the authorities? My business with Tess was over, at least in my mind, but I felt this loyalty I couldn’t quite shake.
The Chinook Center was covered with white lights—like Christmas in August, although it was always dressed this way, so to speak, with flashy bulbs surrounding every window casing, door and eave. I parked in the back lot and headed toward the rear entrance. Dwayne hadn’t been kidding about the attire. These people looked like they were ready to accept an Oscar. As classy as I looked, I was once again underdressed. Sheesh.
I bought a ticket—six dollars—and vowed to write up a report for Dwayne. He’d said clients love hard copy. Well, fine. I was going to bill him with the best of them.
My seat was to the back of the auditorium, one of about two hundred squeezed into a semicircle around a stage that was lower than the audience. I was lucky enough to be only one seat from the aisle. It was amazing there were so many people eager for an amateur performance.
The lights went down and then the acting coach, one Mr. Lemur, who wore a striped tie, let us all know that yes, it was in honor of the lemurs. Laughter and warm looks from the audience. I realized I was in a room full of parents, anticipating the entrance of their little Johnny or Amanda or Brian, budding actors and stars, one and all.
My eyes scanned the audience as the groups came out by age level with Mr. Lemur right in the midst of it, leaping around and clowning it up. The littlest kids sucked their thumbs and looked alarmed. Older ones tried to imitate him. He hammed it up mercilessly. It was the Mr. Lemur Show, folks.
There was an intermission. I headed to the ladies’ room, then wandered around, eyeing the sea of soccer/stage moms. I considered which of the women could be Angela, Tracy’s mother. I narrowed the list down to three attractive blondes. Dwayne’s hair was darker than theirs but he had that sun and country manner that, though I suspected was largely an affectation, definitely worked for him. The three ladies I zeroed in on were athletic and wiry. One had a terrible braying laugh, so I nixed her immediately. Number two seemed sort of silent and brooding. If my pre-teen was as obnoxious as Tracy and was flirting with a nineteen-year-old bad ass, I might be that way myself. The third one seemed distracted. She opened her cell phone and spoke to someone about an upcoming gourmet club dinner. I settled on number two.
We all traipsed back into the auditorium but I hung back. Maybe Angela was just paranoid and merely thought her sweet, little girl was being wooed by the bogeyman. Maybe there was no supposed Romeo. Tracy’s attitude was enough to cause migraines of worry for any parent. I could see where it might be a by-product of parental terror to see danger everywhere.
I couldn’t make myself go back inside. I’d had more than my share of amateur hour. Instead I headed into the darkened evening, stepping onto the rear wooden porch where a small group of smokers were stubbing out the last of their cigarettes.
I inhaled the secondhand smoke but tonight it did nothing for me. Just smelled dirty. I walked from beneath the protective overhang to an open side of the entrance and gazed skyward. The last bit of light streaked the horizon and stars were faint in a dark cobalt sky.
I was facing the back parking lot and I don’t know how long I stood there. A few minutes, maybe, while my restless mind worried thoughts of Bobby and Cotton and who would inherit and what was really at stake. I wanted to talk to Murphy. Hell, I wanted to see him and wrap myself close to him.
A car door cracked open and the interior light came on. A young man with dark hair and Elvis sideburns stepped from the vehicle and lit a cigarette. From the distance I wasn’t completely sure, but if the top of his scraggly head of hair topped five foot six I’d be surprised. I had to be at least an inch taller. Still, his body shape was compact and tough. The vapor lights glinted on his face. I suspected there might be an eyebrow piercing.
Though I was a hundred feet away and shrouded in semidarkness, I pretended to search for something in my purse. My hand closed around my cell phone and I snatched it up and dialed Dwayne. He answered on the first ring. “Hey there,” I said, all bright and chatty. “I’ve been thinking about our gourmet club.” There was silence on the other end. Taking a cue from potential sister number three I went on, “You know, we talked about the fruit torte but I just love, love, love creme brulee. I’m so glad you bought me a torch for my birthday. I love those. Can’t wait to carmelize the top of the custard. You might want to help.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elvis head up the stairs. He was only about thirty feet from me now, so I wandered to the farthest point of the deck.
“Is he there?” Dwayne asked.
“Uh-huh. Oh, don’t say no. You carmelize custard with me and there’s no telling what I’ll do for you.”
“Are you still at the Chinook Center?”
“Stepped outside. I’ve just got my mind on this dinner we’re working on together.”
“I’m on my way.” He clicked off.
I, however, was kind of into my imaginary meal and my fabulous creme brulee, although in reality if it doesn’t say “heat and serve” I’m pretty much a lost cause. “I think I’ll serve it with fresh raspberries,” I chatted on. “Lucky it’s early August so they’re still available. And I could really go for some champagne. Maybe I’ll bring a bottle.”
I turned around, cell phone still at my ear. Elvis hadn’t gone inside. He was standing by the door, looking through their glass panels into the reception area of the center. I got a good hard look at him. Yeah, he had the sideburns but
my gut feeling was that he wasn’t that old. Just an early hair grower. I put him at sixteen. Maybe seventeen.
He turned and stared right at me. I doubled my efforts as Suzie Homemaker. “What’s Connie bringing? I’m so glad she didn’t choose the entree this time. That baked ziti she brought was so dry I thought I’d choke!”
Down the porch by the handicap ramp was a side door to the auditorium, locked from the outside, used only as another exit after the performances. I saw it crack open and lo and behold, sweet, little Tracy stepped into the night. I averted my head, but she didn’t even glance my way. One look at Elvis and she was all over him, tilting her head and looking up at him with her smoky eyes.
“Okay, bye, then,” I said in a chirpy voice unlike myself, effectively ending my “call.” I gave them my back and moved down the steps, sweating like the proverbial pig. I turned the first corner and tripped, just catching myself. I was damn lucky I didn’t twist my ankle or worse. My strappy sandals weren’t great surveillance gear, and the sidewalk was a roller coaster of broken cement, pushed up by the roots of a massive Douglas fir. Another quirk of Lake Chinook. Can’t cut the trees. The whole damn city is under a wreath of firs but city ordinance only allows homeowners to take one down a year and only if it’s not a really big one. The tree police were ever vigilant and nasty. Ogilvy, my landlord, is in constant battle with them. His answer is to “park” his trees, denuding them of all branches right to their tippy-tops. This sounds a lot uglier than it really is. With parked trees you actually get some sunlight. Because of his efforts, I reap the benefits on my back deck. I also contend with far less fir needles than my neighbors whose roofs are carpeted with them.
I braced one hand on the offending tree and listened as hard as I could. Tracy and Elvis were murmuring to each other. I carefully moved toward the edge of the corner, peering through the top leaves of a rhododendron. They were heading toward his car, a dark mid-size with the kind of huge, chrome wheels that look like they could run over an elephant.
I decided if she actually tried to get in the vehicle I was going to run straight at them, screaming. That oughtta put the breaks on for a while. And where was Tracy’s mother? Wasn’t she supposed to be at the performance? Maybe she was still inside, looking forward to when the oldest group finally got its time on stage. What would she do when Tracy’s face wasn’t amongst them?
“C’mon, Dwayne,” I whispered to myself. Where the hell was he? He only lived a few blocks away.
I was on the balls of my feet. If I had to run, I should really remove the sandals. What to do? My pulse and breathing ran light and fast. I didn’t relish the idea of tearing at them like a madwoman, but I couldn’t come up with a better idea.
Elvis seemed to be coaxing. Tracy, the little minx, was giggling and twitching her ass some more. Good God. They were dopey teenagers. It was more embarrassing than sinister.
Elvis climbed behind the wheel. Tracy leaned in to him. I saw some smooching. I prayed she wouldn’t walk around to the passenger door. Dear God, don’t make me look like a complete idiot…
“Tracy!” a woman’s voice shrieked.
My prayers were suddenly answered as woman number one, the brayer, shot from the top of the porch steps, screaming at them in much like the manner that I’d planned to.
“Mom!” Tracy shrieked back in embarrassment. “What are you doing?”
Angela barreled toward them. I braced myself for their collision, but then Dwayne’s truck pulled into the lot, parking a few spots down from the group. Angela managed to keep from bowling Tracy over, but she grabbed hard at her arm. Tracy pulled back so fast she stumbled. Elvis was out of the car to catch her which sent Angela into higher-pitched screaming. “Get your hands off her! I’ve called the police. You’re going to be arrested! You…pedophile!”
I groaned aloud and glanced toward Dwayne’s vehicle. He wasn’t getting out of the car.
Elvis said something soft to Tracy and got back in his car, slamming the door. Angela started pounding on his window and Tracy grabbed her mother’s arm and yanked as hard as she could.
“You’re crazy!” she screamed. “You’re fucking crazy!”
“What did you say?” Angela’s voice was so high it pierced the air.
“You’re fucking crazy!”
Dwayne’s voice said, “Stop it, both of you,” as he slammed his door and strode toward them.
Elvis reversed in a tight little circle and a squeal of wheels. I gauged the distance to my car and started walking fast. Angela reared back. I thought she was going to hit Tracy but I saw she was just stunned with shock. Her face was white, disbelieving, her eyes bulging.
“She…she was getting in that boy’s car…” she choked to Dwayne. “That sick drug addict boy!”
“God, Mom, you’re so stupid!”
“Tracy,” Dwayne warned.
“You’re the one who’s stupid!” Angela cried. “Getting in a car with a stranger!”
“Angela.” Dwayne tried to get between them.
“He’s not a stranger! He was in class with me! We’re friends!”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not!” Tracy was outraged.
I’d reached the Volvo. I slid in, turned the ignition and pushed the button to lower the window. Angela was attacking Tracy with all her proof. “…followed you from Seattle. I’ll nail his ass. He won’t see sunlight until he’s fifty!”
“He lives in Lake Chinook,” Tracy declared, infuriated and baffled. “I don’t get you!”
I turned the car to follow Elvis. I was beginning to believe something was amiss. Maybe this wasn’t the guy from Seattle. Maybe this was just a kid from acting class. But I figured a good information specialist would try to get more information.
I’d just about decided Elvis was okay as I followed him down State Street when he turned the corner and into the lot of the Pisces Pub. My radar went up. Was he twenty-one? I drove past and circled back. I suddenly longed for something else to wear. Elvis had paid next to no attention to me, but my clothes were a dead giveaway. “Shit.” I dug furiously through the backseat of my car and found a pair of sweats I hadn’t worn in weeks as the weather was simply too hot.
I jumped into them. I’d have to keep the camisole as I had nothing else for a top. Damn. I unclipped my hair and finger-combed it. Looking in the rearview mirror I noticed the “hat ring” the hair clip had left behind. I furiously finger-combed some more and finally slammed out of the car behind my quarry. At the last second I turned back and dug through my glove box, finding the pair of prescription lenses my mother had inadvertently left the last time she’d visited. I’ve been planning to send them back, I really have. Now, they seemed like a gift. I put them on and nearly fell into the scraggly bank of azaleas outside the Pisces Pub’s front walkway.
Note to self: always keep surveillance clothes available. In sweats, aqua camisole, weird hair and glasses, I was about as cool as anyone had a right to be.
As I pushed open the door I called Dwayne. He answered tersely. I could still hear Angela and Tracy going at it. “I followed Elvis to the Pisces Pub.”
“What?” That caught his attention.
“More later,” I said, then hung up.
I pushed open the door, a heavy oak piece carved with waves and I think what was once a mermaid. But someone had sawed off her bare tits long ago. Probably concerned citizens of Lake Chinook. She looked kind of pissed off. I couldn’t blame her.
Loud music and the smell of stale popcorn assaulted me. A bouncer with huge, hairy forearms stepped in front of me. “I.D.,” he demanded.
I was kind of flattered he carded me. I handed him my license and he eyed it skeptically. He handed it back to me with a look that said he thought I was up to something. Geez. Maybe this is just my paranoia at work.
He let me pass and I moved through the center room which sported scarred tables and chairs and a rough fir ceiling hung with wagon-wheel chandeliers. The motif had once been the wild
west and there were still remnants mixed in with the sea theme. In fact there was a smiling fish statue carved out of wood sitting on the bar. He was standing on his tail and he sported a cowboy hat, bandana, and tiny holster. He’d been stolen once or twice, so now he was bolted onto the bar.
The music was pouring out of the back room which was dark and lined with banquettes covered with black Naugahyde. On weekends the scattered tables are shoved aside to make room for a teensy dance floor. The bands are surprisingly good and this one was running through some music from the sixties. I recognized a stylized version of The Beatles’ “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?”
Elvis was inside. I’d bet money he was using fake identification. If I really wanted to be a killjoy I could whisper as much to the bouncer and all hell would break loose. With the fear of identity theft running rampant throughout the land, new laws were clamping down on the poor underage kids just trying to get a beer. If one was eighteen and showed fake I.D., he could be charged with fraud—a felony—and face serious penalties and possibly jail time. With all the real crime out there, it boggles the mind. However, I could see how I could use this information to my advantage. I just wasn’t sure whether Elvis was a bad guy or not.
He was standing to one side, snapping his fingers to some beat inside his own head that was about triple speed of the song. I gazed at him over the tops of my mom’s eyeglasses and had an epiphany. Disguise, dis-schmize. This kid didn’t know me. I was in control here. I should have left the skirt on as I was roasting in the sweatpants.
I shoved the glasses to the top of my head and strode over to him. He looked at me, looked away, looked again, slightly alarmed. I leaned into him. His eyes rolled around as he tried to gaze anywhere but at me. I said, “Let me see your I.D. I know you’re not twenty-one.”
