Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  “The hell I’m not,” he blustered, scared.

  “I don’t even think you’re eighteen. But whatever your age, you’re too old for a fourteen-year-old, you get me?”

  “You’re…?” He couldn’t form a question.

  “C’mon, let’s dance.”

  I grabbed his arm and led him, protesting, onto the postage-stamp-sized floor. There was only one other couple out there.

  “I can’t dance,” he moaned.

  “You were supposed to be at the performance arts class. You can dance.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Trust me, making a fool of yourself out here is the least of your worries.”

  He was shorter than I thought. My gaze hit him right in the middle of his forehead. If I pulled him close to my chest, his face would crush my breasts. I wondered if he would straight-out panic. Probably. “What are you, seventeen?”

  He swallowed. I put my hands on his shoulders, strictly the preteen school of dance, and gave him a hard look. He managed to place his hands at my waist. He didn’t want to touch me. His fear was palpable.

  “Sixteen?” I guessed. He half-jerked away and I knew I’d hit pay dirt. “What the hell are you doing with Tracy?”

  “You don’t understand,” he muttered.

  “Are you from Seattle?”

  “Seattle?” His eyes met mine straight for the first time. “I’m from here. My stepmom thought I should take this dumb class. She wants me out of the house. I hate it. Tracy’s the only good thing about it.”

  “You never met her before this class?”

  “How could I?” he asked miserably.

  “Let me see that I.D. How old are you supposed to be?”

  “My brother’s twenty-one. It’s his license. He doesn’t know I have it. I’ve gotta be back in an hour.” He threw a harried glance at his wristwatch.

  “Why’d you come here?”

  “I heard you could get in here. I just wanted a beer.”

  “Looked like you were trying to talk Tracy into getting in your car. What were you going to do with her? Sneak her in here somehow?”

  “I wanted to show her I could get in. That’s all.” His voice trailed off, barely audible beneath the music. We’d switched to George Michaels’ “I Want Your Sex.” The band had a nice little theme going.

  “Her mother thinks you’re bad news.”

  “She’s a friggin’ weirdo. Did you see us?”

  “I was there.”

  “Well, shit. A pedophile? She’s nuts!”

  “She thinks you’re older than you are. You’d better be able to prove you’re not.”

  That was all it took. He started scrambling for his wallet. I led him over to a more private corner and squinted in the dim light at a copy of an Oregon driver’s license for sixteen-year-old Quentin Emerson. He was smiling in the photo which showed the start of his sideburns. Without them, he looked about twelve.

  “This your address?” At his nod, I memorized it. “I know where you live.”

  “Does this mean I can’t see Tracy anymore?” He was stricken.

  I had a vision of Angela screaming and running at them. “All signs point to yes.”

  “That just sucks.”

  I didn’t say it, but I thought he was probably lucky to stay away from both of them.

  “I’m going,” he muttered and headed for the door, shoulders down. I would have followed him but the truth was he wasn’t the only one who wanted a beer. I glanced around, wondering if I could sit down somewhere for a few moments and think things through. I wanted to call Dwayne and check in, but if he was still with his relatives chances were he had his hands full. And it was all a tempest in a teapot anyway. Young love. Who knew?

  My gaze fell on the farthest banquet which was occupied by a lone man. I did a double take and my heart squeezed. It was Owen Bradbury. He was seated on a section of Naugahyde where there was just enough room for me to sit. I didn’t think I was likely to get a better invitation.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I made my way over to Owen. The shape of his head still gave me shivery reminders of Bobby, but his eyes were blue, like Tess’s. And his hair was a few shades lighter, brown with faint touches of blond.

  “I know you,” he said on a note of discovery. “I saw you at Bobby’s memorial service. I asked my mom who you were and she said you were Murphy’s girlfriend.”

  “‘Were’ being the operative word,” I said. I wished keenly that Murphy would call me back. I figured he was dealing with Heather, but I wanted his company. I wanted to comfort him and be comforted in return. Was that asking so much?

  His eyes wandered over my sweatpants. I had to fight not to give some kind of explanation. “What are you doing here?” Owen asked with a slight slur.

  The guy was wasted, I realized belatedly. “Looking for a drink. How d’ya get one around here?”

  He waved a hand in the general direction of the bar. “They don’t come around and serve.”

  “Ahh…” The Pisces Pub was no Foster’s On The Lake.

  “You can share mine,” he suggested, offering up a chilled mug of beer that was half empty.

  Now, normally I have aversions to slurping another person’s drink. Especially one belonging to someone I don’t know. You can actually hear the germs getting sucked into your system. Even when I’m in a relationship with someone, spending a good portion of my time kissing them, I struggle with sharing their drink.

  But tonight I was hot through and through. The air was sweltering and it felt as if steam were running through my veins. Besides, I wanted to ingratiate myself a little. I’d planned on showing up at the Pisces sometime and interviewing some of Owen’s friends, but this was even better. And where were those friends, anyway? Owen looked remarkably alone.

  I took the proffered mug, fought back my germ phobia and took a swallow. It was still cold. Like heaven, actually. I tried not to gulp the last half down at once. I did manage to leave a little bit for him. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I didn’t belch so I figured it was a win.

  He squinted at me. “I like a woman who can drink.”

  “I feel like I’m melting from the inside out.”

  He nodded. “I feel like dog shit. Don’t know if you heard, but my old man died today.”

  “Cotton?” He surprised me with the “old man” line since they weren’t actually related. But then, blood wasn’t always what made one a father. “I did hear. From Murphy.”

  “He wasn’t my real dad. He wasn’t even much of a step-dad. He was a real piece of work, actually. But he was okay to me, y’know? He was always okay.” Owen’s jaw tightened. He was fighting emotion. “Fuck,” he muttered, holding the mug to his lips and draining the bit I’d left him.

  “Let me get us two more,” I said.

  I went to the bar and ordered a couple of drafts. I wasn’t sure what to think of Owen, but he seemed genuinely distraught over Cotton’s death. I brought the beers back and we sat side-by-side, drinking in silence. Finally, he asked, “You still on the case?”

  “What do you mean?” I responded carefully.

  He gave me that “don’t con a conner” look. “You were working for Mom, trying to figure out who gets what, where Bobby’s been, who’s in on it, the whole nine yards.” He thought a moment. “Did you follow me here?”

  “No.”

  “You seem kind of uptight. Like you’re pretending to be someone you’re not. Is this how you play private dick?” Another glance at the sweatpants.

  “I’m not working for your mom anymore,” I informed him.

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Right now, no one.”

  “You want to know what happened to Bobby?” He gazed at me but he swayed a bit, his eyelids drooping. “I’ll tell ya. They were all in on it. Every last one of ’em. But it was really Colonel Mustard, in the billiard room, with the wrench. Shhh…don’t tell anybody.” He nearly fell off the banquette.

  �
��Did you drive here?”

  “Yep. Why? You don’t think I can drive home?” He half-laughed. “Well, guess what? You’re right! I’m shit-faced. You are a good detective.”

  “I’ve got a car. Let’s go to your place.”

  “Wow…I haven’t had a woman say that in a long time…” He staggered to his feet. Before we headed out he drained the rest of his beer. I’d set mine down, barely touched. I would have liked to have poured it over my head for relief, but I didn’t need the extra alcohol.

  Owen threw his arm around me and I guided him outside. The bouncer watched us warily. We staggered to my car where I practically dumped him in the passenger seat. “That’s my car,” he said when I slid behind the wheel. He was pointing through the windshield to a shiny black BMW with spoked rims.

  My cell phone chirped. I scrambled through my purse for it. “Hello?”

  “Did you find the kid?” Dwayne asked, sounding out-of-breath.

  “Uh-huh. He wasn’t really who we were looking for, though.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He’s sixteen and from Lake Chinook.”

  Dwayne sighed. “That’s what Tracy’s been saying.”

  “How are mom and daughter?” Dwayne’s answer was a strangled sound that expressed complete disdain. I shot a glance toward Owen whose chin was resting on his chest. “I’m with someone right now. Can I call you back?”

  That woke him up. “Who ya with?”

  “Not what you think.”

  “You have no idea what I think, darlin’.”

  “You owe me money.” I pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Sounds like you’ve gotten over your shock,” he observed.

  “Good luck on the home front.”

  He snorted, drawled, “I think Angela’s about to eat her young,” then muttered something I couldn’t quite catch. I swear to God it was “thank you.” Cheerily, I told him I’d bill him for my services.

  I drove up Macadam and caught the 405 to Glisan Street. At 23rd I had to rouse him enough to scare an address out of him. He guided me through the newly chi-chi Pearl District, once warehouses, now condos, natural food stores and martini bars amidst clumps of turn-of-the-century Portland homes. It was the high-rent district, for sure. He was apparently cohabitating with Tess in her high-rise condo.

  “I didn’t know you lived with your mom,” I said, probing a bit as Owen, climbing unsteadily from his seat, came around the car and punched in a code for the gate that led to subterranean parking. As the metal gate slid aside, he sank back in his seat.

  “I might not be wonder boy, but I’m still her son.”

  By wonder boy, I figured he meant Bobby. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Tess, but haven’t been able to.”

  “She’s in Texas. Went home after Bobby’s body surfaced. Nothing to stay for.”

  I absorbed that, glad to hear Cynthia’s comment about trouble for Tess was not true. So, Tess had gone home, so to speak. “Is she coming back for Cotton’s funeral, or memorial service?”

  “Only if there’s money involved.” He snorted.

  I parked the car in one of the few spots designated for visitor parking. Owen took his time finding his way from his seat to the elevator. He punched the button for the twelfth floor. The elevator doors opened, whispered shut behind us, then we zoomed upward.

  Portland’s skyline has been changing in this western corner of the city. High-rise condominiums have sprung up one after another, each trying to outclass the last one. Real estate is out of sight. As Owen pushed open the door, I inhaled on a breath of admiration. Tess’s condo was spacious and had a commanding view of the city, her view eastward over downtown and the Willamette River. The lights of the city twinkled. Where the Willamette cut through the center of Portland, it was a pure black ribbon.

  The air-conditioning, going full blast, hit me like a welcome arctic wind. I turned my face to it and sighed. Tess must not have given Bobby all her money, I thought. Marta had said she’d made out well in the divorce. She would’ve had to in order to afford this place and let the air-conditioning run.

  Owen cut across the thick, cream carpet and through a swinging door into the kitchen. I could see through a large cutout in the sheet rock which formed an eating bar. I watched him come into my vision and open the left-side door of a stainless-steel refrigerator. I heard the clink of ice.

  Straight ahead of me was a fireplace faced in thin strips of taupe, manufactured stone. A white mantel sat atop ornate corbels, capping the firebox like a single eyebrow. Tess had a grouping of crystal birds for decoration. All the furniture was shades of brown, ecru and white. It was devoid of color but reflected Tess’s taste impeccably.

  I heard more clinking and glanced toward the kitchen. Owen was stirring a pitcher full of either gin or vodka. He poured two drinks, adding several fat, pimento-stuffed olives.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for a martini,” I said. He carefully carried two brimming glasses into the room, ignoring me completely. “I’m serious. I’m driving.”

  “It’s not for you,” he said.

  He stood in front of the fireplace, held up one of the glasses and gazed skyward. “Bottoms up, Dad,” he said, then carefully placed one of the martinis on the mantel, shoving some of the crystal birds out of the way. “Y’know, he loved a good gin martini. Taught me how to do it just right.”

  I recalled Cotton drinking martinis at the benefit. I stared at the martini on the mantel and thought of the man. I warmed to Owen as he silently sipped his drink.

  “He gave my mother more than she deserves. Enough to buy some property in the Pearl. A crappy little house that she demoed about eight years ago. She rebuilt, sold the new one, bought two more crappy little houses, did it all over again, then bought this.” He gestured around the room.

  “She started the Black Swan, too,” I put in. If Owen wanted to wax rhapsodic about his family, I was all ears.

  “That business sucks. Too much debt. Recently she refied this, too. Put her money somewhere else.” He slid me a sideways look. “Cotton sure gave her enough, but it ain’t here.”

  “You sure she’s not a smart saver?” I suggested lightly.

  “My mother?” He threw back the rest of the martini. “Come on. I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What am I thinking?”

  “You think the money went to Bobby. Maybe you’re right.” Since I hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t appear to need to, I kept my mouth shut. Owen was in the mood to talk and who was I to stop him? “Mom’s got enough to keep going, but not in the manner to which she’s accustomed. That’s why she hired you. To find out who inherits what. But now that Dad’s gone, it won’t be a secret much longer.”

  “Cotton did intimate that your mom was funding Bobby these last four years,” I admitted.

  “Why wouldn’t she?” He shrugged. “She did everything else for him.”

  “She thought Cotton had a hand in it.”

  “You know what I think?” Owen suddenly said. “I think Bobby finally slipped his leash. She had him stashed away somewhere for four years and he just couldn’t stand it anymore. So, he left. And maybe he went to Cotton. He always needed money. Why wouldn’t he try to tap out the old man?”

  “So, where was he?”

  “Who the hell cares? He’s dead now. Somebody made sure of that.”

  A long pause ensued. I checked my watch. I wanted to get home and let my dog out and think. But I also didn’t want to lose a golden opportunity to learn more. “You lived here long?”

  “Nah…I’m just staying for a while. I’m unemployed at the moment,” he added, smiling faintly. “Y’see, Dad was all about teaching Bobby how to invest money. How to make your money make more money. He was always lecturing Bobby and his friends, like your pal, Murphy. Everybody. Any friend of Bobby’s was a friend of Dad’s. And he told ’em what to do. Told ’em, and told ’em. It was a joke. They never listened.”

  He gazed at the mar
tini on the mantel. “But I did. Dad hardly knew I was there. And when I graduated high school I asked him for a loan. Wanted to buy some real estate. So, he helped me out.” Owen nodded. “Bobby went off to college and dropped out, and went back, and dropped out, and got Laura pregnant and got married and then had a couple of more kids and then killed them all. But I bought a place on the east side. Sellwood area. Fixed it up and sold it to Cotton!” He chuckled. “I helped my mom with her projects. And I kept making some money and it kind of snowballed and now I own a decrepit apartment complex in First Addition. I’m going to fix it up next year.”

  I was totally blown away. Owen, not Bobby, had become Cotton’s protege. Owen had learned from his stepfather. The First Edition neighborhood of Lake Chinook was tiny cabins near the center of town which were being revitalized at an alarming rate, at least for the other homeowners in the area. It was one of the fastest-growing areas in Lake Chinook and the house prices were steadily rising. If Owen owned an apartment building there, he was well on his way to making his own small fortune.

  “It’s all about real estate,” he said.

  It’s all about real estate. The words sank into my brain. It was the theme of the whole sordid mess, I thought. Money and real estate.

  “Bobby never got it,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “He never got nothin’ if it didn’t have to do with sports and flash. He was all front, no back.” Owen laughed. “Dad used to say, ‘Big hat, no cattle.’ ’Course he never meant it about Bobby, but it was true.”

  “What do you think really happened?”

  “To Bobby?” I nodded. Owen considered for a long moment. “I need another drink. You want anything?”

  “No, thanks,” I said regretfully. I would have loved a drink, something cold and refreshing. But I didn’t feel like leaving the Volvo and calling a cab, so it meant alcohol abstinence, more’s the pity.

  While Owen fixed himself another martini I walked toward the bookcase that ran along the south wall. It was painted white and the books and objets d’art filling its shelves were arranged by design. Bobby wasn’t the only one who was all about flash. The books were all classics, leather bound, the titles gold embossed, but I doubted Tess had ever read anything from any of them. I saw Shakespeare and Dickens and poetry by Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and William Butler Yeats, to name just a few. They seemed out of place in this white, cold room. There were biographies mixed in as well, past presidents and emperors and famous industrialists.