by Nancy Bush
So, how had Cuddahy felt the island was his? Why would he murder Bobby for it?
Something was off here. A piece missing. I felt like I was close to the answer but it was eluding me, just out of reach.
I walked back to the garage and scanned the area, trying to picture the scene as it had been that night. If Bobby were standing farther from the garage, more toward the grounds and patio, then Craig would have been hidden from Jesse’s view. My gaze traveled over the rhododendrons, now bereft of flowers, and the hydrangeas, still in luscious full bloom. I frowned. Something looked different from when I was here before.
I cast my mind back to that unexpected meeting with Grant Wemberly the day of the benefit. Grant had alluded that rogue animals—read Bobby Reynolds, for that—should be put down once and for all. Did Grant feel this property was his? Would he take out Bobby to simply be rid of a really bad egg? To make it easier for Cotton to move on?
Or, to die?
Who was inheriting the island?
I sat down on a bench next to the pool and decided I would know soon enough. Other mourners began gathering and we made a quiet group.
Twenty minutes later, people began emerging from the main house. Murphy brought up the rear. I stood and waited for him. I wondered how long I could keep from blurting out the question.
Murphy saw me and headed my way. Jerome Neusmeyer was listening hard to something Heather was saying, ogling the front of her decolletage. Heather was in dark gray, but it was sexy as hell. She had another big flower, this one dusky yellow and real, a rose, pinned on the lapel of her bolero. The bolero buttoned beneath her breasts, enhancing their perky appearance. Neusmeyer was lost in them, so I was safe.
Murphy’s face was pinched. “What happened?” I asked.
“Cotton wrote the will after Bobby’s death. Tess, Owen and Dolly each got cash settlements. So did the Monroes, who looked shell-shocked by the amount. He left me his cars, remembering that Mustang I used to have.”
I nodded. I had my own vivid memories of that convertible.
His gaze traveled to the garage, his mouth twisting with emotion. “Heather got the island.”
“Heather?”
“All his property. He has a rental house in Sellwood.”
“Oh, that’s right. He bought it from Owen.”
“Heather’ll sell to Cuddahy.” Murphy was darkly positive. “She practically squealed with delight when she heard.” I gazed at him in disbelief. “Oh, she didn’t make a sound, but that look on her face. She was bursting.”
I glanced over at her. Her body language said she was happy. Her face was wreathed in smiles, but when she saw me looking she sobered immediately.
“She’s bending Neusmeyer’s ear about it now,” Murphy went on. “She wants to unload the property as soon as possible. It’s the last thing Cotton would have wanted.”
“Then he shouldn’t have left it to her.”
“Who was he going to leave it to, then?” Murphy demanded. “There wasn’t anyone else.”
There was you, I thought. But then immediately I reminded myself that Murphy would have wanted neither the money nor the burden from the property. Cotton knew that.
There wasn’t a lot of time for further conversation as our small group banded together near the water’s edge. I kept an eye on the silver urn which contained Cotton’s remains. I had this fear the wind might throw the ashes back on me. Sorry, I just didn’t think I could take that. To protect myself, I stood a little to the right and behind Murphy. Jerome Neusmeyer glanced around, his gaze briefly touching on me, but I kept my vision straight ahead, hidden behind my shades, and his glance passed over me.
Heather stood up and after a cold glance thrown in first Tess’s, then Dolly’s, direction, she began a stilted little speech. Her goggly blue eyes teared over. I glanced at Tess whose mouth was a grim line, then at Dolly, whose mouth appeared just as grim but who kept dabbing at her eyes. A frisky little breeze played havoc with our hemlines and just for a moment Heather’s black skirt flipped skyward, revealing a very naughty black lace thong.
Owen coughed into his fist. I felt a new kinship with him. Murphy’s hand held mine and squeezed. Heather smoothed her skirt, gave Murphy and myself the old fish eye, then continued on. With Owen’s help, she then tipped the silver urn upside down over Lake Chinook. Bits of ash rode on the breeze. I held my breath, but the bulk of Cotton floated on, then sank into the water.
I vowed solemnly to myself, I will never swim in Lake Chinook again.
“I’m going to miss you, Daddy,” Heather said, a little throb in her voice.
I gotta be honest. It kind of choked me up.
I thought Murphy was going to crush the bones in my hand, but he finally relented, practically whirling me around in his haste to get away. I was all for it. We were halfway up the slate pathway to the house when we encountered a late arrival.
Craig Cuddahy, an appropriately sober expression on his countenance, greeted Murphy and me with appropriately sober words of regret. Murphy let go of me for a moment, getting ready for God knew what. Cuddahy took the opportunity to give Murphy’s hand the double-clasp, which I guess declared he really meant what he said.
“Cotton was one of a kind,” Craig said.
“Yes, he was.” Murphy was coiled with tension.
I slipped my arm through Murphy’s, gently nudging him. Now was really not the time for this. But Murphy held firm.
With Murphy glaring daggers at him, Cuddahy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He glanced around for reinforcements. Heather was still in her role as grieving widow and didn’t notice. But Owen was bearing down on us as if he had something to say.
He did. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded of Cuddahy. “Get your tail between your legs and vamoose before I call the dogs on you.”
I nervously glanced toward the garage which I realized belatedly had been remarkably silent today.
“Heather asked me to come,” he answered, clearing his throat.
“Well, you’re getting told by Owen to leave,” Owen said.
There was something kind of scary about Owen. Grief had made him reckless. He had this “I don’t have any reason not to kill you” attitude. And then there was that resemblance to Bobby. I was glad I wasn’t standing in Craig’s shoes.
Murphy’s narrowed eyes switched to Owen. Owen caught his glance and silently stuck out his hand. They shook peremptorily. Something between them. A kind of brotherhood forged by the loss of Owen’s half-brother, Murphy’s best friend.
And they both loved and respected Cotton.
“You’re a jackal, Cuddahy. Go pick someone else’s bones until we’ve all left. Then you want to see Heather? Have at her.”
“I’ll wait outside the gate.”
“Wait in the next county,” Owen suggested.
Craig tried to look past us, hoping for Heather’s rescue. She was in a tense, private conversation with Dolly Smathers and her attention was riveted. She looked, in fact, about to fall over. Dolly actually put out a hand to steady her. I would have given a lot to know what they were talking about.
In the far distance I saw the cleaning barge heading back in the direction of its mother dock, the Lake Corporation’s marina and offices. In the near distance we were being approached by Tess whose gaze was ice when it touched on me. Jerome Neusmeyer was hurrying toward us, checking his watch.
“We’ve gotta go,” I told Murphy.
Owen’s eyes were on me. “Thanks for driving me home the other night.”
“No problem.”
“I was going to stop by and thank you personally. You’re renting from Ogilvy, aren’t you?”
I must have looked alarmed at his knowledge, but he shrugged it off. “I’ve been trying to acquire a bunch of his properties, but Ogilvy’s something else. Can’t get him to sell.”
With Tess glaring at me and Neusmeyer getting too close, I tugged more urgently on Murphy’s arm. Abruptly, he turned and w
e walked quickly to his SUV which was parked beside Owen’s BMW. We didn’t say much on the ride home. I was lost in thought and I guess Murphy was, too.
As I unlocked my door I got that same feeling that someone had been in my place. But no…it was just the unfamiliarity of seeing all Murphy’s things scattered around.
He brushed past me to one of his bags, tossed casually on my couch.
“Guess we’ll have to find room in one of my closets,” I said. “I wonder if—” My thought died on the vine.
Murphy had pulled a Ziploc baggie from the interior of his sports bag. Inside was a steely blue handgun.
Chapter Eighteen
M urphy kept digging in his bag as if nothing strange had just occurred. At my sudden silence he looked up.
“What’s with the gun?” I asked.
He glanced at it. “I had it shipped here from Santa Fe.”
“Why do you have a gun at all? You said you weren’t in private investigation anymore.”
“I said I wasn’t much,” he corrected. “I thought I wanted out. I’m sick of all that’s happened here. It’s too close.” He gestured around himself to encompass all of Lake Chinook. “But I’ve got a thriving business in Santa Fe. We could work together, you and me. Actually, Jane, you’re not half bad.”
“You called me an amateur.” For some reason this wasn’t quite my ideal vision of our life together in Santa Fe. Private investigation equaled Lake Chinook and Dwayne. Love, hearts and roses equaled Santa Fe and Murphy.
“I didn’t say you were perfect, I said you weren’t half bad.”
“Why did you bring the gun at all?”
“I wanted to have it nearby, just in case.”
Just in case what? I asked slowly, “When Cotton called you to come to Lake Chinook, did he give you a reason? I mean, besides just coming for a visit?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just the timing, I guess. I mean, Bobby showed up about the same time. I thought…”
“That Cotton was upset that Bobby was back and he wanted me to do something about it for him?” Murphy straightened.
Well…yeah…that was kind of where I was headed.
“For God’s sake, Jane. Give it a rest!”
I shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry.”
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, then he shook his head and finished reorganizing his bag. He placed the gun, still in its baggie, on the television set.
I changed the subject. “Did you look at the cars Cotton left you?”
“No, I’ll go later. The dogs were there. Tranquilized, because they’ve been acting strange ever since Cotton died. They know something’s wrong. I don’t know what Heather will do with them.”
I suddenly worried for the Dobermans. “What about Grant Wemberly?”
Murphy gave me a long look. “How do you know Grant?”
“I only met him once. The day of the benefit. He seemed to care about the dogs quite a bit. Maybe Heather will give them to him.” I paused. “He’s going to be out of a job if Heather sells.”
“He’s already out of a job. Quit the day Cotton died.”
“Quit?” I was surprised.
“All I know is, we’re not taking the dogs to Santa Fe. No animals at all.”
“None?” My eyes searched for The Binkster who was flopped on her little bed, eyes closed, breathing regularly, except for the occasional snort or two.
Murphy’s gaze followed mine. “You’re seriously attached to that dog? I thought it was just a temporary situation.”
“It is.” My heart felt weighted with lead. “The gal who brought her to me, Megan Adair, is a bartender at the Crock in downtown Portland. I’ve got her number. She said if I needed to find Binky a new home I could call her.”
Murphy grunted. “Good idea.” He kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll see ya later. I’ve got something to take care of.”
If I’d been myself I might have asked what. As it was, all I could do was stare at the fawn-and-black creature lying so peacefully unaware on her fuzzy bed.
Tuesday morning I gave myself a punishing run to the Coffee Nook. I stepped inside, gasping for air. The day was hot and muggy. Odd weather for the West Coast, but it happens from time to time. I was dripping in sweat and had to head to the bathroom and hold a towel to my face for several minutes. This cannot be good for you.
I was feeling, well, weird. Murphy came back from wherever he went and we went to Dottie’s for a sandwich. I picked at mine, roast turkey on sourdough. Murphy seemed off his feed, too, eating only half of his corned beef on rye.
It was as if Murphy had a new lease on life. He chatted up the waitress in a way I found faintly annoying, then made plans for us to get moving, so to speak. He wanted me to call Ogilvy and cancel my bungalow. I told him that my rent was paid till September first, but Murphy wasn’t waiting that long. He pointed out that it was already the middle of August. A perfect time to leave. People would be wanting to get their kids in school, so they’d want the cottage by the first.
I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I lay in a frozen position, not wanting to bother Murphy, staring at the ceiling. I’d gotten ready for my run while he was still asleep. His gun still lay on my television set, right next to Lopez’s card. Shivering, I’d let myself outside into air as thick as molasses. Well, at least it felt that way to me. I fought my way to the Nook but it about killed me.
Billy Leonard was on his stool when I returned, red-faced but at least every pore wasn’t leaking fluid, from the bathroom. I sat down next to him.
“You ran here? In this weather?” he asked, incredulous.
“Yep.”
He looked at me like, “it’s your funeral,” but left it for the moment. “Hey, B.J. says you talked to the Coma Kid. Learn anything?”
“Not really. I’m through working on the Reynolds case.”
“Yeah? The kid didn’t help you?”
I debated on telling Billy what Jesse had said about seeing Bobby, but I didn’t. I’d put in a call to Booth last night, wanting to hash things over with him, but his voice mail picked up. He was probably working. Now, I was wishing I hadn’t called at all.
“B.J. and his buddy Kurt were on the lake last night and they ran into some friends who run the cleanup barge? You know the one.”
“I saw it yesterday.”
“They were working around the island and hauled up pieces of roof slate. Said it must’ve fallen in sometime in the last few weeks ’cause they clean around the island on a schedule. They keep tabs on that island. It’s like a fascination for teenagers.” He chuckled. “We used to try to steal beer when I was a teen. Out of the refrigerators people keep in their boathouses. Nobody used to lock anything.”
“The paths are slate. And the house and garage roofs are slate. I saw an extra pile of roof slate by the garage.”
“Somebody just off-loaded some into the water?”
“The regular maintenance man quit last week after Cotton died. Maybe the new people tossed them into the water.”
“Don’t let the City of Lake Chinook and the Lake Corp. know. You know how much they fine developers for stirring up the water? A small fortune. You can hardly afford to build anything anymore. And don’t even think about taking down a tree.” He left some money on the counter, said good-bye to Julie and me, and headed out the door.
To my surprise and delight the door opened again and Lorraine Bluebell sailed inside. She wore a black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse with gold buttons marching down its front. Her purse was about as big a monster as I’d ever seen. Black and white with a gold clasp and a little gold chain looping across the front.
“Jane!” she called, equally glad to see me.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” I said. “You know, the island belongs to Heather now.”
“Does it?” She nodded as if she weren’t surprised. “A shame about Cotton.”
“I think she’s selling to Craig Cuddahy.”
“Humph.” Lorraine shook her head. The swatch of white hair across her bangs matched her outfit. “Don’t count Paula Shepherd out. She’s a barracuda.”
“From what I understand, it’s practically a done deal.”
“Well, then, I’m sorry. I would like to keep the island as one property.”
We chatted further and then she got her double vanilla latte and headed out. I realized I felt the exact same way. I wanted the island to remain one piece.
But then why did I care? I was leaving Lake Chinook for Santa Fe.
My own inner ambivalence bothered me. Deciding to do something positive, I pulled my cell phone from the zippered pocket of my running shorts and put through a call to Dwayne. It took him six rings to answer.
“What? Did I get you out of bed?”
“Nah, I was on another call. More business. So, are you coming in with me or not, darlin’? Business is getting out of control.”
This is why I’d put off this call. “I’d have to say…or not.”
“What?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
I counted to three in my head. “I’m moving to Santa Fe with Murphy.”
“Bullshit!”
“I am,” I insisted.
“Jane…” His drawl was bitten off, as there weren’t words for what he wanted to say.
“Forget whatever you’re going to say,” I said tersely. “My mind’s made up. Murphy wants me to throw in with him down there. He’s doing investigative work in Santa Fe. I thought he’d gotten out of it but apparently not.”
“You’re going to just leave?” He couldn’t believe it.
“That’s what I’m saying.” I hesitated. “You wouldn’t want to take care of my dog for me. For a while.”
“Your dog?”
“Murphy doesn’t want any animals.”
“Darlin’,” Dwayne said, switching to serious Southern charm mode. “If a man doesn’t want your dog, he’s tellin’ you somethin’ about himself. Somethin’ you need to hear.”
