Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  Outstanding praise for Nancy Bush and her Jane Kelly mysteries!

  ULTRAVIOLET

  “Fun to read”

  —Pasadena Star News

  ELECTRIC BLUE

  “With her clever ability to handle the zaniest of life’s circumstances, Jane won’t disappoint readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Bush has a winner with this wacky, sexy second book featuring an insanely dysfunctional family and a zany wannabe P.I. with a gorgeous and intelligent partner.”

  —Library Journal

  CANDY APPLE RED

  “Funny, sex scenes, good drinks, and a likable dog lift Bush’s first Jane Kelly mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Jane Kelly is a new and worthy addition to the private investigator scene. Unique and extremely likable, she has a quick wit.”

  —Romantic Times

  “As long as Bush sticks to writing compelling mysteries, she’ll have a franchise that could soon rise to the level of Sara Paretsky’s great V.I. Warshawski books.”

  —Chicago Sun Times

  “A fun, frantic, sexy murder mystery…I was hooked from the first page. Candy Apple Red is an intriguing mystery that kept me guessing all night!”

  —Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author

  Books by Nancy Bush

  CANDY APPLE RED

  ELECTRIC BLUE

  ULTRAVIOLET

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  ULTRA VIOLET

  NANCY BUSH

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  I had mere seconds to get out of the bedroom. There was no bolt for the door and escape back the way I’d entered. I stood frozen, my hands useless appendages in front of me, my frantic heartbeats a roaring surf in my ears.

  Three strong strides and I was at the sliding glass door that led to the bedroom balcony. The door opened soundlessly to an itsy-bitsy, terra-cotta-tiled area wrapped by a wrought-iron rail. I looked down two floors. For a dizzying moment I considered jumping, but the patio below was cold, unforgiving stone.

  I whirled back to stare across the room. Twelve feet of carpet led toward the bedroom door, the only other exit. My pursuer was not far behind. From my peripheral vision I caught sight of the maple tree. I glanced over. Too far from the balcony, but just outside the bathroom window.

  I could hear his approaching footsteps from the exterior hall. Quickly, I scurried into the bathroom and threw open the window. One branch was close enough to reach. For an instant I considered climbing down as I was: gowned, bejeweled, wearing the most expensive sandals I ever planned to purchase.

  Kicking off the shoes, I threw them out the window. I ripped the zipper of the dress downward, yanked the slinky lavender dress over my head, sent it flying after the sandals. As I pulled myself through the window, cursing the space that was scarcely large enough for me to wriggle my shoulders through, I heard the door open. A mewling sound entered my throat but I held it back. I reached for the branch, missed, reached again, arms shaking, fingers splayed.

  I heard his breathing.

  My fingers connected and I hauled myself out with adrenaline-laced strength. I swung my legs upward to catch the limb with my ankles and hung like a lemur. Then I shimmied toward the tree trunk and carefully eased myself down the bole. I lost swatches of skin. My pulse hammered in my ears. My face was wet with tears.

  When my toe hit the ground I drew a breath and glanced upward. He was on the balcony looking down at me. In that strange, heightened moment between quarry and prey, I was very, very glad I stood where I was.

  “Ms. Kellogg?”

  The voice came from somewhere to my right, near the front of the house. I stooped to pick up the gown Violet Purcell had given me, shivering, glad Violet had talked me into the padded lacy bra, equally glad I’d held out for bikini underwear rather than a thong.

  The newcomer was my other admirer, Martin.

  I smiled at him as he approached, hoping my lips didn’t quiver. I could feel the gaze from the man on the balcony boring into the back of my head. I shook out the gown. Stepping into it, I said with forced nonchalance, “Would you mind helping me zip up?”

  I thanked the Fates Martin liked me enough to obey without question.

  Earlier

  There’s a weirdo in every neighborhood.

  The old lady with forty-nine cats. The man who’s formed art pieces out of painted car parts and littered them across his front yard. The couple who’ve carved mysterious symbols in the bark of a tree and hung a plaque on the limbs declaring themselves lovers of evergreens, while fir needles blanket their dilapidated roof and hang in a shroud of spider-webs from the sagging eaves.

  I fear that Dwayne Durbin is becoming the latest neighborhood weirdo.

  Ever since the accident that broke his leg and temporarily incapacitated him, he’s taken to spying on the properties across Lakewood Bay, his leg wrapped in a cast from ankle to thigh, his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. A strange chortling sound issues from his throat. He can tell you more about the Pilarmos’ dog and the Wilsons’ new alarm system than you should ever want to know.

  I’ve sort of avoided him these last few weeks. He’s drawn me into watching the sexcapades of a nameless couple whose energetic and inventive forms of copulation both impress and shock me, which is saying a lot. Dwayne has named all the houses/families he spies on; these two he calls Tab A and Slot B. Their stamina and vitality while inserting said Tab A into Slot B makes me wonder about my own tepid sex life. Lately, a few random kisses are all I can measure in the plus column.

  Which is the main reason I’ve been avoiding Dwayne: my newly refined awareness of him. Yes, he’s an attractive member of the male gender, but so what? Dwayne is still my boss/business partner and that is it. Thinking about him in any romantic context is just plain trouble.

  I reminded myself of this as I parked my Volvo wagon next to his truck, which sat on the concrete pad outside his cabana. I’d told him I would bring lunch and so I had. The white bag containing a stack of plastic containers lay on the passenger seat.

  Before I climbed out of the car I took a deep breath. I’d been using the excuse that, as temporary lead investigator for Dwayne Durbin Investigations (of which only Dwayne and I count as company employees), I was too busy digging into the death of one Roland Hatchmere, the third and most beloved ex-husband of our client, Violet Purcell, to hang around much. I’d gone so far as to call from my cell phone near heavy freeway interchanges and scream over the roar of the traffic that I would report in when I was closer to Lake Chinook, the town in which we both reside. It’s a testament to Dwayne’s interest in his friends across the bay that he hasn’t been calling me on my bullshit. He knows me too well to seriously believe me. Honestly, I don’t think he notices that I’m having such a hard time with the current form of our relationship, which should piss me off but worries me more than anything else.

  When Dwayne asked me to bring him a burger from Standish’s I finally broke down and agreed. What can
I say? I want to see him. Still, I couldn’t make myself be Little Miss Fetch-all so, in a moment of pure orneriness, I drove to a nearby deli neither of us had tried before and bought an array of items in little clear boxes that looked great but might be more healthy than either of us can stand. Why did I do this? I don’t want to even speculate.

  As I let myself inside his cabana I put my feelings for Dwayne aside as best I could and instead scolded myself for not being further along on the Violet Purcell matter. The problem for me is Violet herself. Before Dwayne’s accident, she’d made a strong play for him and they looked to be heading into that “you woman, me man” thing with the speed of a locomotive.

  I hadn’t liked it one bit. And so I was having trouble treating Violet as a paying client who needed rescuing. To be fair, Violet is currently so distracted by her own problems that she appears to have no interest in Dwayne whatsoever. I’m not going to be fooled, however, because these things have a habit of resurfacing just when you’re sure it’s safe to go back in the water.

  Not that Dwayne’s for me. I’m just saying…

  I was juggling my laptop in its smart, gray wool case, a cup of black coffee from the Coffee Nook, the white bag containing our lunch and a copy of the Lake Chinook Review, and I dropped everything in a heap on Dwayne’s kitchen counter. Dwayne, as ever, was on his back dock. He heard me arrive and from where he was stretched out on his lounge, he half turned his head in greeting. I could see his profile in front of the green waters of Lakewood Bay. It arrested me for a moment, as the sky had darkened in that eerie way that foretells of a thunderstorm, something that rarely happens in Oregon. I looked through the window at that gray-green backdrop just as a shot of lightning sizzled across it, leaving a bright afterimage against my retina. Dwayne picked up his binoculars and scanned the heavens. It was nearly November and unseasonably warm. As I off-loaded my items, thunder rumbled and then a horrendous blast of rain poured down. Loud rain. I looked up sharply. Hail, actually.

  I squeezed through the twelve-inch opening that leads to Dwayne’s dock—which is all the sliding glass door allows as Dwayne’s desk is shoved up against it—and rushed outside. Dwayne was struggling up from his chair. I grabbed his arm and together we managed to knock over his small side table as we bumbled around, then squeezed back through the door to safety. In those few seconds we both got soaked to the skin. After that we stood just inside and stared at the blackening sky and silvery, bouncing hail.

  I felt the warmth of Dwayne’s skin through the damp. I could smell him. Something faintly citrusy today that spoke of last summer. I’ve never been one of those women who wants to “drink in a man” but I felt that desire now so strongly I could scarcely think. It took serious willpower to move away from him.

  Abruptly the hail stopped.

  “Cool,” Dwayne said thoughtfully, brushing at his shoulders. Bright drops of water melted into the light blue denim before my eyes.

  I said, “Lunch is on the counter.”

  “Standish’s?”

  “This is from that new gourmet catering shop on B Street.”

  Hope died in his face. “Tell me there’s nothing with raisins.”

  “There’s nothing with raisins.”

  Beets, though. I knew better than to mention them as I opened the white bags and pulled out clear, plastic containers of dishes that had made my mouth water as I stood in front of the counter. Dwayne eyed the Szechuan noodles suspiciously and actually sniffed the container of chicken, arugula, corn and rice. The purple red beets swimming in their own juice he studiously avoided. I didn’t blame him. I’d thrown them in mainly for the shock value. I don’t mind a beet, but their tendency to dye clothing with one ill-placed drop kind of puts me off.

  “I suffered a moment of worry about my health.”

  Dwayne grunted as he swept some plates and silverware from his drawers. He moved with surprising grace on his crutches, dishing up heaping helpings onto two plates. He stuck a serving spoon in the beets but didn’t partake. I felt duty-bound to have some and left a spray of magenta juice in a semicircle on Dwayne’s counter. I found a paper towel and swiped it up. I didn’t tell him about the drops that landed on his dish towel. I was pretty sure no amount of washing was going to get those suckers out. He gestured at me to ask if I wanted something to drink, but I lifted my Coffee Nook cup in response.

  I sank onto his couch, which doubles as my workstation, and Dwayne perched on one of his kitchen stools. He’s transformed his jeans to accommodate his cast, in effect making one pant leg only about twelve inches long. His cast takes over from there and it has various writings on it. I wondered about the sweet little red heart with initials.

  “Anything new?” he asked, scooping up the Szechuan noodles and eyeing me.

  “Roland Hatchmere’s family doesn’t think much of Violet. They’d like to see her go down for this.”

  “She didn’t kill him.”

  “So you say. And so says Violet. But somebody hit him with the tray she gave as a wedding gift.” I forked in some rice and pea mixture that had a hint of saffron.

  Dwayne swept an arm toward my laptop case. “You got a report for me?”

  “There’s nothing to report.”

  “Give me a list of the players. Hatchmere’s family members, the wedding guests, people from work. There’s a reason somebody killed him.”

  I fought back a natural obstinance, finished my salads, then switched on my laptop. Dwayne loves hard copy. He’s always yammering about how I should spend more time logging data and generating pages and pages of information to impress the client, and he likes to look at information on paper himself. It helps him think. Unfortunately I wasn’t kidding: I had nothing to report. Since Violet had announced to me and Dwayne that she was suspected in Roland Hatchmere’s death, I’d barely learned anything of note. Certainly nothing worth writing up and printing off.

  Most of what I had pertaining to this case was from Dwayne’s own hard copy on the Wedding Bandits, a group of robbers who’d been systematically ripping off the families of brides and grooms, stealing both personal belongings and wedding gifts while the ceremonies were taking place. Dwayne had meticulously chronicled the bandits’ activities, from their basic modus operandi to the homes they’d targeted. It appeared the Wedding Bandits hit Roland Hatchmere’s home the day of his daughter’s wedding, but whether that was before, during, or after his death was undetermined. At least for Dwayne and me. Dwayne had been sidelined by his accident and his client, a onetime father-of-a-bride Wedding Bandit victim, had let the police take over rather than have the case turned over to me. Which was just fine. I was glad I didn’t have a second client breathing down my neck. Violet Purcell was enough.

  Dwayne picked cautiously through the salad with his fork. Apparently he didn’t believe we were raisin-free. “You got that e-mail I sent you about Hatchmere’s business partner?”

  “I put in a call to Dr. Wu. He’s out of the country for a few weeks, working with a medical relief team.”

  “Who’s in charge of the clinics while he’s gone?”

  “No one person, apparently. They’re owned by a consortium,” I reminded him, though Dwayne was the one who’d secured that information in the first place. “I’ve been waiting for Wu to return.”

  Dr. Daniel Wu was the head plastic surgeon of a group of four clinics previously owned by Roland Hatchmere, who had once been a very well known plastic surgeon himself until his personal cocaine use got in the way. With his license revoked Roland turned his talents to business, capitalizing on his still valuable reputation and garnering patients to his clinics in droves. Dr. Wu had become his business partner, though Roland held on to the lion’s share of the business until it was sold earlier this year to the consortium.

  “Wu’s the one to talk to,” Dwayne agreed.

  “It just means I’m stalled,” I said.

  “Things’ll break.”

  Like that advice was going to help me. I wanted to shout, “Whe
n? How? Would you stop looking through those damn binoculars?” Instead I just finished my meal. Dwayne was nice enough to thank me and even pay for the food. I tried to demur, but he smiled faintly and ignored me, so I pocketed the bills. I’m pretty sure I should be embarrassed by my cheapness, but I can’t stop considering it an attribute. Thriftiness is a good thing, right?

  I watched him pick up the Review and start reading.

  Feeling frustrated, I complained, “Wu’s not the only issue. I’m having trouble getting the Hatchmere clan to talk to me. I’ve left messages. I even dropped by Roland’s house once, but I got the door slammed in my face.”

  “Who slammed it on you?”

  “The daughter. Gigi Hatchmere. Or, wait…Popparockskill…”

  “It’s still Hatchmere. Ceremony never came off when Roland didn’t show.” He shook the paper and opened to another page as he headed back outside.

  “Have you got any bright ideas on what I should do next?” I called, but Dwayne was outside and either he couldn’t hear me or he didn’t care.

  Annoyed, I pulled up my file on Violet and wirelessly sent its meager contents to the printer as I slid another look Dwayne’s way.

  He’d put down the paper and was standing in the strange darkness created by the storm, staring up at the sky. I followed his gaze and saw a crack between clouds where sunlight spilled through, looking like a sheer, glowing curtain of white and yellow, the kind of odd illumination that, as Dwayne moved in front of it, surrounded him with a brilliant aura.

  “Saint Dwayne,” I muttered.

  “What?” he hollered.

  Oh yeah, sure. Now he hears me? “Nothing.”

  I headed to the printer, which is currently set up in Dwayne’s spare bedroom, and looked at the pages. It was disheartening how little progress I’d made. Nobody, but nobody, wanted to talk to anyone associated with Violet. I’d placed a few calls and gotten a few polite no’s and a few more “you’ve got to be kiddings.” One guy, some Hatchmere family friend known as Big Jim, just laughed like a hyena and hung up on me.