Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  A row of garage doors lined the backs of the buildings. One door started lifting and Melinda aimed for it, while I found an empty visitor spot in the lot. I climbed out of my car, feeling damp to the bone. The Lexus’s brake lights blinked out and a minute later, Melinda exited the garage, and the door slowly descended behind her. She entered a wooden gate that was fancied up with some filigree wrought iron arched across the top and led to a sidewalk shared between her building and the next one over. I saw she was waiting for me under her umbrella and I scooted over to meet her. Melinda walked quickly to one of the tiny porches that jutted out like soldiers at attention down the row. Each entryway had three concrete steps and a wrought-iron rail that matched the gate’s design. Melinda had arranged two pots full of rain-soaked, spindly-branched plants on the top step that looked like they’d been completely forgotten. Maybe they were supposed to be that way in winter. Deciduous azaleas was my guess.

  She opened the door, shook out her umbrella, stepped into a hardwood entry and delicately removed her shoes. I followed suit. Beyond the entry was a hallway, kitchen, living/family room with a fireplace centered on the far wall. A glass door exited to a small, fence-enclosed patio. A stairway ran up the south end of the room, to my right.

  Melinda was examining her white coat as she hung it on a hanger and placed it in the entry hall closet. “Don’t want it to drip on my floor. It’s Brazilian cherry. It’s my favorite thing about this place.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “The kitchen’s okay,” she said, as if I’d asked for a review. “A little modern. All that stainless steel. I know it’s popular but honestly, it’s everywhere and I think it’s overdone. I asked for the marble counter. For baking. Nothing better than marble for rolling out dough. Cold, clean, beautiful.”

  I decided to forgo telling her how much I liked my chipped laminate. No need for a cutting board; the surface was already marked with knife wounds when I moved in, so I continued the tradition with pride. I’d sprayed the laminate down with bleach water on a steady basis ever since my mother pointed out that the little cuts in the surface didn’t look all that clean. Germ phobia took over big time. I might not have had groceries, but I was pretty stocked up on cleaning supplies.

  Ogilvy would probably have to redo the kitchen when he sold the cottage, I thought with a pang of regret. I’d got him to install new floors for me when I moved in, though it was no mean trick to get him to part with some dough for upgrades. The kitchen is the last room that needs serious attention. I’ve never worried because, apart from assembling sandwiches, my use for it is limited. I’ve never fretted that it wasn’t the dream kitchen touted in all the women’s magazines.

  But Melinda possessed the magazine kitchen, whether she liked its style or not. The cooktop was against one wall and sported one of those overbearing stainless steel vents that crawls down the wall and looks like some kind of medical apparatus for staring through skin, cartilage and bone. To the left of the cooktop was the white, gray-veined marble counter she so loved; the right side was black granite. A center island was topped with the same granite and Melinda had dotted the whole area with touches of red: serving platters, a colander holding fresh fruit, oranges and red apples; a pitcher that bristled with kitchen utensils, most of which I couldn’t guess at their function; a set of hot mitts.

  Melinda removed her silvery jacket and her breasts about fell out of the white shell. There was something eye-popping about her. Not in the overtly sensual, naughty-girl Violet way, more like Donna Reed behind closed doors…a kind of “come into my kitchen, big boy, and let Mama show you how to cook…”

  I did a mental check of my own athletic body with its straight lines and broad shoulders and decided I would never have had to worry about Roland Hatchmere looking my way, if he were still alive, even if I’d been in the right age bracket. His taste in women ran to soft, curvy and luscious.

  She turned on the oven, then opened the refrigerator and pulled out a tray of crescent-shaped hors d’oeuvres, ready to bake. “Would you like white wine, or a soft drink? Sparkling water?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” I said, delighted I’d fallen into this bonanza. This interviewing thing was taking on a whole new light. Far cooler than process-serving. Polite conversation, food and drink. Nobody hurling things at me.

  Melinda said, “I’m having some sparkling water.”

  “Great.”

  She popped the hors d’oeuvres in the oven, handed me my glass and invited me to sit down on the cream-colored couch in front of the fire. Her cell phone rang and she opened a dark red leather purse and pulled it out. Glancing at the caller ID, she switched it off and it abruptly stopped singing. “I don’t even know why I keep one,” she muttered, then flipped on the gas fire and curled into a matching cream armchair, tucking her feet beneath her. I shivered a bit and she gave me a look. “Maybe I should have made it coffee and rum.”

  Whatever she saw on my face—hope, probably—sent her to the coffeemaker. I gazed into the fire, then outside to the drifting rain as it came down in curtains, plip-plopping onto the concrete patio outside the glass door, slapping against the windows.

  I was doing a mental calculation on how much the condominium must have cost. “How long have you lived here?”

  Melinda pulled a bottle of Myer’s rum from a narrow cherry cabinet. Okay, I’d lost out on Jody’s rum cake, but this was looking promising. I saw her lips tighten as she said, “I suppose you know that Roland and I were having some problems. Violet wasn’t the reason, although I’m sure she’d like to believe she was. I’d told Roland that we should buy one of these condos while they were going up, for investment purposes. I didn’t know I would end up here.”

  “Not a bad place to be.”

  “You interviewed Gigi at the house. What did you think about it?”

  “The house? It’s spectacular. What a view.”

  “It was designed by Monroe Jessle-Tate, the architect. Have you heard of him?” I shook my head. “He was famous in small circles, mostly Northwest homes built in the late sixties.”

  There was a soft, cheery ding from the timer and Melinda turned to pull out the hors d’oeuvres with one of the bright red mitts. “This place is nothing like the house, of course. I don’t even know that I’ll get to keep it. Roland had me sign a prenup, and I don’t know what that entails.”

  “But if this was purchased while you were married, the prenup wouldn’t be in effect.”

  “You would think. But Roland was cagey. He was always having me sign documents. By the time I realized I needed a lawyer to look out for my interests, it was too late. I’d signed and signed and signed.” She gave me a cool look. “I’m not entitled to any part of the clinics’ sale. I know that. But I really thought Roland would take care of me.”

  “Maybe he did,” I said lamely. What did I know?

  “Oh, it’s all decided. Gigi’s got the house. Or maybe it’s split with Sean, but he’s not interested in anything but cash, anyway. And the business proceeds go to them, of course, although Daniel Wu’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Have you met him?” I shook my head again. “He was only supposed to get twenty-five percent, tops, but there’s something fishy there. Of course, no one talks to me. I’m the third wife.” She poured the rum into the bottom of two coffee mugs and picked up the coffeepot, topping off the drinks. She then pulled a silver pitcher from the refrigerator and added real cream. “I can’t believe you’re actually working for Violet,” she said, carefully balancing my mug as she walked toward me. “I can’t tell you how furious I am. She fools around with my husband, then she kills him. And it’s always poor Violet. She’s so misunderstood.” Melinda gave a very undignified snort as she returned to the kitchen. “She’s trash. I don’t care if she’s a Purcell or not. Trash is a state of mind.” While she ranted, she placed the crescents on a plate, added some icicle radishes and a wedge of blue cheese and brought the platter to the coffee table, handing me a red cocktail napkin. “Y
ou’re really helping her?”

  Her eyes were hazel, a little darker than my own greenish gold ones. Her hair, like Violet’s, was light brown, artfully streaked with blond both for beauty and to hide the encroaching gray. I sensed steel in her. A determination that belied her soft, homemaker exterior.

  “Maybe the Wedding Bandits killed him,” I tried out.

  “You believe that?”

  I shrugged. My hand hovered over the hors d’oeuvres. There was a tiny pot of some kind of jelly beside them. I picked one up, dipped it in the jelly and took a bite. “Oh, my, God,” I said around a mouthful. It was an explosion of flavor, sweet and savory and just plain damn good.

  Melinda smiled. “Bacon, cream cheese with curry, smoked almonds, and the dip is chutney. I’m trying them out. I’m in charge of the Neighborhood Association’s fall, really preholiday, get-together just before Thanksgiving. Well, it’s really an all-community event to establish better communication as some of the associations are jealous of our presence in Lake Chinook. So, they’ll work?” she asked, indicating the hors d’oeuvres.

  “If I cooked, I’d ask for the recipe,” I said sincerely.

  Melinda seemed to take this as her due. “Roland never really appreciated my culinary skills. Oh, he praised me, but he wasn’t really into food. A shame. Maybe if he’d cared about something other than sex he wouldn’t have needed Violet. And just for the record? Those apple bars. That’s my recipe. Jody’s just taken it over as if it’s hers.”

  “Well, they’re fabulous.” I eased another hors d’oeuvre from the plate, wondering how many I could take before it became rude, wondering also if I cared. I was surprised at how aware Melinda was about Roland and Violet’s relationship.

  As if she read my mind, Melinda said, “They were having an affair.”

  I didn’t argue with her.

  “I know Violet’s guilty,” she stated positively. “She took my husband’s life. She blew back into our lives at the worst time for us and took advantage of the situation, moving in on Roland. Poor, poor Roland who was having trouble with his wife,” she singsonged, parodying Violet. Rolling her eyes, Melinda added coldly, “She’s like a fungus. You can’t get rid of her.”

  “Maybe someone else was at the scene. The Wedding Bandits were there. Maybe they weren’t the only ones.”

  “Violet beat him to death with the tray. She admitted to that, right? That’s what I heard.”

  “She hit him once. He was alive when she left.”

  “Once?” She gave me a “get real” look. “I can’t believe she actually brought a gift over. She and Gigi hadn’t spoken in years. But maybe Roland was trying to get them to make up. That would be just like him. And Gigi would do whatever he wanted, because otherwise she could be cut out of the will.” She grabbed a crescent, touched it to the chutney, then bit into it, chewing hard. Frowning, she took another bite. “A little light on the curry, I think,” she said. Dusting her hands, she added, “Roland’s kids might act like they cared about him, but I’m the only one who really misses him. And financially, I’m the only one who loses there, too.”

  I sensed that Violet missed him a bit, too, but I kept that thought to myself. If Violet weren’t so concerned about clearing her name, I felt, she might show even more sorrow over Roland’s death. Or was that wishful thinking on my part? Something Violet wanted me to feel?

  Scamming another hors d’oeuvre, I said, “I’m making a timeline of the rehearsal dinner and wedding day. Could you tell me what time you got there? Who was there? What happened…?”

  “To help get Violet off?”

  “Just to help.”

  She went back to the kitchen and poured us each another cup of coffee, liberally laced with more rum. Handing me my cup, she recurled herself into her chair. “I was curious to meet you. You’re helping Violet. That’s what you’re doing. You don’t have to lie about it.”

  “I told Violet if I found out she was guilty, I was going straight to the cops. She hired me anyway.”

  “I’m not sure if I believe you.” I waited, sensing it was best to let her work it out. She seemed to come to some conclusion, because she said, “If I help you, I’d like you to keep me informed.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “Can you at least tell me if you’ve got a different lead? Someone that’s sending you away from Violet?”

  “So you can send me back, so to speak?” She smiled at me over the rim of her cup. “If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time.”

  “Maybe you should look more into Violet’s past,” she suggested.

  “Anything particular you want me to find?”

  “She’s had a number of husbands. Two before Roland.” I could have responded that Roland had had a number of wives, two before Melinda, but I was hoping she would tell me something I didn’t know. When I didn’t bite, she looked a little annoyed. “Fine. You’re working on a timeline. You want me to tell you what I was doing at the wedding and when.”

  “That would be great.”

  “I was at the rehearsal dinner the night before. Everybody was happy. Roland was there, making a toast to his daughter. Violet wasn’t invited to that, thank God.”

  “What time was the rehearsal dinner?”

  “Six-thirty. Roland had rented Castellina, the Pinot Noir Room.” She smiled faintly. “Roland and Emmett’s family being cheap. It was a package deal for a better price.”

  I would call that being thrifty, but what do I know? “I’ve been meaning to call Emmett’s parents…I wrote their names in the timeline but we haven’t connected yet.”

  “You mean David and Goliath?”

  I’d been digging in my purse for a pen and the notepad I always carry, but I looked up. “Goliath?”

  “Okay, it’s Goldy. But she’s huge. I mean huge. She’s gotta be close to six feet and she’s just as wide. Luckily Emmett takes after his father.”

  “Who else was there?”

  “The bridal party, some close friends of Emmett’s. Gigi doesn’t really have any friends besides Deenie. She was lucky to have four bridesmaids. Sean wasn’t there. A conflict with his band,” she said scornfully. “But Renee showed.” She made a face. “She was invited to the wedding, but she and Gigi got into a huge argument at the rehearsal dinner and she was told not to come.”

  “I thought she argued with Roland.”

  “First Roland, then Gigi. Renee had brought this heavyset man with a beard, her date, and she hadn’t told anyone. They drove up in a Ferrari, if you can believe that. I mean, a thousand miles? You wouldn’t catch me doing that! Roland let Renee know it was bad form in plain terms, I’ll tell you. But her date gets all huffy with Roland. It was almost taken care of, until she and Gigi started sniping at each other. After that, Roland just roared, ‘Don’t come tomorrow. You’re not invited.’”

  “After they drove all the way from Santa Monica?”

  “Bad behavior’s bad behavior,” she dismissed. “Renee’s something else. She looks like a cat, you know. You probably heard that already. All that plastic surgery. And she decided to wear this leopard-print skirt out of faux fur with a matching leather jacket, also trimmed in leopard. I couldn’t believe it! She thinks she’s so funny but it’s just too weird.” Melinda gave a mock shudder. “And she had on this black pillbox hat with a veil, but it couldn’t cover up that face. Gigi was embarrassed. Not that she’s much better. Her bridal gown accentuated everything wrong—her hips, her arm fat, her short neck. She’s an attractive enough girl, but she looked terrible. I tried to give her some advice, but she acted like I was criticizing her.”

  Imagine that.

  “And Renee can’t stop,” Melinda said, returning to her earlier subject. “I mean, sure, a little freshening. Who wouldn’t? But it’s surgery after surgery. She still hasn’t stopped. It’s a sickness with her.”

  “How did you meet Roland?”

  The abrupt change of topic stopped her short. She looked as if I’d slapped he
r. “Why do you need all this? What are you trying to do? Am I a suspect?”

  “I’m just filling in,” I said. It was just a question I’d put on my list, though I was a little surprised at her offense.

  She flushed. “You’re an amateur. Acting like you know what you’re doing. I don’t even know why I agreed to this.”

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”

  “I did not break up Violet and Roland’s marriage, no matter what anyone says!” she blasted back at me. “And I have every right to feel like she was trying to break up mine!”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” I assured her. “Violet never said you broke up their marriage.”

  “Roland was single when we met,” she wanted me to know. “He’d been single awhile because Violet ran off when he had his substance abuse problem. She just bailed. And Roland being Roland, he forgave her. He didn’t blame her for leaving him when he needed her most. He just picked himself up, went through rehab, then set about putting his name and expertise behind the clinics. I met him when he was opening the third clinic. He was so upbeat. I fell in love with him instantly.” She swallowed hard and looked toward the fire, tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “You were already living here”—I gestured to the condo surroundings—“when Violet returned to Portland a couple of months ago?”

  “It was temporary. Roland and I were working things out. I don’t need to tell you this, but we’d been fighting about the kids, Gigi and Sean. Roland just indulged them so much and I made the mistake of telling him he should stop bankrolling them. He really took that the wrong way.” Her mouth worked. “But by the wedding, things were better. We were virtually back together and were talking about going to it together. But then Violet got in the way. She kept calling him and calling him. I caught Roland on the phone with her a few times, and I got really upset. Then he started lying about it. It was just awful. Roland told me he loved me and not to worry about Violet, but you know her. Of course I was worried. Things really were improving between us, though,” she reiterated, as if saying it enough times might make it true.