Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  “I got an offer on the place,” Ogilvy grunted. “No real estate commission.”

  I regarded him in horror. “I thought you weren’t selling for a while. You said I had time.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t ignore a good offer.”

  “I was thinking about trying to buy the cottage myself,” I said, the words flying from my mouth as if I’d been put under a liar’s spell.

  He assessed me for a moment, checking to see if I was serious, I guess. “Better get it in writing soon,” he muttered, bending back to his task.

  I stumbled to the house with Binks in tow, practically falling through the door in my haste. Binks ran to her bowl, shaking off rain, and I skidded with wet feet onto one of the stools at my little breakfast bar.

  I felt ill. Flushed. Feverish. I sensed a closeness moving into my peripheral vision, as if I’d been drugged or dealt a blow to the head. He was selling. Selling. It was real. I had to buy it. I couldn’t buy it. Couldn’t afford it. Needed to have it.

  I charged to the refrigerator, yanking open the door. Miracles. I’d bought a jug of orange juice in my shopping frenzy. I unscrewed the top and gulped thirstily. Sugar. I needed sustenance. Energy.

  I felt Binkster’s paws on my leg and looked down to see her staring up at me. Did she understand I was stressed? Or did the orange juice look good? Hard to tell with her.

  Soberly, I said, “We are about to be evicted from our home.”

  Now, there was irony for you: I made part of my living from evicting people. But it wasn’t the same. Those people didn’t pay their rent, whereas I paid on time, every time!

  My cell phone bleeped. A text message. Expecting it to be Dwayne, I was a little surprised to see it wasn’t. I thought it was Violet for a moment, when I saw the one line missive:

  break in the case. vl

  Then I realized it was Vince Larrabee.

  I phoned him back immediately but the call went right to a generic voice mail. I left him my name and number, though he already had it, just in case that would speed his return call. I couldn’t believe he’d taken the time to let me know. What kind of break? I wondered. Could the police have nabbed one or more of the Wedding Bandits? Larrabee had sounded hot on their trail when we met. I hoped like hell he continued to keep me in the loop.

  I also hoped he wouldn’t expect information on Violet I wasn’t prepared to give. A faint hope, I know. Quid pro quo.

  I called Dwayne and told him the news about Larrabee’s call. “Did you ever get through to him?”

  “Just by voice mail. But, darlin’, you got him wrapped around your finger.”

  I made a disparaging sound. “Not so. He barely spoke to me.”

  “You did something right.”

  “It’s probably an aberration. Like he’ll remember he didn’t like me, and this’ll be the end of it.”

  “Nah.”

  “What’s the deal with the two of you?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” he dismissed, then hung up before the conversation could take hold.

  Dwayne’s reassurances made me feel better, temporarily, but after spending the rest of the afternoon counting the hours, waiting for something to happen, I fell back into a dreary fugue, worrying about where my dog and I would end up. Worrying about my life. Worrying about the world…

  I wrapped myself in a blanket and fell asleep on the couch, Binkster tucked in beside me. I swam up from sleep sometime deep in the night and realized it was close to midnight.

  And the phone rang.

  I jumped about a foot, the hair on my arms lifting. Binks caught my mood and started growling low in her throat. Snatching up the phone, I checked caller ID, my heart tripping wildly. Not available.

  I answered with trepidation. “Hello.” It’s these weird moments of precognition that are the spookiest.

  “Jane?”

  “Booth?”

  “Sorry to call so late. I’m on a job, but I need to talk to you.”

  At midnight? “Okay…”

  “Would you talk to Sharona? Give her a call? Tell her I’m trying to reach her but it’s tough right now….” There was some yelling in the background, muffled as it sounded like Booth covered the phone with his hand. “Jane?” he said softly, a careful whisper.

  “Sure. Is there something specific you’d like me to tell her?”

  “This is just temporary,” he said urgently. “Tell her that.”

  “You mean the job?”

  More background noise. I heard a male voice bark out, “Get off the fuckin’ phone!”

  Booth responded coldly in my ear, “You wanna talk to me? Write my parole officer, bitch.”

  The line went dead.

  I sat for a moment in silence, hearing the clock tick, tick, tick. Then I gathered Binks to me and took her to bed. We curled in together. I didn’t even mind that her doggy breath was in my face.

  The following morning I phoned Booth’s home number, which was also Sharona’s. I got their answering machine. The homey “Hi, you’ve reached Booth and Sharona” had been replaced with a flat, computer voice repeating their number. I left a message for Sharona, asking her to call me. This is what my life consists of, I thought. Leaving messages begging for an answering response. Sheesh. I could get a complex.

  I bundled myself into my rain gear and ran to the Nook, grabbed a cup of black coffee, drank it down, then jogged back home. I was drenched by the time I returned and Binkster still hadn’t roused herself. I had to prod her to get her out her doggy-door to the backyard, and then she simply sat on the deck forlornly under the little round, glass-topped table. It took her a long time to go down the steps to the yard and empty her bladder. As soon as she was finished, however, she bounded back inside, ready for breakfast. I toweled her off and this time she didn’t bother playing, just went straight to her bowl. I gave her a smattering of kiblets while I toasted some wheat bread and spread it with margarine. She finished as I took my first bite and sat at my feet, staring up at me. I gave her the last bite of my crust, which she inhaled.

  When we were both done we stared at each other. She was undoubtedly still thinking about food, but I was thinking about Booth. And Larrabee. And Violet. And the god…damn…rain.

  My cell phone rang and I looked at the caller ID. A number I almost recognized but no name. “Hello?”

  “So, you’ve decided Violet didn’t kill Roland,” Melinda said, her voice accusing. “That’s convenient. And for the record, you’re wrong!”

  I pictured her all coiffed and peachy skinned, her kitchen smelling of cinnamon and vanilla. Kinda pissed me off. It was a little early in the morning to be attacked with so much venom.

  But…stir the pot and this is what happens.

  Her tone put me on the defensive and I had to edit my initial response, which would have been something like “Up yours, Betty Crocker.” Her reaction was just what Dwayne and I wanted.

  I said neutrally, “Violet and Roland were seeing each other. They had a fight, which got physical, but she didn’t kill him.” I decided to expand on the truth. “They were planning a future together. Talking of marriage.”

  “She told you that?” she sputtered. “We were getting back together. Violet was just a fling. Roland knew he couldn’t trust her. He learned that when they were married. It was too late by then, he had to pretend to make the marriage work, but he never forgot what she did. He would never go back to her. Not like that.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She killed her first husband,” Melinda said like I was beyond belief. “Don’t you know that? Don’t the police know that? Why do I have to be the one to wake you all up?”

  I squinted at the phone. Was that true? I thought she’d divorced both exes prior to Roland. “All I know is that she says she and Roland were planning their own wedding.”

  “She’s a liar. Do you know how her first husband died? Roland knew. He considered himself lucky that he got out of their marriage with his life!”

  “He m
ust’ve had a change of heart.” I tried not to sound feeble in my defense. I knew I would get more from Melinda if I stuck to my guns, taking a strong stand for the opposition. She would fight doubly hard to convince me I was wrong.

  “Talk to Renee, if you don’t believe me,” she said. “Violet killed her first husband. Renee and Roland may have been divorced when Violet swooped in and turned his head, but Renee wasn’t really over him. She found out about the first husband—God, what was his name? Bart something, I think—but by the time she did, Roland and Violet were already married. Roland wouldn’t listen to her. But he did later. That’s why he and Violet divorced.”

  There were a lot of reasons why he and Violet divorced, but I’d never heard this one. “Renee told you this?” I asked, deliberately lacing my tone with skepticism.

  “Absolutely. Talk to her. Learn the truth about Violet. She’ll tell you.”

  “Well, okay…”

  She doubled her efforts to convince me. “Roland would never take Violet back again. Never. I’m not surprised they were having sex,” she said with distaste. “Violet has one way of getting what she wants and that’s it. But believe me, that’s all there was between them.”

  There was a holier-than-thou attitude about Melinda that reared up whenever she talked about Violet. I thanked her for the call and considered what it meant. Then I placed a call to Dwayne and told him what she’d said.

  “This Renee hasn’t gotten back to you?”

  “She—like everyone else—seems determined to put me off. What is it with cell phones? They’re supposed to make communication easier, but nobody calls back!”

  “Think you should go to Santa Monica?”

  That sort of stopped me. “To see Renee in person?”

  “A face-to-face is always better than a phone call.”

  Well, that’s true…it’s harder to ignore someone standing right in front of you, whereas a phone call can be easily fobbed off and ignored; I was living that minor hell right now. And an in-person interview makes it possible to witness the facial tics and expressions that are dead giveaways. Sure, there are accomplished liars who can escape the usual body language that reveals their true thoughts, but most people never have the reason or inclination to develop that fine art.

  “I can get her home address from Gigi,” I said slowly, thinking it through. The flight from Portland to Los Angeles is about two hours. If I left early the next morning I could make it a day trip. Or I could leave today, spend the night with my mother and return tomorrow afternoon.

  “I’ll take care of Binks,” Dwayne said, solving that issue for me before I’d even asked.

  “Violet paying for this?” I asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Seems kind of wrong, since I’m checking on her.”

  “She hired us to learn the truth.”

  “She hired us to save her ass.”

  “She won’t care,” Dwayne assured me. “And if she does, we won’t charge her.”

  My eyes strayed to the window and the beating rain. A trip to sunny Southern California. Why was I arguing? I knew my mother would be happy to see me. “I’ll go,” I said.

  “Good.”

  I hung up from Dwayne and phoned Gigi, who thankfully actually answered before the call went to voice mail. I told her I wanted her mother’s address and she got all huffy and protective. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Violet murdered Daddy! Why does it take so long for everybody to get that!”

  I realized she must not know about Melinda’s accusations concerning Violet’s first husband, which made me wonder about the story’s validity some more.

  “I’m looking into Violet’s past. About some—inconsistencies—that may shed some light on your father’s death. I think your mother can help.”

  “You’re not trying to pin this on my mother?”

  “This is about Violet,” I assured her.

  She thought about it, made a sound of annoyance, then spat out the address.

  Next, I phoned my mother at work. She’s a part-time office manager at a real estate office. She was thrilled to hear I was coming her way. I tried to bypass all the niceties of conversation that seem to take so long whenever I talk to Mom, but there was no hope for it. There seems to be a routine to our conversation that makes me chew my nails and pull at my hair in impatience. I was praying something would happen that would require her immediate attention at work, but no such luck. I pretended to listen as she rattled on about the doings of the four-unit that I co-owned with her. I decided right then and there I needed to take a look at that building as long as I was in the area. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been there to check up on the property, and I could make dual use out of this trip. Finally, she had to grab another call and I told her I’d see her later that day.

  I booked an afternoon flight. Tomorrow I would return in time for the big home game between Lake Chinook High and Brookstone, which was the team from the town of the same name to Lake Chinook’s south and a serious rival whether either team was any good or not.

  I threw items in an overnight bag and remembered to pack my cell phone charger at the last moment. I bought an e-ticket on Alaska Airlines, dropped The Binkster off at Dwayne’s, drove my car to the airport, then inwardly howled at the highway robbery prices for long-term parking. The airline ticket wasn’t cheap, either, but if I have an expectation of what something costs I can generally live with it. Parking fees always send me into overdrive, so to speak. You have to practically leave your car in the next state to keep the daily rate reasonable.

  It took me a while to get through airport security. The TSA workers pulled me aside, searched my bag and came up with a minibottle of water that had been given to me by one of the airlines on my last flight. I’d forgotten about it, which just goes to show how often I go through my luggage. They confiscated the water, gave me a hard once-over, then let me pass. I had my e-ticket in my hand, then had to stop to put on my coat, my shoes, gather my purse and my overnight bag. In the process the e-ticket slipped from my fingers and I had to chase it down. Two security lines over, another man was doing the same chase and grab.

  “Move out of the way,” an authoritative voice called to us all. My feet were only half in my shoes and I had to shuffle toward the concourse. A group of us dropped our gear on the floor and started putting ourselves back together. I know it’s safer. I’m glad we’re all checked to make sure we’re not carrying weapons and explosives. But this traveling by air has become a total pain in the ass.

  After all that screening the flight to L.A. was unremarkable except for the fact that there were only eleven pretzels in my minifoil snack pack. As if my diet weren’t scanty enough.

  It was two-thirty when we touched down at LAX. Through my window seat window I examined the tawny landscape: buildings, tarmac, vehicles, even the sky—were varying shades of tan, like someone had put a filter on a camera to make the setting seem hot, dry and forbidding.

  After all the rain, it looked like heaven.

  Mom had offered to pick me up and I’d gratefully agreed. Not that I enjoy traveling with her in L.A. traffic, but a rental car would have been worse, not to mention more expensive.

  I saw her silver Volvo wagon pull up and I admired a much newer version of my own vehicle. My car had basically been a gift from my mother. She’d upgraded to a new car and I’d ended up with the dark blue Volvo wagon I still own. One of these days I might have to spring for a newer model. Or one of these days Mom might decide to buy new and leave me hers. I began to covet the car with the same desire Binkster eyes a mochi. With an effort, I pulled my brain back to the task at hand.

  Mom stopped in the no-parking area right by the taxis. The whole area is no-parking. It’s insane how fast you have to jump into a vehicle that’s pulled to the side to pick you up. They’re snotty at the Portland Airport, but they’re their own militia in Los Angeles. Out of the corner of my eye I saw airport parking security heading our direction, so I
hurriedly threw open the back door and hefted my roller bag inside. I thought about affecting a limp, just to buy some time, but we were okay as it turned out.

  Mom merged into the god-awful airport traffic, barreling in front of another driver, narrowly missing his bumper. He tooted at her and she pretended she was deaf.

  My mother, Carole Kelly, is an older, softer version of myself with light brown hair and hazel eyes. Sometimes I wonder how we can be related. Other times, like now, I see definite familial traits.

  “I left Binks with Dwayne,” I said, as if she’d asked.

  She was stuck in three lanes of traffic, all inching toward the exit. “Binks?”

  “My dog. The one you made me take from dear, departed Aunt Eugenie?” If my tone was long-suffering, I should be pardoned. For reasons unknown to me, Mom cannot, or will not, remember that she’s responsible for me being a pet owner.

  “Oh…right…” Mom had lost interest. She was edging into another lane. I wrapped my fingers around the handle above the passenger door and tried not to press too hard with my foot against the imaginary brake.

  With a deftness bordering on insanity, Mom cut off a stretch limo, which blared at her with its horn. She practically put a wheel on the curb to circumvent another car. I closed my eyes, hazarding a peek out of my right eye when we started speeding up. We were just about to enter the 405 freeway on our way north toward Santa Monica. Mom managed to fight off the traffic and merge us in. I held my breath as we took the exit ramp to 10 West, but we were okay. L.A. driving requires speed and decisiveness. Mom had both. It was accuracy I was worried about.

  We cruised into Santa Monica without incident, turning on Lincoln, which runs parallel to the beach and is eight blocks in. We wound our way into the pricey neighborhood north of Montana, approaching on a street lined with tall, skinny-trunked palms, their ruffed tops all leaning toward the ocean. The city of Santa Monica sits on a shelf of land high above the ocean. Access to the beach is down dizzying stairways and a trip across Pacific Coast Highway. There are several pedestrian overpasses, and I’ve taken them all, but for practical purposes, the houses facing the Pacific mostly have ocean views, not ocean fronts. Malibu, which boasts amazing beachfront homes owned by many celebrities and other wealthy Californians, is just north of Santa Monica.