Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  Tess relaxed. "It’s part of the Lake Chinook Historical Society’s annual showing of homes. Cotton had to lobby like crazy because he’s a pariah now. He’s been quietly shunned by some of the more prominent Lake Chinook and Portland snobs." She sniffed. "They come into the gallery sometimes, but it’s mostly to get a look at me."

  I saw how much she hated being the monkey in the zoo. Famous was one thing; infamous something else.

  "Tickets for the event are in the file, too," Marta said.

  "I’ll go," I said to Tess. "But I honestly don’t see what I can do."

  "Cotton loves Tim Murphy. Just mention Murphy’s name and he’ll love you, too."

  I never mention Murphy’s name,

  I thought. I try not to think about him too much. With a stab of honesty, I said, "This may be a waste of your money."

  "It’s mine to waste," she said.

  "Just meet with Cotton," Marta inserted quickly. "See what you think. See if you can get to meet him again."

  "If he’s really helping Bobby, he’s hardly likely to talk to anyone," I pointed out.

  "I need to know if my son’s alive," Tess insisted, her curiously flat voice taking on an edge of determination...or hysteria. "I’m at my wit’s end. Cotton won’t speak to me. And his wife’s even worse."

  I’d forgotten that he’d remarried. "Dolly?" I guessed.

  She shook her head. "Heavens, no. She was trash. This one’s more sophisticated. A real snake in the grass. Heather." Her mouth recoiled around the word. "Younger than my son. Cotton seems to be having a second midlife crisis. Sixty-two, going on seventeen."

  There was something about the way she was looking at me. She thought Cotton would like me. Maybe that’s why she’d come to check me out this morning, incognito. "Is there some reason this has all cropped up right now?" I asked. "Bobby’s been missing a while."

  Marta cleared her throat. "There’s a rumor," she said slowly, her eyes on Tess. "One we can’t substantiate."

  I waited.

  "Cotton’s ill," she said. Rumor or no, she’d made up her mind. "I think he’s got a pre-nup with Heather, and if so, his estate will go to . . ." She shrugged her small shoulders lightly. "Bobby, I’d imagine."

  "But if he’s cut out of the will..."

  "I think he’s back in. I just have the feeling that if Cotton’s dying, he’s making amends."

  I looked from her to Marta and back again. So, this was where the big money supposedly was. Cotton’s fortune might be earmarked for Bobby. If Bobby was still alive, that is. And if Bobby were found and arrested, and Cotton was gone, Bobby might put his mother in charge of his finances.

  A lot of "ifs" to bank on, but then we were talking about a lot of money.

  I wondered what the terms of Cotton’s will were. Was Bobby back in? And was he Cotton’s designated heir? What about Heather, his wife? Or Owen, who might not be his own flesh and blood but was someone Cotton had taken care of for the greater part of Owen’s life? Who else would Cotton Reynolds want to leave his fortune to?

  Murphy...

  The thought came unbidden and once in my head, couldn’t be dislodged. Murphy had been very close to Bobby. They’d gone through school together: little league, Pop Warner football, high school athletics... From all accounts Murphy could "whup Bobby’s ass" in sports, but they’d remained friends. When I’d followed Murphy back to Oregon, he’d taken me around to the usual haunts. The Pisces Pub was the hangout for all the legal (and under-aged kids with good fake IDs) graduates from both Lakeshore and Lake Chinook High Schools. Murphy had barely begun to reacquaint himself with old friends when Bobby disappeared. Tess called Murphy, looking for Bobby. I’d never hung out with either Bobby or Laura all that much. If I’d had any inkling about what was to come, I would have paid closer attention, believe me. As it was, my impression of Bobby hadn’t been all that flattering, but neither was it criminal. He’d seemed like a typical red-blooded American boy who’d outgrown high school and therefore the height of his popularity. He’d married Laura, a high school sweetheart, who probably had been a beauty in her day but whose figure after three kids was well on the way to matronly. She was also quite religious. It was clear she didn’t feel comfortable having a beer with Bobby, his good buddy Murphy, and Murphy’s sometime girlfriend, me. She carried a small worn book in one hand, a prayer book I later learned, and I came out of the Pisces feeling like I didn’t quite fit in.

  Murphy was quiet afterwards. We didn’t talk much about either one of them. Bobby, Laura and the kids went back to Astoria the next day. They lived near members of his wife’s family and were apparently pretty locked in with Laura’s family’s small, local church. Murphy and Bobby’s friendship clearly wasn’t what it once was, but it was still the deepest of either of their lives.

  But when the familicide story broke, Murphy was frantic. He fell instantly back into "best friend" role, ardently decrying the outrage of the media, law enforcement officials, anyone who even entertained the idea. Like Tess, Murphy would not believe Bobby was responsible. The whole thing consumed him. I just figured Bobby did it. I also figured that Murphy might be using his absorption to not only come to grips with the depths of Bobby’s crimes, but also as a means to slowly pull away from me.

  Marta got up from her desk, shaking hands all around, acting as if we’d just signed some kind of Nobel Peace pact. I certainly felt a pact had been formed, but I wasn’t convinced of its positive nature. But there was the matter of the money...five hundred per visit with Cotton. Tess was ready to pay and though I sorely wanted to take a check in advance, I kept my mouth shut on the subject. I would go to Cotton’s benefit and see what I thought. I was firmly convinced it would be a one-time-only event. I wasn’t sure I wanted more than that anyway.

  And it seemed to me that Tess was counting her chickens before they were hatched. She seemed to believe that Bobby would inherit and that she would be a side beneficiary. Where that left Heather, I don’t know.

  "Did I see you in the Coffee Nook this morning?" I asked her as I picked up the file and trailed after her and Marta. Tess stopped short at the door, clearly surprised by my question.

  For a moment she was going to deny me; it was in her eyes, her body language. But then she must have known I wouldn’t be convinced because she muttered, "I sometimes get my coffee there. Yes, I stopped by this morning."

  "Small world," I said.

  The snotty receptionist gave me the elevator eyes, a silent comment on my dust-grimed clothes. I rewarded her with a brilliant smile while calling her all kinds of names in my head. She wrinkled her nose and got back to work.

  "Call me after the benefit," Tess ordered. She started to hold out her hand in that same princess-like manner, then thought better of it, shaking my hand in the customary way instead. A frisson of fear shivered down my back. A vision of someone sticking pins in a voodoo doll with my likeness came to mind.

  Have I mentioned I have a very active imagination? I can be overly dramatic at times.

  Unfortunately, I was going to learn that this time wasn’t one of them.

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon lost in thought while posting the rest of Greg Hayden’s 72-hour notices. Easily accomplished, it reminded me that process serving was more my speed. Apart from an occasional Woofers, it was fairly benign. I headed home a couple hours later, feeling unclean and anxious in a way I didn’t want to analyze too closely. With an effort I shoved thoughts of Bobby Reynolds and Tim Murphy aside and concentrated on food, or my lack of it.

  Foster’s On The Lake is the one and only restaurant actually on Lake Chinook, and therefore the only restaurant-bar with boat docks. I don’t own a boat myself. I firmly believe in the definition that a boat is a hole in the water in which to throw money away. That said, I love to be invited on someone else’s boat and it’s convenient that my boat dock is still in working order in case that someone wants to pick me up.

  I called Cynthia, asking her to meet me for a drink, leaving a
message on her cell phone. She sent a text message back on my cell, telling me she was unavailable. I am going to have to figure out how to do that, I reminded myself, marveling at the tiny typing on my LCD screen. I may fear technology but I also admire it.

  The idea of driving to Foster’s held no attraction. Patrons of Foster’s On The Lake take up the parking spots early and it’s an overall pain in the ass to find anywhere else to leave a car.

  I debated on whom to call. Reluctantly, I settled on Dwayne. He’s perfect for two reasons: (1) he’s someone I can share information with, and (2) he owns a boat. Another plus is that he doesn’t blather. He’s the strong, silent type a lot of the time, and when he does speak it’s not wasted small talk. And though he’s physically attractive, he’s not for me, which is just as well, since thoughts of Murphy circling my brain make me unstable and unreliable when it comes to sex. I can make a huge mistake, if I’m not careful. After all, I was nuts over Murphy. Much as I would like to believe differently, I’m not sure I’ve learned resistance over the years. Luckily Dwayne’s name alone puts me off.

  His answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. "Dwayne?" I called, knowing he was probably there and ignoring the beep. "Dwayne, pick up. Let’s go to Foster’s and have a drink. Get your boat and come get me."

  I waited. Dwayne has a derelict boathouse attached to his cabana which is in need of serious work. He also is a proud owner of a broken boat lift which is meant to keep the boat out of the water and save the hull, but is pretty much a hunk of twisted metal in need of excising. One of his professed long-term projects is fixing the boathouse/lift, but while he tinkers away Dwayne pays for an easement. There are several such easements dotted along the shores of Lake Chinook. Depending on where you reside, you might have easement access. However, there are only so many boat slips within the easement and you have to put your name on a waiting list if they are all full, which they generally are. Dwayne was lucky enough to pick one up the third year of owning his cabana. He bought a well-used boat with worn seats and suspiciously squishy floorboards, but he keeps the engine running like a top. "Dwayne?" I yelled again.

  The line clicked on. "Quit belly-aching," he complained. "I was finishing up some notes."

  "What are you working on?"

  "You throwing in with me, darlin’?"

  "Not yet."

  There was a hint of equivocation in my response that I tried, and failed, to suppress. I could tell he heard it. "Not yet" was far better than plain "no."

  "I’ll be there in thirty minutes."

  I hung up. Dwayne wanted an intern, a protege, an acolyte. He wanted me to be that person, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. Bartender, process server . . . hatchery fish . . . that was me. Damn Billy Leonard for labeling me so accurately. Yes, I was unfocused and undisciplined and at a loss to find a serious career path, but so what? Couldn’t I bump along as I’d been doing? Did I have to make some kind of choice?

  Dwayne was true to his word, putt-putting at six miles per hour as he came into West Bay-lake requirements-and smoothly drifting up to my dock, his hull kissing the once white bumpers Mr. Ogilvy had installed several seasons earlier. I was waiting in khaki shorts and a white tank over a blue two-piece swimsuit. Not that I intended swimming. Good lord, no. But being prepared came naturally to me. A fact Dwayne had pointed out on more than one occasion which added to my inherent gifts as an information specialist.

  "Hey," he grunted as I stepped into the boat.

  "Hey, there," I responded, and we took off.

  I saw a bottle of wine nestled in a spot beside the throttle, ready for consumption as soon as we reached Foster’s. By unspoken understanding Dwayne and I would share the wine after he docked the boat and before we walked into the restaurant. This meant we would sit in our boat and drink, viewing the restaurant diners as if they were a kind of open theater. Believe it or not this was considered okay behavior even though we would be docked at On The Lake’s pier. It’s all part of Lake Chinook’s summer customs. It’s perfectly okay to pull up next to someone else’s boat and examine what they’d brought to drink or possibly eat as sometimes people didn’t even bother walking into the restaurant at all.

  On The Lake’s owner, Jeffrey Foster-known simply as Foster to anyone who’s acquainted with him-allowed this behavior because when the weather is nice enough for boating the place is already spilling over its edges with customers. This is amazing in itself since the prices at On The Lake are astronomical. The rest of the cheapies and myself generally sway in our boats, listen to the live music and refuse to open our wallets. Foster doesn’t have time to pay attention to us. Every chance I get I complain to him about the prices, but he just shrugs his shoulders and tells me to go somewhere else. Like, oh sure, there is nowhere else on Lake Chinook. So, I have to limit my nights of food buying. To this end I sometimes go beyond the limits of cheap into downright miserly by circumventing the restaurant altogether. I trek along the sidewalk which is squeezed next to the teensy movie house which is part of On The Lake’s building and which boasts excellent popcorn and a fireplace in the lobby, then I cross State Street and sneak into Johnny’s Market to buy Doritos and a jar of salsa. Affordable, and a few notches closer to real food than Chapstick.

  I used to cadge rides to the restaurant with Murphy, but since that broke up I’ve been forced to rely on Dwayne and sometimes my neighbors, two houses down, who are screechingly, unhappily married at the best of times; sullen, boiling fury at the worst. Not exactly a laugh-fest are the Mooneys. They’re in their late forties/early fifties and haven’t experienced a moment of joy in their quarter-century of marriage, I’m sure. Whenever they get a notion in their heads to go boating, they always invite me. I guess they need a referee. Whether I accept or not depends on my own phase of boredom. Luckily, I hadn’t resorted to their company yet this summer.

  Foster’s was rocking and rolling as we pulled up. Blue flags fluttered at the top of poles attached to each boat slip. Luckily, we were able to nab a docking space, one made available as a boat was just pulling out. It was a Master Craft with a pole jutting out of the center, constructed for waterskiing and wakeboarding. I can wake-board and water-ski, but it’s so much work I pretty much just don’t do it. Anyway, I just had alcohol on the brain, and food, if I could afford some. If not, just alcohol. I’m pretty sure this is a bad sign, but I didn’t much care.

  There were two seats open at the outdoor bar, a curving wooden structure nestled beneath the boughs of an oak tree which was arranged for a perfect view of the water. Dwayne grunted that he was going across the street to Johnny’s Market but I beelined for the chairs. I settled myself down with a sigh of contentment and ran my repertoire of mixed drinks through my head.

  Manny, On The Lake’s best bartender, looked over at me.

  Even though I’ve done my share of bartending I buckled, turning toward the all-time female standard. "Could I have a glass of Chardonnay?"

  "Any particular kind?"

  "The cheapest."

  I used to make all kinds of fancy concoctions at Sting Ray’s. Once in a great while I still manage to whip something up. I spent a lot of hours at Sting Ray’s trying to create a drinkable drink that includes blue curacao. Personally, I feel the stuff is damn near toxic but its electric blue shimmer is inviting as hell. My best answer to date: cut its godawful taste with Sprite or Seven-Up or some other lemon-lime soda.

  I wasn’t sure whether I cared that Dwayne had left me to my own devices. Two weeks ago I’d been forced to drive over and sit by myself at the bar as, once again, I’d been looking for friends and everyone was busy. It had been one of the few, rare, lovely nights like this one, the kind where it stays warm way past dusk and beyond. I’d actually struck up a conversation with a guy who’d just arrived in Lake Chinook and was surprised by the good weather.

  "I thought it rained all the time here," he said.

  I warned ominously, "Don’t let this fool you. Once or twice a year. Maybe three time
s tops. That’s all the really fabulous weather you can count on. Some years, not even that."

  "Lived here long?" he asked, then proceeded to look me over in a way that made my inner voice go, "Uh-oh."

  "Awhile," I allowed.

  He gazed speculatively over the water. "I’m traveling through, though I’m really thinking about making a move."

  Our small talk dwindled from that point, mainly because I bowed out of the conversation. After a while he went and stood on one of the docks, his back to me. My last vision of him was in silhouette, the flags dancing above him in a quirky little breeze. Now, I glanced automatically to where he’d stood. I wondered idly if he’d made the move from wherever it was he’d come.

  Manny brought me my Chardonnay and I managed to down most of it by the time Dwayne reappeared from across the street with a bag which he hefted into the boat. I watched him from my perch, aware that he was debating whether to open up his cache and munch away in the boat, or join me at the bar. While he considered, Manny poured me a second glass and slid it my way without asking.

  I said, "I hope you’re trying to get me drunk, and if you are, great. But I warn you, I have limited resources."

  "It’s on the house," he said.

  "And what if Foster finds out?"

  "He doesn’t get worked up over a few ‘on the house’ glasses of wine."

  I sent Manny a knowing look. "I bet those specials are supposed to be for the paying customers."

  Manny shrugged and smiled to himself. He wasn’t a serious conversationalist but he looked damn good in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, Foster’s summer employee uniforms.

  My cell phone buzzed at that moment. I hate people who get calls in crowded restaurants and then proceed to yak loudly on and on about nothing. But I was curious because this was my second unexpected cell call of the day. Unheard of.

  Squinting at the LCD display I saw my mother’s phone number pop into view. I grimaced. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the kind of convoluted conversations that were as much a part of my mother as her Thursday hair appointments. But guilt won out, as it most often does, and I answered cautiously, "Hey, there, Mom."