Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  Murphy accepted a glass of champagne from one of my nerveless hands. His gray eyes searched my face. I don’t know what he saw but it felt like my skin had turned to thick rubber. Nothing moved apart from my heartbeat, racing light and fast.

  "How’s Santa Fe?" I asked, congratulating myself on my faintly interested, not overwhelmed, tone. There was a funny little thrumming beneath my skin. My legs seemed to be shaking. I was half afraid my right knee was going to break out into a can-can.

  "It’s all right."

  "Been involved in criminology somehow?" He’d been far keener on his studies when we were at college than I had. I’d been merely keen on him.

  "Not much." He was abrupt, glancing around as if he were looking for a way to escape. He didn’t have to explain that Bobby’s murdered family had spun him off the investigation track. I didn’t explain that the same had not happened to me. "I didn’t expect to see you here," he said.

  "I, um, heard that Cotton was selling." I broke smoothly into the lie. No sense in telling him the truth. We had enough to wade through without me breaking into an explanation of why I’d come to the benefit. "This seemed like my one chance to see the island. Whoever buys it might not be as interested in opening its gates."

  "He’s selling?" Murphy was clearly surprised.

  "That’s the rumor."

  "I’d never sell."

  I looked past him, past the crowds of people, toward the lake. In the distance a red and white boat skimmed by, pulling a water skier under threatening skies. Another day you would be able to hear the dim roar of the motor; today there was too much chatter, laughter, music and overall noise.

  "It’s a lot to keep up," I pointed out. Landscaping and grounds maintenance, so important, but areas where I stumble, fall and die. Housekeeping nearly does me in. I can’t imagine the world beyond my front door expecting me to take care of it. Not that Ogilvy does such a hot-shot job. Once in a while I sweep my flagstone steps, but hey, that usually requires libations and plenty of rest. I’m not really lazy, but I’m intimidated and just plain disinterested in outdoor labor.

  "What are you doing now?" he asked.

  I liked the timbre of his voice. It just reminded me of so many pleasant memories. When you’re in love-obsessively in the first blush of that nearly fatal emotion-everything is so damn wonderful it hurts. I was being assailed by those haunting moments when Murphy and I were buried inside each other’s self, as if there was nothing else.

  "I’m process serving. And working with Dwayne. You know him."

  He nodded but his brows knit. I could tell he was faintly disappointed. I felt the urge to tell him what my real mission was, but I bit my tongue. There was no point in defeating my purpose so early in the game. Lots of hours left for that.

  With Murphy, I didn’t trust myself. Far worse than the way I didn’t trust myself with Dwayne. Far, far worse...

  I snagged a coiled cocktail shrimp drenched in melted butter from a passing tray. The waiter stopped, somewhat impatiently, giving me time to grab a second. Murphy shook his head at the waiter, then downed his champagne in one shot. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth in a thoroughly sexy "I don’t give a damn what others think" sort of way. I chomped down both my shrimp, barely tasting them. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to throw him down on the ground and writhe on top of him. My thoughts shot down a thoroughly pornographic path that left me feeling breathless and vulnerable. I had to look away.

  Inhaling unsteadily, I hazarded a sideways glance at him. He was tapping the edge of his empty glass with one finger, gazing around for another waiter. I should have been relieved that he couldn’t discern-or didn’t care about-my feelings, but the realization made me mildly hysterical. I wanted to laugh. I didn’t know what I wanted. I desperately glanced around for help. I was in big, big trouble. God knew what would happen if I were left alone with him for too long.

  It was at that moment that Craig Cuddahy rediscovered me. "Hey," he said, sounding put out. "Thought you were bringing me a drink."

  "I think we could all use another." I marched away on that, heart beating painfully, glad for the escape.

  I never went back. Call it an attack of the "junior-highs." I couldn’t face Murphy and act as if everything was okay between us. I just couldn’t. And after a couple of more glasses of champagne which seemed to have no effect whatsoever, I decided I didn’t have to. Screw it. I didn’t need to play nice-nice. I could display bad behavior with the best of ’em.

  But I couldn’t get Murph out of my mind, and my peripheral vision was on a constant search for his whereabouts. I saw him standing amid a group of young people, women mostly, though they were doing all the talking-and heavy flirting-while Murphy was quiet, distracted and apparently not the least bit interested. This did my jealous heart good.

  "Welcome," a gravelly male voice intoned. I looked over my right shoulder and there was Cotton Reynolds, a beefy hand outstretched in my direction, a smile on his rather large face. There were creases around his droopy brown eyes, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. Even so, his pallor beneath seemed pale. The tanning appeared to be a cover-up, which I guess it is for most of us. Tess had said he wasn’t well; maybe she was right. Against the tan, his white hair had a neon effect. I’d met him before but it had been a few years. Up close and personal I could see the way the flesh around his face had loosened. Cotton may have a new, young wife, but the march of years-or illness-was upon him.

  He was holding a martini in his left hand, the glass sweating, fine ice crystals floating in the fluid, a fat green olive stuffed with pimento settled in the V of the glass as if embraced. He tossed back a healthy slurp. "Can’t stand champagne," he said. "Give me gin anytime." He held out his right hand.

  I shook hands with him, uncertain whether to mention that we’d met before. He seemed to be regarding me quizzically, trying to place me. I wondered if he would. I’d only been Murphy’s girlfriend, nameless and easily forgotten. I had a feeling guys like Cotton thought all young, semi-attractive women looked the same. My Nikes might give him something to think about later, but maybe not. Lovely as this benefit was, there was a barbecue feel to the event this evening, whether the Hysterical Society had meant for it or not. If I’d shown up in red-checks and chaps I would have caused only mild interest, unless, of course, the chaps were all that stood between me and the outside air.

  "I’m Jane Kelly," I introduced.

  "Glad to have you come. This is my wife, Heather."

  He practically plucked her from a conversation she was involved with directly behind him. She’d been talking with the two real estate agents, Paula and Brad. Paula shot me a venomous look when she realized it was I who’d stolen Heather and Cotton’s attention. I wanted to tell her that she had nothing to worry about, but I decided I didn’t care. I’m past the point of wanting people to like me. This may be a serious flaw, something that should go on my permanent record, but it’s made life a whole lot easier from my point of view.

  "Hello," I said, shaking hands with Heather.

  "Hi there." She smiled a question at me and I introduced myself again.

  "I’m Heather," she answered, enthusiastically pumping my hand.

  Heather’s hair was a shade between blond and orange. If it had been short and spiked she would have been labeled "alternative" but since it was shoulder length and softly curled, she looked only mildly interesting. Her eyes were blue and large and she had a way of holding them open that suggested a wide-eyed, blinking innocence. As an affectation it distracted me. That, and the fact that she thrust her breasts forward as if they were the first line of attack. I had trouble keeping my mind on our conversation. Luckily, it wasn’t exactly snapping and popping.

  "Isn’t it a beautiful night?" she said with a little lift of her shoulders.

  Well, yeah, if you liked the idea of gathering storm clouds and the threat of serious rain.

  Cotton dropped his empty glass on a passing tray, then slipped an arm around
Heather’s shoulders, but I could feel him sizing me up. He hadn’t tumbled to my identity and I was reluctant to jump right in with it. I wasn’t sure exactly what Tess expected. Was I supposed to glean information about Bobby by mere conversation? Like, oh, sure...if I started grilling Cotton he wouldn’t catch on that I was the fox in the henhouse.

  "You a part of the Historical Society?" he queried.

  "I’m just here for the event." I lifted my champagne glass to the surroundings.

  "Didn’t think you looked blue-haired enough to belong to that crowd." He grinned. I figured he might be right in there- age-wise-with a large section of the Historical Society’s members but I kept my mouth shut.

  Heather glanced skywards. "The weatherman assured us the liquid sunshine wouldn’t ruin our party. It’s supposed to rain later."

  "So far, so good," I said.

  We all smiled at each other. I racked my brain for some pithy thing to add.

  Cotton said suddenly, "We’ve met before. You’re... Murphy’s girl!"

  "Murphy and I once dated. That’s all."

  "Murphy?" Heather’s blue eyes widened even further. I was afraid the skin might stretch far enough to allow a view inside her skull. She glanced past me. I automatically turned and we both watched as Murphy, standing under a branch of Douglas fir, shook his head to the waiter’s tray of further champagne.

  Cotton insisted, "You were together, though. I saw you with him several times, with Bobby...my son ..."

  "That’s right."

  Cotton ran his tongue over his teeth. I felt he wanted to say something more. I struggled to come up with something to keep the conversation going. I could practically hear Tess screaming at me to find out everything I could about Bobby.

  A waiter hurried over with another martini for him. He took it carefully, as if maybe he were feeling the effects. I suspected the martini he’d just finished wasn’t his first.

  "I only met Bobby three times," I said, feeling my heart start to pound. "I liked him."

  This wasn’t exactly the God’s honest truth. I’d been introduced to Bobby having already been colored by Murphy’s opinion that he was a great guy. I’d never really formed my own opinion one way or the other. Since Bobby was Murphy’s best friend I determined I would like him. This just made good dating sense. Like the boyfriend, like the boyfriend’s best friend. Otherwise one risked banishment from the clan.

  Cotton stared at me. Then he gazed past me, upward toward the trees. We were both thinking about Bobby. He drank from his glass. I could practically feel his emotion.

  "I’m sorry," I said, meaning it.

  Now he was staring toward the water. I followed his gaze, watching the sun-dappled water turn dark as a cloud scudded quickly overhead. He said with an effort, "It’s been hard."

  Now there was an understatement. I wanted to toss out all kinds of platitudes, but nothing came to mind. I had a sudden remembrance of Bobby. He’d been intense. He’d been nice to me, but I’d felt on guard. I’d put that feeling down to my own churning insecurity over Murphy, but in retrospect I realized it might have been because of him as well, his presence, his tautly coiled tension. Saying I liked him was definitely pushing it.

  Heather appeared to be only half-listening. While we talked she fussed with the fabric flower on the bottom edge of her striped pink and yellow top. The flower was the color of Creamsicles, made out of a netting and seemed to be near her hem, and in a place that constantly struck her arm. Her goggly eyes were covered in eyeliner and mascara. She was young, but gave off the appearance of an older woman trying to appear young. Hip, she wasn’t. She was cute, not beautiful, and I suspected her bobbed nose might have been fixed. She was uncomfortable with the turn of our conversation and who could blame her.

  Cotton released her and to my surprise he cupped the back of my elbow and led me a few steps away, near a white trellised archway nearly buckling under the weight of a deep, purple clematis, the blossoms so huge and loppy there was something vaguely sexual about them. Or maybe it was just Cotton’s touching me. I was feeling a tad grossed out for some reason but I put a look of interest on my face.

  "Bobby...you met him...you know him."

  "Well, yes..." I was vague. As far as I was concerned nobody knew Bobby. If they had they might have had some inkling about what he’d been contemplating. But I was working for Tess and having Cotton think I was some long-lost bosom buddy might work for me.

  "You know he wasn’t that way. What he was accused of doing...it wouldn’t happen."

  I deepened my look of interest. I just couldn’t make myself nod and agree. Cotton was searching for a friend, an ally, someone to bolster his view on Bobby. Still, it was damned hard to side with him when I knew Bobby had murdered his family in cold blood.

  His hand tightened on my elbow. "I’m glad you’re here." His voice had grown thick, from emotion or alcohol or a combination of both. "You and Murphy. It’s nice to see people who remember him the way he was instead of dwelling on all that terrible shit. It’s damn slander, if you ask me."

  He was giving me way too much credit. I was an utter fraud. But I didn’t want to derail him at this juncture. If he wanted to reminisce I was all for it. "Bobby was an incredible athlete," I prompted lightly.

  "Yes! Yes, he was." Cotton’s expression lightened. "He could beat anybody. He was a good kid. You know, he was tagged by his senior class as most likely to succeed? He loved Laura and the kids. There was no reason for it."

  "No."

  "Someone else did those killings. Someone sick."

  "It would take a sick person to kill children, babies," I agreed cautiously. I didn’t want him to think I was accusing Bobby.

  But Cotton was on his own track. "Whoever did it wants Bobby to take the blame. That’s all. That’s why it looks like Bobby took off."

  "So, you think this person attacked Bobby, too? That’s why he never came back?" I was trying to figure out if Cotton really believed this theory or if he was just trying it out on me.

  "Yeah." He nodded several times. "Bobby didn’t hurt them. He couldn’t have. Not my son."

  "Cotton..." We both turned to find Paula Shepherd hovering nearby. Her smile was about as real as my belief in Cotton’s theory. Cotton frowned at her. Clearly he was having a bit of trouble focusing and I suspected he wanted to keep spinning his yarn, hoping someone would buy it. I was more than willing to listen. This was what Tess was paying me for, after all. Spying, listening, and then reporting back.

  "When you have a moment? I’d like to run some thoughts by you?"

  He flapped a hand at her. "Not today, Paula."

  She studiously avoided looking at me. She was on a mission, as unrelenting as a heat-seeking missile. "But it’s summer. This is the time to market. The most value is right now. Pretty as this is in winter, it’s not the same."

  "Not...now ..." There was a definite chill in Cotton’s voice.

  Paula’s crimson lips tightened, but she inclined her head and scurried back to a conference with her buddy Brad. They both kept popping up their heads and looking over at us. "You’re selling the island?" I asked.

  "Oh, who the hell knows."

  He’d never taken his hand from my elbow and the continued contact began to nettle me. I’m not good with touchyfeely stuff. It makes me feel sticky and uncomfortable no matter what the reason. And even through his pain, I felt something from Cotton, some kind of sexual message. Maybe I was making it up, but I didn’t think so. My mind flitted suddenly to what it would mean to have Murphy’s hand against my skin and my heart lurched.

  As if reading my thoughts, Cotton’s fingers squeezed me. "Seen Murphy yet?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Something still there?"

  "Nope." I wondered if I would kill any chance of learning more if I suddenly jerked my arm free.

  Cotton moved in closer. His breath heated my cheek. Good God, I thought in alarm, is he going to kiss me?

  "It means something, that you like Bo
bby. It means something to me."

  "It does?" I pulled back as much as humanly possible without shifting the position of my feet.

  "A lot of people just blamed him, y’know? The cops... just about everyone. I’m not even sure what Heather thinks. But Bobby was a good kid."

  Say it enough times and you might just believe it.

  I pretended to see someone I knew. Waving gently at this mirage, I eased myself away from Cotton’s grip.

  "That Murphy?" Cotton twisted around.

  "No, someone else." Heather was standing by, her gaze lasered on me. I pantomimed that I needed to catch up with my unseen friend and headed down one of the pathways away from both Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds.

  My rather abrupt strides ended me near the detached garage which was obscured by a circular mound cut into the stone driveway. The mound was thick with several large pine trees and some sorry-looking rhododendrons. Even those like me, who know next to nothing about gardening, could have pointed out the soil wouldn’t be worth shit beneath the pines. The rhodies weren’t suddenly going to get healthier.

  The gabled and paned windowed garage jutted at an angle to the rest of the house. If the massive house were to suddenly disappear, the garage would look like a cottage with six vehicle bays. I wondered if there were a guest room inside, but as I cruised near the building I heard distinct canine growling. The hairs on my forearms lifted as well as on the back of my neck. Whatever the building’s purpose, it currently housed the Dobermans. I hoped to hell they wore steel collars and were chained to iron girders. I glanced toward the crowd and viewed a lot of bare, exposed limbs. These were watchdogs. Imagining the scene through their eyes, I saw a feast to be had.

  I wasn’t alone by the garage. An older man wearing a pair of pants that rode halfway up his chest and whose weatherbeaten skin was brick red nodded to me then cocked his head where the low rumble of warning came from behind the garage bays. "Sound mean, don’t they?" he said.

  "I wouldn’t want to test them."

  He looked me up and down. He didn’t seem like he belonged at this high-falutin’ Lake Chinook event, but then neither, probably, did I.