Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  There was an untidy pile of slate to one side of the garage next to an upturned rowboat. He pushed a toe at the slate pieces, frowning. "I had a mean dog once," he revealed. "His name was Beezlebub. We called him Beez. He bit the postman clean through the back of his leg. Had to put him down. He was no good."

  "Hmmm..." I glanced down at the ground, wondering if my destiny was to bounce from one unwanted tete-a-tete to another.

  "I’m Grant Wemberly," he said, holding out a heavily veined hand. His grip was surprisingly strong. "Guess you’d call me the caretaker around here. Or groundskeeper. I just do whatever needs to be done." He eyed me harshly from beneath a pair of bushy gray-white brows. He could have been anywhere from sixty to eighty-five, maybe older. "You buy a ticket to come see the place?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, you don’t look like the others. Guess you came to see where he lived."

  "Who?" I asked automatically.

  "Cotton’s son."

  "Oh...well ..." I didn’t really know how to respond. Maybe I should have dressed up more. Grant Wemberly seemed to think we were compadres or something.

  "When someone’s no good, you put ’em down. That’s what they oughtta do with that Reynolds boy when they find him, but you know he’ll go to trial with some hoity-toity lawyer and plead insanity and gum up the whole procedure." He grimaced and ran a hand through thinning, but still healthy-looking grayish hair. "Years’ll go by. His daddy’ll spend all his money trying to save him, but he’s unsaveable. Tomcats kill kittens. It’s a law of nature, but it don’t mean they’re likable. They’re mean. Shriveled up little hearts. They’re killers."

  I stood by in disbelief. I was pretty sure I could count him out as a representative for PETA. "What about the Dobermans?"

  "Oh, them’s watchdogs. Been trained to run off trespassers." He shook his head. "Kids know they’re here, but they just keep comin’. Running around the island. Damn fools."

  "Like the Coma Kid?" I put in. He grated on me and I found myself wanting to argue with him.

  Grant snorted. "If he was here, the dogs sure didn’t chase him off. Betty was at the vet overnight. Surgery on her leg. Benny’s no good without her. Told the police the same when they asked."

  "The police were here?"

  He said darkly, "Easy to blame someone else for your own kid’s stupidity, but whatever happened to that boy, he wasn’t chased by the dogs. Family wanted to sue is my bet."

  Grant was just loads of fun. I glanced over at Cotton. Heather’s arm was linked tightly through his while he chatted up a member of the catering staff. I wondered if I should feel jealous that he’d moved from me to someone else so quickly. I could see Heather’s tension. The Creamsicle net rose was quivering.

  Grant Wemberly followed my gaze. "What do you think about what he done?"

  "Cotton? Oh. Bobby. It’s beyond reprehensible. Unthinkable."

  "Against nature," he agreed with a slow nod. "Men kill men. Sometimes they kill women or women kill men. But men and women don’t kill their own kids. That’s for tomcats and the psychos."

  The Dobermans broke into more deep-chested growls which caught me up short. I glanced behind me and saw Craig Cuddahy coming around the backside of a huge lavender hydrangea bush that nearly touched the roof of the garage on the west end. He stopped short at the sound, looking alarmed.

  Grant said nothing, but I assured Craig, "They’re inside the building."

  "It sounds like a death pack of ’em," he said, sidling up to me as if for protection.

  "Just two," Grant grumbled as he ambled off. He stayed on the periphery of the grounds, not the party, a member of the team that made up Estate Reynolds.

  Cuddahy had dipped into the champagne far more than I had. His face was red, his tie disheveled and he spoke very clearly, enunciating each word carefully as only an accomplished drunk can manage. I thought about when I’d first seen him at Foster’s. He’d seemed so different, so in control of himself and delighted in finding this little corner of the world. But tonight he’d crossed into another level of alcohol consumption. Hey, I’ve been there. It’s not a complete crime. I just sensed he might be doing it on a much more regular basis than was healthy.

  It took all my wiles to rid myself of him. I tried to walk away but he dogged me, whining all the way. The hours had passed and the trio of musicians were packing their instruments into cases. The waiters were spending more time clearing up leftover dishes than offering more champagne and goodies.

  The rain suddenly fell in a curtain, sending the surprised guests scurrying for cover. I used the time to escape from Cuddahy, slipping inside the house and zigzagging through several rooms. My antennae caught the sound of Murphy’s voice saying his good-byes. I turned in time to see him shaking hands with Cotton. From my point of view I couldn’t tell how they felt about each other. For one blinding moment Murphy looked my way. He lifted a hand in good-bye. I did the same. After he was gone I realized my mouth was spit dry and I felt like I’d been put through the wringer.

  Cuddahy managed to catch up with Paula Shepherd’s partner, Brad, who also seemed to be trying to ease himself away. Cuddahy had barely noticed the silent encounter, so intent was he on his own path. "This isn’t the only property in Lake Chinook. It’s the only one that matters," Cuddahy practically yelled at him.

  Lorraine Bluebell’s white-streaked hair came into my line of vision. Brad answered as he was backing away, "If you divided it up, you could put four, five houses on it easily. Maybe more."

  "Are you kidding?" Lorraine’s back stiffened. "There aren’t many pieces like this. I’d never break it up."

  Cuddahy regarded her pityingly. "You don’t really know about development."

  "I know about arrested development," she leveled at him, and I silently cheered her as I slipped further inside the house. I was tiptoeing like a thief for some reason. Catching myself, I walked with more purpose. Small clusters of people, in twos and threes, were roaming the rooms and hallways. I kept to myself and was almost home free when I ran straight into Heather.

  "Hey," she said breathlessly. "The damn rain showed up early!"

  "But it was a nice party," I said. "Really a beautiful setting."

  She looked me up and down. I’d sensed earlier that she was bugged with the attention Cotton had given me, but my sincere words melted her. "Thank you. I’m so glad you came."

  She made me feel like a heel.

  "Maybe I’ll see you around...like at Foster’s?" she said.

  "Maybe," I agreed. Female bonding...who knew?

  The rain began to taper off and the crowd surged toward the door. I snuck away, wanting a last look around the house. I’m not sure why. But if Tess wanted information on Cotton, I figured I might as well push this until the end.

  I found myself in Cotton’s study. The bookshelves were natural cherry and the massive desk was painted black and then antiqued to make it look much older than it undoubtedly was. There was an equally massive black leather surface protector covering its surface. No errant papers littered the area. A phone in a dull pewter color sat beside a framed photo. I looked, expecting exactly what I saw: a photo of Bobby. There were no pictures of Laura or the children. Bobby was staring at the camera. He had Cotton’s dark brown eyes and his hair was a thick mahogany, possibly Cotton’s original color. Or maybe Tess’s. Who knew how long she’d been a blonde. There were lines beside Bobby’s mouth. He looked like a guy who might have a temper.

  But maybe I was just making Bobby the villain. He could laugh, too, I remembered. I’d seen him throw back his head and holler with amusement. It took me a moment to pick through the rubble of my brain but I finally came up with the source of his amusement. Murphy had stepped in dog shit and the smelly stuff had collected in all the little crevices of his waffled hiking boot. Murphy had been good-natured about it, but I knew Bobby’s laughter bugged him. The smell of dog feces was in the car with us on the way home and it took Murphy a long, long while over the utility
sink to rid himself of the stinky glop.

  Bobby hadn’t been the greatest guy even before the murder of his family, despite his father’s recollections. I shook my head. I just didn’t get him. Sure, he wasn’t great, but heinous? I wouldn’t have believed it once. Now, I accepted it as fact.

  There was a desk calendar opened to today’s date opposite the phone. I perched on a corner of the desk and idly flipped through it, keeping one eye on the door. If I heard footsteps coming my way I’d be trapped. There was only one way out. I’d have a lot of explaining to do, and I didn’t even know what I was trying to do.

  I saw Cotton had an appointment for the following week with one Jerome Neusmeyer. I wasn’t sure who he was though I felt I should know the name. A good one to ask Dwayne about.

  Putting the calendar back, I peeked through the slatted blinds toward the roadway. I realized no cars were in view on the other side of the bridge, that damn near everyone had left. All that was left were a couple of stragglers standing on the bridge, apparently reluctant to leave the lovely site. The rain was now a fine mist, turning the outdoor lights to yellow halos. I watched that last couple head for their cars.

  Time to go.

  My purse was tucked under my arm and I was at the door when I heard Heather’s bright voice calling to her husband, just outside the panels. I glanced around, panicked. There was a narrow closet behind the desk. I opened the door, sure it would be filled with shelves but to my relief the bottom half was open, leaving a space large enough for me to squeeze into as long as my chin was on my knees. I slid inside but couldn’t quite close the door before Heather’s voice sounded inside the room, near enough to make me jump.

  "Come in here. Don’t, don’t don’t, take so long. Nothing else needs to be done. You were perfect, honey." Her voice was a low coo. I couldn’t tell if Cotton was with her or not. My field of vision was limited to a tiny slit, just enough to see the center of the desk. Heather’s Creamsicle rose seemed suddenly to float in front of my eyes and I shrank back. She was directly on the other side of the door from me.

  "Come on, Daddy," she said in a singsong voice.

  Daddy? I didn’t like the sound of that. It was way too potentially icky.

  "Where’s my baby?" Cotton suddenly asked.

  Heather’s answer was something between a giggle and a squeal.

  My hands were covering my nose and mouth. My eyes were glued to the slit of light from the den. Heather had wriggled out of her dress and stood buck naked and proud in front of "Daddy," apparently. She had a lot to be proud of. Her skin was taut, her body lean where it should be, ditto where it was rounded. "Daddy" came into view and buried his face in her breasts. He, too, was as he’d come into the world. I saw to my mild surprise that he wasn’t as excited as I’d have expected. But "Baby" went to work with the kind of systematic intent reserved for those with lots of practice and pretty soon "Daddy" was ready.

  What followed was a lot of panting, humping, grinding and squirming across the leather protective pad atop the desk. I closed my eyes and ears. As a voyeur, I’m just fair. I would have thought I’d be better at it than I was, but you learn something new about yourself every day if you’re not careful.

  As soon as playtime was over, "Baby" disappeared and Heather was back full force. "I don’t like the way you make me feel," she said flatly.

  "Daddy" had a little more trouble coming back to himself. "You didn’t seem to mind just now." "I mean at the benefit," she hissed. "You could barely keep your hands off that blond girl’s boobs." "Oh, Heather." He was tired and bugged. "And that one with the caterers?...Misty something... the smiling slut? Just don’t make me feel bad in public, okay? If you’re going to fuck her, just do it, but stop embarrassing me."

  "I’m not having sex with anyone but you." "Yeah?" She was spoiling for a fight. "I don’t want anyone but you." "Even Tess?" My closed ears opened a bit. Tess? He groaned. "Oh, God, don’t do this again." "Even Tess?" "I don’t see Tess. I don’t talk to her." "Yeah? I heard you on the phone." "I don’t talk to Tess." Cotton was clear. I peered out at the happy couple. Cotton was still lying on the desk. Heather stood in front of him, a beautiful virago. No wide eyes now. They were narrowed on him as if to probe for the truth of his feelings.

  "Fuck me," Heather said in a low voice.

  Cotton half-laughed. "I don’t think it’s in me."

  "Come on, Daddy," she cooed. "Come on... come on . . ."

  "No, Heather."

  "Yes!" She was nothing if not insistent and despite his protests, I was treated to another Daddy/Baby intimate moment. I hoped Daddy was being helped out chemically, as Heather was really putting him to the test. At this rate, she could kill him with sex alone.

  My cramped position was playing havoc with the back of my neck. And my whole head was feeling the aftermath of my champagne slugging.

  I counted the seconds and they were long . . . as Cotton gave his lovely wife a few half-hearted thrusts and she dug her nails into his pale, wispy haired back. I wondered who was going to be hurting more later, me or Cotton.

  It took another twenty minutes for them to gather themselves together and head out. It took another ten minutes for me to gather the courage to let myself out. Heather’s Creamsicle rose lay on the floor, detached from her top whether by design or the throes of passion I wasn’t sure.

  I tiptoed down the hallway, my heart so loud it practically deafened me. But I made it out the front door, still unlocked, and was free! Skulking around the house, I sprinted as soon as I was near the bridge. The loud howl I heard behind me sent the hair up the back of my neck. I risked a look back. Two black, racing wraiths were charging full speed in my direction. No more barking. Just pure evil.

  Jesus...Joseph... and Mary!

  I suddenly saw Grant Wemberly’s point of view.

  I ran as if my life depended on it, which I believe it did. In horror I saw the gate was closed. With barely a pause I launched myself at the iron bars, hauling my dangling ass over the top just as snapping jaws reached up at me. My arm wrenched. I bit back a yelp of pain, settling instead for some soft, terse swear words, the worst I could think of. I managed to get myself over the fence and out of reach. As soon as they saw they couldn’t get to me the dogs yowled in frustration and threw themselves at the bars. A light came on above the front door.

  I ran on, keeping to the shadows. By the time I got to my car I was shaking all over. I could scarcely get the key in the ignition.

  I drove away and wound around Lake Chinook back to my little corner of West Bay. Tumbling into bed, sore and charged with adrenalin, I thought it might be in my best interests to reconsider this information specialist gig.

  I was going to have to have a serious talk with Dwayne Durbin.

  Chapter Seven

  Champagne . . . oh, champagne...it isn’t how much I consume that affects me-anything counts. I can be quite drunk or stone-cold sober the whole night but as long as I drink champagne I’m bound to feel it. As I lay in bed on Sunday morning, gradually waking to the heat of a July scorcher, I could feel the aftereffects: the faint misery in my gut, the dull head, the niggling worry that I was going to have to give up alcohol along with dairy products and anything else that was fun.

  I simply was not going to do it.

  I turned over and that’s when the alarm bells went off inside my left arm. A stinging pain reminded me that I’d gotten tangled on the fence. I’d barely escaped the damn dogs. Those Dobermans’ bared teeth and snouts and frenzied barking had scared me so badly I would have gladly given my left arm to get away. I was grateful it was still with me, however, despite the screaming, tortured muscles that made me groan.

  "Good...God..." My mental screen jumped to another scene. Burying my face in my pillow, I attempted to blot out unseemly pictures-like a series of snapshots complete with sound effects-of Heather and Cotton, humping, thrusting, faintly squealing and panting.

  Oh, yeah. This is how I wanted to wake up.

  And
had I learned anything? Anything useful? I seriously doubted it and I was all for taking my five hundred bucks and running. What did Tess need me for anyway? I had another mental picture of her in her Audrey Hepburn disguise and I wondered again what the hell she thought she was doing.

  Testing my arm, I was relieved to realize it wasn’t seriously injured. Sore, yes, but working. My clothes were in a jumble on the floor. The dogs had missed me, but the fence ...? I examined them, found a few tiny rips, moaned over the loss, then decided it was simply a week meant for losing clothes.

  In my T-shirt and board shorts, I moseyed out to my back patio, squinting through the pounding in my head, to stare out at the green waters of the lake. There was a cheap lounger with white plastic strips sitting in the morning sun. I eased myself onto it. It was Sunday. I could phone Tess and report my progress-whatever that was-as she was probably expecting a call.

  It was going to be hot today. It was too bright to open my eyes. I climbed to my feet again, moving carefully as my bargain-basement lounge chair has a penchant for suddenly collapsing if you act too quickly. The phone started ringing and I squinted at my watch. Way too early for callers. I walked without enthusiasm to pick it up. Only family called this early on Sunday. It was either Mom or Booth. As soon as that thought struck me it sizzled along a nerve. Oh, shit. Booth was coming over with Sharona tonight.

  My head throbbed like it was beaten inside by a hammer. "Hi there," I said into the receiver. No caller ID. I probably pay for the damn service but the phone in the kitchen’s about a hundred years old and clunky as hell. Dwayne has cursed my slow conversion to everything electronic, but hey, he’s not exactly a poster child for moving with the times himself. What’s with that cowboy gear? Didn’t that go out with the ’80s?

  "Hello?" a female voice greeted me back. The seesawing sound of fuzzy reception indicated she was on a cell phone. "Is this Jane-er-Kelly?"

  "Uh-huh."