Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  It was evening and the sun burned hot and low in the western sky. Normally I need a jacket or sweater in anticipation of nightfall but today I felt overheated. It seemed as if I would never be cool again. As Lyle thrust the throttle forward and we skimmed across the main lake I turned my face to the resultant breeze. Binks did likewise, her velvety little brown ears flapping backwards.

  We arrived at Foster’s On The Lake to join an already loud crowd crammed around the outdoor bar. Lyle maneuvered into a boat slip that another boat was waiting for. The captain tooted us in a series of furious bleats. I remember thinking, "We were here first, you idiot!" then wondered at my simmering hostility.

  Binks could not go inside so we left her in the boat where she sat on the back gunwale and looked forlorn. People sitting on the patio made sad sounds and commented on how cute she was and couldn’t she come inside? Foster looked at them all as if they’d collectively lost their minds.

  "That your dog?" he asked me suspiciously.

  "She is for now."

  "It’s a girl?" He looked again at Binks’ Ernest Borgnine face.

  "Most breeds come in male and female."

  "Y’sure?" he responded skeptically, still staring at the pug.

  I heard a glass break and turned toward the crowd around the bar, two steps up. Several people backed away from the apparent cause of the incident, and I saw Heather, her eyes sort of starey and moist, gazing down at the shattered wine glass. She looked torn between laughter and tears. I was amazed she’d actually shown up in public, given the events of the week. Cotton was nowhere to be seen, which was expected.

  "C’mon, Jane." Arista motioned me to a table under a tilted umbrella whose lime green, plastic-stripped shade sparkled. Lyle grunted an order for bourbon and a Cosmo for his wife. I asked for bottled water.

  "I’ll be right back," I told them. I went back to Binky and poured water into the tiny cap of my bottle. She lapped at it. We both sat in the boat. I had no time to reflect on the fact that I’d eschewed human companionship for the pug when Heather staggered through the gate, slamming it behind her. Several people hung back, as if they’d been trying to engage her but didn’t know quite how. She looked wild and unsettled, her white sundress sporting a wet stain over one breast, possibly the result of her spilled wine. Spying me, she charged like a bull.

  "You," she sneered. "Working for Tess!"

  "I’m sorry about Bobby," I said.

  "Everybody’s sorry about Bobby. Except the cops and the Feds and whoever else." She flung her arm wide to encompass the lake and the whole world. "They’re all over the island."

  I could imagine. After all, Bobby’s body had been found in the lake. It stood to reason, didn’t it, that he might have been on his father’s island?

  "Bobby was a killer," Heather said. "I’m not sorry he’s gone and I’ll tell anybody that."

  "A lot of people won’t mourn his loss too much."

  "I had to get away from the whole damn thing. But Cotton won’t leave. This is killing him. He’s going to die because of it." Her matter-of-fact manner would have been off-putting if she hadn’t been so drunk. "I considered you a friend!" she added, coming back to her first issue. "But you’re a fucking spy!"

  Her scream seemed to echo across the water. Fortunately, music and noise from the bar probably buried the sound for those at Foster’s.

  Paula Shepherd appeared on the other side of the gate. In a black short skirt and a red tank top, her skin tanned to a toasty brown, she had none of the hesitation of the others. "Heather," she said, all smiles. "Brad’s ready to take us back." She winked at another boat. Sure enough, her sidekick, Brad Gilles was at the helm, firing up the engine.

  "Fuck you," Heather said, stumbling, climbing into the Mooneys’ boat.

  Paula didn’t even turn a hair. "Are you going home with her, then?"

  "I’m not going anywhere."

  Paula nodded grimly and returned through the gate, through the patio, then opened another short gate further down where Brad was looking anxious at the wheel. They conferred and Paula climbed in. I watched them reverse. They took a sweep by our boat and Brad yelled, "You all right, Heather?"

  Heather, who’d plopped herself in the seat next to the captain’s, closed her eyes as if in pain. "I need another drink. You got anything in this crappy piece of shit."

  "Don’t think so."

  "Figures."

  I skipped dinner and drinks with Arista and Lyle to stay in the boat. Arista came looking for me but upon spying Heather in our boat, scurried back to her table. Heather Reynolds was infamous, at least for today.

  "You know what I hate the most?" Heather said after a long period of silence. I thought she’d passed out. "All the lies it takes. Everybody asking about Bobby when they know he’s a homicidal maniac. Well, I’m glad that part’s finished." She slid me a look. "Murphy’s really mad at you. If you think you’ve got something going, think again."

  She was beginning to bug me. I was getting over feeling sorry for her in a big hurry. "Cotton lost a son today. I’m glad he’s got Murphy with him to offer support."

  "Murphy’s not his son," she reminded me tersely.

  "But he thinks of him that way."

  "Shit." She staggered up to a pair of wobbly legs and glared down at me. Binks, who’d had her head on my lap, climbed to her stubby legs. She stared right back at Heather. This must have seemed like a call to arms, because Heather jumped back into the fray as if we were in a full-fledged fight. "Murphy doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even like you. And Cotton thinks Murphy’s a pale imitation of Bobby. He thinks Bobby was everything. Bobby could do no wrong!"

  "Well . . . that’s been proven not to be the truth."

  "Bobby was Mr. Lake Chinook Athlete. Bobby gets everything. Always. Even when he’s missing. Even when he’s NOT. Cotton’s so destroyed now that he knows it’s really, really true that Bobby’s dead. Now that everybody knows. Now that there’s no reason to pretend any longer. Bobby was IT. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s dead. And the dead don’t inherit." She glared at me triumphantly.

  I wasn’t working for Tess any longer, but I couldn’t help myself. I said, "Sometimes the wives don’t either."

  Her face suffused with color. "If Murphy said he’s getting the island, he’s dead wrong. You can just dream all you want, but it ain’t gonna happen. Go be his slut. See what it gets you. You won’t get the island!"

  With that she climbed over us and onto the dock, teetering her way back to the bar. The crowd quickly moved in, buying her a drink, commiserating, waiting for juicy news.

  Arista and Lyle returned to the boat. "What happened?" Arista asked, all agog.

  "Heather needed another drink."

  "You know her? Oh, my God. She’s married to the guy who owns the island. The murderer’s dad. What did she say? Do you like her? What’s she like?"

  I shrugged.

  Lyle turned on the ignition and glanced in the direction of the bar. Heather was pressed against the rail, her white wine glass tipping precariously.

  "She can’t hold her liquor," he said succinctly.

  I woke the next morning in a state of mild confusion. It felt as if something momentous had happened. Oh, yes. Bobby Reynolds.

  Throwing on my running gear I took Binks out for a quick potty trip, then headed to the Nook. It was still hot. My thoughts were on Heather, but they kept slipping toward Murphy. I had the feeling she was making up some of the stuff. She was mad at me but she was really mad at Bobby. And Murphy, for being the surrogate son.

  I grimaced. I didn’t blame Murphy for talking to Cotton about my association with Tess. He liked Cotton and wanted to play fair. And even if they were all mad at me, there was nothing to do about it now.

  At the Nook I grabbed a cup of coffee and settled myself on a stool. Billy Leonard came in. "How’s it going?" I asked.

  "Good," he answered.

  "How are the hatchery fish?"

  "The kids?" He
waggled his hand back and forth to indicate so-so. "We got all this shit for college housing. You could go broke."

  "You’d give your kids every dime you own," I said.

  "Well, sure." He seemed surprised by my observation. This was an understood thing. "Hey, what do you think about that Coma Kid? Doesn’t remember anything but his bird."

  "Is he still in the hospital?"

  "I think he’s home. You know my youngest knows his friends pretty well. He said they were on the island."

  "Cotton’s island?"

  "Is there another?"

  "Well, how did the accident happen?" I asked. Grant Wemberly had clearly stated that the dogs weren’t chasing anyone that night.

  Billy shrugged. "I don’t know."

  "It happened about a week before the benefit," I said aloud, taxing my memory.

  "They don’t want to get in trouble. You know kids. His friends say he fell off the boat, but my son says the truth is he was running around that island and the dogs came out."

  "The dogs weren’t out that night."

  "Well, then I don’t know. The kid came racing around and jumped in the water, but he hit his head on something on the way down. They all hauled him into the boat. He was awake at first, then went out cold. Scared ’em all shitless. They cooked up the story that he hit his head on the boat, but the family called the police."

  "So, no one thinks they were on the island except your son says they were."

  "Guess so." Billy looked at me. "You think it matters?"

  "I’d like to talk to the Coma Kid," I said suddenly.

  "He doesn’t remember anything."

  "Actually, I think I’d like to start with his friends."

  "They won’t tell you nothin’ either, believe me. What do you think’s up?"

  He regarded me curiously. I lifted my palms in surrender. I wasn’t sure what I was fishing for, but anything about the island interested me these days. "Tell your son I’m not interested in getting anyone in trouble. I just want to hear what they have to say."

  "Is there money in it for him?" Billy laughed.

  "You’re hitting me where it hurts, but okay," I said dryly. "A little bit."

  "What’s the Coma Kid’s name again?" Billy asked.

  "Beats me. But the parakeet’s name is Buddy."

  I returned to my routine of process serving and on Thursday Cynthia called me ostensibly to go out for a drink but I think it had more to do with payback for the Woofers incident. She asked me to go with her to First Thursday which is a Portland tradition whereby art galleries mostly around the Pearl District stay open in the evening and the public browses through and around the area, sipping wine or champagne and generally soaking up culture. Cynthia, being the artiste she is, decided the venue as I would normally just stay home alone and either sleep or lament my empty larder or both.

  I’d cleaned up for the evening; I’d even combed my hair. In fact, in my black capris and a cowl-necked sleeveless shirt in an ugly shade of mustard that for some reason looks good on me, I was passable. When Cynthia picked me up she gave me a head-to-toe examination. She was in a steel gray jacket and pants with a white form-fitting top tied beneath her breasts in some kind of knot that made her look like a D-cup. Her spiky hair had grown an eensy bit and lay a little smoother against her scalp. Her blue eyes were incisive, however, and when she said, "Next time you’re in trouble, remember to call someone else," I could tell it was going to be a while before she forgave me.

  "Sorry for not mentioning the dog."

  "I’m seriously considering getting my car painted. There are nail marks all along the passenger side."

  This conversation may have digressed but we were on the block of the Black Swan gallery and I saw some of Cynthia’s watercolors inside. She merely snorted at the sight, as if she were perturbed about something.

  As if Tess knew I was outside her gallery, my cell phone started singing and I looked down to see she was the caller. "What does she want?" I murmured aloud. I’d brought Cynthia up-to-date on my exploits in the Bobby Reynolds case, sort of. Her interest was skewed as she was more interested in Tess’s gallery than the sordid events of her personal life. Cynthia was nothing if not financially and professionally self-motivated. A true capitalist. At least there were no hidden agendas.

  Cynthia’s eyes narrowed. "I want that gallery. Tess doesn’t know the first thing about art. The higher the price, the more valuable the piece, in her mind."

  "Isn’t that how a lot of people think?" I asked. Cynthia sure as hell knew how to make me gasp at the amount listed on one of those little white tags. I had to stop myself from screeching, "FOR THIS?" which I was wont to do at the beginning of our relationship. Now, I exhibit more self-control.

  "Yes." Cynthia’s mouth pursed. "But Tess is in a rare echelon, all by herself. She’s crass, Jane. I’m glad you’re getting some money out of this deal you’re in with her, but the sooner you’re done, the better."

  "I am done," I said as I clicked on. Luckily, I didn’t express this view as Tess’s first words were, "Have you learned anything?"

  I blinked. "About...?"

  "Cotton! Was Bobby living there? Had he been helping him?" Her voice was full of unshed tears.

  "I-I really couldn’t say."

  "I want you to find out. If this is Cotton’s fault, I hope he dies!"

  She hung up abruptly.

  "Well?" Cynthia asked, her attention on a marble sculpture of a penis in the window of the Century Gallery, about three blocks from the Black Swan.

  Upon closer inspection I saw it was a palm tree. "I don’t know. I don’t get why she’s still calling me. She blames Bobby’s father for everything, which is what mothers do, I guess." I thought about Cotton’s assertion that she’d known where Bobby was. I wondered if I dared confront her with that accusation.

  Cynthia was cruising through the front door of the gallery. "Tess is a piranha," she said over her shoulder. "Who’s the artist of the penis sculpture?" she demanded of the dour-faced, obesely fat gallery owner.

  "It’s a palm tree." His voice was acid.

  "Uh-huh. And I just got off the boat. It’s Marcos DeCroix, isn’t it?" She leaned into me. "We used to date when he was merely Mark Decker. All men are into their penises, but he was really into his. I must admit, it was pretty nice."

  I gave the palm tree a second look while the gallery owner turned on his heel and walked through an arch and disappeared. The palm tree curved a little to the left. I had an unbidden memory of Murphy standing in the shower, dripping wet, doing an impromptu dance whereby he jiggled from side to side, his penis slapping his thighs. He was laughing and happy.

  Three days later Bobby’s dead family had been found lined up in a row.

  "Think how much trouble those things cause," Cynthia said, admiring the sculpture.

  I grimaced. Our thoughts were obviously traveling far different paths. All I could currently see was that Bobby Reynolds had begat three children with that thing.

  When I got back to the cottage Binks was overjoyed to see me. I checked her water bowl and took her for an evening constitutional. This takes a lot of sniffing of plants and the ground. Her flat nose gets buried in the blades of grass.

  When we went back inside, my arms broke out in gooseflesh. It felt as if someone had been inside my place. I checked my belongings, concentrating so hard on how I’d left things it actually hurt my brain. Nothing seemed disturbed.

  I gazed at the dog who gazed right back up at me, head cocked. "Was someone here?"

  Binks paused, then looked toward the front door. Low in her throat came this grrrrr that sent my pulse into overdrive.

  I pulled the shades and rechecked the locks on the doors. A moment later I heard the same noise and realized she was directing her warning to the cover of a magazine that showed a man petting an Irish setter.

  So much for the bogeyman.

  Still, I rechecked the locks again and I allowed Binks to sleep on my bed.

&n
bsp; Chapter Twelve

  Dwayne stopped by the following morning as I was running through a thorough examination of my bungalow. I still hadn’t quite gotten over the idea that someone had been there. It seemed to me that the contents of my file on Bobby Reynolds had been shifted around but I couldn’t be sure. I had the sneaking suspicion that paranoia was my main enemy.

  "Why do you think someone’s been here?" Dwayne asked as he handed me the fax of Binkster’s medical records. I felt a moment of panic. I’d had the dog for a couple of weeks and I hadn’t taken it in for a shot yet. Dogs could contract rabies . . . and other terrible things... "You think she’s safe?" I asked anxiously.

  We both looked at Binks who gazed upward, head cocked as if waiting for me to ask her directly. "Check the dates on the boosters. The dog’s fine." Dwayne bent down to Binks, scratching and massaging her ears. She looked as if she might topple off her legs into a flop of ecstacy.

  "Maybe no one’s been here. I thought my file on Bobby had been touched, but there’s nothing in there but newspaper clippings and general knowledge." "Your imagination running away with you, darlin’?" "Probably," I admitted reluctantly. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete sissy. "These haven’t been the most fun-filled last few days."

  I was still in my sleeping gear, T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He wore faded denim cutoffs and a gray collarless shirt. I found myself telling him about Heather’s scene at Foster’s and then about Tess’s phone call. I finished with, "She seems to think Bobby was living at Cotton’s. She said if Bobby’s death is his fault, she hopes he dies."

  Dwayne shook his head. "Cotton couldn’t harbor Bobby for four years without someone finding out." "I know. Tess should know that, too." "Sounds like she was just railing at you." "Like I can do something about it now." I snorted. "Bobby’s definitely dead, so it’s all over."

  "She’s probably pissed ’cause she doesn’t have a way to get her hands on the money now." "True." "So, you’re off this gig. Want some other work?"