Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  "Have you got something?" I wasn’t sure I was happy about that or not. "Do I have to get licensed?"

  "You’re not advertising yourself as a private investigator. You just do research for people. You don’t carry a gun." "God, no."

  "Then, don’t worry about it yet." "Are you licensed?" "Of course." He looked at me as if I were dense, which I was feeling that I was.

  "You think I want to get the police all over my ass?" "Well, you just said that I don’t need to be." "Yet, Jane. Yet."

  My stomach growled. Last night’s meal with Cynthia had been a while. I was feeling ornery and out of sorts. "I wish I felt better about all this. I keep thinking you’re wrong about me. I’m not cut out for this stuff."

  Dwayne half-smiled. "Well, good God. Could you be closer to this one if you tried?"

  He was right. I’d met Bobby. He was Murphy’s best friend. The reason I’d been chosen by Tess was because of my relationship with both of them. Marta had just been the tool used to haul me in.

  Dwayne told me to stop by his cabana later and I grunted some kind of agreement. Was I through with the Reynolds case? Of course I was. What else was there to do?

  I came back from my run to find an ominous black vehicle parked in my driveway. My paranoia over the night before reasserted itself and my already labored breathing turned fast and gulping. There was an official seal on the side of the car, and those red and blue lights in the back window, and one of those bright riot lights by the outside mirror no cop car can be without.

  The police. The fuzz. The coppers! What the hell did they want? My heart thumped rapidly. Sure, my brother was a police officer but it didn’t stop me from fearing the authorities. Having Officer Friendly come into my third-grade classroom hadn’t helped either. By the time I hit high school I knew to avoid the police at all costs. When you’re involved with the authorities it’s just bad news. I wanted to stay under the radar. Period.

  A man stepped from the driver’s side as I waited, panting, filled with dread.

  "Jane Kelly?" he asked.

  Damn. This was no mistake. I nodded cautiously.

  He was Hispanic with liquid brown eyes, faintly curling black hair and nut brown skin I would die for. "I’m Tomas Lopez." He pronounced his name Toe-moss, stressing the moss. I’m sure I would have called him Thomas, if I’d read it somewhere. Otherwise, he had no discernible accent.

  "Uh-huh."

  "I’m the investigating officer in the Reynolds murders for Clackamas County."

  My mouth formed an ‘O’. "But the murders took place in Tillamook."

  He nodded. "And now a body has turned up in our county." He smiled faintly, at the irony of it all, I supposed. His teeth were very white and straight. "Mr. Reynolds suggested we talk to you. He seemed to think you might be able to add to our information."

  "Cotton told you to talk to me? About Bobby’s death?" I felt a shiver of alarm. So Cotton had sicced the authorities on me. Well, thanks a lot.

  "This is just a follow-up," he assured me. "He seemed to think you might be able to add to our information."

  "Me? No. Hell, no." I paused. "Cotton told you to interview me?" I just couldn’t get over it. I was the least likely person to be involved. I barely knew anything!

  "He put your name on a list of people whom we might talk to."

  "Was I at the top?" I was growing angry which made me feel better. "Am I a ‘person of interest’?" I knew what that meant and didn’t like it. I felt trapped, submerged, certain they were going to clank the cuffs on me and haul me in for whatever trumped-up charge Cotton wanted to manufacture.

  "You’re a friend of Tim Murphy’s?"

  "Not anymore. My brother’s a police officer with the Portland police," I added for good measure. "Booth Kelly."

  He wrote that down on a little notepad, something to be added to the Jane Kelly file. My mind’s eye envisioned a thick manila file with papers stuffed in every which way. My permanent record.

  I said, "All I know is that Bobby Reynolds has been missing for four years and that he turned up in Lake Chinook a few days ago."

  "You were hired by his mother Tess Bradbury to find him?"

  My mouth went dry. I wondered if I needed a lawyer. I have a terrible fear of anyone in uniform. Sharona. She was a criminal defense lawyer, wasn’t she? "Yes...sort of."

  "Why did she think you could find him?"

  "Beats me. Truthfully, I felt like I was just taking her money."

  "Did she give you a place to start?"

  "She just wanted me to talk to Cotton. Find out if he knew anything."

  "Your impression was that she didn’t know where Bobby was?"

  "Absolutely."

  "And Cotton?"

  I drew a breath, collecting my thoughts. I didn’t want to lie to the man. I didn’t want to even talk to him. Finally, I said, "Look, I’m just on the periphery, here. I don’t think anyone could have hidden Bobby. It would come out. I really think Tess wanted me to learn as much as I could about Cotton’s money. He seems to be ill, and I think the vultures are circling. She was hoping for a piece of his estate, but now with Bobby gone..." I let that one ride.

  "Are you working for her now?"

  "No."

  He seemed to think that over. I couldn’t read his expression. The seconds ticked by and I began to feel antsy and even more anxious.

  "What was the cause of death?" I asked. "Drowning?"

  Lopez frowned. "You watch the news?"

  "Sometimes."

  "Bobby Reynolds’ body was weighted down with a heavy object. It slipped free and the body floated to the surface."

  I gulped. "It wasn’t an accident, then."

  "Evidence doesn’t support it."

  Murder... homicide...I wasn’t really surprised but it added a whole new spin on things. "Do his parents know?"

  Lopez nodded.

  I suddenly needed to sit down. I think I motioned him to follow me inside and then I ran through the door and sank onto the sofa. Binks jumped up beside me, then barked as Tomas Lopez stepped through the door.

  "Have a seat," I said in an unnatural voice. I felt odd inside. "Does Murphy know? Tim Murphy?"

  "I believe so. Is there anything else you’d like to add?"

  I turned my palms up. "I’m in the dark," I said. "No matter what Cotton thinks."

  He hesitated a moment, then said, "Mr. Reynolds is upset, and I don’t think he’s thinking clearly. Call me, if you think you can help." He left a card on the top of the television. "Cute dog."

  "Thanks."

  I heard his car back out of the driveway but I stayed on the couch. Maybe I should chuck it all. Leave town. Move to Santa Fe with Murphy.

  Did I love Murphy? No. I couldn’t be that stupid about love. Not anymore. I wanted to have sex with Murphy. That was it. There was a big distinction there.

  I pulled my cell phone from my board shorts as Binks began furiously pawing at my leg as if she were trying to dig to China. "What?" I asked her, scrolling through my address book. My finger stopped at Murphy.

  Binkster gazed up at me. "Bathroom?" I asked wearily. If this kept up, I was going to have to fence the yard and cut one of those rectangular doors into my back door. I was tired of being on her poop schedule.

  Except I wasn’t keeping the dog.

  I hesitated, my finger poised to punch Murphy’s number, when the phone suddenly began singing, surprising me into nearly dropping it. Scrambling to hang onto it, I managed to check the caller ID before the third ring. I didn’t recognize the number. Cautiously, I answered, "Jane Kelly."

  "You still want to meet the Coma Kid?" Billy Leonard asked without preamble.

  Did I? Was I still interested in the goings-on of the island? Thoughts of Murphy slipped into my deeper consciousness for which I suspected I should be grateful. I needed a distraction. "Can you swing it?"

  "You bet. A friend of his is at my house right now. He’s one of the kids in the boat. I’ll send him and B.J. over in our
boat. You at home?"

  "Yep."

  "Get ready for company."

  I was still in my running gear when B.J., Billy’s youngest son, maneuvered his boat into my boat slip with practiced ease. I have to admire anyone with docking skills as mine are limited at best. I’ve scared many a sunbather when my boat comes charging toward their docks. Dwayne doesn’t let me steer anymore and hey, I’d rather be chauffeured anyway.

  B.J. cut the engine, the hull gently kissing my dock as he jumped out and lashed the boat to the cleats.

  His passenger looked in his late-teens, with blond hair and a skinny torso. He didn’t seem all that thrilled to meet me. I invited them to the upper deck. They headed up the flagstones on my heels. I saw the newcomer throw me a quick look from beneath furrowed brows. Once on deck, so to speak, he leaned against the rail, arms crossed, thumbs up, doing his best to make his chest look bigger.

  "This is Kurt," B.J. introduced.

  "I’m Jane," I said. I would have extended a hand but I got the impression Kurt wasn’t willing to give up his pose.

  "Uh-huh."

  "I understand you and some friends were circling around the island the night your friend was hurt."

  "We weren’t circling." He eyed me warily, looking for the trap.

  Semantics. Jesus. "I’m not trying to bust your ass," I said, wondering if I should break into tougher language. Would swearing help? Make me more hip? Ass was good, though. You couldn’t turn on the television or radio without someone using it. I made a mental note to adopt ass more. "I just want to know if your friend was on the island. The caretaker there said the dogs weren’t out that night, so if he fell in the lake, like he was running from something else...maybe...?"

  "Why?"

  "Why?" I repeated.

  "Why d’ya wanna know?"

  Excellent question, Sherlock. "I don’t know," I admitted honestly. "Was he on the island?"

  After a moment, and a shared look between him and B.J., Kurt nodded briefly.

  "So... did he fall from the island? I know your story was that he hit his head against the boat, but was that strictly true?"

  "Strictly... no. But if someone asks me, like the cops or something, that’s what I’ll say."

  "That he cracked his head on the boat." Kurt nodded again, and I said, "You don’t want to admit your friend was on the island."

  "We weren’t supposed to be there."

  "I’m the last person who’s going to care. I just want to know what happened."

  Kurt stared at me, then the deck, then B.J., then the deck again. "I don’t know, okay? It was an accident."

  "Did anybody else go on the island?"

  "Just Jesse."

  "Jesse. Right," I repeated. "You guys dropped him off."

  "Yeah, he was gonna run around it, y’know? Like we always do?" I nodded encouragement. "And so we were all waitin’ for the dogs. Like where are they, y’know? They’re like always there barking and growling and throwing themselves at the fence. Scare ya shitless. But we always do it. It was Jesse’s turn, but he gets over the fence and he won’t move. He’s about crapping his shorts. He stayed right by the fence. Afraid they’d suddenly gonna jump at him."

  "I’d be staying by the fence, too."

  Phhhfff.

  He expelled air through his lips that said I was a wuss. "Well, we all kinda gave him shit, y’know? And so he finally takes off, runnin’ kinda slow and worried-like. We pulled away ’cause you don’t want to be just hangin’ there. The Lake Patrol could come by."

  "You pulled away in the boat," I clarified.

  "But then we couldn’t find him again. He’s somewhere back past the swimming pool, or somethin’. Then all of a sudden he’s on the other side of the island, by those trees that hang down real low? And he was hanging on one of the branches, but not like over the water, over the land. We started yellin’ at him and then he just fell down." Kurt swallowed hard at this point. "It was like slow motion."

  "He fell onto the ground?"

  Kurt nodded. "We jumped in and swam over and he kinda was lyin’ down on his side. Big gash in his head. Lots of blood. Fuck. We brought the boat over as close as we could and hauled him in. He was white as a ghost, but his eyes were open."

  "He didn’t say anything?"

  "No." Something about his answer made me question its veracity. "That’s what you told the police?" "That’s the truth." I met B.J.’s eyes. He looked away. Kurt added, "Jesse kinda came to for a minute, but he just was muttering. We didn’t tell anybody that ’cause he didn’t really say anything. We took him to his folks’."

  "What day was this?" "Friday." "The 17th?" "I guess." "Why didn’t Jesse come back to where you’d originally let him off ?" "Beats me. Stupid ass. He shoulda. That’s where we expected to pick him up." "Do you think something scared him?" "You said the dogs weren’t there." "Maybe something else?" Kurt frowned at me, totally at sea. "Like what?"

  B.J. said, "Yeah. Like what?"

  I shook my head. I had vague thoughts that didn’t have any foundation. I was wondering if Bobby Reynolds had been there that day. Somebody had dropped his body in Lake Chinook, so he must have come off somebody’s property. That was about the only way into the lake.

  "Is Jesse home from the hospital?" "Yeah, for a couple days." "Do you think he’d see me?" "What for?" "I’ve just got some questions about the island." "Are you writing a book?" Kurt asked suddenly. My initial instinct was to deny, but I saw that he was kind of excited by the idea. "I’m just taking notes right now," I demurred.

  "Cool."

  "Would you tell him about me?"

  He shrugged an assent, then looked down at Binkster who, fresh from a lengthy nap, was stretching her back legs as she came through the door to the deck. She trotted over to give Kurt a sniff. Kurt patted her then looked up at me with a huge smile. He tickled Binks’ ears and cooed at her and she circled between his legs. I get why pedophiles use puppies as a way to lure children to them. Sick brains can still see what works. Binks was my good-will ambassador. I’d just shot up a dozen points in Kurt’s biased teen eyes.

  "I’ll tell him," he said, to which Binks licked the back of his hand.

  The television report that night was full of speculation about Bobby Reynolds’ murder. I wonder sometimes where these reporters get off. I mean, sheesh. Look closely and it appears they’re salivating.

  But I learned a few things. The police had searched the island and found nothing to show that Bobby had been killed there. If there had been any physical evidence, however, it could have been washed away by the rain. Not that anyone was saying Cotton or Heather had anything to do with hiding or killing Bobby. Nossirree... Don’t want any lawsuits, thank you very much. The authorities were continuing their investigation into whoever killed Bobby, but were being mum about any leads. There was some discussion about where Bobby could have been all these years, speculation on the part of the reporters, and quite a few shots of the island from the bridge, but nothing more concrete than what Tomas Lopez had indicated: Bobby’s body had freed itself from whatever had weighted it down. There was an abrasion near his temple which appeared to have happened prior to his body being in the water. More speculation on what that meant, but from my point of view Bobby had been murdered. It didn’t matter whether he was struck on the head or drowned. Someone had done it deliberately.

  Whoever that someone might be was something to think about. Cotton? Would he kill his own son? For all the pain he’d caused, the embarrassment, the incredible disappointment? Or Heather? To clear out the competition for Cotton’s estate? With Bobby gone would she inherit? Or ...Tess? My mind shied from this one. I was no huge fan of Tess but I sensed in her a mother bear’s need to protect her cub. She’d wanted to find Bobby alive. And yes, possibly to insure her own route to the Reynolds money. But more probably just because she loved her son. Loved him fiercely. In an almost scary way, if my impressions were anything to go by. Over-mothering did more harm than good, as far as I cou
ld see.

  Or was there someone else who would want Bobby dead? Surely his wife’s family hated him for what he’d done. And yes, they were deeply devout people, but hadn’t more wars been started in the name of religion than any other cause? Wasn’t there something in the Bible about an eye for an eye?

  I thought of Murphy suddenly, of his contention that Cotton wanted to leave everything to him. But Murphy didn’t want any part of the money. That wasn’t playacting on his part. He was destroyed over Bobby’s death, as he was destroyed about finally realizing Bobby had cold-bloodedly murdered his family. Again, I was relieved to take Murphy off the list. I’d only added him because I wanted to think I was professional enough to include people I cared about. Who was I kidding? Professional? My emotions were all over the place when it came to Murphy. I wanted to just not be attracted to him. How much simpler my life would be!

  But back to Bobby Reynolds...Was there some other motive, somewhere? Something I was missing?

  "Real estate," I said thoughtfully.

  Every agent around wanted the island. Craig Cuddahy had gotten into a fistfight with Cotton. Yes, it was over his comments about Bobby and how Cotton needed to move on. But with Cuddahy, real estate was the underlying drive. He wanted to develop the island. Had Bobby somehow gotten in the way of that? Cuddahy had been in town weeks before the benefit. More than enough time for something to happen that would... Oh, shit. My mind leaped wildly ahead. Maybe Craig Cuddahy had actually seen Bobby, on the island or someplace else. And Cuddahy couldn’t have Bobby, the heir apparent, gumming up his plans. No way. Much easier to dispose of Bobby Reynolds once and for all than have the specter of his reappearance hanging over everyone. Then with Bobby disposed of, Cuddahy could put the full court press on Cotton to sell.

  I dialed Dwayne’s cell as fast as I could, reaching his voice mail. Lucky for me, I didn’t just blurt out all my theo-ries-although I really, really wanted to-which later saved me the embarrassment of wishing I could swallow my words. One thing about Dwayne: he hates snap judgments, opinions and theories. "Just do the work" is his motto. I know this about him, but I still want to be his "A" student.