Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  "I thought you were coming over here for more work."

  "I’m too weak for this business."

  "Why are you talking to Tess?"

  "Geez, Dwayne. I don’t know. Maybe because her ex-husband just died."

  "Is she a personal friend now?"

  He had a point but I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted to talk to Tess for a variety of reasons, all selfish. This probably wasn’t the time for me to call. Wherever she was, she was going to be dealing with the upheaval of Cotton’s death, right on the heels of Bobby’s.

  "Are you still working on that insurance scam?" I asked, trying to put my mind on something else besides the Reynolds.

  "Nope, it’s finished. Turned over the information I had to the authorities." A faint smile of satisfaction crossed his face. "They’re done with their game for good. Headed for jail. The derelicts aren’t being tortured anymore. Vicious bastards."

  "Good." I was glad he’d helped bring about justice. I really wished I could jump on board wholeheartedly, embracing something else. "What’s the little thing you wanted me to do?"

  "Are you hungry?" he asked.

  I lifted my brows. "You have some food around here?"

  He laughed. "No. Let’s walk over to the village. I’ll fill you in there."

  It took a lot for me to get my legs in gear and walk with Dwayne to a little soup and sandwich shop about five blocks from his place and near the new shopping center known as Lakeview Village. The village is a block of two-story buildings centered around a parking structure hidden in its center. The fronts of the stores face the street and the structure is designed to look as if the four corners are four different buildings, the architecture ranging from Swiss chalet to northwest lodge.

  Dottie’s wasn’t actually in the village; it was across the street in a glass and brick facade building from the sixties that is bound to be torn down, rebuilt and house something new. It used to be Dottie’s Diner, but it sold out to one of those places where you take a plastic-laminated sheet with a checklist and mark off what you want on your sandwich and/or salad with a wax pen. The new owners shortened the name, and the food’s actually better now.

  I chose a tuna sandwich with sweet pickles, lettuce, onions and tomatoes. Dwayne was strictly roast beef with lots of horseradish. He had a beer and I worked on a diet cola. More restorative properties. While we munched he quizzed me further about my hospital visit with Cotton. I thought of the last time I’d seen the man and it made it hard to swallow.

  Dwayne eyed the quarter of my sandwich I’d left on my plate. "Gonna finish that, darlin’?"

  "Yes." I chomped it down just to make a point. I wasn’t weak. I was tough. I was not a hatchery fish.

  He pushed his plate aside and rested his arms on the table. I could tell he was thinking about what he was going to say which was unusual because with me, Dwayne is blunt to the point of infuriating.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I’ve got a situation."

  "What kind of situation?"

  "My sister Angela sent Tracy here to get her away from a bad crowd."

  "How bad a crowd? She just left junior high. My experience is junior-high kids are all mean-spirited bitches, gawky nerds or obsessive jocks hoping to make the high school team. They’re all bad."

  "There’s this older boy who was hanging around the school. He kept waiting around for Tracy when class got out. Started walking her home from school and she got home later and later."

  "How much older?"

  "Angela was vague on that. Then summer came and Angela thought it might all go away, but she’s caught Tracy in some lies."

  "Angela hasn’t met this kid?"

  Dwayne shook his head. "He stays just out of range, just out of sight. But Angela found a couple of joints in Tracy’s backpack. Tracy swore it was some other kid’s and she’d forgotten about them. Said she’d hidden them for a friend so that he didn’t get in trouble, then she forgot about them. She claims she hasn’t used the backpack since school. Maybe it’s the truth, maybe not."

  I thought of Tracy, the way she turned on for male attention. "Where’s Tracy’s father in all this?"

  "A workaholic. He’s never paid much attention to her." Dwayne grimaced. "However, my sister’s made Tracy her life project. Every class, every opportunity, anything she wants. She’s tried to be Tracy’s best friend."

  "Sounds like Tracy’s rebelling."

  "Tracy’s always been interested in acting. She’s been the center of attention all her life and intends to stay that way. So Angela sent her to this acting camp. I figured I could handle her for a couple of weeks." He shrugged. "It’s been okay. But I saw a kid the other day, waiting outside the Chinook Center. Tracy came out, took one look at him and started to wave, then she saw me and ignored him. I asked about him, but she said he was just someone from class. He looks older."

  I sighed. "Sounds like you want me to scope out the junior-high crowd." I’d expected Dwayne to give me a real job. I know, I know. All I’ve done is bitch and moan and wring my hands over the idea of becoming an information specialist, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear how perfect I’d be for the job.

  "I want you to go to the performance. See if he shows up."

  "And if he does?"

  "Try to gauge how much of a threat he is."

  "Give me a ballpark on how much older you think he is."

  "I didn’t really get a good look at him. Eighteen or nineteen. He has Elvis sideburns."

  "Ugh." I’m not a fan of facial hair. Watch just one guy leave half his meal within his beard’s whorls and coils and it’s over forever. "Whatever the case, he’s way too old for Tracy." I tried to picture myself lurking in the background while Tracy and this mystery man sought to get together. "What about Angela? Is she going to the performance?"

  "That’s another problem." It was Dwayne’s turn to sigh. "I told her not to freak out but she’s just waiting to. She wants this kid arrested, even though, so far, there’s no crime."

  "But you both think he’s followed a fourteen-year-old from Seattle to Lake Chinook."

  Dwayne’s expression was hard. "That’s what Angela says. Anyway, Tracy’s too young."

  "And he has to know her age because he was hanging around the junior high."

  "Yep."

  I grimaced, not liking it. And there was the matter of the dope. If not his, then whose? I didn’t want to say so, but I thought there was a whole lot more to the story than Tracy was giving out. Yes, she was only fourteen . . . going on thirty.

  "Basically what you’re telling me is that this is a personal matter," I said, balling up the remains of my sandwich wrap and tossing it in the trash. "You don’t have any real work for me. You just want me to quit obsessing about the Reynolds case."

  "I’m going to pay you, darlin’."

  "Well, of course you are." Like that was ever an issue. "Okay, he’s got Elvis sideburns. Anything else?"

  "Pants that barely stay on. Attitude."

  Sounded like some of my last few dates.

  "Angela said she saw piercings. There’s bound to be tattoos."

  "So, I’ll hang around the performance. See if this guy shows. Call you if I do. Anything else?"

  "Try to keep my sister from making an ass out of herself. If she spots him, she’ll go crazy."

  I had a feeling Dwayne had turned this over to me simply because he didn’t want to be involved. Who could blame him. I didn’t want to be involved. But there was money to be earned.

  I gave myself an internal check. I was over my shock. I just hadn’t wanted to believe Cotton was really gone. It seemed so wrong. But maybe something like this, where I could focus on the fact that this guy was a baddie and needed to be removed from Tracy’s life would be a form of therapy for me. No second-guessing. No wondering who was good and who wasn’t. "Okay, I’ll look for Elvis. I’ll call you if I see him."

  "If he shows, I’ll follow him. I won’t be far from the center."

&nb
sp; "And when you find out where he goes...?"

  "I’m going to have a serious talk with the man." Dwayne faintly stressed the word talk and I was glad I wasn’t the one he was gunning for.

  "I’ll do it on one condition: stop razzing me about the Reynolds case. I’m not looking for money on that one. I’m looking for answers."

  "I prefer to look for both."

  "Dwayne..." I warned.

  He lifted his hands in surrender. "Go home and put something better on. Believe it or not, the women dress for these arty events."

  "I don’t have anything better." I wanted to be offended but just didn’t have the energy.

  "Buy something."

  Like, oh, sure. I had disposable income enough to treat myself to a shopping spree. "I’ll make sure I look the part."

  It was Friday night, hot as Hades and I was wearing an aqua camisole over a black skirt short enough to see France, as they say. I’d twisted my hair into a clip and left a few tendrils down my neck. Sandals? Yes. I’d pulled out my trusty black, strappy ones. The camisole I’d bought a few months ago to go under a black jacket. More of a Cynthia look than a Jane Kelly. The price of it had made me gasp, especially since it was basically a thin piece of lingerie. But hey, it was what was in all the magazines, so I figured I had to pay to be on the cutting edge of fashion. Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

  Binkster watched me dress with a definite lack of interest. If I wasn’t in the kitchen, hanging on the refrigerator door, wondering if food might somehow materialize, I wasn’t nearly as exciting.

  I expected Murphy to call back with more information, but when that didn’t happen I phoned him-and ran into his voice mail. I left him a message, saying if he needed anything to call. After I hung up I was kind of pissed with myself. Had I sounded needy? God, I hoped not. We were doing that "are we or aren’t we" dance about whether we were "together." I didn’t want to screw things up.

  I could picture him trying to comfort a wailing Heather, who I suspected was dividing her time between lusty grief and her all-purpose calculator, kept handy to tot up her potential inheritance. My cynical viewpoint couldn’t be dislodged. Cotton had known she’d married him for his money. It wasn’t anybody’s secret.

  Despite Dwayne’s warning to back off, I tried Tess again to no avail. As I drove myself to the Chinook Center for the Performing Arts-a lofty title for a one-time elementary school with bad heating and the possibility of asbestos inside every acoustic tile-I called Cynthia. I was desperate for information. She answered in a bored tone. I could tell she was driving.

  "Have you been to the Black Swan recently?" I asked. "I’m looking for Tess and she’s M.I.A."

  "I’m pretty sure Tess hasn’t been to the gallery." Cynthia turned the radio down so she could pay closer attention. "What’s going on?"

  "No one seems to be able to turn her up. Maybe she’ll surface when she hears about Cotton." I filled Cynthia in on the latest news.

  "Death’s haunting that family, huh? Wouldn’t it be weird if Tess were gone, too?"

  Her words stopped me. "Why do you say that?"

  "No reason...I’d just love to have her gallery. If you find her, feel her out about selling."

  "Yeah, right." I calmed down about Tess. She was lying low, that’s all.

  "I’m serious, Jane."

  "Well, after we discuss her son’s death and then her ex-husband’s, I’ll be sure to turn the conversation around to art."

  "Just put it out there. That’s all I’m saying."

  "And if you should hear anything about her? From the people at the gallery? Give me a call."

  I wondered about Tomas Lopez. His card was still at my bungalow, on the top of my television set, right where he’d left it. Now that Cotton was gone, should I reveal his theories about Tess to the authorities? My business with Tess was over, at least in my mind, but I felt this loyalty I couldn’t quite shake.

  The Chinook Center was covered with white lights-like Christmas in August, although it was always dressed this way, so to speak, with flashy bulbs surrounding every window casing, door and eave. I parked in the back lot and headed toward the rear entrance. Dwayne hadn’t been kidding about the attire. These people looked like they were ready to accept an Oscar. As classy as I looked, I was once again underdressed. Sheesh.

  I bought a ticket-six dollars-and vowed to write up a report for Dwayne. He’d said clients love hard copy. Well, fine. I was going to bill him with the best of them.

  My seat was to the back of the auditorium, one of about two hundred squeezed into a semicircle around a stage that was lower than the audience. I was lucky enough to be only one seat from the aisle. It was amazing there were so many people eager for an amateur performance.

  The lights went down and then the acting coach, one Mr. Lemur, who wore a striped tie, let us all know that yes, it was in honor of the lemurs. Laughter and warm looks from the audience. I realized I was in a room full of parents, anticipating the entrance of their little Johnny or Amanda or Brian, budding actors and stars, one and all.

  My eyes scanned the audience as the groups came out by age level with Mr. Lemur right in the midst of it, leaping around and clowning it up. The littlest kids sucked their thumbs and looked alarmed. Older ones tried to imitate him. He hammed it up mercilessly. It was the Mr. Lemur Show, folks.

  There was an intermission. I headed to the ladies’ room, then wandered around, eyeing the sea of soccer/stage moms. I considered which of the women could be Angela, Tracy’s mother. I narrowed the list down to three attractive blondes. Dwayne’s hair was darker than theirs but he had that sun and country manner that, though I suspected was largely an affectation, definitely worked for him. The three ladies I zeroed in on were athletic and wiry. One had a terrible braying laugh, so I nixed her immediately. Number two seemed sort of silent and brooding. If my pre-teen was as obnoxious as Tracy and was flirting with a nineteen-year-old bad ass, I might be that way myself. The third one seemed distracted. She opened her cell phone and spoke to someone about an upcoming gourmet club dinner. I settled on number two.

  We all traipsed back into the auditorium but I hung back. Maybe Angela was just paranoid and merely thought her sweet, little girl was being wooed by the bogeyman. Maybe there was no supposed Romeo. Tracy’s attitude was enough to cause migraines of worry for any parent. I could see where it might be a by-product of parental terror to see danger everywhere.

  I couldn’t make myself go back inside. I’d had more than my share of amateur hour. Instead I headed into the darkened evening, stepping onto the rear wooden porch where a small group of smokers were stubbing out the last of their cigarettes.

  I inhaled the secondhand smoke but tonight it did nothing for me. Just smelled dirty. I walked from beneath the protective overhang to an open side of the entrance and gazed skyward. The last bit of light streaked the horizon and stars were faint in a dark cobalt sky.

  I was facing the back parking lot and I don’t know how long I stood there. A few minutes, maybe, while my restless mind worried thoughts of Bobby and Cotton and who would inherit and what was really at stake. I wanted to talk to Murphy. Hell, I wanted to see him and wrap myself close to him.

  A car door cracked open and the interior light came on. A young man with dark hair and Elvis sideburns stepped from the vehicle and lit a cigarette. From the distance I wasn’t completely sure, but if the top of his scraggly head of hair topped five foot six I’d be surprised. I had to be at least an inch taller. Still, his body shape was compact and tough. The vapor lights glinted on his face. I suspected there might be an eyebrow piercing.

  Though I was a hundred feet away and shrouded in semidarkness, I pretended to search for something in my purse. My hand closed around my cell phone and I snatched it up and dialed Dwayne. He answered on the first ring. "Hey there," I said, all bright and chatty. "I’ve been thinking about our gourmet club." There was silence on the other end. Taking a cue from potential sister number three I went on, "You know, we t
alked about the fruit torte but I just love, love, love creme brulee. I’m so glad you bought me a torch for my birthday. I love those. Can’t wait to carmelize the top of the custard. You might want to help."

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Elvis head up the stairs. He was only about thirty feet from me now, so I wandered to the farthest point of the deck.

  "Is he there?" Dwayne asked.

  "Uh-huh. Oh, don’t say no. You carmelize custard with me and there’s no telling what I’ll do for you."

  "Are you still at the Chinook Center?"

  "Stepped outside. I’ve just got my mind on this dinner we’re working on together."

  "I’m on my way." He clicked off.

  I, however, was kind of into my imaginary meal and my fabulous creme brulee, although in reality if it doesn’t say "heat and serve" I’m pretty much a lost cause. "I think I’ll serve it with fresh raspberries," I chatted on. "Lucky it’s early August so they’re still available. And I could really go for some champagne. Maybe I’ll bring a bottle."

  I turned around, cell phone still at my ear. Elvis hadn’t gone inside. He was standing by the door, looking through their glass panels into the reception area of the center. I got a good hard look at him. Yeah, he had the sideburns but my gut feeling was that he wasn’t that old. Just an early hair grower. I put him at sixteen. Maybe seventeen.

  He turned and stared right at me. I doubled my efforts as Suzie Homemaker. "What’s Connie bringing? I’m so glad she didn’t choose the entree this time. That baked ziti she brought was so dry I thought I’d choke!"

  Down the porch by the handicap ramp was a side door to the auditorium, locked from the outside, used only as another exit after the performances. I saw it crack open and lo and behold, sweet, little Tracy stepped into the night. I averted my head, but she didn’t even glance my way. One look at Elvis and she was all over him, tilting her head and looking up at him with her smoky eyes.

  "Okay, bye, then," I said in a chirpy voice unlike myself, effectively ending my "call." I gave them my back and moved down the steps, sweating like the proverbial pig. I turned the first corner and tripped, just catching myself. I was damn lucky I didn’t twist my ankle or worse. My strappy sandals weren’t great surveillance gear, and the sidewalk was a roller coaster of broken cement, pushed up by the roots of a massive Douglas fir. Another quirk of Lake Chinook. Can’t cut the trees. The whole damn city is under a wreath of firs but city ordinance only allows homeowners to take one down a year and only if it’s not a really big one. The tree police were ever vigilant and nasty. Ogilvy, my landlord, is in constant battle with them. His answer is to "park" his trees, denuding them of all branches right to their tippy-tops. This sounds a lot uglier than it really is. With parked trees you actually get some sunlight. Because of his efforts, I reap the benefits on my back deck. I also contend with far less fir needles than my neighbors whose roofs are carpeted with them.