by Nancy Bush
"Do you think you’d recognize his voice again, if you heard it?"
"Hell, no! He was just yelling. I could never pick it out. Uh-uh! I wouldn’t. No way!" Terror filled his eyes. "I’m just telling you this ’cause Kurt said you were okay. You have a dog and you wouldn’t turn me in. But I won’t tell anybody else, and if you tell ’em I told you, I’ll say you’re lying. I will!"
"Relax. I’m not really investigating this case. I don’t know if what you saw means anything anyway."
"I mean it."
"I know you do."
Jesse pressed the knuckles of one hand to his lips, his eyes on Buddy again. After a long moment, he said, "They say the killer guy was murdered. Do you think...it happened that night?"
I thought it was a damn good bet, but I said offhand, "I don’t think anyone knows. Probably not."
"You think they killed him ’cause he killed his family?"
I shook my head and shrugged. I thought it sounded a lot like they killed him over the island. I didn’t say so to Jesse, but I thought the terms of Cotton’s will just became a hell of a lot more interesting.
I didn’t go into the main salon where Jerome Neusmeyer was presenting the last will and testament of Clement Reynolds, but I did go to the island because Murphy insisted. I wore a black skirt, this one a little longer than the one I’d had on Friday, and a dark lavender blouse that I absolutely detested as it had way too many frills and was a misguided gift from my mother so I hadn’t been able to throw it out. Yet.
I stood near the pool and gazed beyond to the green waters of the lake. Trolling near the property was the cleanup barge, a watercraft operated by mostly teenagers for a summer job which cleared debris from the lake. Idly, I watched it move out of sight along the bank. Other people would be joining us in about an hour, post will-reading. Then we could all watch as Heather poured Cotton Reynolds into Lake Chinook.
I thought about the last time I’d seen Cotton on the island. Then, he’d been trying to convince me that Bobby was the one and only, the good son, innocent of all charges. Later, on his deathbed as it turned out, he’d taken a different tack entirely.
Murphy had moved in with me Saturday night. He’d displaced The Binkster who, before his arrival, had slowly inched her way from her bed and into mine. I’d stopped shooing her out, but Murphy’s arrival had shoved her into the living room where she whined piteously. Luckily, a little carnal knowledge between Murphy and myself had kept me from caring too much. Hey, how bad was the sofa really, anyway?
Tess had managed to show up for this occasion. She was in a dark blue suit with a narrow skirt and short jacket. Her blond hair had been cut and coiffed and her nails done a faint shade of puce. She looked as hard and brittle as glass. I’d steered clear of Neusmeyer so I hadn’t been able to speak to her. It was just as well. One look my way and her blue eyes narrowed. We really didn’t have a lot left to say to each other.
Murphy couldn’t understand my aversion to being with the others while the will was read, but I held firm. I’d slicked my hair into a very tight, librarian-type bun, sprayed the hell out of it, then placed a pair of sunglasses firmly on my nose. I didn’t think Neusmeyer would tumble to whom I was, given the old lady, feminine blouse and sensible shoes, but I didn’t want to take the chance. I really did not want to have to make half-assed explanations should the issue of Ronnie come up and ruin the solemn tenor of the day.
There were several surprise attendees. A woman who reminded me a lot of Tess came in at the last moment, dabbing her eyes with an embroidered hankie. She wore a black sheath and a hat with a net. Very forties. Very chic. I learned from Murphy’s surprised intake of breath that she was Dolly Smathers, Cotton’s paramour after his divorce from Tess. A woman hated equally by both Tess and Heather. Upon seeing her, both Tess and Heather stiffened like mannequins.
The other surprise beneficiaries appeared to be George and Ruth Monroe. The lot of them were ensconced inside the house, listening to their bequeathments.
I strolled over to the garage and looked around. The grounds were groomed and trimmed, the patio swept. Grant Wemberly in action. I walked in the direction Jesse had indicated and found the little jog of the trail. I stood on that jog and looked toward the house and garage, the angle I believed Jesse had been positioned. My view was obscured by Douglas firs, naturally, but I could see slices of grounds and house between the trees. If Bobby and his combatant were standing away from the garage, Jesse would have been able to see and hear most of what was happening. If they were standing closer to the garage, which I expected our mystery man had been, it would have been more difficult.
I’d been wrestling with the idea that I should tell someone what Jesse had told me. But who? Dwayne? I had yet to stop by and see him, mainly because I was so involved with Murphy. Murphy? Nah...He was focused on getting through this ordeal today and I didn’t want to muddy the waters with information that would probably only depress or anger him. Tomas Lopez? I shied away from going to the authorities, especially since Jesse had said in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t back me up. Booth? Now, Booth was a possibility. He was an officer of the law, but he was also my brother. Hypothetically, I could give him what I’d learned and he might be able to make a judgment call on it that we could both live with. However, Booth was unpredictable. More than once when I’d brought him a problem, he’d gone all "big brother" on me and made me sorry I’d ever said anything to him.
So, to date, I was sitting on that information. I had a theory I applied to: the area is mine. After all, it was all about real estate, wasn’t it? Real estate agents had been circling the island all summer, waiting for a chance to pounce. Paula Shepherd and her sidekick, Brad, were especially obnoxious. However, it was Craig Cuddahy where I’d put my money. He was the developer. He was the one who wanted to subdivide. He was the one who’d gone a few rounds with Cotton over it. I wasn’t sure what Paula’s plan was, but Craig seemed the more likely suspect. He wanted the island. He’d stayed around all summer in the hopes of gaining it. I believed he would make a deal with the devil to gain control of it.
Or maybe just a deal with whomever inherited it.
Which meant that Craig Cuddahy had faced off with Bobby Reynolds. Had snarled at him that the area was his. Had... killed him?
I grimaced, trying to picture that. I already knew Cuddahy was quick with his fists, but even Heather had said that was after Cotton took a poke at him first. So, what had happened? Had he knocked Bobby unconscious, taken him out in a boat and then sunk him? To gain control of the property? How? He couldn’t have expected Cotton to die. I mean, sure, we all heard he was ill, but death is coy. It isn’t something that can be predicted with any accuracy. I did not for a minute believe Cotton had been murdered by Craig Cuddahy or anyone else.
So, how had Cuddahy felt the island was his? Why would he murder Bobby for it?
Something was off here. A piece missing. I felt like I was close to the answer but it was eluding me, just out of reach.
I walked back to the garage and scanned the area, trying to picture the scene as it had been that night. If Bobby were standing farther from the garage, more toward the grounds and patio, then Craig would have been hidden from Jesse’s view. My gaze traveled over the rhododendrons, now bereft of flowers, and the hydrangeas, still in luscious full bloom. I frowned. Something looked different from when I was here before.
I cast my mind back to that unexpected meeting with Grant Wemberly the day of the benefit. Grant had alluded that rogue animals-read Bobby Reynolds, for that-should be put down once and for all. Did Grant feel this property was his? Would he take out Bobby to simply be rid of a really bad egg? To make it easier for Cotton to move on?
Or, to die?
Who was inheriting the island?
I sat down on a bench next to the pool and decided I would know soon enough. Other mourners began gathering and we made a quiet group.
Twenty minutes later, people began emerging from the main house.
Murphy brought up the rear. I stood and waited for him. I wondered how long I could keep from blurting out the question.
Murphy saw me and headed my way. Jerome Neusmeyer was listening hard to something Heather was saying, ogling the front of her decolletage. Heather was in dark gray, but it was sexy as hell. She had another big flower, this one dusky yellow and real, a rose, pinned on the lapel of her bolero. The bolero buttoned beneath her breasts, enhancing their perky appearance. Neusmeyer was lost in them, so I was safe.
Murphy’s face was pinched. "What happened?" I asked.
"Cotton wrote the will after Bobby’s death. Tess, Owen and Dolly each got cash settlements. So did the Monroes, who looked shell-shocked by the amount. He left me his cars, remembering that Mustang I used to have."
I nodded. I had my own vivid memories of that convertible.
His gaze traveled to the garage, his mouth twisting with emotion. "Heather got the island."
"Heather?"
"All his property. He has a rental house in Sellwood."
"Oh, that’s right. He bought it from Owen."
"Heather’ll sell to Cuddahy." Murphy was darkly positive. "She practically squealed with delight when she heard." I gazed at him in disbelief. "Oh, she didn’t make a sound, but that look on her face. She was bursting."
I glanced over at her. Her body language said she was happy. Her face was wreathed in smiles, but when she saw me looking she sobered immediately.
"She’s bending Neusmeyer’s ear about it now," Murphy went on. "She wants to unload the property as soon as possible. It’s the last thing Cotton would have wanted."
"Then he shouldn’t have left it to her."
"Who was he going to leave it to, then?" Murphy demanded. "There wasn’t anyone else."
There was you
, I thought. But then immediately I reminded myself that Murphy would have wanted neither the money nor the burden from the property. Cotton knew that.
There wasn’t a lot of time for further conversation as our small group banded together near the water’s edge. I kept an eye on the silver urn which contained Cotton’s remains. I had this fear the wind might throw the ashes back on me. Sorry, I just didn’t think I could take that. To protect myself, I stood a little to the right and behind Murphy. Jerome Neusmeyer glanced around, his gaze briefly touching on me, but I kept my vision straight ahead, hidden behind my shades, and his glance passed over me.
Heather stood up and after a cold glance thrown in first Tess’s, then Dolly’s, direction, she began a stilted little speech. Her goggly blue eyes teared over. I glanced at Tess whose mouth was a grim line, then at Dolly, whose mouth appeared just as grim but who kept dabbing at her eyes. A frisky little breeze played havoc with our hemlines and just for a moment Heather’s black skirt flipped skyward, revealing a very naughty black lace thong.
Owen coughed into his fist. I felt a new kinship with him. Murphy’s hand held mine and squeezed. Heather smoothed her skirt, gave Murphy and myself the old fish eye, then continued on. With Owen’s help, she then tipped the silver urn upside down over Lake Chinook. Bits of ash rode on the breeze. I held my breath, but the bulk of Cotton floated on, then sank into the water.
I vowed solemnly to myself, I will never swim in Lake Chinook again.
"I’m going to miss you, Daddy," Heather said, a little throb in her voice.
I gotta be honest. It kind of choked me up.
I thought Murphy was going to crush the bones in my hand, but he finally relented, practically whirling me around in his haste to get away. I was all for it. We were halfway up the slate pathway to the house when we encountered a late arrival.
Craig Cuddahy, an appropriately sober expression on his countenance, greeted Murphy and me with appropriately sober words of regret. Murphy let go of me for a moment, getting ready for God knew what. Cuddahy took the opportunity to give Murphy’s hand the double-clasp, which I guess declared he really meant what he said.
"Cotton was one of a kind," Craig said.
"Yes, he was." Murphy was coiled with tension.
I slipped my arm through Murphy’s, gently nudging him. Now was really not the time for this. But Murphy held firm.
With Murphy glaring daggers at him, Cuddahy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He glanced around for reinforcements. Heather was still in her role as grieving widow and didn’t notice. But Owen was bearing down on us as if he had something to say.
He did. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded of Cuddahy. "Get your tail between your legs and vamoose before I call the dogs on you."
I nervously glanced toward the garage which I realized belatedly had been remarkably silent today.
"Heather asked me to come," he answered, clearing his throat.
"Well, you’re getting told by Owen to leave," Owen said.
There was something kind of scary about Owen. Grief had made him reckless. He had this "I don’t have any reason not to kill you" attitude. And then there was that resemblance to Bobby. I was glad I wasn’t standing in Craig’s shoes.
Murphy’s narrowed eyes switched to Owen. Owen caught his glance and silently stuck out his hand. They shook peremptorily. Something between them. A kind of brotherhood forged by the loss of Owen’s half-brother, Murphy’s best friend.
And they both loved and respected Cotton.
"You’re a jackal, Cuddahy. Go pick someone else’s bones until we’ve all left. Then you want to see Heather? Have at her."
"I’ll wait outside the gate."
"Wait in the next county," Owen suggested.
Craig tried to look past us, hoping for Heather’s rescue. She was in a tense, private conversation with Dolly Smathers and her attention was riveted. She looked, in fact, about to fall over. Dolly actually put out a hand to steady her. I would have given a lot to know what they were talking about.
In the far distance I saw the cleaning barge heading back in the direction of its mother dock, the Lake Corporation’s marina and offices. In the near distance we were being approached by Tess whose gaze was ice when it touched on me. Jerome Neusmeyer was hurrying toward us, checking his watch.
"We’ve gotta go," I told Murphy.
Owen’s eyes were on me. "Thanks for driving me home the other night."
"No problem."
"I was going to stop by and thank you personally. You’re renting from Ogilvy, aren’t you?"
I must have looked alarmed at his knowledge, but he shrugged it off. "I’ve been trying to acquire a bunch of his properties, but Ogilvy’s something else. Can’t get him to sell."
With Tess glaring at me and Neusmeyer getting too close, I tugged more urgently on Murphy’s arm. Abruptly, he turned and we walked quickly to his SUV which was parked beside Owen’s BMW. We didn’t say much on the ride home. I was lost in thought and I guess Murphy was, too.
As I unlocked my door I got that same feeling that someone had been in my place. But no...it was just the unfamiliarity of seeing all Murphy’s things scattered around.
He brushed past me to one of his bags, tossed casually on my couch.
"Guess we’ll have to find room in one of my closets," I said. "I wonder if-" My thought died on the vine.
Murphy had pulled a Ziploc baggie from the interior of his sports bag. Inside was a steely blue handgun.
Chapter Eighteen
Murphy kept digging in his bag as if nothing strange had just occurred. At my sudden silence he looked up.
"What’s with the gun?" I asked.
He glanced at it. "I had it shipped here from Santa Fe."
"Why do you have a gun at all? You said you weren’t in private investigation anymore."
"I said I wasn’t much," he corrected. "I thought I wanted out. I’m sick of all that’s happened here. It’s too close." He gestured around himself to encompass all of Lake Chinook. "But I’ve got a thriving business in Santa Fe. We could work together, you and me. Actually, Jane, you’re not half bad."
"You called me an amateur."
For some reason this wasn’t quite my ideal vision of our life together in Santa Fe. Private investigation equaled Lake Chinook and Dwayne. Love, hearts and roses equaled Santa Fe and Murphy.
"I didn’t say you were perfect, I said you weren’t half bad."
"Why did you bring the gun at all?"
"I wanted to have it nearby, just in case."
Just in case what?
I asked slowly, "When Cotton called you to come to Lake Chinook, did he give you a reason? I mean, besides just coming for a visit?"
"What are you getting at?"
"Just the timing, I guess. I mean, Bobby showed up about the same time. I thought..."
"That Cotton was upset that Bobby was back and he wanted me to do something about it for him?" Murphy straightened.
Well ...yeah... that was kind of where I was headed.
"For God’s sake, Jane. Give it a rest!"
I shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry."
We stared at each other for a couple of seconds, then he shook his head and finished reorganizing his bag. He placed the gun, still in its baggie, on the television set.
I changed the subject. "Did you look at the cars Cotton left you?"
"No, I’ll go later. The dogs were there. Tranquilized, because they’ve been acting strange ever since Cotton died. They know something’s wrong. I don’t know what Heather will do with them."
I suddenly worried for the Dobermans. "What about Grant Wemberly?"
Murphy gave me a long look. "How do you know Grant?"
"I only met him once. The day of the benefit. He seemed to care about the dogs quite a bit. Maybe Heather will give them to him." I paused. "He’s going to be out of a job if Heather sells."
"He’s already out of a job. Quit the day Cotton died."
"Quit?" I was surprised.
"All I know is, we’re not taking the dogs to Santa Fe. No animals at all."
"None?" My eyes searched for The Binkster who was flopped on her little bed, eyes closed, breathing regularly, except for the occasional snort or two.
Murphy’s gaze followed mine. "You’re seriously attached to that dog? I thought it was just a temporary situation."
