by Nancy Bush
"It is." My heart felt weighted with lead. "The gal who brought her to me, Megan Adair, is a bartender at the Crock in downtown Portland. I’ve got her number. She said if I needed to find Binky a new home I could call her."
Murphy grunted. "Good idea." He kissed me on the cheek. "I’ll see ya later. I’ve got something to take care of."
If I’d been myself I might have asked what. As it was, all I could do was stare at the fawn-and-black creature lying so peacefully unaware on her fuzzy bed.
Tuesday morning I gave myself a punishing run to the Coffee Nook. I stepped inside, gasping for air. The day was hot and muggy. Odd weather for the West Coast, but it happens from time to time. I was dripping in sweat and had to head to the bathroom and hold a towel to my face for several minutes. This cannot be good for you.
I was feeling, well, weird. Murphy came back from wherever he went and we went to Dottie’s for a sandwich. I picked at mine, roast turkey on sourdough. Murphy seemed off his feed, too, eating only half of his corned beef on rye.
It was as if Murphy had a new lease on life. He chatted up the waitress in a way I found faintly annoying, then made plans for us to get moving, so to speak. He wanted me to call Ogilvy and cancel my bungalow. I told him that my rent was paid till September first, but Murphy wasn’t waiting that long. He pointed out that it was already the middle of August. A perfect time to leave. People would be wanting to get their kids in school, so they’d want the cottage by the first.
I couldn’t sleep the whole night. I lay in a frozen position, not wanting to bother Murphy, staring at the ceiling. I’d gotten ready for my run while he was still asleep. His gun still lay on my television set, right next to Lopez’s card. Shivering, I’d let myself outside into air as thick as molasses. Well, at least it felt that way to me. I fought my way to the Nook but it about killed me.
Billy Leonard was on his stool when I returned, red-faced but at least every pore wasn’t leaking fluid, from the bathroom. I sat down next to him.
"You ran here? In this weather?" he asked, incredulous.
"Yep."
He looked at me like, "it’s your funeral," but left it for the moment. "Hey, B.J. says you talked to the Coma Kid. Learn anything?"
"Not really. I’m through working on the Reynolds case."
"Yeah? The kid didn’t help you?"
I debated on telling Billy what Jesse had said about seeing Bobby, but I didn’t. I’d put in a call to Booth last night, wanting to hash things over with him, but his voice mail picked up. He was probably working. Now, I was wishing I hadn’t called at all.
"B.J. and his buddy Kurt were on the lake last night and they ran into some friends who run the cleanup barge? You know the one."
"I saw it yesterday."
"They were working around the island and hauled up pieces of roof slate. Said it must’ve fallen in sometime in the last few weeks ’cause they clean around the island on a schedule. They keep tabs on that island. It’s like a fascination for teenagers." He chuckled. "We used to try to steal beer when I was a teen. Out of the refrigerators people keep in their boathouses. Nobody used to lock anything."
"The paths are slate. And the house and garage roofs are slate. I saw an extra pile of roof slate by the garage."
"Somebody just off-loaded some into the water?"
"The regular maintenance man quit last week after Cotton died. Maybe the new people tossed them into the water."
"Don’t let the City of Lake Chinook and the Lake Corp. know. You know how much they fine developers for stirring up the water? A small fortune. You can hardly afford to build anything anymore. And don’t even think about taking down a tree." He left some money on the counter, said good-bye to Julie and me, and headed out the door.
To my surprise and delight the door opened again and Lorraine Bluebell sailed inside. She wore a black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse with gold buttons marching down its front. Her purse was about as big a monster as I’d ever seen. Black and white with a gold clasp and a little gold chain looping across the front.
"Jane!" she called, equally glad to see me.
"I’ve been thinking about you," I said. "You know, the island belongs to Heather now."
"Does it?" She nodded as if she weren’t surprised. "A shame about Cotton."
"I think she’s selling to Craig Cuddahy."
"Humph." Lorraine shook her head. The swatch of white hair across her bangs matched her outfit. "Don’t count Paula Shepherd out. She’s a barracuda."
"From what I understand, it’s practically a done deal."
"Well, then, I’m sorry. I would like to keep the island as one property."
We chatted further and then she got her double vanilla latte and headed out. I realized I felt the exact same way. I wanted the island to remain one piece.
But then why did I care? I was leaving Lake Chinook for Santa Fe.
My own inner ambivalence bothered me. Deciding to do something positive, I pulled my cell phone from the zippered pocket of my running shorts and put through a call to Dwayne. It took him six rings to answer.
"What? Did I get you out of bed?"
"Nah, I was on another call. More business. So, are you coming in with me or not, darlin’? Business is getting out of control."
This is why I’d put off this call. "I’d have to say...or not."
"What?" he asked, unable to hide his surprise.
I counted to three in my head. "I’m moving to Santa Fe with Murphy."
"Bullshit!"
"I am," I insisted.
"Jane..." His drawl was bitten off, as there weren’t words for what he wanted to say.
"Forget whatever you’re going to say," I said tersely. "My mind’s made up. Murphy wants me to throw in with him down there. He’s doing investigative work in Santa Fe. I thought he’d gotten out of it but apparently not."
"You’re going to just leave?" He couldn’t believe it.
"That’s what I’m saying." I hesitated. "You wouldn’t want to take care of my dog for me. For a while."
"Your dog?"
"Murphy doesn’t want any animals."
"Darlin’," Dwayne said, switching to serious Southern charm mode. "If a man doesn’t want your dog, he’s tellin’ you somethin’ about himself. Somethin’ you need to hear."
"I don’t see you jumping up to take the dog."
"I’m not dragging you off to Santa Fe."
"Fine. Someone else can take Binks. I’ll figure it out." I clicked off in a huff. It bugs me when Dwayne pulls that "I know better" shit. Especially when it’s the truth.
Because I was pissed at myself, I made myself run all the way back home, too.
Murphy was at the computer when I let myself inside the cottage. I could hardly speak. My legs were shaking and there simply wasn’t enough oxygen in the world to fill my burning lungs. Binky came out and licked one of my sweaty legs. She backed away. Great. Even the dog could tell how disgusting I was. I stripped off my clothes and jumped in the shower, lowering the water temperature to lukewarm and turning my face to the spray, standing there for what felt like an eternity.
Murphy opened the bathroom door a crack. "You gotta get a new computer, Jane. You can hardly get on the Internet with this dinosaur."
"Why do you need the Internet?" I called.
"To get us some airline tickets." He closed the door behind him.
Suddenly energized, I shut off the shower, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me and practically skidded across the hardwood floor to where he was standing in the bedroom, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his pants.
"Airline tickets? What about our cars?"
"Mine’s a rental." He gave me a look. "I figured you’d sell the Volvo."
My heart. I pressed a hand to it. "What ...what about the cars that Cotton gave you? You said you got cars."
"I checked them out. I’ve got to sell them. They’re ancient monsters. Cadillacs from the days when Caddys were a mile long and a mile-and-a-half w
ide. One is, however, a red color. Not exactly candy apple, but close."
"You want to fly to Santa Fe? What about all my things?"
"We’ll ship them." He gazed at me closely. "You’re having second thoughts."
"Right the first time, Bucko."
He nodded, finally hearing me. "I’ve got to go, Jane. I’m pushing you hard because I just can’t do Lake Chinook a second longer."
"I get that." He’d said it enough times. "But I’ve got to slow down."
My cell phone rang. I wouldn’t have answered it, but Murphy dug my cell out of my zippered pocket and handed it to me. It was Booth. "It’s my brother," I said.
"Take it. I’m going to call the airlines. See ya later."
He was out the door before I could argue. Reluctantly, I pushed talk. "Hey, Booth."
"Mom just called. She said she’s coming up here this week. She said she’s staying with you."
"She wants to meet Sharona."
"Does it have to be now?" He sighed. "I just got your message. You wanted to discuss something?"
I couldn’t talk to him wearing only a towel, one that kept slipping from my hands. "Let me call you right back."
"Make it quick. I’m on my way to work."
I toweled myself off with inner fury, threw on my tan capris, a white T-shirt and my beloved Nikes. I brushed my hair hard until it lay straight and wet against my head, the tips touching my shoulders. I glanced in my refrigerator. Not- one-goddamn-thing-worth-eating. Couldn’t Murphy have at least stocked the fridge?
I slammed the door, swept up the receiver for my land-line-why run up my cell bill if I didn’t have to?-and phoned Booth. He answered immediately and suddenly I had nothing to say.
But Booth had lots to say, about how he didn’t think he was ready to have Mom come, about how wonderful Sharona was, and finally a hint about how I should get my life together.
I was bugged. Why were all these decisions being thrust on me now? I’d been happy, hadn’t I? Hanging around Lake Chinook, making friends, process serving? Was that so bad?
"So, what’s up, Jane?" Booth asked. It was the opening I’d been waiting for.
In fits and starts, I told him everything I knew about the Reynolds investigation. I needed a new perspective. I needed someone to bounce ideas off. For better or worse, this time it was Booth.
There was a moment of silence when I finished. I might have thought he’d hung up on me but I could just hear his measured breathing. He said, quietly, "You think this Craig-what’s his last name?"
"Cuddahy."
"You think Craig Cuddahy got in a heated argument with Bobby Reynolds over the island property and subsequently killed him?"
I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again and said, "Maybe."
"What’s the investigator’s name? Lopez?"
"Yes."
"Call him up, Jane. Tell him what you just told me."
He sounded so serious that I almost laughed. Almost. "Booth, half of it’s theory. And I won’t get any backup. Jesse, the Coma Kid, said he will not corroborate anything he told me and-"
"Doesn’t matter." He cut me cold. "Hand it over to Lopez. Let him break the kid."
"I feel a certain responsibility to Jesse," I said heatedly.
"Tough. I don’t know if you’re right about this, Jane. I don’t even care. I want you out of it. Pass along whatever you even think you know. Let the professionals figure it out."
"Okay."
Though I acquiesced, he heard the recalcitrance in my voice. "Do it, Jane."
I have really got to improve my lying. "Didn’t I say I would?"
"You’re not up to this. Sorry, if that bursts your bubble. But you’re not. And stop listening to Dwayne Durbin. He’s going to get you hurt or killed."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll put it in a memo to the staff."
"Damn it," he said through his teeth.
"I’ll talk to Lopez, Booth, okay? I’ve been meaning to anyway." I hung up as quickly as I could as he started to launch into a dozen more reasons why I should stop trying to be something I’m not. Trust Booth to set my teeth on edge. I was really tired of people telling me what I ought to do.
And I was going to talk to Lopez. I was. I just wasn’t going to do it right yet.
I visited Greg Hayden and picked up some more 72-hour notices. The heat bore down on me until my tongue felt like it was hanging out like Binkster’s. I managed to post two with minor difficulty. One man called me a fucking bitch, but hey, he was probably hot, too. I told him, "Have a nice day." He threw a dirt clod at me as I headed to my car but missed by a mile.
By four o’clock I was done. I drove to Foster’s On The Lake. I wanted a drink, preferably alcoholic, but a bucket of ice water tossed over my head would suffice in a pinch. The only person at the outdoor bar was Manny and his shirt was sticking to him.
I climbed onto a stool. "Have you ever had everyone you know give you advice you never want to hear?" "Frequently." He placed a cocktail napkin in front of me and waited.
"Something really, really cold."
To my chagrin he poured me a concoction made from blue curacao. My nemesis. It was bright blue and beautiful and spoke of Scandinavian fjords but I knew it would taste godawful. "Oh, Manny." I sighed. "Give me something I can drink."
"Try it, Jane."
Well, hell. I picked up the martini glass, silently saluted him, then touched my tongue to the lighter fluid within. I sampled the flavor. Not bad. I took a swallow. Drinkable. "I used to make blue curacao drinks at Sting Ray’s, but I never could make one that anyone would order twice."
"What do you think?" He nodded toward my glass.
Light refracted in blue prisms against my skin. "I think you’ve got sugar or Hpnotiq or something in there to make it less terrible." I took another swallow. "Something that doesn’t corrupt the color."
"So?"
"It’s okay." I thought about it as I kept sipping. "I actually could drink two."
Manny smiled. "High praise, indeed."
I didn’t have to order a second because Manny slid one across the bar as soon as my first one was drained. I was already feeling lightheaded, so I took a long, long time over it, and Manny put some salt bread and hummus nearby, so I dug into that, too. I had a feeling it might all be free which cheered me up a lot.
I supposed I should go home to Murphy. But then, he could always reach me on my cell phone.
Slowly people began arriving. The temperature had to be in the nineties, so only the brave and foolish were outside their own air-conditioned splendor. I was twiddling with one of the little parasol umbrellas Manny sometimes sticks in chunks of pineapple when a boat came screaming up to the dock. I swear everyone on Foster’s deck inhaled in shock and braced themselves. I know I did.
But the engine was cut at the last second and Cotton’s boat, captained by his lovely widow, bumped hard enough into the dock to give us all a little sway. Everyone at the bar kept her in their sights. And it was worth the viewing.
Heather climbed out of the boat, wearing a hot pink bikini with a sheer white overshirt and a pink and red wraparound flowered skirt. The wraparound had unwrapped, however, and we were all treated to her tanned, bare legs as she staggered through the gate into the patio. Her skirt fell back like a bridal train.
Foster himself came out to view the new arrival, a frown on his face. I slid off my stool and walked over to him. "Give her a drink. I’ll take her back in my car," I said.
"You’re awful chummy with the widow."
"My new best friend."
Of course, chances were Heather would scream and rail at me. She seemed to vacillate on her opinion of me at any given time. I wondered what had her in such a state. When she removed her sunglasses her eyes were red and any makeup they’d previously worn was rubbed off. As if realizing it, she sniffed and put her shades back on. Her nose was also a hot pink shade and it wasn’t from the sun.
Foster took me at my word, letting
Heather order a Mojito. He pointed his finger at me which meant I was the designated driver and babysitter. While she sucked down the first drink I moseyed over to her table.
"You," she growled, shaking the ice cubes in her glass then lifting it to her lips, sticking her tongue inside to catch a few more drops. The mint leaf on top nearly went up her nose.
"This is just an observation, but maybe you shouldn’t be driving right now."
"So, turn me in." She waved an arm around. "Go ahead. Screw me like everyone else."
I joined her at her table. She snapped her fingers for service. The waiter looked a little askance as her intoxication level was obvious. He went back and conferred with Jeff Foster who reluctantly nodded an okay, giving me the evil eye at the same time. It irked me that he didn’t believe I had things under control.
"I understand you’re selling the island to Craig Cuddahy."
"Yeah? Well, you understand wrong. Catch up, girl. That’s yesterday’s news."
I gazed at her in perplexity. "I heard it was practically inked."
"You didn’t talk to Dolly Smathers. You don’t know jack shit about what you’re talking about." The waiter delivered her drink and Heather gulped at it.
"What’s Dolly got to do with it?"
"Dolly Smathers, bitch extraordinaire, has turned herself into a matriarch of Lake Chinook society. That’s what she’s got to do with it. Didn’t you know? Dolly’s vice president of the Hysterical Society. Isn’t that unbelievable? A slut like her? I guess being Cotton’s whore put her on somebody’s A-list! And guess what? Now Cotton’s house is on the List of Historical Homes. Courtesy of Dolly Smathers who just happened to blab all about it to that group of tight-assed snobs. And you know what that means? It means I can’t fucking subdivide, that’s what it means! It’s got to be one parcel. The whole damn thing!"
Heather drained her glass and thumped it back on the table. I searched in my purse for my car keys. "You want to create a scene, or do you just want to get drunk?"
"I just wanna get drunk," she muttered.
"Then let me take you back to the island."
"Fuck that," she said, but when I paid the bill-only her drinks as Manny shook his head when I tried to pay for mine, thank the gods of free booze-Heather capitulated. Although it practically killed me to fork over the money; Foster’s rapes you on the price of drinks, it won me enough brownie points to get Heather to leave with me, weaving her way through the restaurant on her long tan legs, causing quite a stir among the male patrons.
