Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  Did this blow my theory on Craig Cuddahy? I didn’t think so. How would he have known about this turn of events? He’d been charging after the island like a Poloma bull for weeks. Had he killed Bobby over something that wasn’t ever going to happen? Wouldn’t that be irony in its purest form?

  Halfway to the island Heather started to cry. Big, gulping sobs. "I’m gonna miss him!" she wailed. "And it’s all that fucker Bobby’s fault. I wish he’d died years ago!"

  "Cotton was ill," I reminded her.

  "Well, he got ill-er after Bobby showed up." She wiped ignominiously at her running nose. "Did you know that? Did you know he came to the island? I saw him. Cotton didn’t want me to. He tried to hide Bobby. I think he was scared shitless I’d go to the police. I would’ve, too, if I coulda got away with it without Cotton knowing. That shiftless no-account. Whined to Cotton about needing money. I would’ve kicked him in the balls. Murdering bastard!"

  "Where was Bobby staying?"

  "Not with us! Cotton gave him money. All these secret calls, like I’m too dumb to notice? Gimme a break."

  I love it when drunk people start talking. Note to self: use alcohol as an investigative tool. "But he did come to the island," I pointed out as if it were fact.

  "I saw him once. About a week before the benefit. I just came unglued. Cotton tried to tell me I’d seen wrong, but I told him he’d better get rid of him and quick. I thought the benefit was important." She snorted. "If I’d known what those fat, pink-assed old ladies were cooking up, I woulda pushed ’em in the lake!"

  "Cotton changed his will after he saw Bobby?"

  "Yeah, he finally got it! That Bobby was a total loser. He kept trying to act like he was so great. Talking, talking, talking about Bobby! Wonderful Bobby!"

  "What changed his mind?"

  "Oh, who cares. Bobby did." She swiped her nose again. "It was never enough, you know? More money... more money... more money...I caught the tail end of enough calls to know. Still, it wasn’t until after the benefit that Cotton finally woke up. Murphy coming to town helped.

  Cotton called him up and told him Bobby was here. Murphy came right up from Santa Fe."

  My hands tightened on the wheel. "Murphy knew Bobby was here?"

  "Ya think it was just coincidence he showed up this summer? Cotton told him Bobby was here. That’s what got him here."

  "You overheard this?" If Murphy had lied to me, I wanted to be absolutely certain.

  She waved that away. "All I heard was money, money, money. Poor Bobby needs money. Poor, poor Bobby. Killed his family and now can’t get a break."

  She was just talking. I set aside my concern about Murphy and said instead, "So, if Bobby hadn’t died, he would’ve inherited. That’s the way the will was originally written. Neusmeyer practically said the son always inherits."

  "I guess so."

  "So, it would have all been Bobby’s."

  Heather squinted at me as I turned onto the bridge that led to the island. "What are you saying?"

  "I’m just trying to get it straight."

  "Wait a minute...wait ...just...one... minute." She waved a finger at me and glared. "You think I woulda got screwed if Bobby was still alive. You think I wouldn’t’a got a red cent."

  "Possibly. I’m just thinking out loud."

  "You think it was in my best interest that Bobby died! Well, I’m not the only one. What about Owen? What about Tess? What about those goddamned blue-haired bitches of the Hysterical Society, like Dolly Smathers? They got what they wanted, didn’t they?"

  But they would’ve got that regardless. Heather, Owen, Tess and the Monroes were the ones who’d gained by Bobby predeceasing Cotton.

  "Oh, shit," Heather said, lifting her head as I drove through the island’s open gates. "That’s Craig’s car. What’s he doing here?"

  I really didn’t want to see Craig Cuddahy. The idea made me tired. "You’ve still got a really valuable piece of property," I pointed out. "Maybe he still wants to buy."

  She laughed at me. "Forget it. I’ll have to contact Paula Whatever-her-face. She’s the one who’ll find a buyer for this piece of crap. I mean, really, who wants their own island?"

  I could think of a lot of people. Most just didn’t have the money to maintain it.

  Craig was waiting outside the front door. Seeing me brought a look of consternation to his face. We were equally underwhelmed to see each other again. "I thought we were going to talk about our problem," he said meaningfully to Heather.

  "Oh, that’s right. I was supposed to meet you." She lifted a shoulder and laughed without humor. "I forgot. I took the boat to Foster’s."

  Cuddahy pursed his lips. "You’re lucky you didn’t get arrested."

  I gave him a hard look. Like he had any room to talk when it came to alcohol consumption. I suppose I should have been more cautious around him. After all, I still sort of believed he may have murdered Bobby Reynolds. But there was something about Cuddahy that simply didn’t scare me. I wasn’t a threat to him, at least from his current perception. The truth was, I was having a hell of a time keeping him as my primary suspect.

  He ignored me, and although he was gentleman enough to let me walk through ahead of him, he practically trod on the back of my Nikes in his urgency to get to Heather. She went straight to the bar and pulled out a half gallon of Skyy Vodka. He followed after her toward the kitchen but I hung back.

  "They can’t do this," I heard him say in a low angry voice.

  Heather gave a little bark of laughter. "They fucked us, Craig. We’re fucked."

  I went outside to the backyard. In this case I was glad, actually, that the Historical Society had stepped in. I hated to think what this island would have become if Heather and Craig had gotten their way. It lightened my heart to think it would remain a private residence with its sweeping grounds and circular trail.

  Long shadows cast by the towering firs were striping the lawn. I walked toward the lake, stopping above the pool, wondering who in the world would buy such an expensive piece of property. Somebody. But Heather was right: it didn’t sound like it was going to be Craig Cuddahy.

  I strolled back toward the house, near the garage. As I neared it, the Dobermans started growling and barking in a regular fury. They’d been weird since Cotton’s death, according to Murphy. Unweird Dobermans were bad enough. I moved away quickly, but my eye caught on something. I slowly turned back, looking hard, searching for what it was. Finally it dawned on me that it was what wasn’t there. The roof slate. The untidy pile I’d noticed the day of the benefit. Billy had said the kids from the barge had picked it up, so someone had dropped the pile into Lake Chinook.

  I retraced my footsteps to the house where Heather and Craig’s voices were raised with the consumption of alcohol. Heather sounded teary; Craig sounded enraged. "I’ll sue ’em," he said. "I’ll stop ’em. It’s your property. You can do with it what you want."

  "It won’t work," she sobbed.

  "Hey!" I called into the house. "Who’s your new caretaker? Is he here?"

  "I don’t have one!" Heather wailed anew at this fresh insult. "Grant left and everything’s just gone to hell!"

  "Someone’s cleaning the grounds," I said.

  "Not since Grant," she sniffed. "I gotta figure something out."

  "I’ll sue ’em," Craig muttered fiercely.

  I thought I heard a motor. I walked to the edge of the island, catty-corner from the house and garage. There were boats on the water but none close enough to explain what I heard. I strolled back, lost in thought.

  In the center of the backyard stood Betty and Benny. I stopped short. My heart leapt. How the hell had they gotten out?

  They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their sharp eyes watching me. My breathing grew shallow. I felt slightly dizzy with fear. A low whine issued from the larger one’s throat. Betty? Grant had said she was the leader. They’d chased me once and lost. I didn’t see how that could happen again. They were between me and my car, between me and the
gate.

  I kept my arms down. "Hey there, Betty," I said soothingly, but my voice shook a little.

  There was only one way out: toward the lake. I would have to jog left and run for all I was worth, leap the fence but hang on, otherwise I’d be dropping the long way into the lake.

  I silently cursed myself for the punishment of running this morning. I was tired. I couldn’t do this. But adrenalin was singing through my veins. I balanced on the balls of my feet.

  A door slammed inside the house. Benny glanced over. A split second later, Betty looked and I was gone. I tore to my left. The dogs set up a fearful growling howl as they charged after me. I ran blind. Past the spot where Jesse had stood. Down the path. I swear I could hear their jaws clacking behind me.

  The fence lay just ahead. Betty and Benny were slipping up close behind me. I crashed through underbrush. My hands were reaching, reaching. Instead of the fence I snagged a lowered branch, jerking my legs up high beneath me. The dogs leapt and snapped. I saw teeth and slaver. I cried out, scrabbling, hanging on for dear life, my legs churning, practically running over the fence. The top rail scraped my leg but I was over. I hung onto the branch. The dogs threw themselves at the fence. The chain link shook and jangled. I clung to my branch. My lungs burned. My arm muscles ached.

  I looked below me and it was a long way down to earth, rock and water. I held on with everything I had. I screamed for help.

  The fingers of my left hand slipped. I prayed for more strength. I found religion in a big way.

  The dogs stopped barking. They sat on the opposite side of the fence and watched me. I swear Betty was smiling.

  My left hand gave completely. I watched my right fingers lose their grip.

  Then I was falling, falling.

  I closed my eyes and thought, I should’ve told Lopez.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Don’t let anyone tell you that shock isn’t a wonderful thing because it is. Some might argue, claiming that shock is a sneaky killer, as dangerous as the injury or event that brought it on. I’m here to tell you, as a drug, it’s the best. No pain. Not a whole lot of clear thinking. A feeling of cold, yes, but hey, better than the screaming pain you just know you’re going to feel later.

  I was semiconscious. Above me, in the darkening evening, I could make out the fir limbs gently swaying. It was still hot. The air pressed on my face. But the rest of my body was cool and growing cooler. I was lying on rocks and needle-covered dirt. My right leg dangled into the water leaving my Nike underwater. My right shin wet nearly to the knee.

  If I’d been able to think, I would have asked myself a whole lot of questions, but that would come later. For the moment, I lay in a strange stupor. Whatever my future fate, I was damn glad the dogs hadn’t got me. I think I hate Betty.

  There was noise above me. The sound of shouts and running feet. At some point I saw Grant Wemberly’s face swimming above me. He gazed down at me in concern. I was glad. That must mean I wasn’t one of the no good ones who needed to be put down. I was worth saving.

  I wanted to ask him what he was doing on the island. He’d quit, hadn’t he? I certainly remembered something about that. But I was just glad to see him. I tried on a smile but it felt funny and fat. I’m not sure the muscles in my mouth worked.

  Suddenly, the Lake Patrol was there. A carnival of flashing yellow lights, humming motors, more shouts, and a frothy wake that slapped further up my leg. They hauled out a Gurney. I was intrigued. A water rescue.

  I was bundled up, gently heaved onto the Gurney which sent spikes of pain running crazily throughout my body. The pain seemed localized somewhere around my right shoulder and arm and ominously in my lower back. I didn’t want to think about that, so I just didn’t.

  I really thought I was a quiet patient. I was fairly certain I hadn’t voiced my wishes. This turned out to be entirely false. I later learned that I told them Dwayne Durbin’s cell phone number over and over again. I was polite about it, I guess, but insistent.

  So, when I was wheeled into Laurel Park Hospital Emergency Room, I was surprised to see Dwayne already there. I swear to God he looked haggard. I tried to say something witty, but his response was a terse, "She needs water," to the EMTs who regarded Dwayne as if he were a nuisance.

  Actually, I could use some water,

  I thought.

  The Emergency Room was abuzz with activity. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d met with an accident on this miserably hot day. The uncommon humidity had sent large crowds of people to their boats on Lake Chinook and the Willamette River. There was also partying involved. Some alcohol-fueled incidents which included reckless driving, fistfights and one attempted homicide.

  Accident victims, family members and police filled the area. I had to wait to be examined. I started feeling weepy. When Dwayne said, "You’re a tough nut, darlin’. You’re gonna be A-okay," it just did me in. I sniffled and Dwayne found me a tissue which he dabbed at my eyes as my right arm was pretty much useless and my left seemed wrapped under a tight blanket.

  I hate to be a whiner, but when they finally came to examine me, it was a little bit rough. I mean, sheesh, hard fingers probed my flesh until I literally screamed. Dwayne frowned and listened to their talk. I basically closed my ears. We went through X-ray and then there was a long wait. I faced the indignity of being moved to the hall as other, more pressing cases, were whisked into the cubicles. From somewhere down the hall a man was moaning loudly.

  My ol’ buddy "shock" became my enemy. My teeth chattered and my body quivered.

  "Can you sit up, Miss Kelly?"

  I stared into the eyes of an intern whom I doubted was legal to drink alcohol. Dr. Kitsworth. Like, oh, sure, this kid knew what he was doing. "I’d have to say ‘no’."

  "Why don’t you give it a try?"

  It took everything I had but I managed, with Dr. Kitsworth’s help, to prop myself into a sitting position. I might have slipped sideways but Dwayne held me up with a strong hand.

  "Breathe in." I tried but my lower back seized up and I gasped in pain. "Bruised kidney," Kitsworth informed me. "You’ve strained your right shoulder and arm. Might be some damage to your rotator cuff. Ask your orthopedic."

  Like I have one of those. "Bruised kidney?" I asked tentatively.

  "Expect to see blood in your urine. You need to see an internist as well."

  I felt faint.

  He scribbled furiously and handed some papers to Dwayne. "You’re ready to go."

  They transferred me to a wheelchair. I waited patiently. I wondered idly if that’s why we’re called "patients." Dwayne finished up and wheeled me outside.

  The bad news was: Dwayne had come in his truck. He helped me inside as best he could but all I did was whimper. Still, it was a relief to be out of the hospital with injuries that would heal. I hadn’t even rated a real room. Something to cheer about.

  "Did I see Grant Wemberly?" I asked, wondering if I’d dreamed it in the same way Jesse had felt he was dreaming.

  "Uh-huh. He called 911."

  "Really." I thought that over. "They took me out by boat."

  "Darlin’, on that side of the island, you’re way down the cliff. It was the easiest way."

  "Who let the dogs out?"

  Yes, the song with the same title flitted across my mind but I wasn’t in the mood for distractions. Dwayne, however, grinned briefly. I swear to God, if he broke out into song I was going to kill him . . . later...when I was better.

  "I don’t know yet. I’ll fill ya in when I do."

  He helped me into the bungalow. "Oh, Dwayne, Binky needs to be let out. Could you take her to the backyard?"

  "You need a doggie door."

  "You need to build it for me."

  "I thought you were moving to Santa Fe."

  Which is when I suddenly realized I hadn’t thought once about Murphy. I hadn’t called him for help, nor warned him of my accident. This gave me pause. In my hour of need, I’d sent for Dwayne. I didn’t want to
think what that could mean.

  Murphy wasn’t at the bungalow when Dwayne half-carried me inside. And his gun was not on the television any longer.

  I sank onto the sofa with relief. Binks ran over and stood on her hind legs, reaching a front paw out to dig at me.

  "Now, leave her alone." Dwayne picked her up and they went out the back door.

  I must’ve drifted off because suddenly Murphy was standing over me. His face was pale. "Jane," he said, looking stunned.

  "I’m okay," I said.

  "What happened? Who did this?"

  "I don’t know."

  I closed my eyes. Vaguely I heard Dwayne and Binks come back into the room. Through squinted eyes I witnessed the two men square off. I would have smiled if I’d remembered how. Those sneaky hospital folks must’ve given me a pain killer of some kind, as I was not tracking as I should.

  "Hey..." I said. Murphy and Dwayne looked my way.

  And I fell asleep.

  Being injured and unconscious is kind of like being thrown a surprise party. You open your eyes and the room’s full of people staring at you, waiting for your reaction. I don’t like surprise parties and I didn’t like waking to the crowd in my living room. I reacted with shock and dismay to the realization that Murphy and Dwayne had been joined by Booth and Sharona.

  They’d been talking in low tones. I could tell Murphy wanted Dwayne out of the room and Dwayne was ignoring him completely. Booth was frowning. Sharona stood with her arms crossed, poised for battle. Whatever was wrong, you’d want her on your team, I decided.

  "Hey," I said weakly.

  The phone rang. Dwayne picked it up, beating Murphy out because he was closest. "Hello," he greeted the caller, his gaze on Murphy. His eyes swept my way, "Yeah, darlin’, she’s going to live." He listened. "She’ll call you later. Yeah ...good..." "Cynthia," he told me after he hung up. "I called her on the way to the hospital to pick you up."