Candy Apple Red (18 page)

“Well, sure.” He seemed surprised by my observation. This was an understood thing. “Hey, what do you think about that Coma Kid? Doesn’t remember anything but his bird.”

“Is he still in the hospital?”

“I think he’s home. You know my youngest knows his friends pretty well. He said they were on the island.”

“Cotton’s island?”

“Is there another?”

“Well, how did the accident happen?” I asked. Grant Wemberly had clearly stated that the dogs weren’t chasing anyone that night.

Billy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“It happened about a week before the benefit,” I said aloud, taxing my memory.

“They don’t want to get in trouble. You know kids. His friends say he fell off the boat, but my son says the truth is he was running around that island and the dogs came out.”

“The dogs weren’t out that night.”

“Well, then I don’t know. The kid came racing around and jumped in the water, but he hit his head on something on the way down. They all hauled him into the boat. He was awake at first, then went out cold. Scared ’em all shitless. They cooked up the story that he hit his head on the boat, but the family called the police.”

“So, no one thinks they were on the island except your son says they were.”

“Guess so.” Billy looked at me. “You think it matters?”

“I’d like to talk to the Coma Kid,” I said suddenly.

“He doesn’t remember anything.”

“Actually, I think I’d like to start with his friends.”

“They won’t tell you nothin’ either, believe me. What do you think’s up?”

He regarded me curiously. I lifted my palms in surrender. I wasn’t sure what I was fishing for, but anything about the island interested me these days. “Tell your son I’m not interested in getting anyone in trouble. I just want to hear what they have to say.”

“Is there money in it for him?” Billy laughed.

“You’re hitting me where it hurts, but okay,” I said dryly. “A little bit.”

“What’s the Coma Kid’s name again?” Billy asked.

“Beats me. But the parakeet’s name is Buddy.”

I returned to my routine of process serving and on Thursday Cynthia called me ostensibly to go out for a drink but I think it had more to do with payback for the Woofers incident. She asked me to go with her to First Thursday which is a Portland tradition whereby art galleries mostly around the Pearl District stay open in the evening and the public browses through and around the area, sipping wine or champagne and generally soaking up culture. Cynthia, being the artiste she is, decided the venue as I would normally just stay home alone and either sleep or lament my empty larder or both.

I’d cleaned up for the evening; I’d even combed my hair. In fact, in my black capris and a cowl-necked sleeveless shirt in an ugly shade of mustard that for some reason looks good on me, I was passable. When Cynthia picked me up she gave me a head-to-toe examination. She was in a steel gray jacket and pants with a white form-fitting top tied beneath her breasts in some kind of knot that made her look like a D-cup. Her spiky hair had grown an eensy bit and lay a little smoother against her scalp. Her blue eyes were incisive, however, and when she said, “Next time you’re in trouble, remember to call someone else,” I could tell it was going to be a while before she forgave me.

“Sorry for not mentioning the dog.”

“I’m seriously considering getting my car painted. There are nail marks all along the passenger side.”

This conversation may have digressed but we were on the block of the Black Swan gallery and I saw some of Cynthia’s watercolors inside. She merely snorted at the sight, as if she were perturbed about something.

As if Tess knew I was outside her gallery, my cell phone started singing and I looked down to see she was the caller. “What does she want?” I murmured aloud. I’d brought Cynthia up-to-date on my exploits in the Bobby Reynolds case, sort of. Her interest was skewed as she was more interested in Tess’s gallery than the sordid events of her personal life. Cynthia was nothing if not financially and professionally self-motivated. A true capitalist. At least there were no hidden agendas.

Cynthia’s eyes narrowed. “I want that gallery. Tess doesn’t know the first thing about art. The higher the price, the more valuable the piece, in her mind.”

“Isn’t that how a lot of people think?” I asked. Cynthia sure as hell knew how to make me gasp at the amount listed on one of those little white tags. I had to stop myself from screeching, “FOR THIS?” which I was wont to do at the beginning of our relationship. Now, I exhibit more self-control.

“Yes.” Cynthia’s mouth pursed. “But Tess is in a rare echelon, all by herself. She’s crass, Jane. I’m glad you’re getting some money out of this deal you’re in with her, but the sooner you’re done, the better.”

“I am done,” I said as I clicked on. Luckily, I didn’t express this view as Tess’s first words were, “Have you learned anything?”

I blinked. “About…?”

“Cotton! Was Bobby living there? Had he been helping him?” Her voice was full of unshed tears.

“I—I really couldn’t say.”

“I want you to find out. If this is Cotton’s fault, I hope he dies!”

She hung up abruptly.

“Well?” Cynthia asked, her attention on a marble sculpture of a penis in the window of the Century Gallery, about three blocks from the Black Swan.

Upon closer inspection I saw it was a palm tree. “I don’t know. I don’t get why she’s still calling me. She blames Bobby’s father for everything, which is what mothers do, I guess.” I thought about Cotton’s assertion that she’d known where Bobby was. I wondered if I dared confront her with that accusation.

Cynthia was cruising through the front door of the gallery. “Tess is a piranha,” she said over her shoulder. “Who’s the artist of the penis sculpture?” she demanded of the dour-faced, obesely fat gallery owner.

“It’s a palm tree.” His voice was acid.

“Uh-huh. And I just got off the boat. It’s Marcos DeCroix, isn’t it?” She leaned into me. “We used to date when he was merely Mark Decker. All men are into their penises, but he was really into his. I must admit, it was pretty nice.”

I gave the palm tree a second look while the gallery owner turned on his heel and walked through an arch and disappeared. The palm tree curved a little to the left. I had an unbidden memory of Murphy standing in the shower, dripping wet, doing an impromptu dance whereby he jiggled from side to side, his penis slapping his thighs. He was laughing and happy.

Three days later Bobby’s dead family had been found lined up in a row.

“Think how much trouble those things cause,” Cynthia said, admiring the sculpture.

I grimaced. Our thoughts were obviously traveling far different paths. All I could currently see was that Bobby Reynolds had begat three children with that thing.

When I got back to the cottage Binks was overjoyed to see me. I checked her water bowl and took her for an evening constitutional. This takes a lot of sniffing of plants and the ground. Her flat nose gets buried in the blades of grass.

When we went back inside, my arms broke out in gooseflesh. It felt as if someone had been inside my place. I checked my belongings, concentrating so hard on how I’d left things it actually hurt my brain. Nothing seemed disturbed.

I gazed at the dog who gazed right back up at me, head cocked. “Was someone here?”

Binks paused, then looked toward the front door. Low in her throat came this
grrrrr
that sent my pulse into overdrive.

I pulled the shades and rechecked the locks on the doors. A moment later I heard the same noise and realized she was directing her warning to the cover of a magazine that showed a man petting an Irish setter.

So much for the bogeyman.

Still, I rechecked the locks again and I allowed Binks to sleep on my bed.

D
wayne stopped by the following morning as I was running through a thorough examination of my bungalow. I still hadn’t quite gotten over the idea that someone had been there. It seemed to me that the contents of my file on Bobby Reynolds had been shifted around but I couldn’t be sure. I had the sneaking suspicion that paranoia was my main enemy.

“Why do you think someone’s been here?” Dwayne asked as he handed me the fax of Binkster’s medical records. I felt a moment of panic. I’d had the dog for a couple of weeks and I hadn’t taken it in for a shot yet. Dogs could contract rabies…and other terrible things…“You think she’s safe?” I asked anxiously.

We both looked at Binks who gazed upward, head cocked as if waiting for me to ask her directly. “Check the dates on the boosters. The dog’s fine.” Dwayne bent down to Binks, scratching and massaging her ears. She looked as if she might topple off her legs into a flop of ecstacy.

“Maybe no one’s been here. I thought my file on Bobby had been touched, but there’s nothing in there but newspaper clippings and general knowledge.”

“Your imagination running away with you, darlin’?”

“Probably,” I admitted reluctantly. I didn’t want him to think I was a complete sissy. “These haven’t been the most fun-filled last few days.”

I was still in my sleeping gear, T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He wore faded denim cutoffs and a gray collarless shirt. I found myself telling him about Heather’s scene at Foster’s and then about Tess’s phone call. I finished with, “She seems to think Bobby was living at Cotton’s. She said if Bobby’s death is his fault, she hopes he dies.”

Dwayne shook his head. “Cotton couldn’t harbor Bobby for four years without someone finding out.”

“I know. Tess should know that, too.”

“Sounds like she was just railing at you.”

“Like I can do something about it now.” I snorted. “Bobby’s definitely dead, so it’s all over.”

“She’s probably pissed ’cause she doesn’t have a way to get her hands on the money now.”

“True.”

“So, you’re off this gig. Want some other work?”

“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.”