Candy Apple Red (12 page)

“I don’t know. Howl. Whine. Run away.”

“Some dogs do.”

“Not this dog,” I said darkly. “It’s made itself at home on my couch. And I’ve got the fan going full blast because all it does is pant and drink water.”

“Have you fed it?”

“I’ve only had it an hour,” I responded a tad testily. “I’m going to feed it tonight.”

“What’s its name again?”

I clamped my teeth together and counted to five. “Binky,” I said evenly. Dwayne wasn’t listening. He hadn’t been listening throughout my diatribe, though he’d accepted that a fax would be appearing on behalf of the dog. Why I’d felt he could somehow help, or commiserate, escaped me now. “I’ve got to change it. I can’t live with it. Even though this dog’s going away at the first—”

“Did you go to the benefit?” he cut in.

Well, how rude. “Yes.” I had half a mind to say nothing else. Name, rank, and serial number. That’s all you get, buddy. But I had another bone to pick. “And I damn near got myself killed in the process!”

“Yeah?”

He seemed only mildly interested as I regaled him with the previous night’s escapades, and he had the colossal nerve to respond with merely, “Write it down. All of it. Your impressions.”

“Thanks for caring. You want me to put down the sight of Cotton’s bare ass pumping up and down? Tess’ll love that.”

“When did you turn into such a prude?”

“That’s such a…
wrong
thing to say. I do not do voyeurism well.”

“Maybe you need some lessons.”

I nearly bit out a response before I realized he was teasing me. Good old Dwayne, always trying to get my goat. “What kind of mother names her child Dwayne?” I said, jumping into battle.

“The kind who’s in love with his father, Dwayne the dad.”

“Oh. God. Seriously? Dwayne’s your dad’s name? Are you a
junior
?”

“Different middle names.”

“What’s yours?” I asked curiously.

“Austin.”

“Dwayne Austin Durbin?” Much as I hated to admit it, I kind of liked the sound of that.

Dwayne got back to the subject. “Put your notes together. Put ’em on a file on your computer, or better yet, a disk or flash drive. You can write up a report for Tess and make her feel she’s gotten her money’s worth. Clients like hard copy.”

“Flash drive?”

“An external piece you stick into a USB port. Mine’s silver, about the size of my little finger but flat. Comes in all different storage amounts. Mine’s 512 K. The size of the storage affects the price. Don’t be cheap.”

“I’m not cheap,” I protested, lying through my teeth.

“They’re also called flash hoppers, grasshoppers, a bunch of stuff. I know you don’t have a zip drive, so we can forget that. You do have a USB port on that dinosaur, right?”

“Of course.” I was pretty sure I did. He meant that little rectangular opening, didn’t he? I wasn’t about to ask.

“Get a flash drive. Better yet, get a new computer. It’s past time, Jane.”

“I love my computer.”

“No, you don’t. You’re just afraid to upgrade.”

“Fine, fine.” I just wanted to get off the phone. Dwayne’s relentless dragging of me into the current millennium tried my patience to the extreme. I practically slammed the phone down, then called Tess. My headache had diminished to a tiny throb and my shoulder felt stiff but okay. I wondered if I had time for a run, or if the heat was too unbearable.

Tess’s answering machine picked up; a relief to me. In a cheery voice I told her I’d spoken to Cotton at the benefit about nothing important. I let her know I was awaiting further instructions. I did not mention the five hundred dollars I was now owed, but it took all my mother’s hard-fought years of discipline to keep me from screaming the reminder to her.

I headed outside. My route to the Coffee Nook is shaded ninety percent of the way. I tested the air and thought I could make it. I hadn’t had the nerve to call Booth yet. I knew I was running away from the phone.

Back inside I changed into sweats and Nikes. I was heading for the door when I saw the dog staring at the front door panels. Another tinkle trip, apparently, or else Binky was merely contemplating the value of oak versus maple.

Hmmmm…

“Come on, you,” I said, wondering if this were a fool’s errand. I found the leash Megan had left. The dog regarded me blankly. “I’m not going to call you Binky,” I said sternly to which the dog raced over and started furiously licking my hand. I jerked back, wiped my hand on my pants, clipped the leash on Binky’s collar and we were out the door. I wondered if this show of affection was because I’d mentioned its name. I was hoping it had understood me and was consumed with delight over the thought of being called something other than Binky. It made sense to me.

Silently daring the dog to keep up with me, I took off at a slow lope. My challenge was a joke. Binky was fairly swift on her stumpy little legs. Of course, she nearly ripped my arm off every time she stopped to sniff, which was often. We ended up walking most of the route which was just as well because the weather was turning beastly.

By the time we reached the Coffee Nook, my right arm was practically numb and this was my good one! The dog just kept yanking me to a stop. I was drenched in sweat and Binky, panting furiously, definitely showed signs of wear. I clipped the leash to a metal loop screwed into the building siding. The Coffee Nook was pet friendly. Not only were the metal loops ready for leashes, there was a large bowl full of water sitting invitingly under the roof overhang. Binky slurped noisily then flopped down beneath one of the outdoor chairs. She didn’t seem to mind cement.

I wandered inside. Binky’s walleyes watched me enter. I waved at her and was surprised and a little thrilled to see her curly tail wag. The weekend employees smiled at me, high school or college-age girls who all are blond and bordering on anorexia. Not my usual crowd. I felt them watching me as I poured myself a cup of black coffee from the help-yourself counter. I loved that about the Nook. If it’s plain coffee you want, you can help yourself. The exotics have to line up for their caramel-mocha-frappe-what-the-hells. One of the coffee girls, Kate, the only one I truly know, caught my eye. I lifted my paper coffee cup and she nodded. I have a coffee card which is good for ten cups. They just mark me off until the card’s done. The eleventh one is free.

I sat down on my usual stool but the weekend crowd didn’t contain anyone I knew. Finishing my coffee, I drank a paper cup of water for the return trip, then somewhat deflated, headed back outside. Binky barked in greeting. She’d recovered her stamina and was on her feet. She’d also garnered a small group of children while I was gone. They all wanted to pet her but were afraid.

“Mad dog,” I whispered to them as I unclipped the leash. I felt glaring eyes digging into the back of my neck. Soccer moms. Lake Chinook was rife with them. And the two soccer moms standing behind me didn’t find me funny in the least. I often ask myself why I live in an area that is not single-woman friendly, and the answer continually escapes me. Murphy had introduced me to Lake Chinook and so I stayed.

“Charity, Julianne…” Soccer mom number one waved two of the little girls over. Reluctantly they turned away from the Pug.

“Whitney!” the other, shriller mom cried to the remaining girl.

“What’s his name?” Whitney asked me, ignoring mom.

“She doesn’t have a name yet,” I said.

She gazed at Binky critically. “When does he get one?”

“She,” I repeated.

“He looks like a boy.”

I silently agreed. That face…I finally buckled, “She responds to Binky.”

“Binky?” Whitney brightened and Binks yelped and jerked eagerly against her leash as the little girl bent down to pet her.

“Whitney!” The mother screeched as Whitney’s fingers reached toward Binky’s grinning, sloppy mouth. Binky promptly licked the girl’s whole arm, sending her into fits of laughter and turning mom’s face a brick red. Mom yanked on Whitney’s free arm, and the little girl nearly tumbled off her feet. She glanced back as mom dragged her to the car, waving forlornly to me and Binky. The dog gazed after her as if she’d just lost a best friend. Or, maybe she just wanted a ride.

I suddenly thought of Kit, Bobby’s youngest, and realized she would have been around Whitney’s age if she’d lived. It hit me in the gut. Sobered, I pulled on Binky’s leash and we started the slow walk home.

“Your real name is The Binkster,” I said, “which is okay by me but I don’t think I’m going to be using it all the time. I really will not be able to handle Binky. How about Binks?” For that I got a desultory wag of the curlicue. At least it was something. And for as long as I was going to have this dog, it was good enough.

Booth called just as we entered the cabin. I told him I’d phone back as both Binks and I were done in from the heat. I checked to see Binks had enough water then poured a glass for myself. We both drank thirstily.

A bit reluctantly I called Booth back. There were mere hours left before he and Sharona appeared.

“I’ve got to cancel,” he said abruptly. “Work.”

“Oh.” I sounded appropriately crestfallen—at least I think I did—until he insisted that we meet on Monday. He had Tuesday off, but then Sharona was leaving for a few days, so Monday was both the perfect—and only—opportunity for us to get together.

I really, really wanted to postpone. I had enough on my plate right now. But visions of my mother’s inquisition had me rolling over and saying yes. At least it left Sunday night free. I had thoughts of going to Foster’s On The Lake…maybe in Dwayne’s boat. We settled on Monday, both glad duty had been dispensed with, at least for the moment.

Thinking of Dwayne, I fired up my computer, planning my report for Tess. I started by writing down my impressions from the night before. I tried to remember everything Cotton had said about Bobby. After I wrote down his words, I added my own impressions.

I typed in: DOES HE KNOW WHERE BOBBY IS?

Staring at the words, I examined my feelings, struggling for some kind of thoughts on that. Finally I typed: NO, HE DOESN’T. I put a little
jk
after this, indicating this was a Jane Kelly thought rather than a fact. When I was finished I was rather proud of my follow-up skills.

Tess called around noon, just about the time I’d remembered to feed Binks who was practically eating the baseboard by this time. I’d managed to run out and buy myself a slice of pepperoni pizza and a Diet Coke, so I was fed and once that happens, hey, everybody else can just get their own.

Except now I owned a pet. Temporarily.

So, while Binks plowed through her food, I reached for the ringing phone and encountered Tess.

“Well?” she asked. “How did it go?”

“It went,” I said.

“Did you talk to Cotton about Bobby?”

“It’s not exactly a subject you can raise at a first meeting.”

“What am I paying you for?”

I bit my tongue. “Cotton mentioned Bobby when he realized who I was,” I said in a flat voice. “He seemed sad and heartbroken, which you’d expect.”

“Did he say anything about where Bobby is?”

Like, oh, sure, that’s what he’d blurt out to me, a virtual stranger. “We didn’t discuss it.”

“He has to know,” she insisted.

“That’s kind of a leap,” I pointed out carefully. “If Cotton knows where Bobby is, he might feel compelled to tell the police.”

“Bobby’s his son,” she said with an edge. “He’d want to protect him at all costs. I know he knows where Bobby is. He’s my son, too!”

“I don’t know how I can help you any further,” I said honestly. “I met Cotton. He seemed to want to talk about Bobby but it caused him pain.”

“Pain? How?”

“Considering what Bobby’s accused of, I’d say it’s the pain of a parent whose child hasn’t…lived up to what’s expected.” That was putting it mildly.

“Did you talk to Heather?”

“Briefly.”

“She thinks she’s getting Bobby’s money.”

“Bobby’s money?” I questioned. “You mean Cotton’s?”

“Bobby should inherit everything. It should be his.”

I made a face, something I’m prone to do when something just plain smells bad. But then Cotton’s appointment with Jerome Neusmeyer crossed my mind and I suddenly remembered that Neusmeyer was an estate attorney, one of the more flamboyant ones. He might help you take care of your inheritance, but he spent his personal time with pretty young things. I think there was even a rumor of paid escorts. I would have to ask Dwayne, but I was fairly certain my memory was dead-on. “You want me to learn if Cotton’s still leaving it all to Bobby?”

“That would be great!” she said in a rush, as if she’d just thought of it.

“I’m not sure I can accomplish that,” I said.

“Oh, sure you can. Scrape up a deeper acquaintance with Cotton. Or, better yet, Heather. She’s close to your age. I’ll pay you an appropriate rate.”

Heather
had
seemed interested in furthering our acquaintanceship. I said to Tess, “Even if I don’t get results?”
And where’s that first check, lady?