Candy Apple Red (20 page)

“You want to know.” He’d started to wheeze.

“I think it’s up to the authorities now.”

“No!” That came out as a harsh whisper. “They don’t give a damn about him. Talk to Tess. She knows him.”

I felt like wringing my hands. I didn’t want to add to his anguish, but some things needed to be said. “You should know that she intimated you were the one supporting Bobby, not the other way around.”

“We both wanted to help him.”

I licked my lips. They were dry as sand. “Bobby came to you for help? He was on the island?”

Cotton’s eyes met mine. Something flickered in their depths and for a moment I thought he was going to answer me. The blood sang through my ears. I suddenly didn’t want to know. Didn’t want information that I should tell the authorities.

A nurse whisked into the room before Cotton could decide. “You need to leave, Miss,” she stated flatly.

“Not yet…” Cotton’s voice was nearly inaudible.

“Oh, yes,” she said, shooing her hands at me. I held my ground and she glared at me, letting me know I should never have pushed it with one of her patients.

But Cotton clearly didn’t want me to go. This was his confession and though I didn’t want to be the recipient, it was too late to change the circumstances. “Just a few more minutes?”

“Not a chance. Mr. Reynolds needs rest.” She wedged herself between us. She was tall and tough and looked like she might want to arm wrestle me. I was pretty sure I’d lose. She was also in my personal space. I had a mental picture of what we looked like, standing toe-to-toe, Nurse Ratched in white, myself all in black. Yeah. A skirmish here would not look good on my permanent record.

“Go,” she ordered.

I gave her a military salute and backed into the hallway, pissed. I nearly bumped into a body which had moved to the doorway. Twisting quickly, an apology forming on my lips, I realized I was staring into the eyes of Laura’s father, Bobby’s father-in-law.

“Oh, hi,” I said lamely. I felt like I’d been caught in some nefarious act.

“Is that Clement Reynolds’ room?” he asked politely.

Behind him was Laura’s mother. She had soft, liquid brown eyes and doughy skin. Both she and her husband had gray hair and neither was using Grecian Formula 44. She wore a gray dress with black flocking in the shape of tiny rosebuds. He wore a gray suit. Everything was gray.

“Uh, yes,” I said.

“Are you a friend of the family?” The tiny voice came from Laura’s mother.

“Sort of.” I felt completely out of place with them. “I’m a friend of Tim Murphy?”

She blinked. “Oh, yes. Our daughter knew him in high school. She called him by his last name, I think.”

“Yes. He goes by Murphy.”

“I’m George Monroe and this is my wife, Ruth.”

“Jane Kelly.”

We shook hands all around. I couldn’t have felt more awkward. It seemed as if we were on opposite sides of a battle. I wanted to stand up and shout that I thought Bobby’s actions were beyond reprehensible, but instead I stood by with a sickly smile.

“Mr. Reynolds called us,” George revealed. “He asked to see us.” He sounded nonplussed. I couldn’t blame him. “We said we would see him at the memorial service, but we learned he was in the hospital.”

Nurse Ratched stepped from the room and scowled at the lot of us. “No visitors.”

“Is there a better time to see him? Somewhere we could wait?” Ruth asked.

“Honey, you’re going to be waiting a long time. Mr. Reynolds needs a lot of rest. He won’t be seeing anyone else today.” She made it sound like
or maybe ever
.

“Is there a cafeteria?”

The nurse eyed Ruth impatiently. “First floor. All the way down the hall to your right. But you’d be better off waiting at home.”

George touched Ruth’s arm and they headed toward the elevator. I didn’t immediately leave as the coward in me didn’t want to struggle with more small talk. I wondered what Cotton was planning to tell them.

“You’re not seeing him, either,” Nurse Ratched told me in a singsong voice. She made little walking motions with her index and middle fingers.

I had no intention of bothering Cotton any further, but she was really getting under my skin. I seriously thought about giving her some finger language of my own. Instead I looked at my watch and said, “Time for my assault weapon class,” and headed for the elevators.

On the way home I stopped in at Mook’s Ice Creamery, a local ice cream parlor and burger joint, and ordered a Burger-Jack, the usual hamburger with avocado and jack cheese. I can tolerate a certain amount of dairy products per day, but the cheese would be my limit. If I wanted ice cream I was going to have to buy some of those lactaid-type pills and personally I find medication just too much trouble sometimes.

I powered through my burger, feeling both sorry for myself and a little bit smug. I was sorry that I now had a moral dilemma of sorts. Basically Cotton had pointed the finger at Tess and blamed her for aiding and abetting her son, a suspected murderer. It was hearsay, as far as I could tell, but the authorities don’t give a damn about that. They want information, period. It’s up to the lawyers to decide what matters and what doesn’t in a criminal case. So, what did that mean about my obligations?

But I was feeling smug because of that very same thing: I had information that others would die for. I could picture the slavering reporters climbing all over one another for the tidbits Cotton had thrown my way. If I wanted to be a minor celebrity, this was my chance.

Then again, Tess had been my client, of sorts, and she still believed we were in business together, no matter what I had told Tomas Lopez. Should I call Lopez? His card was still on my television set.

And why did the idea of telling him make me feel like such a rat?

Because I have a basic distrust of authority. Anyone with the right to tell me what to do just kind of pisses me off. Nurse Ratched, a case in point.

My cell phone started singing. I glanced at the LCD. Murphy. “Damn.”

“You went to see Cotton,” he said in disbelief as soon as I answered.

“I know you said you wanted to go, but—”

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice rose. “He’s sick! And this whole situation is a goddamn circus. All the reporters and police.”

“You told me he wanted to see me,” I reminded him hotly. “It wasn’t the other way around.”

“The guy’s on his deathbed.”

“I don’t think I’m the bad guy here!” My own voice started sliding upward.

“I just want to—keep things sane.”

“Well, Laura’s family was in the hallway, waiting for a chance to talk to him. Nurse Ratched threw me out, but he was okay when I left him.”

“Laura’s family?”

“Yeah, George and Ruth. Nice people. Cotton had something he wanted to tell them.”

“About Bobby?” Murphy was stunned.

“…About forgiveness, I think,” I said, struggling a bit. “Cotton was practically confessing to me that he’d helped Bobby, or that Tess had, or that they both had. I can believe he wants to apologize to the Monroes. I don’t know if they’ve ever really talked. Why would they?”

“They were in the hall?”

“They’re probably in the cafeteria now. Why? Do you want to see them? They remember you.”

“Shit…” He sounded suddenly exhausted.

“Seeing them just makes it all so real,” I said.

“It is real. And Jane, it feels like you’re trying to prove something at Cotton’s expense.”

“What do you mean?” His words wounded me in a way I couldn’t immediately define.

“Just…leave it alone.”

I was infuriated. “You told me to go see him,” I repeated. I’d be damned if I was going to apologize for doing what he’d told me to do.

“I know, but Cotton’s too sick. Heather’s on her way to see him.”

“Good luck getting past the watchdog.”

“She’s family.”

I didn’t want to argue with him further. None of this was my fault and I was good and mad that Murphy was acting like it was. I knew he was feeling the strain, but I didn’t like being anybody’s scapegoat, no matter what. We hung up in a kind of combative silence. Santa Fe was looking farther and farther away.

I returned home to Binkster who acted as if I were starving her. By her shape, it was pretty clear this was not the case, but I jiggled some doggie kibbles into her bowl and watched her ravenously chomp through them at record pace. I retrieved the bowl before she could make it hop around and gouge my cabinets some more. I probably should tell Ogilvy about the dog’s mishap, but I didn’t want to get into the fact that I had a pet. I’m sure a new deposit would be slapped on me. Hey, I’d paid the guy my August rent. Maybe I’d bring it up in September.

I spent the rest of the week either debating on what to do or process serving. No serious incidents to report other than my car got keyed. I looked at the mean, little stripe waving along the driver’s door and gritted my teeth. I hadn’t stopped by Dwayne’s for more work because I’d been on the fence about the whole damn job. However, I was about ready to chuck this supposed occupation once and for all.

On Friday I put a call into Tess who didn’t pick up. This was about the third time I’d phoned, so I called Marta next, and was delayed by the snotty receptionist just long enough to make me want to rip my hair out. When Marta finally came on the line, she was abrupt, “I haven’t talked to Tess in days. I can’t reach her. You know where she is?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing. You think she’s missing?”

“She’s trying to avoid the press.” Marta sounded annoyed.

Or maybe the authorities?

I told Marta I’d let her know if I talked to Tess. With time on my hands I decided to check in with Dwayne. Might as well see what he had for me. I left Binks with fresh water and more kibbles that she scarfed down in a snorting rush.

I put on my newly washed black capris, a dark green tank top and my chewed Nikes, then snapped my hair into its ubiquitous ponytail. I didn’t know what Dwayne had in store for me but I was going to try to be ready for anything.

Knocking on his front door, I glanced casually at his landscaping. The roadside of the cabana was basically a cement drive surrounded by gravel for extra parking and a strip of earth as dry and bare as a bone. Possibly Dwayne was planning on planting something, but he struck me more as the hammer, nails and wood type rather than a landscaper. In that we were sympatico.

The door flew open and I beheld a nymphet. She was about fourteen with no hips to speak of, a set of budding breasts worn behind an extremely sheer tank top and a pair of teensy, weensy little denim cutoffs that tapered to skinny legs. Her hair was streaky blond, her eyes blue and rimmed with smoky eyeshadow and thick, black mascara, and the scowl on her face could have turned Medusa to stone.

“Uh-huh?” she greeted me, as if I were hugely intruding on her space. I caught the scent of her perfume and realized I’d just met Dwayne’s mystery woman.

Either he was a sexual pervert/predator or there was more to the story. Remembering his amusement when I’d demanded to know who his houseguest was, I wondered what the connection was. “Is Dwayne here?”

“No.” She folded her arms under her breasts and looked up at me sulkily. She was throwing out all the sexual signals she could think of. The result of too much television, R-rated movies and suggestive magazines, I was sure. She made me instantly tired.

I’m not the most patient person on earth. Through smiling teeth, I asked, “Do you know where he is, and when he’ll be back?”

“How do you know him?” she demanded.

“He’s a friend.”

“Yeah?” A wealth of meaning there.

“Yeah.”

I wanted to wring her little neck. It was all I could do not to react to her insolence in the way she probably expected. Instead I simply reminded myself that in a couple of years her hips would grow, her face might break out, her thighs would thicken, and cellulite would find her. She would realize that the junior-high body was a lie.

“Do you mind if I come in and wait?” I asked, then practically shouldered her out of the way.

“Do you work out?” she asked.

Was this a good question, or a bad question? “Why?”

“Your ass is pretty good for someone your age.”

Ass. Gee, how sweet. “Thanks.”

“Oh,” she said, her face lighting with realization. “You’re the one Uncle Dwayne was telling me about. You like work with him, or something.” I nodded an acknowledgment. “Do you work on cases and stuff? Like…” She screwed up her face in concentration. “Murders and suicides and terrorists?”

“Did Uncle Dwayne say where he was going?”

“Oh, just to the store. We’re out of nutrition bars. Everything in his refrigerator is gross.” She shuddered.

On this I might have agreed. I suspected the inside of Dwayne’s refrigerator was scarier than my own, for different reasons. “How long are you visiting here?” I asked, pretending I knew more than I did.

“Oh, God, I was in this stupid acting class this summer. My mom thought it would be so great, but I want to go to Hollywood. These stupid little theater classes are just dumb. Two weeks and all we did was act like morons with these dumb acting games. And then we put on this dumb show. I’m leaving tomorrow.”