Candy Apple Red (33 page)

“According to my mother’s lawyer, since you
stole
that item, it cannot be used as evidence by the police. The prosecution will have to prove they learned of that address some other way. This way it’s ‘fruit from the poisonous tree,’ or something like that. Can’t be used in a court of law.”

“Tess has engaged a criminal defense attorney?”

He nodded. “She thought it might be a good idea.”

The bartender brought us both a beer. I’d stopped taking my meds a few days earlier, but I decided not to risk alcohol on my bruised kidney (which I’m happy to report seems to be working just fine now, thank you very much).

As Owen drank lustily from his glass mug, I said, “So, if it’s meaningless, why does she want it back?”

“It’s hers. She doesn’t want you to have it.”

“And you didn’t break into my cottage to steal it back?”

“Swear to God.”

I watched him finish his beer, checking my bullshit meter to see how much I believed him. Curiously, I did think he was telling the truth.

“Did you help her hide Bobby all those years?” I asked.

“Nope. And I’m not saying she did, either,” he added quickly.

“Duly noted.”

“After what Bobby did, I wouldn’t lift a finger for him except to call the police.” Owen was clear on that. “I kind of thought Mom might know where he was…but I wouldn’t be able to swear to it. It’s all over now, anyway. I don’t want her to go to jail.”

“She broke the law,” was all I said by way of answer.

“That remains to be proven.”

Owen slid me a sideways look. “So, why were you so all-fired eager to see me tonight? What did you think I’d done, besides break into your place?”

“I just wanted to know what you were looking for.”

“You thought I had something to do with Bobby’s death,” he guessed. “You’re still working on that.”

“Only as an exercise in futility.”

He smiled. “You don’t know whether I’m guilty of something or not.” He twisted his beer mug around on the bar. “Well, I didn’t kill Bobby.”

I was beginning to believe him. “Glad to hear it. I was having a hell of a time ascribing a motive to you.”

“What about plain old jealousy?”

“I guess.”

“What happened to Cuddahy? I thought you were zeroing in on him.”

“Who told you that? Murphy?”

Owen nodded.

“Cuddahy’s got an iron-clad alibi for the night Bobby fought with his killer.”

“The night Bobby fought with his killer,” Owen repeated. He made it sound like the title of a movie. “What night was that?”

“Bobby was seen on the island by the kid who ended up in a coma for a while. The kid heard someone yelling at Bobby. The kid ran away, but it’s pretty clear Bobby and another man got in a fight. Bobby was hit over the head with a piece of slate and dumped in the lake.”

Owen stared at me. Maybe Lopez would have preferred I kept the information to myself, but I wanted to see Owen’s face when I laid it all out. He was surprised, but more than that, he was interested. “Who did it, Jane?” he asked, and I realized all at once that he didn’t know, that he was waiting for me to tell him.

“I don’t have the answer,” I said, discombobulated.

“Oh, come on.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“You did think it was me,” he said on a note of discovery. “You really did.” He gave a little bark of laughter. “If it’s not Cuddahy, and it’s not me, who is it?”

I slid off my stool. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “Someone else, I guess. Someone the authorities are going to have to find.”

“You’re throwing in the investigative towel?”

“I’m seriously thinking about it.”

I called Dwayne on my drive home and said, “Owen stopped by to collect Tess’s book jacket with the Hepburn address inside. I wasn’t home because I was being chased by Betty and Benny and taking a trip to Laurel Park Hospital.”

“That’s all it was?”

“I think so.” I filled him in on my conversation with Owen and my impressions.

Dwayne listened hard. “So, you’ve dropped the real estate motive?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s jealousy, either.”

“Maybe we’ve made it too complicated. Misdirected ourselves.”

I was gratified that Dwayne included himself, though it wasn’t exactly true as he’d been warning me against staying involved for weeks.

The jaunt to the Pisces Pub had taken its toll. My tail felt like it was dragging. When I drove into my drive, I saw Murphy’s rented SUV. It was heartening to see, as a part of me had expected him to chuck it all in and take off. It’s what he wanted to do. He’d just been waiting for me.

But when I walked inside, greeting an eager Binkster with pets and smoochy sounds (yes, I’ve now become officially stupid about this dog) I was met by a sober-faced Murphy whose bags were stacked near the front door and who was wearing a lightweight jacket even though the temperature was still in the high eighties.

“You’re leaving,” I said.

“I came to the conclusion a few hours ago that you’re hanging onto this investigation as a means to keep from coming to Santa Fe. There’s no reason for me to stay any longer.”

“Wait.” Perversely, now that he was really going, I wanted to slow him down somehow.

“For what, Jane?”

I didn’t answer. I brushed past him to the kitchen. I wanted a means to stop him. Desperately I glanced around, searching for something to delay his departure until I had a chance to talk to him. I pulled open the refrigerator door and saw milk, eggs and four-day-old waffles.

“I’m starving,” I lied. “Sharona made me waffles the other day, but I couldn’t eat them. I want some now. Breakfast dinner. Nothing sounds better.”

“I’ve got a flight scheduled. I’ll catch something on the plane.”

“Are you kidding? Pretzels and Coke, maybe. Haven’t you got a few minutes?” I cringed at the begging note in my voice.

I thought he was just going to take off. He was grim, determined and out of patience. But he came back into the kitchen. Hurriedly, I plugged in the waffle maker and grabbed the mix, milk and eggs.

I was chattering. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about what. My lack of culinary skills got touched on. A joke about how I was going to have to expand my repertoire past waffles. “Do you know Phil Knight, Mr. Nike himself, used a waffle iron back in the good old days when he was just starting to make running shoes? That’s how he got the soles to have those little designs. Better traction, I guess.”

Murphy stood near the back door, at one end of my galley kitchen. I faced the counter, whipping up the batter, waiting for the waffle iron to heat. Something was off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Binkster hung by my feet but her gaze was fixed on Murphy.

“Aren’t you baking in that jacket?” I asked.

He shook his head. “What did Owen say?”

“Oh. Those were his tire tracks, but his visit really wasn’t anything sinister.”

“I could have told you. I know Owen.”

“You were friends with him, too.”

“Not really. He was just around.” Murphy stared off into space. “The guy’s a born wheeler and dealer.”

“So I’ve learned.”

“You’ve learned a lot,” he said.

“No, I was way off, Murphy. I thought it was all about real estate. I’ve tried to force square pegs into round holes. It seemed to me it was about money and property, but I was…misdirected.” Something clicked in my brain. My dream. Tomas Lopez said the same thing, and then Dwayne had, too. Misdirection. “I don’t know what it’s about, “I said. And then something else fell into place, a second click in my brain. A realization that had been there but I’d ignored. “Yes, I do! It’s about retribution for Bobby killing his family. It has to be! Somebody served him up the justice they felt he deserved.”

“The waffle iron’s hot,” Murphy observed.

I poured the batter distractedly then picked up a spatula. “Lopez asked if the man’s voice could have been Cotton’s. I dismissed that. I didn’t want it to be Cotton. I couldn’t believe he would kill his own son. But then Bobby killed Cotton’s grandchildren, baby Kit and Jenny and…”

There was a long, weighty pause. I looked at Murphy. He stood like a statue. “What’s wrong?”

He suddenly came toward me and wrapped his arms around me. I still had the spatula in one hand and was so surprised that I just stood there, my arms sticking out on either side of him, one hand holding the spatula, the other reaching forward as if ready to offer a handshake. Awkwardly I patted his back with my free hand. “Murph?”

He pulled away almost immediately and went back to stand in his earlier position. “His name was Aaron.”

“Oh…right. Aaron.”

“I have their pictures from the newspaper. It’s hard to look at those photos and think about what Bobby did.”

Murphy’s face was white. He was staring at the ground. He’d shoved his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. Binkster growled, low in her throat, staring back at him.

I gazed at the dog, almost amused. “What’s with you?”

“She doesn’t like me,” Murphy said in a strangled voice.

“Binks likes everybody.”

“Not me.”

I didn’t answer.

“You really think Cotton killed Bobby?” The words seemed ripped from Murphy.

“I just said I didn’t want to believe it,” I answered slowly, trying to make sense of the strangeness that had come over the room. There was something in the air. Something off-kilter. “But ‘the area is mine’…who would say that?”

“I’ve got to go, Jane,” he said abruptly. Binks’ eyes were fixated on Murphy’s right pocket.

“She thinks you have food,” I said. But Binkster’s stance was aggressive. The little roll of ruff on the back of her neck was electrified. Murphy shifted. I realized with a distinct shock that he held his gun in his pocket. I’d felt its hardness when he hugged me but hadn’t registered what it was. “You’ve got your gun,” I said, stupid with disbelief. “You’ve got your gun in your hand. You can’t take a gun on the plane.”

Murphy’s eyes were glued to the dog. He pulled the gun from his pocket and looked at it, as if deciding what to do. My pulse skyrocketed.

“What…
what?
” I asked.

Binkster quivered. Then suddenly, she charged Murphy. She moved like a shot. I couldn’t take it in. Murphy, surprised himself, automatically aimed the gun on her.

“Stop!”

Binkster sank her teeth into Murphy’s calf. Murphy yelped. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“Stop! Goddamn it!
Stop!
Hurt her and I’ll knock your
fucking
head off!”

My left arm grabbed the waffle iron. I slammed it against the side of his head with the force and fury of a mother bear.

Blast!
The bullet ripped through my cabinet, sending shrapnel splinters zinging everywhere. I shielded my eyes.

Murphy went down like lead. The waffle iron bumped away. I scooped up my dog, shaking all over. Binks growled and scrambled to go after Murphy some more, but I held her tight, stunned. I was shocked at myself, shocked at the dog, shocked at Murphy.

Murphy lifted a hand to his face in disbelief. I could smell batter and cooked flesh. Little, angry red square blisters formed on his cheek. Superficial wounds. He looked up at me. With the emotion I’d felt when he threatened Binks’ life, he was lucky I hadn’t killed him.

“Why?” I asked, my voice shaking. “
Why?
”

His gaze was tortured. “Because…
Aaron was mine
…”

A
week later Dwayne took me to Foster’s On The Lake and bought dinner and drinks. He said he was celebrating the fact that I’d finally gotten off the fence and joined with Durbin Investigations, his unofficial business name. He told me I was going to have to apply for an investigator’s license. He also told me I should apply for a gun license. I have yet to do either.

I’m ashamed to say that when Murphy hit me with the fact that Aaron was his, it took me a few minutes to assimilate. I just couldn’t process. I’d like to say I was right on it. The path to the answer was finally clear to me. Hallelujah! I see all!

Unfortunately, I was way off. Maybe, in a teensy, dark corner of my heart I’d worried that Murphy wasn’t playing fair and square. He’d told me too many almost lies for me to completely trust him, though I’d sure as hell tried to.

As soon as he was down, he started to talk. It just came pouring out. A flood of relief that he could finally confess.

Bobby had taken up with Laura on the heels of her relationship with Murphy. Apparently, she didn’t tell anyone she was pregnant. Maybe she didn’t know. Either way, Bobby seized the opportunity to steal her from Murphy. When he offered marriage, she accepted. Somewhere in the years that followed Laura, or Bobby, confessed the truth about Aaron to Murphy. Bobby had told Cotton already. His motive remained a mystery. Maybe he’d hoped his father wouldn’t care so much about Bobby’s best friend. Maybe he wanted to sever Cotton’s grandfatherly interest in Aaron. Either way, it didn’t work. Cotton loved Murphy like a son and when Bobby showed up on Cotton’s doorstep, the first thing Cotton did was call Murphy. Heather had been right on that and Murphy had lied.

I wasn’t completely off, as it turned out. Tess had been taking care of Bobby financially, but he’d grown bored and restless and headed like a homing pigeon back to Lake Chinook. Cotton was overwhelmed to see his son again, but Bobby’s actions could not be denied, forgotten or forgiven. And when Bobby seemed to express little or no remorse, Cotton placed the S.O.S. to Murphy.

For his part, Murphy was torn, desperately hating Bobby for what he’d done, desperately wanting to see him again, to learn anything about why Bobby had killed his family. He planned to beat the hell out of Bobby when they came face-to-face. He wanted answers. He wanted to understand. He wanted some kind of revenge.

But there were no answers to be had. When Murphy saw Bobby he was swept by more sadness than rage. The question I’d asked Murphy—“Why?
Why?
”—had no answer from Bobby when Murphy posed it to his best friend. Maybe Bobby just couldn’t respond. And truly, there had never been any answer that could’ve explained killing his family. Nevertheless, Murphy pressed until Bobby grew furious. Murphy didn’t understand. Nobody understood! The whole world was against him. It wasn’t his fault! They
drove
him to it!

Murphy couldn’t fathom it. Bobby, the boy who’d had everything, the hatchery fish, was blaming
them
?

Heated words became enraged fury. Jesse Densch happened to be running around the island at Bobby and Murphy’s final face-off. What Jesse didn’t see was that Bobby held a gun on Murphy—the weapon Murphy bagged and removed from the scene. But looking down the barrel of his best friend’s gun, Murphy’s rage exploded. He yelled at him, “Aaron was mine!” and slammed him in the head with a piece of slate. Whereas my waffle iron blow merely knocked Murphy down, Murphy’s slate hit Bobby in the temple and killed him.

It happened fast. Murphy was shattered. He had a moment to choose: go to the authorities or hide the body. Making his choice, he rowed Bobby to Phantom’s Cove, the site of some of my most treasured moments with Murphy. Well, believe me, I don’t feel the same way now.

Then I showed up at the benefit, all gung-ho about being a private investigator. Did Murphy decide to suddenly invite me to Santa Fe because it would derail me? Or did he actually care?

That question hasn’t been answered. I choose not to think about it too much. I did, however, suggest Sharona to be Murphy’s criminal defense attorney. His actions were in self-defense, but then there’s that tricky issue of sinking the body….

I have faith Sharona will do well for him.

Of course, Cotton suspected what had transpired between Bobby and Murphy, but at some level, I think he believed justice may have been served. Ill as he was, however, the events served to end his life.

I was seated at the table, lost in thought. Late August and it was still hot. Dwayne leaned into me. “What would you like, darlin’?”

“How about a Sparkling Cyanide?”

“That’s a drink?”

“Blue curacao and some other stuff. Cyan means blue.”

Dwayne gave me a look that said, “remember who you’re talking to.” “People who ingest cyanide choke from a lack of oxygen, and darlin’,” he drawled, “when you don’t get your oxygen, you turn blue and die. That’s why it’s
cyan
ide.”

Jeff Foster leaned in to our table. “I’m not naming any drink around here cyanide.”

“Be adventuresome, Foster,” I suggested.

“And you’re not getting any more free ones. I had a talk with Manny.”

I glanced over at Manny as Foster walked away. He grinned at me and winked. I was still safe.

I’d kind of gone into a mild depression after Murphy’s confession. It was really a blow to my ego to realize everything I’d built my dreams on was false. But the good news was I didn’t have to leave Lake Chinook.

Tess remains at large somewhere in Texas. It’s a big state, but maybe not big enough to escape the long arm of the law. Tomas Lopez isn’t a guy who’s going to just let it be. But since Tess has already lawyered-up herself, maybe she’ll come out with a light sentence.

And Heather has apparently listed the island with Paula Shepherd and Brad Gilles. I understand Owen is interested in purchasing it. I wish him all the luck, but even with his apartment building in First Addition, I’m not sure he can swing it.

Misty, the sassy waitress who Heather thought Cotton had his eye on, took our order. Since Dwayne was buying I picked the prime rib. It was the most expensive item on the menu.

“Knock yourself out,” Dwayne told me, amused.

I think I love him.

No. I’m not even sure I like him. Well, okay, I’m mildly attracted but I’m
not going there
.

I glanced over to Dwayne’s boat. We brought the Binkster along. I could tell even from the distance she was whining. I’d like to say it was because she wanted to be with me, but I imagine it was the smell of the barbecue. It still amazes me how she read Murphy that day. Honestly, I didn’t think she was capable of it.

Murphy had broken into my place. I’d apparently worried him right from the get-go. To get me to stop thinking the break-in had been related to Bobby’s death, he’d told me about the unlatched window. I still worry that I’m not cut out for this business, but then I remind myself that love makes you stupid. I’d fallen in love with a guy who dazzled me with a white smile and a red convertible, but I hadn’t known that guy at all.

Note to self: no more falling in love.

When Booth learned about my run-in with Murphy, he was nearly as shocked as I was. He’d known Murphy a long while as well. I’m happy to report, though, that it seems like he’s finally accepted that I’m working with Dwayne. We Kellys may be bullheaded, but once in a while we know when to give up. He’s been as good as his word about the medical insurance: I’m scheduled to meet with an agent from my new company next week. Who knows? I may even find I have an internist and orthopedist available.

Mom is arriving on Monday. Booth and I have kept my exploits to myself, for the time being.

Misty brought my blue martini on a silver platter. It looked divine. Dwayne shuddered and lifted his beer. His tastes are far more pedestrian than my own. But I can’t complain. He called a friend of his who knows a guy who paints cars. The Volvo is scheduled to get rid of its scratch.

A lady at the next table over, clad in an expensive taupe suit and carrying a Louis Vuitton bag, leaned toward me. “Do you mind my asking?” she whispered, pointing to my drink. “What is that?”

“Sparkling Cyanide.”

“Oh, goodie.” She broke into smiles and looked around. Foster was at another table, making sure his guests were all happy and satisfied. Catching the woman’s signal, he came to her table.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” she said. “Sparkling Cyanide!”

I lifted my glass to Foster in a salute.