Candy Apple Red (8 page)

“Here’s my pizza,” he said as a server handed him a cardboard box. I looked up in surprise. I hadn’t even known he’d ordered. On The Lake’s menu is diverse; its mainstay steak and seafood. But it has a killer array of gourmet pizza listed on the backside of the menu, and I could smell the blue cheese and garlic as if that cartoon aroma finger were beckoning me near. In that vein I stumbled after Dwayne through the maze of small tables, embarrassed at the way my mouth watered, and damn near ran straight into Cotton as he pushed open the knee-high gate from the patio to the boat dock. Cotton, Dwayne and I stepped outside the eating area toward the boats. Dwayne threw an arm around me and pulled my head into his chest as we walked, giving the impression we were lovers. It was his way of hiding me from Cotton. I appreciated it, but my gut tightened for reasons I didn’t want to examine too closely.

We turned toward our boat slip and I risked a glance toward Cotton. He’d pulled out a cigar and was absorbed in the ritual of cutting off the end. He didn’t know I was alive.

Dwayne stepped into the boat, pizza box held aloft. I followed a bit unsteadily and he held a hand out to me.

I clambered inside with a lack of grace attributed to alcohol. “I haven’t seen Cotton out in ages. He’s been like a hermit. What happened all of a sudden? Has the limit on Bobby’s disappearance expired and no one bothered to tell me?”

He handed me a piece of pizza. “There’s no expiration on murder.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I gave Cotton a long look from beneath my lashes. It had to be a struggle to keep up appearances. Bobby’s crimes had taken a real bite out of Cotton’s social calendar. Snap judgements being my specialty, I decided I didn’t like either Cotton or his wife.

I bit into the pizza slice and nearly fell over with delight. Not just blue cheese, several other combos of the stuff as well lay a half-inch thick on the crust. And garlic. Tons of garlic. It was certain to clog up my arteries. I munched away with gusto. We ate in silence for a moment. I tried not to make too much noise but food had been scarce around the apartment and I was certain I’d lost five pounds in the last three days. All I wanted to do was scarf it down with as much haste as possible and damn the lactose intolerance.

Note to self: go grocery shopping.

After a second large piece of pizza my stomach suddenly seized up. I visualized an influx of cheese comprised of not only milk sugar but thirty percent fat. I could picture my overloaded stomach pushing the food through as quickly as possible in an effort to keep me from exploding. And then I could see the little villae in my small intestine sucking up that fat and shooting it straight to my bloodstream.

“You don’t look so good,” Dwayne pointed out, working on his third piece. He, apparently, doesn’t suffer from anything beyond suffocating good humor. I shook my head when he silently offered me another slice. He chewed away in silence while I tried to pull myself together. Just as I was feeling better he closed the pizza box and started the engine.

Ducks had gathered outside the low fence which opened from the patio to the boat dock and they looked eager for a crumb. A furry creature I first thought was a beaver stood on its hind legs, equally eager. A second glance had me realizing there was no paddle tail on the rodent. A muskrat. He twitched his nose at me, hoping for a handout. I leaned over said, “Sorry, buddy. No can do.”

The critter actually placed a paw on the gunwale and looked for all the world as if he were about to jump inside.

“Do it and die,” Dwayne growled. The muskrat took him at his word and moved back. Dwayne gently guided the boat into the bay. Ignoring the signs posted to not feed the wildlife, I tossed the muskrat a piece of crust. He raced over, sniffed it a few times and waddled off.

“Did you see that?” I demanded, incensed. The flapping ducks appeared more appreciative but Foster, who’d happened to walk by at my moment of generosity, glared at me. I waved sheepishly and grimaced to myself. I wasn’t going to get that free meal unless I changed my ways.

Dwayne hit the accelerator, trying to outrun the fading light. It wasn’t that you couldn’t boat after dark; it was that you couldn’t go fast. Lake Chinook was only a few miles from end to end, but it seemed like forever at six miles per hour—night speed. We had to slow down as we went beneath the bridge and through the tight curves of Half Moon Bay, a narrow inlet that connected Lakewood Bay to the main lake. As soon as he was able, he punched it up again and we were hurtling across the water.

“Wait!” I screamed as we neared the looming tree-shrouded cliffs of Cotton’s island, his fortress completely surrounded by the moat of Lake Chinook.

Dwayne ignored me.

“Damn it, Dwayne! Slow down! Circle the island!”

Swearing under his breath, Dwayne did as I requested and we knifed slowly through the restricted speed areas that surrounded all the shoreline. The boat cut beneath the private road that led from North Shore Road to the island and through the fading purple light I glimpsed the path that circled the Reynolds’ private compound. There was the black chain-link fence and I could faintly make out the trail just on its other side.

I glanced around automatically for the Lake Patrol. They weren’t bad; an offshoot of the sheriff’s office. The Lake Chinook Police Department was another story altogether. Their motto was: no call too small. And they meant it. There was relatively little crime in Lake Chinook, and officers had nothing to do but dispense speeding tickets and M.I.P.’s, Minors in Possession, to underage drinkers and pot smokers. Once in a while they saved a cat in a tree. Their dedication worried me and I steered clear of them on general purposes. Having Booth as a policeman probably contributed to my overall paranoia.

“We haven’t done anything illegal,” Dwayne pointed out, interpreting my glance around for what it was.

“Yet,” I said.

Dwayne smiled to himself. He thought he had me; I could tell. Maybe he did.

Pulling back on the throttle, he coaxed the boat around the island at the regulation six miles per hour. Neither of us said anything as we both examined the fence, the oaks and Douglas firs with low sweeping boughs, the faint outline of the path, and the glimpses of rooftops: Cotton’s house and garage and outbuildings. The two Dobermans came to the fence and eyed our slowly motoring boat suspiciously.

I said, “I bet the Coma Kid was running from the dogs.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I’m not a fan of dogs.”

“What’s that kid’s name?” Dwayne asked.

I shook my head. There was a side of the island that was faced with basalt rock walls. Shivering, I pictured a body falling over that edge, possibly knocking himself out cold on the way, way down to the water.

Light had faded to a thin glimmer on the western horizon when Dwayne suddenly swung the boat toward the main lake and turned up the gas. We roared across the water, just ahead of complete nightfall. He delivered me back to my place, cutting the engine and letting the hull slap softly on little incoming waves toward the dock. I climbed to the gunwale, expecting to lithely leap ashore but the rocking vessel coupled with my two-and-a-half glasses of wine caused my equilibrium to fail. I stumbled, stubbed my toe on a cleat, cried out, and watched my plastic flip-flop teeter on the edge of my bruised toe. I desperately tried to squinch onto it, but it slid off to slip gently into the murky, algae-furred depths of the lake.

I stared down in disbelief. “It sank!”

“It’s only three feet deep here. You can probably find it.”

Like, oh sure. I’m going to walk along the muddy, duck-poop-slimed bottom of the bay. I silently mourned the loss. The pair had cost me $5.89 at the pharmacy and they didn’t even float.

“They looked cheap,” Dwayne observed, which pissed me off anew.

“They’re irreplaceable. I ordered them special.”

“Yeah, right. Give me a push.”

My toe was still hurting so I knelt down and shoved his hull away with my hands. When Dwayne’s bow had drifted clear of the shore he began putt-putting toward the West Bay Bridge in the direction of the main lake and eventually his cabana.

“Want me to come with you Saturday?” he called, his voice clear and loud with the amplification of the water.

“I have a feeling I’d better go alone. Thanks for the surveillance tour.”

“Be careful.”

He switched on his running lights and I watched the red and green and white lights move toward the bridge. I shivered and glanced around. I’d forgotten to leave any interior lights on in the bungalow. Carefully, I picked my way up the moss-surrounded flagstone steps to the back door. It was locked, but it was the same key as the front door and I let myself in and stood silently for a moment, listening hard. Dwayne had spooked me with his warning.

I counted my heartbeats in my throbbing toe, strained my ears, called myself a fool, an idiot and a hatchery fish. Taking off my remaining sandal, I hobbled across the floor and switched on the lights. The living room burst into view. Not a shadow out of place.

The file lay on the coffee table where I’d left it. I opened it and shuffled through a few of the papers. Marta had been thorough in collecting the information. Maybe Tess had supplied it. I thought about taking the file to bed and poring over it closely but then I suddenly found pictures of Bobby’s three kids. Faxed copies of grade school close-ups complete with goofy smiles, missing teeth and rooster tufts of hair. The nine-month-old was sitting in one of those baby chairs looking rather surprised.

I felt a surge of rage directed at Bobby Reynolds. Was I seriously considering delving into this family tragedy? Even peripherally? I thought about Murphy. His acquaintanceship had brought me to this point. It was because of him that I knew anything about Bobby, Cotton and Tess. It was also because of him that I’d first flirted with this kind of work. He was the reason I’d taken criminology classes, the reason I’d come to Oregon, the reason I’d become a process server, the reason I was introduced to information specialist Dwayne Durbin.

This wasn’t a “take the money and run” case, to quote Dwayne. It was so much more. But I’d promised I’d go to Cotton’s benefit. I could do that much. Then I would wash my hands of the whole sorry affair and let the authorities take over.

I closed the file almost reverently. I made sure all the locks on my doors and windows were shut tight. Then I checked again.

For a while I stood looking out my back window at the rippling sliver of moon-striped water, the length and breadth of my view.

A long, long time after that I managed to fall asleep.

S
aturday dawned an ominous gray and I pulled my red comforter over my head and groaned aloud. It never failed in the greater Portland area. Party = Rain. The equation was etched in stone. After weeks of beautiful sunshine, now the heavens would open and drench everyone at Cotton’s benefit. Fantastic.

But acting like an ostrich wasn’t going to help, so I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Yawning, I padded barefoot to the kitchen and opened my refrigerator. As soon as the door was in motion I inwardly asked myself, “Why?” I already knew there was nothing inside. It’s sort of like when the power goes out and you hit the light switch anyway because it’s dark. Pure habit. Peering inside I was faced with a half-empty carton of skim milk, a tub of margarine, a jar of tartar sauce that may have been left over from the ice age, a couple of dehydrated carrots and one lone diet cola. I don’t know why I expect anything else. The grocery elves hadn’t shown up during the night and stocked my shelves.

Picking up one of the pathetically shriveled carrots, I waved its limp form several times before I dumped them all into the garbage disposal and ground them up. I hung on the refrigerator door for a while just because I can. That’s the great thing about living alone; no one to warn you about the electric bill.

It occurred to me there might be something to eat in the pantry—the pantry being the cupboard above my microwave. To my delight and astonishment I discovered behind the cans of Stagg Chili and Campbell’s soup a miniature box of Krusteaz pancake/waffle mix and an equally tiny bottle of boysenberry syrup wearing a bright red bow, both part of a Christmas gift package. My eye had passed over this bounty for months but now I zeroed in on it like a sniper, aware there was probably just enough milk left to whip together breakfast, as long as I didn’t mind teaming it with water or…

“Aha!” I declared triumphantly, pulling out the instant Folgers.

With that I clattered through my pots and pans, outdated dregs from my mother’s cabinets which I’d managed to wrest away from her, until I found the piece of equipment I was really looking for: a waffle iron. The occupants before me had left this little housewarming gift. Upon discovering it, I’d pulled it out and examined it thoroughly. It seemed passable, so I’d scoured the waffle-iron-squares by hand, then run them through the dishwasher about five times to make sure there were no leftover cooties. Now I read the Krusteaz directions and realized I was short an egg. I asked myself how important an egg might be. If I threw in a few teaspoons of water to make up for the egg liquid, wouldn’t that cover it? I shrugged and went ahead. No question: I’m a gourmet.

Ten minutes later I poured the batter onto the griddle and let my eye move back to the file I’d closed so carefully several nights before. But my mind shied away from Bobby Reynolds and turned instead to thoughts of the party itself. I tried to remind myself of all the reasons I might have a good time. There would be tiny, mouthwatering hors d’oeuvres and all the liquor anyone could drink. There would be music and people dressed in cool, expensive summer clothes. There would be Cotton Reynolds and his wife Heather, and there would be Murphy.

Shutting my mind, I flipped a lightly toasted waffle onto a plate and drenched it in boysenberry syrup. I tried to concentrate on food, either my current waffle or the luscious array sure to be awaiting me at Cotton’s. Just because I’m eating one meal doesn’t mean I can’t think ahead. My motto’s like the Girl Scouts’: Be prepared. You never can be too sure where, or when, you’ll eat again. In my life, this is painfully, painfully true.

The waffle turned out to be exceptionally good. Either that, or my standards have sunk exceptionally low. But it didn’t matter because I couldn’t keep my mind on anything but the benefit. Tonight loomed like the proverbial black cloud. I was filled with a low-level dread that infected everything I did. I don’t know if other people are this way, but I tend to instantly regret every serious new responsibility I take on. I always want to take it back. I certainly wanted to back out of my obligation to Tess Bradbury.

I cleaned up slowly, taking my time. Not that I’m this terrific housekeeper, or anything, but there were still loads of hours ahead of me. I had oodles of time to regret being so eager to get my hands on five hundred dollars. Of course, rent would be due in a couple of weeks and the money would be nice. Still…

I wiggled my toes. The injured one had recovered. I reminded myself to pick up another pair of flip-flops as my eyes traveled to the telephone. My mother’s request sounded in my ears and before I could think about it, and therefore stop myself, I was calling my brother. He had a new girlfriend. Mom wanted to know about her. My mission, should I choose to accept it, was learn all I could about her.

I reminded myself that Booth could be at work; I had no idea what his rotation was. Being a cop means working different shifts. I could never count on him being on the same schedule more than a couple of weeks at a time, though I’ve never really tried all that hard to keep track. As the receiver rang in my ear, I began to hope that my mission was accomplished. Duty fulfilled. I’d made the phone call. I was free to go.

I was just about to hang up when Booth suddenly picked up. “Hello,” he greeted, his voice sleep-drugged, his tone a few degrees short of welcoming.

“Hey, Booth,” I said.

“Oh. Hi, Jane.”

“You work late last night? Sorry to call so early.”

“Just catching up on sleep.” He yawned loudly.

“Okay.”

The conversation, such as it was, stalled. I wasn’t sure how to proceed from here. It wasn’t like me to just check in with no reason.

“You want something?” he asked, sounding more awake.

“No. Not really.”

“Mom tell you to call?”

His perception caught me up short. I debated on a lie and decided, why bother? “She says you have a new girlfriend and she wants me to find out all about her.”

“I have a new fiancée,” he reported with a hint of self-satisfaction.

Fiancée?

“Good God,” I said. “You’re getting married?”

“Not right away. But, yeah.”

“And we haven’t even met her? Who is she? What’s her name?”

“Sharona.”

“Sharona?” I repeated. “Like ‘My Sharona’?” I felt mildly hysterical and attempted to hide it. My twin was getting
married
? And he hadn’t even bothered to inform me? “Is this a joke?”

“Nope.”

“You haven’t told Mom yet,” I accused.

“Nor Dad.”

I snorted. I
knew
he hadn’t told our father because Dear Old Dad departed when we were both still wee tots. And he departed into the arms of another woman, his secretary at work. The scandal pretty much kicked them both out of the law firm where they were employed. Dear Old Dad was now in private practice and our lovely stepmother had popped out three more children, my half brothers and sister, at an alarming rate. They all still lived somewhere in southern California. No wonder Booth and I both left the state for good, and Mom occasionally makes noise to that effect.

“Mom wants me to meet her,” I informed him. “She wants information. But I’m not going to tell her you’re engaged. That’s for you, Bucko.”

“She can call me.”

“Pick up a phone.”

“I’ll call her in a while. I just don’t want to, yet.”

I could understand. When I have big news I sometimes have to pick my time to share it with anyone. It’s like I need to almost believe it myself. But I didn’t want Mom calling me every two hours and demanding information while I sat on this powder keg.

“Come on, Booth.”

“Why don’t you meet Sharona?” he suggested. “Come by tonight.”

“The one night I have plans.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Will you call Mom before I come?”

“Sure.”

“I won’t walk in the door unless I know she’s talked to you.”

“I’ll call her later today.”

“I’m holding you to it,” I warned.

“Jesus, Jane.”

“Should we meet for dinner?” I suggested. “I’ll order pizza.”

“Sharona’s a vegetarian.”

Well, of course she was. I was getting the sneaking suspicion she might be too cool for me. Probably lived in the Pearl District, currently the most chi-chi, wildly growing part of Portland. “I’ll order gourmet veggie pizza. Will that work? I haven’t been struck by a miracle and suddenly learned to want to cook.”

“Any chance we could invite ourselves boating with some of your friends?”

Trust Booth to push the envelope. “My scintillating company won’t be enough?”

“Just thought I’d ask.”

I thought of Dwayne and his boat and immediately dismissed him. I hadn’t gotten over my fleeting attraction to him the other night. I next considered my neighbors, the Mooneys, remembered their constant bickering, dismissed them as well and returned to Dwayne. “Possibly.” I was cautious.

“Great. See you around four?” he asked, then hung up after my grunt of agreement.

I hoped this didn’t mean I was going to have to seriously play hostess. I’m not good at it. Playing hostess means serving food, smiling and welcoming practical strangers into your home. I wrinkled my nose. This was my twin’s fiancée. I had my Costco card. If worse came to worst, I could rush over and buy some frozen hors d’oeuvres—those little quiches, or chicken wings, or something.

Groaning to myself, I stripped out of the T-shirt and sweats I used for sleeping, and stepped into the T-shirt and sweats I use for running. Within two minutes I was out the door and making for the Coffee Nook and a way to waste more hours until evening.

I stayed at the Nook until my butt muscles were numb from sitting on the bar stools too long. Then I half-ran, half-power-walked home. At four o’clock I asked myself what I was going to wear, why it mattered, and, once again, what the hell I thought I was doing. I was no private dick. I was no dick at all, which was a good thing as far as I could see. But I was in need of cash and this seemed an easy way to earn some.

I glanced outside. The clouds still hung low in the sky. No rain had fallen, as yet, but the air was sticky and close. I pulled on a white T-shirt, a pair of khaki capri pants—real, this time—and my Nikes without socks. Since I’d lost my flip-flops I was pretty much down to sneakers. I might look a little out of place but if, and when, the rain came, no one was going to care. I glanced down at the Nikes. Woofers’ bite marks still infuriated me. I was definitely going to have to buy new shoes.

Dragging my hair into a loose ponytail, I corralled it at the nape of my neck into a funky bun thing. Stray hairs jutting out kept me from looking too coiffed. Can’t stand that super slick look on myself. It’s just not natural. I next did a makeup job in pink and peach that made me look like a washed-out imitation of myself. I wanted to fit in with the benefit crowd—mostly members of the Lake Chinook Historical Society whose mean age was probably fifty—as best as I could. Pastels felt like the answer. Maybe if they saw my face, they’d forgive me my sneakers.

There was an anxious little humming going on beneath my skin. Nerves. I snatched up my keys and headed out.

Less than ten minutes later I pulled to a stop behind a blue Ford sedan already parked on the access road near the bridge which crossed to Cotton’s property. Drawing a breath, I stepped into evening air choked with battling barbecue scents from the island and homes along the shore. Lamb, chicken, beef, grilled onions and hot dogs were a heady concoction. I walked across the bridge. The gates were open and I could see people already dotting the property. Tiki torchlights flickered invitingly against the charcoal sky and restless water. Barbecue smoke wafted behind the house, a wispy gray curtain. I circled along a brick path with little ankle-high signs pointing the way to a greeter’s booth. I gave my ticket to a woman wearing a straw hat covered with fake cherries. She could have given Carmen Miranda a run for her money in fruity-style points.

A waiter dressed in all black swung a silver platter with crab-stuffed mushroom canapes under my nose. My mouth watered instantly. Things were looking up.

I wandered around the back of the house. Tables were scattered across a manicured lawn which stretched over a rise toward the lake. I followed a flagstone path and stood at a low wall. Tiered below me was an in-ground swimming pool, its aqua surface faintly dark beneath the clouds. The pool was surrounded by flagstones rather than cement and tiered to more flagstone steps and eventually the lake which lay green and dark beneath crowding fir trees.

I caught a glimpse of the path, just inside the chain-link fence. There was a certain amount of overgrowth but it was clear enterprising youths were still vaulting over the barrier and running around the edge. Something was keeping the ground clear, and dollars to doughnuts it wasn’t Cotton.

Shimmering glasses of champagne passed by me, tiny raspberries nestled in the V of the bottom. I snagged one and smiled at the cute waiter. He looked about eighteen. He said, “It’s Dom Perignon.”

“Uh-huh.” Like I believed that. Cotton might be wealthy, but he wasn’t stupid.

The waiter inclined his head toward a long table covered in white cloth. In the center stood a regiment of champagne bottles, all Dom Perignon. I strode over to get a closer look and saw the boxes of a cheaper brand tucked beneath a corner of the table.