by Nancy Bush
“You’re trying to help Violet, right? My sister said you were.”
He didn’t bring up Gigi slamming the door in my face, so maybe he didn’t know about her response. I said cautiously, “More like I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
“Isn’t that what the police are doing?”
There was noise in the background. Some kind of unidentifiable music? Techno-rock? I couldn’t tell. But it was loud and Sean’s flat voice was mere microdecibels above it, barely enough for me to make out what he was saying.
“Yes.” One thing I’ve learned in my brief foray into the P.I. business, answer as truthfully as you dare but don’t offer up any more information than necessary. Let whomever you’re talking with develop their own conclusions. Those conclusions might surprise you, more often than not.
“Yeah, well, if you wanna see me you can come down to the Crock pretty much any night.”
“The Crock?” I repeated, surprised.
“You know it?”
“Sure do. How about I stop by tonight? What time will you be there?”
“We start about midnight and go till two or three.”
I paused a beat before saying, “Okay.”
I hung up, my momentary excitement at finally breaking through the Hatchmere wall taking a nosedive. The idea of starting anything at midnight made me inwardly groan. I’d been a bartender for a number of years, but I’d lived a different lifestyle then, becoming by necessity a “night person” and sleeping during the day. I’d effectively switched fully to the daylight hours in the time since, so I knew I would struggle to stay awake tonight. Napping always sounds like a good alternative, but, except for that bartending era when my days and nights were completely flipped, I’ve never been able to master it.
But Sean Hatchmere had given me a gift.
As I squeezed my way to the dock, I was just in time to hear Violet say, “What is it with you and those binoculars?” in a peeved voice.
I smiled inwardly, seeing Dwayne’s obsession in a positive light for the first time. Especially when he answered, “Darlin’, you have no idea what you can learn. See that house over there? The one under construction? Do Not Enter’s got some serious teen parties happening every weekend.”
“Teenagers,” Violet responded derisively.
“Can’t decide whether to report ’em to our local law enforcement, or head over there myself and score whatever they’re sharin’ amongst their secretive little selves.” Dwayne grinned up at Violet from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat.
Violet threw a look my way. “I can’t get him to take me seriously.”
“Jane’s your lead investigator.”
“I know, I know.” Violet sighed.
I broke in. “I just got a call from Sean Hatchmere. I’m meeting him at the Crock tonight.”
“Good,” Violet said with feeling. “That’s what I’m paying for! Still no luck with Gigi?” I shook my head. “Well, maybe Sean can help you there. He doesn’t like his sister much, though. Nobody does—did—except Roland.”
Violet and I left Dwayne on the dock as we headed through his cabana and out to our cars. A brisk breeze whipped past, running like a ribbon through the tree boughs. I paused to look around me, waiting for Violet to get into her car, a white Mercedes convertible, which she did after searching in her purse for her cell phone. I watched her unlock the vehicle by remote while she connected to her housekeeper, outlining what she wanted done with the red wine stains on the carpet. As she drove away I had a mental picture of her alone in her mansion, drinking wine, worrying about whether she would be indicted for murder.
She’d married a series of husbands and never improved her financial situation with each divorce. She’d married for love, I guess. Or the hope of love and companionship.
It was ironic that the wealth had come to her from her own family, a group of relatives she’d been separated from for years. She might be facing a murder trial in her future, but at least she could pay for it with Purcell funds.
I climbed into my Volvo wagon and headed home. Another blast of hail came at me like a round of artillery. It made me wonder what I was going to wear to my midnight rendezvous with Sean at the Crock. I found myself beginning to look forward to the event, now that I’d mentally conditioned myself.
And there was always the chance that I might see Megan Adair, one of the Crock’s bartenders and the woman who’d dropped The Binkster, my newly adopted pug, on my doorstep.
Who knew? If I wasn’t careful, I might learn something.
CHAPTER TWO
I arrived back at my cottage around four o’clock, realizing I had a full eight-hour shift of waiting time till midnight and my rendezvous with Sean. There’s a lot of waiting in this job, and I’m not all that good at it. Maybe I should take up a hobby. Like crossword puzzles or that Sudoku rage. Currently my pastimes appear to be coffee and wine consumption. I’m going for the gold in both pursuits, and I think I could actually get a medal. For exercise I jog from my cottage to the Coffee Nook.
Binkster, my adopted pug, met me at the door, wriggling wildly. I picked her up and we sat down on the couch together, where I petted her and she flopped across my lap as if to say, “Mine.” This pleased me to no end. Unconditional love. Who knew it could be so good? I’ve only had the dog a few months, but she’s become this integral part of my life in a way that still stuns me. I suspect this must be what motherhood’s like—a new addition to your family/life that wasn’t there before, and suddenly is too important to even quantify. She tangled with a car recently and still has the shaved hind leg to prove it. It looks a little like she’s wearing stockings. Well…stocking. I feel gut-wrenchingly bad about the accident, both because Binks was hurt and it was partially my fault. The great thing about Binks, though, is she neither holds it against me, nor probably even remembers. Except when she sees the grill of a vehicle. Then she tends to shy away and who can blame her? She feels the same way about grates over storm drains. She always eyes them warily and gives them a wide berth. I don’t know what that’s from, though I suspect there may be some buried trauma there from puppyhood.
After a few minutes I dislodged the pug who heaved a disappointed sigh and pressed right against my leg as I reached for my laptop. I decided I might as well edit my notes. I’d made a timeline of the events that read:
FRIDAY
6:00 p.m.—Rehearsal dinner at Castellina, forty people invited, Roland was there. Everyone invited is in attendance except Sean (the bride’s brother), who has previous plans of unknown origin. Violet is not invited to any wedding event.
SATURDAY
10:00 a.m.—Gigi (the bride) and Melinda (the bride’s stepmother) at Castellina early for hair and makeup. Various bridesmaids arrive. Female bonding all around. Emmett Popparockskill stays at apartment he and Gigi shared before the wedding day. (Roland is apparently at his house. Never made it to the winery/ceremony.)
1:00 p.m.—Gigi and bridesmaids head by limo to Cahill Winery for pictures, wedding and reception.
2:00 p.m.—Pictures scheduled at Cahill Winery. Emmett drives himself to winery for pictures. His parents arrive, David and Goldy Popparockskill. Various groomsmen arrive. Concern grows when Roland neither shows nor answers his home or cell phone.
3:00 p.m.—More guests arrive. Wedding is slated for four, but by now the atmosphere’s tense with worry. People leave in search of Roland. Gigi stays, breaks down. Emmett heads to Roland’s house. The bridesmaids and groomsmen hit the bar early.
3:30 p.m.—Emmett discovers Roland’s body. There are items scattered around, wedding presents dropped in the front yard. Suspicion grows that the Wedding Bandits were interrupted by Roland and killed him. Violet’s prints are the only ones on the tray.
My timeline didn’t offer much more than a listing of the events as they occurred. I’d grilled Violet about her own timeline for that morning, and Violet was forthcoming about the fact that she and Roland had gotten in an argument and she’d hit
him with the silver tray. But that information was documented fact from the police report, something she couldn’t deny. Obviously, there was a hell of a lot left unsaid. She’d been pretty cagey about her relationship with her third ex, acting as if they were just reunited friends, but we’re talking about Violet here. She’s not known for platonic relationships with men.
At the time of his death, Roland was still married to Melinda McCrae Hatchmere, though they were living apart. I believe Violet reconnected with Roland and they started a steamy affair. Let’s face it: some pretty powerful feelings caused Violet to hit him with the tray. Maybe the relationship had started to sour. Maybe he decided to stick with Melinda. Maybe Gigi got in the way of her father’s new romance. Whatever the case, I’d taken to calling him Rol-Ex, which I think is screamingly hilarious but other people seem to find lame. Violet sure does.
Sometimes I think I’m the last person left on the planet with a real sense of humor.
So, whether she cops to it or not, I believe Violet and Rol-Ex were hitting the sheets together. It’s almost a given. There’s just something ripe, luscious and ready to pick about Violet that can’t be missed. And she’s not the type of woman to spend time mourning the death of a previous relationship, such as the one she was working on with Dwayne. Nope. More likely, Violet would simply zero in on the next opportunity and head that direction. I admire her ability to get over bad stuff. She says there’s no time to dwell, regret, rue or wallow. She’s supercharged in a sultry, throbbing way that reminds me of Mae West or Marilyn Monroe.
And she’s nobody’s fool.
I come by my paranoia over Violet’s chances with Dwayne for good reason. I don’t care that she’s ten to fifteen years older. It didn’t stop Demi Moore, and it would never stop Violet.
And I’ve grown pretty sick of her evasions, to tell the truth. No “amethyst” gown is going to change my feelings. After I talk with Sean I plan to have a serious tête-à-tête with my client and hopefully an exchange of information. I’ll offer up what I learn from Sean, and she’d better come completely clean with a full account of what went on between her and Rol-Ex before she hit him with the platter.
I got ready for the evening early, more out of boredom than an urge to be ahead of the game. I opted for a pair of expensive brown pants—something my friend Cynthia had made me buy in a weak moment—a white, silky shell and a black leather jacket. The weather was unpredictable. Hail one minute, followed by surprisingly warm wintry sun the next, followed further by gale winds that shook the windows and rattled the branches. Whatever the case, Oregon nights in November require layering. It was going to be cold, cold, cold once that sun went down.
I threw a longing glance toward my sneakers; I like to be ready to move, if need be. The Binkster was curled up in her little bed in the corner of my bedroom watching me as I pulled items from the closet, tried them on, discarded them, then put them back. When I was finally dressed to my satisfaction I turned around and looked at her, splaying my palms up to ask for her opinion. Her little tail whipped into a curl, the only movement I could discern apart from her eyes. I’ve come to recognize this as “Hi, there.”
“So, what do you think?” Her tail jerked into a speedy wag. “I have to go out tonight, so you need to head outside and take care of business.” I moved to the kitchen door of my cottage, which leads to a back deck. Stairs descend to the backyard and a body of water known as West Bay. At the eastern end of the bay is a bridge, and once beneath the bridge you enter Lake Chinook itself.
Binks’s toenails clicked against my hardwood floor. I opened the back door, then followed her down the steps, waiting patiently while she nosed around the yard. She can let herself out through her doggy-door cut into the wall, but I wanted to get the job done and lock her inside for the rest of the night. She looked up at me once, her wrinkly black face comically quizzical. I motioned for her to get at it and she got right down to business. I cleaned up after her as I can’t stand dog doo-doo littering my yard and flushed the remains down the toilet.
Binkster looked at me expectantly. She seems to think everything she does requires a reward. Have I created this expectation? Undoubtedly. Do I regret it? Well, yeah, some. Did anyone tell me how to train a dog that was dumped on me unceremoniously? Hell no. I figure Binks is lucky to be alive, at this point.
I reached over and grabbed her face and leaned down and let her half jump up to lick my lips. These kisses used to gross me out. The idea of dog germs is a very real thing. But now I don’t know…I just sort of go with it, which is surprising because I have real Seinfeld-ish problems with that kind of thing.
My cell phone started singing. I dug in my purse for it. Why are those things so damn hard to find? When I finally corralled it and looked down at its brightly lit LCD and recognized the name and number, my brows lifted in surprise. It was my landlord, Mr. Ogilvy. This is not a man who calls me up. Our communication is by mail. I write him a rent check and send it to him. He responds by cashing the check.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Jane?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t waste time. “I’ve decided to sell the place. I’m putting a sign up tomorrow.”
My legs sagged beneath me and I had to sit down. Selling? My cottage? I’d been renting from Ogilvy for over four years. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I can afford the rent. The house is on the water. There’s nothing like it anywhere in my price range. I don’t want to leave. Ever. “Selling?” I repeated faintly.
“You don’t have to move till it’s in escrow,” he said magnanimously.
Well, la-di-da. My mind immediately searched for a way to buy the property myself, but it wasn’t possible. It was too much money. The property’s value had to be in the stratosphere by virtue of the lakefront land beneath the cottage. The one-bedroom building itself wasn’t much, but it was my home. I was horrified.
“You’re going to have to take your stuff out of the garage,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’d never been able to use the garage because of all of Ogilvy’s junk that was padlocked inside. I guess I hoped this might deter him, but apart from an unhappy grunt of acknowledgment, he didn’t react.
I left the cottage with that bad feeling that comes from unresolved issues, the kind that stays in your head, never quite put aside, remembered with a jarring lurch and a pit in your gut. I couldn’t think about moving. I couldn’t. I was pissed off at Ogilvy for even suggesting I should.
In a funk, I drove to my friend Cynthia’s art gallery, the Black Swan, located in Portland’s chichi Pearl District, and hung around until she closed at nine, and then even later, sharing a glass of red wine with her in her office. She looked sharp in a short forest-green skirt, a matching double-breasted jacket and a pair of silver heels. I asked her to go with me to the Crock.
“Can’t,” she declined. “Got to get to bed early. Much to do tomorrow. And I’m short-staffed, as ever, since Ernst left, which isn’t a bad thing because the last thing I needed was to look at his ugly face every day.”
Ernst was an ex-lover and ex-employee.
I walked her to her car, then climbed back in mine, heading east toward the Willamette River which feeds into the Columbia River, the dividing line between Oregon and Washington. The Willamette bisects Portland whose city center lies on the west side. The Crock, short for Crocodile, is located on the east side, not far from Twin Peaks, the two bluish glass towers that are perched atop the Convention Center. I crossed the Morrison Bridge and began a kind of haphazard journey down narrow streets in search of the bar. I’d never been to the Crock and I wasn’t all that familiar with this area. It’s a part of Portland that was once, and is largely still, industrial, this close to the river, but there are cubbyholes of trendy restaurants and nightclubs tucked here and there. In a few years it will probably be blocks of urban hot spots. I’d been to several of the clubs around town to see up-and-coming bands at a numb
er of these joints: they were, to a one, dark, bare, crammed with young people and loud noises.
It had been a number of months since Megan Adair left Binkster in my care. She’d made noise that she might actually give the dog a home since Aunt Eugenie, Binky’s original owner and a friend of my mother’s, had departed this world, leaving her beloved pet in my mother’s care. The fact was, Aunt Eugenie was not my aunt. She was, however, Megan Adair’s. In our one meeting, when Megan dropped off the dog, I’d learned that Megan worked at the Crock and that she was in between places to live. I’d hoped she would come back for the pug soon, but now I felt completely different. If anybody were to try to take Binkster from me, they were in for a fight. It was like a bad love affair, really; the dog belonged to me and only me, and by God, I’d go to any means to keep her.
So it was with a slight chip on my shoulder that I entered the bar. If I saw Megan I was going to make it clear straight up that the dog would not be leaving my care. Which was just another reason why I couldn’t be ousted from my cottage. My heart karumphed hard, hurting. I had to have a place that would take me and my dog. Had to.