by Nancy Bush
“Stir things up.”
“Okay.” I waited. “How?”
“When you interviewed Melinda she asked you to keep her informed if the investigation led away from Violet,” Dwayne reminded me. “Go ahead and do that. Tell her you’re certain of Violet’s innocence and you’re looking in other directions. Maybe she’ll tell you what she was hinting at before.”
“Good idea.”
“Tell Gigi and Emmett the same thing. Have you called Emmett’s parents? Maybe it’s time to check with them. I’ll give Larrabee another call and push him.”
I was thrilled Dwayne’s brain was humming along. This was what I’d missed while he’d been recuperating. I could have shouted my joy to the skies.
“And the plastic surgery partner?”
“Dr. Wu.”
“Damn convenient that he’s out of the country right now,” Dwayne muttered. “Go to one of the clinics. See what they’re about.”
“Oh yeah, sure. That’ll be easy. Roland sold that business,” I reminded him.
“Money’s a big motive for murder.”
“Melinda thought there was something fishy about the business sale, but she really doesn’t have much nice to say about anyone or anything.”
Dwayne snorted. “Do any of them?”
“Not really.”
“What about after Thursday’s game?” he asked suddenly. “Are you planning to meet Dawn?”
“Thursday?” I repeated, before I remembered that we were approaching Veterans Day, one of those holiday weekends that sometimes include a teacher in-service day, or whatever they call them now. “The game’s on Thursday?” Dwayne nodded. “You seriously think they’ll meet at Do Not Enter after last week’s fiasco?”
“Maybe not. But it’s like their clubhouse.”
I drew a breath, gazing across the bay. I let my eye travel along the shoreline. “I should return Social Security’s canoe,” I admitted.
The house where I’d docked was nearly out of sight from Dwayne’s, tucked into a slight bend as far west as I could see. I took the binoculars from Dwayne’s hand and adjusted them. I could just see the end of the canoe, peeking from beneath the shelter of the boat-port. Through the rain I could see it was a faded red, its tags barely visible. If I didn’t move it back, someone might eventually discover it and learn it was registered with the Lake Corporation, so its ownership would be established. But how long would it take for someone to find it? It wasn’t like there was a lot of bustling activity over there. I was doomed to take it back.
“Could it just stop raining?” I muttered.
Dwayne snorted in agreement.
Binkster greeted me at the door when I returned, wriggling around my legs excitedly, as if she hadn’t seen me in a decade. I had stopped at the market and purchased several sacks of essential foods. I’d even gone so far as to buy hamburger, half price, a few days old, and had visions of spaghetti or lasagna or something. I was pretty sure I could stir in tomato sauce and pour it over pasta. Hefting my brown bags on the counter, I bent down to scratch Binkster’s ears, which earned me a long, happy inhalation that sounded like a train rumbling over tracks.
“Guess what?” I told her, to which she cocked her head from side to side. “I bought groceries!”
She wagged her tail slowly, clearly trying to assess the importance of my words. Dogs apparently have about two hundred words they understand. Treat, mochi, walk, she gets. Groceries, apparently not.
Note to self: increase dog’s vocabulary.
I put a call into Melinda’s cell, wondering if she would pick up or dismiss me as quickly as she had the caller who’d phoned the day I’d interviewed her. I got her voice mail fairly quickly, so I left a message, telling her that it appeared the Wedding Bandits were more at fault than originally thought. I added that she’d asked if I would let her know if the investigation was turning away from Violet, so I was following through, just letting her know. I topped off the lie about the Wedding Bandits by saying I’d talked with the police and though they hadn’t come right out and said so, they, too, were concentrating on the Wedding Bandits instead of Violet.
I called Gigi and Emmett with about the same message, and then I tried the number for the Popparockskills, but David and Goliath also weren’t answering. I left my name and contact information with them, then Renee once more, just for the hell of it, since she seemed to have dropped off the planet. Finally, I gave Deenie another jingle, reaching her voice mail. Then I took my dog for a walk in the rain.
As I was returning, I saw Mr. Ogilvy’s blue pickup truck in my drive and my heart sank. Now what?
The side door to the garage was open, to my surprise. I’d never really seen inside and since this could be my one and only opportunity, I hurried to the open door and peered in. Binkster pulled at the leash for all she was worth, but I held her tight. She shook water from her coat and whined at the door while I stared past her at a huge pile of old, dispirited furniture, rotting trunks, boxes of files seemingly marked from the beginning of time, some bicycle tires and various and sundry other stuff. Above my head were several planks laid over the open rafters, and on those planks were more boxes.
“Jane?” Ogilvy called, straightening up from a dim back corner. The guy had a shock of gray hair and about the blackest, bushiest eyebrows around. He could give Scorsese a run for his money.
“You’re starting to clear this out?” I asked, looking at the pile of old toys, circa mid-seventies, early eighties. Fisher-Price scored big. Lots of little, cylindrical people wearing big smiles. There were also a couple of yellow, red and blue Big Wheels, molded-plastic vehicles with pedals.
“Garage sale,” he stated. “This Saturday.”
We were practically shouting at each other to be heard above the rain as it pounded on the roof. I had a picture of would-be “garage-salers” blocking my driveway and trying to involve me in their purchases.
“You want anything, you can have it,” he added generously. “Better tag it or get it outta here quick.”
I want my cottage , I thought. Binkster snuffled on the ground, eye to eye with a group of displaced centipedes disturbed by Ogilvy. They gave me the willies as they moved like a wave to the nearest group of Fisher-Price people lying on their sides, having been tossed out of their faded Fisher-Price home.
I feel for you , I told them silently as I pulled Binks away from the centipedes. Aren’t they supposed to be poisonous? Or is that something I learned from a video game that has no merit? Whatever—they’re creepy. I had a picture of myself pulling one out of Binkster’s mouth and it gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“I got an offer on the place,” Ogilvy grunted. “No real estate commission.”
I regarded him in horror. “I thought you weren’t selling for a while. You said I had time.”
He shrugged. “Can’t ignore a good offer.”
“I was thinking about trying to buy the cottage myself,” I said, the words flying from my mouth as if I’d been put under a liar’s spell.
He assessed me for a moment, checking to see if I was serious, I guess. “Better get it in writing soon,” he muttered, bending back to his task.
I stumbled to the house with Binks in tow, practically falling through the door in my haste. Binks ran to her bowl, shaking off rain, and I skidded with wet feet onto one of the stools at my little breakfast bar.
I felt ill. Flushed. Feverish. I sensed a closeness moving into my peripheral vision, as if I’d been drugged or dealt a blow to the head. He was selling. Selling. It was real. I had to buy it. I couldn’t buy it. Couldn’t afford it. Needed to have it.
I charged to the refrigerator, yanking open the door. Miracles. I’d bought a jug of orange juice in my shopping frenzy. I unscrewed the top and gulped thirstily. Sugar. I needed sustenance. Energy.
I felt Binkster’s paws on my leg and looked down to see her staring up at me. Did she understand I was stressed? Or did the orange juice look good? Hard to tell with her.
&nb
sp; Soberly, I said, “We are about to be evicted from our home.”
Now, there was irony for you: I made part of my living from evicting people. But it wasn’t the same. Those people didn’t pay their rent, whereas I paid on time, every time!
My cell phone bleeped. A text message. Expecting it to be Dwayne, I was a little surprised to see it wasn’t. I thought it was Violet for a moment, when I saw the one line missive:
break in the case. vl
Then I realized it was Vince Larrabee.
I phoned him back immediately but the call went right to a generic voice mail. I left him my name and number, though he already had it, just in case that would speed his return call. I couldn’t believe he’d taken the time to let me know. What kind of break? I wondered. Could the police have nabbed one or more of the Wedding Bandits? Larrabee had sounded hot on their trail when we met. I hoped like hell he continued to keep me in the loop.
I also hoped he wouldn’t expect information on Violet I wasn’t prepared to give. A faint hope, I know. Quid pro quo.
I called Dwayne and told him the news about Larrabee’s call. “Did you ever get through to him?”
“Just by voice mail. But, darlin’, you got him wrapped around your finger.”
I made a disparaging sound. “Not so. He barely spoke to me.”
“You did something right.”
“It’s probably an aberration. Like he’ll remember he didn’t like me, and this’ll be the end of it.”
“Nah.”
“What’s the deal with the two of you?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he dismissed, then hung up before the conversation could take hold.
Dwayne’s reassurances made me feel better, temporarily, but after spending the rest of the afternoon counting the hours, waiting for something to happen, I fell back into a dreary fugue, worrying about where my dog and I would end up. Worrying about my life. Worrying about the world…
I wrapped myself in a blanket and fell asleep on the couch, Binkster tucked in beside me. I swam up from sleep sometime deep in the night and realized it was close to midnight.
And the phone rang.
I jumped about a foot, the hair on my arms lifting. Binks caught my mood and started growling low in her throat. Snatching up the phone, I checked caller ID, my heart tripping wildly. Not available.
I answered with trepidation. “Hello.” It’s these weird moments of precognition that are the spookiest.
“Jane?”
“Booth?”
“Sorry to call so late. I’m on a job, but I need to talk to you.”
At midnight? “Okay…”
“Would you talk to Sharona? Give her a call? Tell her I’m trying to reach her but it’s tough right now….” There was some yelling in the background, muffled as it sounded like Booth covered the phone with his hand. “Jane?” he said softly, a careful whisper.
“Sure. Is there something specific you’d like me to tell her?”
“This is just temporary,” he said urgently. “Tell her that.”
“You mean the job?”
More background noise. I heard a male voice bark out, “Get off the fuckin’ phone!”
Booth responded coldly in my ear, “You wanna talk to me? Write my parole officer, bitch.”
The line went dead.
I sat for a moment in silence, hearing the clock tick, tick, tick. Then I gathered Binks to me and took her to bed. We curled in together. I didn’t even mind that her doggy breath was in my face.
The following morning I phoned Booth’s home number, which was also Sharona’s. I got their answering machine. The homey “Hi, you’ve reached Booth and Sharona” had been replaced with a flat, computer voice repeating their number. I left a message for Sharona, asking her to call me. This is what my life consists of, I thought. Leaving messages begging for an answering response. Sheesh. I could get a complex.
I bundled myself into my rain gear and ran to the Nook, grabbed a cup of black coffee, drank it down, then jogged back home. I was drenched by the time I returned and Binkster still hadn’t roused herself. I had to prod her to get her out her doggy-door to the backyard, and then she simply sat on the deck forlornly under the little round, glass-topped table. It took her a long time to go down the steps to the yard and empty her bladder. As soon as she was finished, however, she bounded back inside, ready for breakfast. I toweled her off and this time she didn’t bother playing, just went straight to her bowl. I gave her a smattering of kiblets while I toasted some wheat bread and spread it with margarine. She finished as I took my first bite and sat at my feet, staring up at me. I gave her the last bite of my crust, which she inhaled.
When we were both done we stared at each other. She was undoubtedly still thinking about food, but I was thinking about Booth. And Larrabee. And Violet. And the god…damn…rain.
My cell phone rang and I looked at the caller ID. A number I almost recognized but no name. “Hello?”
“So, you’ve decided Violet didn’t kill Roland,” Melinda said, her voice accusing. “That’s convenient. And for the record, you’re wrong!”
I pictured her all coiffed and peachy skinned, her kitchen smelling of cinnamon and vanilla. Kinda pissed me off. It was a little early in the morning to be attacked with so much venom.
But…stir the pot and this is what happens.
Her tone put me on the defensive and I had to edit my initial response, which would have been something like “Up yours, Betty Crocker.” Her reaction was just what Dwayne and I wanted.
I said neutrally, “Violet and Roland were seeing each other. They had a fight, which got physical, but she didn’t kill him.” I decided to expand on the truth. “They were planning a future together. Talking of marriage.”
“She told you that?” she sputtered. “We were getting back together. Violet was just a fling. Roland knew he couldn’t trust her. He learned that when they were married. It was too late by then, he had to pretend to make the marriage work, but he never forgot what she did. He would never go back to her. Not like that.”
“What did she do?”
“She killed her first husband,” Melinda said like I was beyond belief. “Don’t you know that? Don’t the police know that? Why do I have to be the one to wake you all up?”
I squinted at the phone. Was that true? I thought she’d divorced both exes prior to Roland. “All I know is that she says she and Roland were planning their own wedding.”
“She’s a liar. Do you know how her first husband died? Roland knew. He considered himself lucky that he got out of their marriage with his life!”
“He must’ve had a change of heart.” I tried not to sound feeble in my defense. I knew I would get more from Melinda if I stuck to my guns, taking a strong stand for the opposition. She would fight doubly hard to convince me I was wrong.
“Talk to Renee, if you don’t believe me,” she said. “Violet killed her first husband. Renee and Roland may have been divorced when Violet swooped in and turned his head, but Renee wasn’t really over him. She found out about the first husband—God, what was his name? Bart something, I think—but by the time she did, Roland and Violet were already married. Roland wouldn’t listen to her. But he did later. That’s why he and Violet divorced.”
There were a lot of reasons why he and Violet divorced, but I’d never heard this one. “Renee told you this?” I asked, deliberately lacing my tone with skepticism.
“Absolutely. Talk to her. Learn the truth about Violet. She’ll tell you.”
“Well, okay…”
She doubled her efforts to convince me. “Roland would never take Violet back again. Never. I’m not surprised they were having sex,” she said with distaste. “Violet has one way of getting what she wants and that’s it. But believe me, that’s all there was between them.”
There was a holier-than-thou attitude about Melinda that reared up whenever she talked about Violet. I thanked her for the call and considered what it meant. Then I placed a call to Dwayne an
d told him what she’d said.
“This Renee hasn’t gotten back to you?”
“She—like everyone else—seems determined to put me off. What is it with cell phones? They’re supposed to make communication easier, but nobody calls back!”
“Think you should go to Santa Monica?”
That sort of stopped me. “To see Renee in person?”
“A face-to-face is always better than a phone call.”
Well, that’s true…it’s harder to ignore someone standing right in front of you, whereas a phone call can be easily fobbed off and ignored; I was living that minor hell right now. And an in-person interview makes it possible to witness the facial tics and expressions that are dead giveaways. Sure, there are accomplished liars who can escape the usual body language that reveals their true thoughts, but most people never have the reason or inclination to develop that fine art.