Jane Kelly 03 - Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  The kitchen opened into the living room, and down the hall was one bathroom, two bedrooms and an alcove with a built-in desk. I used the bathroom and took my bag into the spare bedroom, which she’d done in an olive green color trimmed out in white. The furniture was white, louvered and distressed, very beachy, and the bed sat on a fuzzy cream-colored area rug.

  I returned to the kitchen where Mom had poured us each a glass of white wine. God, I love my mother.

  “You remember me telling you about Mr. Densworth,” Mom said as she picked up her glass and headed toward the living room. “In the upper back unit, whose daughter-in-law took off with his grandson?”

  I dug my cell phone out of my purse and followed her. “Where the private investigator was shot twice in the head. I remember.”

  Mom settled into a rattan chair and I sat on the tweed-colored love seat opposite her. “Who are you calling?”

  “Sorry. Just a sec.” I phoned Deenie back. She didn’t pick up, so I left her another message.

  “You sound discouraged,” Mom said.

  No shit. I launched into a dissertation on the failings of cell phones and people who don’t seem to understand the proper etiquette, to which my mother listened politely without the slightest bit of interest. When I finally wound down, she did the equivalent of patting me on the hand and saying, “There, there.” She took a sip of wine and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

  “Thanks, Mom. But it’s possible I won’t.”

  She smiled. “You will.”

  My mother has dimples that my cheeks only hint at. She’s sweeter by nature. At least I think she is, although there’s a steel rod up her spine that shows from time to time.

  “You’re not worried I’ll get shot in the head?”

  “I’m always worried. But that’s what I was going to tell you. You were right. That investigator was killed from some other case he was on. It wasn’t Mr. Densworth’s daughter-in-law’s. It was something to do with teenage boys. They were drunk or on drugs or something and they just killed him execution style. They’d seen it in the movies.”

  Teenage boys…I felt slightly light-headed.

  “What were you trying to get from Cat Lady?” Mom asked.

  I corralled my attention with an effort. “Background on Violet Purcell. What happened with her first husband.”

  “You think she killed him?” Mom asked curiously.

  “I don’t know.”

  My mother had met Violet’s nephew, Jasper “Jazz” Purcell, the last time she’d visited and she’d been convinced that Jazz was the guy for me. Handsome, wealthy, gentlemanly…She’d let it be known she thought I should jump into the relationship with Jazz, but then she hadn’t known the whole story. I had no intention of letting her know Violet was related to Jazz.

  “Cat Lady’s daughter, Gigi, calls her Ultra-Violet,” I said, thinking aloud. “More like Ultra-Violent, the way people keep dying around her.”

  “You mean this Roland fellow.”

  “She hit him with a silver tray. The tray’s the murder weapon.”

  “And she’s your client?”

  I nodded.

  “Hunh.” Mom buried her nose in her wineglass and looked concerned.

  I decided to walk to Sting Ray’s and see if Ray was around. I hadn’t been back to the place in several years. When I made the move to Oregon, it was like I’d shed one life for another, a snake leaving its skin behind, unwanted and forgotten.

  Hunching a shoulder to the stiff breeze, I kept to the lighted areas. I didn’t feel like meeting eyes with the pan-handlers and hecklers, an unfortunate section of the homeless population that loitered along the beachfront.

  Like with any beach community, the weather takes its toll wherever you are. Even Venice’s freshly painted apartment buildings looked abused somehow, their stucco sidings circa 1950 and showing the passing of time no matter how much fresh paint was slapped atop it. There are lots of homes that were purchased a long, long time ago and look like they’ve fallen on hard times, their owners unable to keep up with the high cost of maintenance. This same housing sits cheek-by-jowl with multimillion-dollar properties. You just never know what you’re going to get, kind of like Cracker Jack, a surprise in every box.

  Sting Ray’s probably defies all kinds of city codes, meandering off its designated lot onto the beach as if it’s slowly dragging itself toward the ocean. Its beachside eating area is a wooden platform atop the sand with a retractable awning in striped black and tan shading it from the sun.

  I entered through the main entry, a Dutch door on the south side. The maitre d’s stand was directly in front of me and a girl in tan shorts and a bright blue shirt with a tiny, stitched gray manta ray across the left breast pocket that sported “Sting Ray’s” spelled out in yellow script gave me a look and then walked away. I saw that she was in some kind of altercation with another similarly dressed woman who looked about five years her senior. The older woman pointed to me, and my girl returned, her face flushed. The smile she gave me was little more than bared teeth. “Are you having dinner?”

  “Just the bar, thanks.” I strolled past her to the back deck. She gave the older woman a hard look that said, “See?” plain as day. The senior worker watched me with a baleful eye. I was taken back to a time when these little dramas played out daily while I worked the bar.

  Ray wasn’t around, as far as I could tell. I slid my rear end onto a black-and-tan-striped stool and ordered a Sting Ray, which is basically a mai tai with a few extra ingredients added and a clear plastic swizzle stick with a little jellyfish critter on top. The bartender was male and wore the same tan cotton shorts, but his T-shirt was gray with a three-button placket. The yellow, scripted Sting Ray’s logo ran obliquely across the pocket. “Ray not around?” I asked.

  “Nah. He only stops in at night.”

  Well, night was here. The sun wasn’t even a paler part of the sky any longer. The breeze was an out-and-out wind along the beach, and it was blowing stiffly, making it possible to see hard, pinprick stars in between the moving clouds. It was turning the air downright chilly and I could feel gooseflesh rise on my skin. The hanging black and gold Japanese lanterns that ran along the roofline were doing a little dance all their own. One of the employees untied the clear plastic drapes that are pulled shut when the wind kicks up. If it gets really cold, Ray closes down the back deck completely.

  The bartender critically eyed some of the stemware hanging upside down from a wooden rack above his head. He slid out several rows, one by one, placing them in the dishwasher. “Blender explosion,” he said, aware that I was watching. “Strawberry daiquiris. Happened last night and we’re still finding it everywhere.”

  “Sticky,” I said.

  “No shit,” he answered mildly. “You know Ray?”

  “Used to work for him. Bartender.”

  “Yeah? You working somewhere else around here?”

  I shook my head. “Followed a guy to Lake Chinook, Oregon. Relationship ended but I stayed on.”

  “If you’re looking for a job, mine’s going to be open. Got a callback on a new television series. It’s time for me to give it my all, y’know? Now or never, that’s what I think.”

  I’d almost forgotten that nearly all the waiters in Los Angeles were actors at heart. “Thanks, but I’ve switched professions.” I picked up my drink and moved off to stand at the edge of the wooden platform and stare toward the ocean. There weren’t many people left on the sand. They’d already packed up their beach paraphernalia—balls, flip-flops, kites, canopied strollers—and headed home.

  Another wind gust sent a shiver down my back. I was still in the brown slacks and boots I’d chosen for my interview with Renee, but the thin, long-sleeved, dressy T-shirt wasn’t enough for the coming night. I should have changed into my jeans and trusty Nikes. I could have sat myself down in the sand and contemplated life. As it was, I tucked myself into a table at the edge of the platform. A votive candle, its holder bl
ue shark-shaped glass, graced my table, the little flame flickering wildly and threatening to extinguish with each new gust of energetic breeze. I moved it closer to me and it steadied.

  I’d brought my purse with me and the notebook and pen I carry around at all times, just in case I have a sudden compelling need to write down information. The notebook was scratched with phone numbers and addresses. Sometimes it’s just easier than plugging the information into my phone.

  I wrote down Renee’s timeline information, planning to add it to my computer later. I started doodling as soon as I got all the information notated. Renee acted like she wanted me to follow up on Violet, but it wasn’t like she was dying for me to prove her guilt like Gigi and Melinda were. I hadn’t gotten any real sense of vindictiveness or emotion on her part. The truth was, she didn’t give a shit. Not really. Roland was dead and it was too bad and she would miss him, sort of, but that was about it. Though Renee gave lip service to Roland being the love of her life, it kinda appeared Renee pretty much loved Renee. There wasn’t room for anyone else in her tiny little heart.

  So, where did that leave the investigation?

  I wished Larrabee would call me with more information on the Wedding Bandits. If any of them were caught and would talk, it could make a huge difference. I wanted to know how they’d targeted the Hatchmere wedding and how they’d learned Roland’s home address. More than that, I wanted to know what the story was when they ran across Roland. Was he unconscious, possibly dead, and that’s what scared them off, like Larrabee suspected? The trail of gifts, wrapped and unwrapped, across the front yard showed a very hasty exit. Something sent them scurrying and I thought Roland’s dead body was a good guess.

  That same niggling thought touched a finger inside my brain. This time I didn’t try to grab for it. I stared through the wavering clear plastic curtain toward the dark waves, cresting and foaming white against the wet gray sand. The ocean looked as vast and dangerous as it was.

  “Want another?” a young woman asked. She wore long pants, preparation for the chilly night. The girl at the podium was still in shorts and I could see she was shivering.

  “Sure.” To stay ahead of my alcohol consumption I ordered off the happy hour menu. Some cold shrimp and a salad. In my notebook I wrote down the cost. I was really getting into this expense account thing.

  And suddenly the thought coalesced. It was the timing, yes, but I was concentrating on the wrong timeline. It was the Wedding Bandits who were off. From Dwayne’s notes I knew they robbed homes while weddings were in progress. That was their m.o. and they hadn’t varied from it even once while they were running and gunning.

  But they’d shown up to the Hatchmere house early. Way early.

  Basics from the timeline read:

  12:00 p.m.—Violet and Roland get into a fight. She hits him and storms out.

  2:00 p.m.—Roland doesn’t show for pictures at Cahill Winery. Guests become worried. Emmett calls Roland several times.

  3:00 p.m.—Emmett leaves to find Roland.

  3:30 p.m.—Emmett discovers Roland’s body.

  4:00 p.m.—Scheduled wedding ceremony. Canceled. Gigi and remaining guests leave.

  The police hadn’t said much about Roland’s time of death, but Violet told me she hit him around noon, so it had to be sometime around there. Therefore, Roland must have died at noon or shortly after. The Wedding Bandits must have burgled the house after noon, when Violet left, and before three-thirty, when Emmett arrived. But the wedding was scheduled for four.

  Based on their m.o., they would not have arrived at Roland’s house any earlier than three-thirty. They always robbed the homes during the scheduled ceremony.

  Always.

  Yet, this time they were early. Why?

  What was different?

  I gave it some thought, rolling the idea around in my head.

  Had the Wedding Bandits known Roland was supposed to be at pictures at two? Had they received inside information? Giving them more time to rob the place blind?

  Inside information…from the man or woman who was their leader? The one who’d apparently quit the team after Roland’s death? Leaving them to their own devices…?

  Who was this person who had access to addresses, finances?

  I wondered if Larrabee, who’d brought up the inside man, had an idea and just hadn’t shared it.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I was booked on a 1:00 p.m. flight the next day and had thoughts of sleeping in when my cell phone caught me at seven-thirty. Groaning, I checked caller ID. An 818 area code, which is Burbank, the Valley and surrounding environs, and it also happened to be where Bart Treadway’s sister, Patsy, lived.

  “Hullo?”

  “This is Patsy Treadway. You called and left a message on my phone about Violet Purcell.”

  Her tone was slightly aggressive. My hope for a relaxing morning grew dim, although I could hear Mom already puttering around in the kitchen and the scent of coffee and cinnamon wafted into my bedroom. Cinnamon what? I wondered. Rolls? Toast? “Um, yeah.”

  “Well, you came to the right person. I have a lot to say about Violet. Did Renee fill you in at all?”

  “A little bit.”

  “You’re a private investigator? Does that mean Violet’s up to her old tricks again, luring men with her siren’s call? I just hope you get her this time. She killed my brother, and if I can help you in any way, any way at all, just ask! When do you want to meet?” she swept on. “I’m in Burbank. Where are you?”

  “Venice.”

  “Well, that’s perfect. I’m heading to San Clemente this afternoon, so I’ll be shooting right by you. I’ll come your way. Maybe have lunch?”

  I perked up. If anyone offers to come your way in the Greater Los Angeles area, it’s a gift. “I have a flight at one. Could we meet around eleven?”

  “Do you have somewhere in mind? Oh, wait. How about Encounter?”

  Encounter is the mod, Lava Lamp–motifed restaurant situated in the spaceshiplike structure that is the symbol of Los Angeles International Airport. It has a futuristic nightclub feel any hour of the day.

  “I’ll be there.”

  It was cinnamon English muffins, black coffee and fresh tangerine slices. I made appreciative noises around mouthfuls. Today was one of those days when I can scarcely believe my luck: breakfast and lunch. Many mornings I’m relegated to coffee and Chap Stick.

  Mom was disappointed that I was leaving so soon. She really wanted me to stay, but it wasn’t going to work right now. As she drove me to the airport I promised again that I would come back and see her soon. She’d made noise about Thanksgiving, but she’d been invited to a friend’s home, so I skated on that one.

  I strapped my purse atop my roller bag as I headed up the elevator to the restaurant. Encounter feels like it’s got its tongue planted very firmly in its cheek. It turned out eleven o’clock was as early as it opened, and I was led to a window seat for two, where I looked out at the hazy gray sky and the buildings and ramps and vehicles that make up Los Angeles International Airport. Inside, Encounter’s Lava Lamps were in full swing and I watched as a purple blob goopily separated into several smaller blobs within the lamp’s clear liquid.

  I text-messaged Larrabee again, just for the hell of it.

  don’t leave me hanging. jk

  Probably wouldn’t do any good. People might not be calling me, but good old Jane was standing by, cell phone at the ready.

  I pegged Patsy Treadway as soon as she stepped off the elevator. There were four arriving guests, two gentlemen in business suits, a woman in a simple green dress and sensible pumps and a middle-aged woman in a caftan. Had to be Patsy. Her hair was long, gray and wavy, and looked like it could catch and pull in the oversized hammered silver chandelier earrings that hung to her shoulders. She had that “life is serious, so don’t laugh” and “I won’t drink pasteurized milk” look. I tried to imagine Violet married to this woman’s brother and failed. Sexual chemistry is a strange and in
comprehensible thing.

  She picked me out as well. I lifted a hand to indicate she was right and she said a word to the maitre d’ and came directly to my table. She wore sandals that looked as if they’d been bought in Nazareth. I began to rethink my dreams of a BLT for lunch, afraid I might get the evil eye. But I’d be damned if I went for the alfalfa sprouts. Can’t do it.

  “Hello, I’m Patsy,” she said, holding out a hand. Her nails were short and devoid of any kind of polish. Once in a great while I do the girly thing and get a manicure, but there was something so intimidating about her I wanted to curl my nails up and hide them, just because they looked more feminine.

  “Jane Kelly.”