Jane Kelly 03 - Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  We assessed each other. She said, “I hope Violet will finally get what’s coming to her.”

  “Renee gave me some background on your brother’s death, but she thought I should hear it from you.”

  Patsy nodded vigorously, waving a hand in front of her face as her skin grew red and blotchy. “Hot flashes,” she said by way of explanation. “That’s why I’m going to San Clemente. A famous herbalist lives there.”

  “Ah.”

  She then launched into the tale of Bart and Violet, with a lot of Patsy thrown in, and how Violet was the root of all evil, Satan herself, a gold digger, a murderess, a liar and a fraud.

  I listened, but my hunch about her proved true: I didn’t really learn anything new on the Bart Treadway death. Violet left him while they were hiking and he fell off a cliff and died. I tried to get to the timing of the whole thing. Did Patsy think Violet pushed him? Was that why Violet should be brought to justice? But Patsy couldn’t be pinned down with specifics, and I got the feeling there was a large enough gap between the time Violet left Bart and he died that it was clear it was an accident. Throughout our lunch Patsy tried her damnedest to ignore the facts and convince me with rhetoric, but as I ate my chicken Caesar salad and listened I realized I was hearing an age-old, vitriolic song that had become lore in Patsy Treadway’s world but didn’t amount to much in mine.

  While she talked, I compared Patsy to Violet. The two women couldn’t have been more different, even though they were probably close in age. Patsy had called Violet a siren, and that was apt. Patsy herself was an earth mother.

  About the time she wound down, our waiter brought our bill. She was very specific about what she owed and what I did. I watched her add, calculate and cipher several times. She told me my bill and how much to tip. I did as I was told.

  As we got up to leave, she said, “I always thought there would be enough money, but that didn’t happen. Violet got it all.”

  Violet? She must have read the confusion on my face, because she said, “Oh yes. She got away with murder and my inheritance, too.” I watched another hot flash pinken her flesh and cause tiny beads of perspiration to form around her lips. I let her catch the elevator by herself, pretending I’d forgotten something at the table. In reality I just needed some time alone to think.

  Could I believe Patsy? Was this another one of Violet’s lies? She’d said she hadn’t really profited from her divorces…but then this wasn’t a divorce.

  When I got off the plane in Portland it was just after three. I switched on my cell phone and learned I had two messages. One was from Sharona, returning my call. Took her long enough, I thought uncharitably. She’d probably already talked to Booth. The second was from David Popparockskill. In a stiff, rod-up-his-ass voice he said, “This is David Popparockskill. We got your message. This has been a trying time for all of us, as I’m sure you know. I’ve discussed this with Emmett and I don’t believe there’s anything more we can do to help you. My wife and I believe in leaving the matter to the police. Any further inquiries should be directed to them. Thank you.”

  I made a big raspberry sound aloud on the airport parking bus as I was driven through the Portland rain to my car. A young couple with a baby turned their shoulder to me, afraid to look me in the eye. The baby, however, stared at me over the father’s shoulder, eyes wide and vacant. I made a couple of ugly faces and the baby stuck its thumb in its mouth and sucked for all it was worth. Kind of like popcorn at a movie. The mom looked at me over the child’s head and whispered something to the father. She pulled the baby down and cuddled it close. I was gratified when it fussed and bobbed and tried to look at me again. Pretty soon it started into one of those siren howls that normally make me want to put my fingers in my ears. This time I kind of sat back and enjoyed it.

  I called Violet on my cell as soon as I was pulling away from the lot, juggling the phone and switching on my wipers. She didn’t answer and I had to work hard to make myself sound as if I were just checking in, instead of fulminating with suppressed anger. How many times was I going to let her fool me? I asked her to call me when she could. Just good old Jane, wanting to catch up on the case. No hurry. La-di-da.

  I called Dwayne next and when he picked up, said, “I’ve come across a minor discrepancy.” Then I told him about the Wedding Bandit’s divergence from their m.o., half expecting Dwayne to tell me I was overthinking the whole thing. Instead he said merely, “Hunh,” as he thought it over, then, “It’s an anomaly.”

  “You think the Wedding Bandits knew pictures were at two? Maybe from an inside source?”

  “Someone involved with the wedding? That doesn’t explain how they targeted other places.” Dwayne sounded skeptical. “More likely the information was posted. On their wedding Web site, or MySpace, or some other Internet chat room. People’ll give away the most amazing info.”

  “I’ll call Gigi and see if she posted her information anywhere.”

  “Good.”

  “I need to talk to Violet again,” I said. “I’ve left her a message to call me.”

  “Renee tell you something?”

  I recapped what had transpired with both Renee and Patsy. Dwayne absorbed the information, then asked, “If she got the money, why did she go back for second helpings at the escort service?”

  “I didn’t think she had until Renee said so,” I admitted.

  “Something’s off,” he muttered. “Violet should clear it up.”

  I sensed I was losing his attention. “Are you looking through those binoculars again?” I demanded.

  “Things have quieted down at Rebel Yell. Maybe Dawn’s talked to her parents.”

  “You think I should forget going to Do Not Enter tonight?” I asked a tad hopefully, although a part of me personally wanted to bring down Keegan Lendenhal and his disciples.

  “I don’t know.” For the first time Dwayne sounded unsure. I knew the feeling. We were both feeling protective of Dawn, yet we wanted to get Keegan. “The weather’s supposed to clear this afternoon.”

  I gazed out at the gray clouds and the drizzle. Fat chance. Neither Dwayne nor I seemed ready to make a decision about Do Not Enter, so I mumbled a few words about needing to keep my attention on the road and clicked off. I had the rest of the afternoon and evening to think about it.

  Traffic was moving slowly down I-205. I drove onto I-84 with serious concentration because visibility was low and the rest of the drivers were idiots. By the time I’d crossed the Marquam Bridge and merged onto I-5 south, I’d labeled the drivers moving faster than I to be lunatics, the ones moving slower, morons. Faintly ahead I could see a break in the clouds, a lightening of the gray. I was afraid to call it sunshine, thinking I might scare it into remission.

  Once I was heading into Lake Chinook I phoned both Sharona and Gigi. Ha, ha. Big surprise. Nobody picked up. I left messages and clicked off.

  I drove directly to Dwayne’s to pick up Binks and was gratified when my dog did her “I missed you so much” happy dance for my benefit, wiggling and jumping around on her toes. Mostly I get to watch her do this with everyone who walks through the door. She licked me twice on the end of my nose as I bent down to her, huge affection on her part.

  Dwayne was perched on one of the stools around his kitchen bar. They’re kind of rickety and I looked his way with worry. Today he eschewed his jerry-rigged jeans for a pair of shorts, his right leg thrust forward, the knee and shin visible below the splint-strapped thigh cast.

  He swung around. “Feel this,” he said, pointing to his good thigh.

  “Thanks. But no.”

  “Compare it to this one.” He depressed his finger into the band of muscle just above his right knee and below the cast.

  I had no intention of touching Dwayne’s flesh for any reason. I mean, come on. I’m not an idiot. “You losing muscle tone?”

  “Pain in the ass,” he muttered, punching his finger around the area. “I’m scared to know what it’s like under this.” He knocked his knuckle
s on the splint. “I’ll be in rehab forever.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. Feel this, Jane.”

  Because it mattered to him, I stepped forward and touched a finger to his injured leg. The muscle didn’t feel all that bad to me and I said so.

  “Now feel this,” he said, guiding my hand to his left thigh. Beneath my palm I felt tense, strong, sinewy muscles. “You see?”

  Was he really so dense that he didn’t know what I was really feeling? I didn’t dare meet his gaze. Adopting a sort of Sigmund Freud, stroke-the-chin attitude, I said, “Okay, it’s not as toned, but that’s to be expected.” I turned away and chased Binkster around the room as a distraction. The dog was surprised by my sudden interest and ran beneath the chair to play “the game.” She started whining and acting like she was stuck. Worked for me. I squirreled around with her for another five minutes, and by the time we both lost interest, Dwayne had moved from the stool to the refrigerator in search of food.

  I gazed over his shoulder. He never has much more than I do, and it was true in this case. I told him I’d go in search of sandwiches, but he said he’d go with me. I gazed down at his bare legs, and he headed for the bedroom to change into his jeans. He wasn’t using his crutches at all, I realized. Instead he put most of his weight on his good leg and kind of hopped with the weaker one. Redressed, he slammed his cowboy hat on his head and shrugged into his beat-up leather bomber jacket.

  We went out to the rain together, leaving a forlorn Binkster gazing after us.

  Not so long ago Dwayne and I spent a night together. A night that did not include sex but did include nakedness. There was alcohol involved and a lot of guilt on my part over the near death of my pug, and I kissed Dwayne and blubbered on his shoulder and generally made a complete and utter fool of myself. If Violet hadn’t come along and derailed things, I’m not sure where Dwayne and I would be right now. His broken leg and our circumspect carefulness of each other has made our working relationship a tad more distant, less familiar. But at least we’re not facing any postcoital regrets.

  We went to Mook’s, a nearby burger joint. Both of us ordered cheeseburgers, and I filled him in more completely on everything and anything I could think of regarding Violet’s case. I also mentioned how the Popparockskills had blown me off, and I even told him about my secretive brother’s phone calls and his request for me to talk to Sharona.

  Dwayne mowed through his burger, leaning toward me in the booth, listening hard. There were quite a few surrounding booths filled with lively discussions, so our conversation wasn’t overheard. Still, I kept my voice fairly low. Maybe I’m paranoid, but you just never know whose ears are listening.

  He swirled the crushed ice around in his empty root beer glass. “Your brother’s working undercover and it’s playing hell with his relationship with Sharona. You might as well kiss that engagement good-bye.”

  I reared back as if he’d struck me. “That’s ridiculous. They’re like glued together. They’ll weather this.”

  “It won’t last. It never does.”

  “You don’t know Booth and Sharona.”

  “You haven’t talked to her yet. When you do, feel her out on the subject. He’s already worried or he wouldn’t involve you.”

  I glared at him. I hadn’t known Sharona long, but I knew what I’d seen between her and Booth. I’d been envious of the way they’d looked at each other, the silent messages between them. “You’re really pissing me off.”

  “That’s ’cause you know I’m right.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  He noticed and grinned like a devil.

  I held on to my annoyance with an effort. One thing I’ve learned is don’t give in when a man switches from pig-headed to charming. It’s a ploy. As soon as you roll over and forgive, you’re had. I went on the attack instead. “I’ve been giving our relationship some thought and I’ve got some things that need to be addressed.”

  “Our relationship? Yours and mine?”

  “We’re working together. We don’t quite have a business partnership, but we could. At least that’s what I’m hearing from you. Let me know if I’m wrong.”

  “No, that’s about right,” Dwayne said equably.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he repeated, watching me.

  I was gathering my courage. Points needed to be addressed. Clarified. It felt as if the moment had suddenly arrived when I needed plain answers instead of suppositions.

  “I need some background on you, Dwayne.”

  He lifted a brow. “I thought it was Violet you needed to interview.”

  “I’m talking about us now. You and me.”

  He spread his palms at my pugnacious tone. “All right.”

  “I know your father’s name was Dwayne Durbin and you’re not a junior. Your middle name is different. Austin. You don’t get along with your brother, but you like his son, Del.”

  “Stepbrother,” Dwayne corrected.

  “You also don’t get along with your stepmother.”

  “I’m difficult to get along with,” Dwayne agreed.

  “I don’t know where you’re from, but you’ve got that southern twang thing that you trot out when it suits you. Somewhere you got in the P.I. business and ended up in Oregon. You have a sister, Angela, and a niece, Tracy, who live in Seattle. Is she a full sister?”

  “Yep.”

  “And she’s got a workaholic husband. Tracy’s a handful. Anyway, she was last summer.”

  “Still is, I’m sure. She started high school in September.”

  “So, that’s it. That’s the whole enchilada. The Dwayne Durbin bio.”

  “I wish they served beer here,” Dwayne muttered, shaking the ice in his glass again and frowning.

  “Are you trying to be a pain in the ass?”

  He thought a moment, but didn’t meet my eyes. “What brought this on?”

  “I just need to know.”

  “Something to do with job security? Are you trying to buy your cottage? You’re doing a good job, Jane. You’ve been the whole business lately. Eyes, ears, certainly legs.”

  “That’s not it!” I sputtered.

  “Well, what, then?”

  “I just want to know about you. That’s all. How did you end up in Lake Chinook? Let’s start with that. You didn’t grow up in Oregon. So, where did you grow up?”

  He rubbed his chin. I was afraid he was going to fob me off some more, but he drew a breath and said, “All over the place. I was an Air Force brat. Product of Captain Dwayne Durbin and Naomi Durbin, deceased. One sibling, Angela. One stepbrother, Cal Riggert. Two stepsisters, Valerie and Patience.” He snorted. “My stepmama is a real piece of work. Evelyn. She sent me to Catholic school in Beaverton to get me away from the family. I’d been in a bit of trouble.”

  “Where? What kind of trouble?”

  “Outside of Grosbeck, Texas. I was hanging out with some friends. There was a vehicle with the keys in it, engine running. Decided to take it for a drive.”

  “You stole a car.”

  “A hearse, actually.”

  “A hearse,” I repeated. Dwayne smiled faintly. “How old were you when you stole this hearse?”

  “Almost fifteen.”

  “That would be fourteen.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “What happened?”

  “The funeral director and the family wanted to prosecute. But I was a minor, and there was no real harm done, so it kind of blew over.”

  I squinted at him. “What do you mean? Who wanted to prosecute? What family?”

  “There was a body in the hearse. I took it for a ride. Didn’t know it was in there.”

  Did I detect amusement? Undoubtedly. “You’re not Catholic,” I pointed out.

  “Evelyn didn’t care much about that. She heard of this school and she enrolled me and I went.”

  “A boarding school?”

  He shook his head. “I lived with my mother’s sister, A
unt Helena. Angela stayed with her part of the time, too. That’s how she ended up in Seattle. My stepmama and the rest of them are still in Texas. Evelyn felt I was a bad influence on her girls. I never went back.”

  “So you’ve been here for years.”

  “Yup.”

  “And you started the agency how long ago?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…six years? I worked for a guy, an information specialist, for a few years before that. I had this idea of being in law enforcement, but things happened that interfered.”

  “Like stealing a hearse.”

  “Yeah. Things like that.” He tossed back some ice and chewed on it. “This is probably a good idea. If we’re in business together, you should know you’ve hooked up with an almost felon.”