by Nancy Bush
“She’s got a funny way of goin’ about it. Now go.” She grabbed my plate with a clatter and huffed away.
I hung around awhile, but she wouldn’t engage me again. Finally, I ducked out the door and headed toward my car, but then walked right on by it. I did exactly what I’d planned to earlier: I hid by the Dumpster and watched the goings-on.
It got later. And later. And later. Apart from a few men climbing from their rigs and going in to eat or play video poker, the back of the building was quiet.
I’d put my phone in my pocket and it suddenly vibrated, giving me an unexpected goose. I glanced around. There were a couple of truckers smoking outside their cabs and talking. They would hear me if I answered the phone. I didn’t want to give away my position, so I let it go to voice mail.
I had a lot of time on my hands. I got to thinking about what Melinda had said about Violet. I got to thinking about my own feelings about Violet. I got to thinking about a lot of things.
I shifted position. I’d been squatting. Now I was sitting, my butt cold, numb and slightly damp from its perch on a wet curb.
I thought about Dwayne. I thought about myself. I thought about Larrabee, though that sent me back to thinking about Dwayne.
I returned to Violet.
I pictured her with Roland. I pictured that morning. I could almost see her electric-blue eyes, anxious, filled with concern after the uncertain night she’d just spent with the man she supposedly loved. I thought about Roland, thought about his change of mood after talking to Sean or whoever had called him from the club, be it Dante or someone else. I could practically feel the escalation of Violet’s anxiety as Roland brushed her off. No, she wasn’t invited to the wedding. No, she wasn’t a part of his family anymore.
My mind’s eye witnessed their fight. It ended with Roland grabbing her shoulders, pushing her to the wall, yelling furiously, blasting her with the news that he didn’t want her. Violet didn’t crumble. She wouldn’t. She picked up the tray and whacked him hard.
He went down, holding his head, swearing. Maybe she backed away. Maybe there was a break. Maybe time went by. Or…maybe it didn’t.
But Roland was getting ready to leave. To make it to the pictures. And there was no room for Violet in his life.
Maybe he was cruel. Maybe he laughed, or grabbed her again.
Hurt her.
From the freeway I heard a car backfire several times. The truckers lifted their heads and so did I. In a moment they went back to talking and I went back to my thoughts. I pictured Violet slamming the tray against Roland’s head. Bang. She hit him once. But maybe…maybe Melinda was right…maybe she did hit him a second time. Bang! She hit him a lot harder, consumed with all the pent-up rage and emotion of rejection. I could see it as if it had truly happened. As if a movie had just played out in my head.
Everyone said she killed him. Everyone but Dwayne.
And Larrabee…sort of…
The cab door of one of the trucks suddenly swung open, sending a blast of country music into the night air. A woman’s bare leg stepped out as she carefully pulled herself to the ground. She wore a short dress and a furry jacket and she kept reaching a hand back inside the cab, slapping playfully.
Tammie.
Her trucker friend climbed out after her. There were a few smooches. He grabbed her ass possessively. She eased away. He tried to talk her into going into the restaurant with him, but she gave him a toodle-loo with her fingers and blew him a big kiss. He seemed reluctant, but Tammie said something about being unable to go inside and that he knew that.
He finally headed off alone and after a minute she walked with surprising grace on her high heels toward a minivan parked at the back. She unlocked it and climbed inside.
I ran over to her and yanked open the door. She looked up, startled, in the act of reapplying lipstick. Big surprise. “You,” she declared. Then her eyes widened. “Oh God, he hit you,” she breathed.
I went with it. “Yeah, he hit me. And it hurt.”
“He hardly ever does that. Honestly. I should have warned you. I heard you were looking for me. I should never have talked to you. I can’t believe you’re here!”
“I got a free meal out of it,” I improvised.
“My God, do you know the trouble you’ve caused?”
“I’ve caused?” I repeated in disbelief.
“What do you want?”
“Some answers.”
“Get in the car, for God’s sake. Don’t let anyone see.” She motioned me in and I climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Christ. Damn Reina’s good heart. She feels compelled to hand out a free meal whenever any of us gets bruised up. Oh, Jesus.” She was gazing into the parking lot. I followed her gaze, expecting to see him, and I wasn’t disappointed, although he sure wasn’t Dante and he looked like every other trucker who showed up.
He was standing in the center of the lot, backlit, and instead of a baseball cap, which seemed to be the head adornment most of us preferred around these parts, he wore a cowboy hat. He had at least fifty pounds on Dante and he wasn’t quite as tall.
“I’ve gotta go,” she said. “You should disappear, if you know what’s good for you. I’m sorry I talked to you. I don’t know what got into me.”
“How did you get from here to CMC?” I asked.
“You know. Dante. He doesn’t always use his fists. Honestly.”
“How do you know Dante?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Can’t you get away from him?”
“I don’t want to. Don’t you get it? He’s helping me. I want my kids back, and to do that I need a respectable life, a respectable husband.”
“Maybe just a different job,” I pointed out.
“It’s not that easy.” She uttered a squeak of frustration or fear, I couldn’t tell which. “Get down,” she ordered, “so I can get out without him seeing you.”
“Dante?”
“No. My date.”
Her fear was infectious and I didn’t want to get her in worse trouble. I slid down to the floor and she let herself out of the car. I heard her footsteps round the front of the hood and move away. Cautiously, I peered out.
She’d hooked a hand through the crook of the john’s arm and deftly turned him away. They walked toward another truck and he helped her into the cab, then followed her inside.
I climbed out of her car and headed for my own, locking myself inside and pulling my cell phone from my pocket. I needed to call Dwayne.
My phone said I had a message.
Oh, right. I looked at the number. From Violet, of all people.
“Okay, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” her voice said in my ear, sounding slightly bemused. “But George says Dante’s a millionaire many times over. And apparently it’s all legit and documented and all that, so don’t go seeing all kinds of bad stuff. Apparently he owns a string of restaurants, but here’s the funny part, they’re all this kind of podunk diners across the state. One of them’s even a truck stop. If you need anything more, just call. But I’m not paying!” She laughed happily and hung up.
I sat silently in my car, the phone in my hand.
Dante owned the truck stop restaurant.
Dante was Tammie’s pimp.
Dante had called Roland and told him something that got him upset.
Good-hearted Reina had given me a free meal because she thought Dante had given me the black eye. What had she said?
Don’t know if I’d be here tonight lookin’ like you do…you got about ten minutes before he gets back…
Dante was coming to the truck stop.
I got back out of my car and looked around the parking lot. It had been hours ago, but maybe he was still here, checking on his investments.
I stuck my hands in my pockets against the cold and circled the lot. At the far end, parked at the front of the building yet angled into a spot to discourage anyone from taking the spots on either side, was a black Mercedes. It was parked away from the lights; pu
rposely so, it seemed. There was scarcely a mud spot on it. I figured it must have gone through a wash very recently.
I’d bet my savings this was Dante’s car. I almost believed I’d seen it the other night at the party. Maybe, maybe not. Every car there seemed to be slick, black and expensive.
But I was sure this was Dante’s. So sure, in fact, that I practiced my lines as I approached.
Excuse me, Satan, mind if I kick your ass?
I had no weapon apart from my purse. No gnome to hurl at him.
But there were plenty of rocks.
I picked one up and weighed it in my palm. I was coldly angry and glad to be there. It would have helped to feel this way last night when I was facing Keegan Lendenhal.
I thought about tapping on the window, but surprise was all I had.
I yanked open the driver’s door. “Excuse me, Satan” was as far as I got.
Dante rolled forward, slumping half out of the car. His eyes stared toward the heavens, dark orbs in a white face. The color was leached from the scene. Black blood seeped through the front of his shirt in two distinct spots. I smelled the burned scent of cordite.
I backed off, repelled, one hand digging at my pocket for my cell phone.
“Hey!” somebody yelled.
I pulled out my cell phone. Thoughts were slow in coming.
I dialed Detective Vince Larrabee.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I didn’t get home till four in the morning.
Larrabee answered my call and in turn phoned the sheriff’s department. I’d barely hung up from him when one of the truckers saw Dante’s body, my reaction to it, and mistakenly believing I was responsible, hauled my ass back inside the restaurant, having to mostly carry me as my legs weren’t working as they should. He pushed me, rather roughly, I might add, into one of the booths where I sat like a limp rag.
Several deputies interviewed me, and the sheriff himself appeared to ask me a lot of the same questions. Not that I had any answers for them. I went to the car, thinking the guy was someone I knew. I jerked open the door and this strange, dead guy rolled out. I was a friend of Detective Vince Larrabee of the Portland Police and had called him immediately.
It was a little like being drunk. Time telescoped. I told my story with minor variations. Sometimes I yanked open the door, instead of jerking it open. Sometimes the strange, dead guy sort of flopped out of the car instead of rolling out.
They really didn’t know what to do with me, so they waited. There appeared to be an endless cup of coffee on the table in front of me, which I sipped at. It wasn’t half as good as the Coffee Nook’s.
Somewhere in the dead of night Larrabee sat down across from me. He reached over and grabbed my hand, which sort of woke me up. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“I’m going to talk to the sheriff and give them some background.”
“I told them I didn’t know the guy. I didn’t mention Dante’s name.”
“I’m not going to blab anything I don’t have to, Jane.” He gave me a faint smile and left.
Dwayne took his place. By this time I’d propped my head against the window on the inside of the booth. Dwayne looked across at me, pulled a flask from inside his jacket, passed it over to me. I was really, really glad to see him and told him so. I unscrewed the top of the flask, wiped the rim with my sleeve, took a pull. I tried to be careful, but it burned like a son of a gun and I started coughing.
Through tears I gazed into Dwayne’s blue eyes. He didn’t look as concerned for my health as I thought he should. “Larrabee…called you?” I choked out.
“He did.”
“They wouldn’t let me make another phone call,” I said, belatedly annoyed. “I was hustled in here and told to sit still until the sheriff came.”
“I would say some of the patrons were concerned about getting Tammie and company out of the way before the calvary arrived and didn’t want you phoning the police before they did. They didn’t know you’d already called Larrabee.”
“Has that—operation—been uncovered?”
“If it hasn’t been, I’m not tellin’,” Dwayne said.
“Not part of your quid pro quo with Larrabee?”
“Nope.”
The sheriff’s department didn’t want to let me go. There was talk of taking me to the county corrections’ facility. They didn’t much like Larrabee and would have liked to tell him to get the hell out of their jurisdiction, but Larrabee had called them and brought them up to speed on who I was, thereby saving them a lot of time.
Dwayne was right: we were going to be in debt to Larrabee, big time.
In the end, once again I was told I could go home, but that I needed to be available for further questioning. I assured them I wasn’t going anywhere but to bed. Dwayne wanted to drive me, but I didn’t want to leave my Volvo at the truck stop, so I followed him back up the freeway.
I didn’t sleep well. I had to put Binkster in her bed because she was just one more impediment to sleep. She stayed there for about ten minutes, then jumped in with me again, snoring for all she was worth. I cuddled up to her and she kicked me in my sore eye.
I woke up groggy and vaguely disoriented. There were voices outside. Throwing off the covers, I padded barefoot to the front window and was horrified to see Ogilvy wave an encompassing arm toward my cottage to a young couple with a child in a stroller.
If they came to the front door, I wasn’t sure what I would do. I had things to take care of. Things to figure out. I had a life, for God’s sake, and it didn’t include being harassed by would-be home buyers.
I stalked to my bedroom and snatched up my jeans. I was pulling a clean shirt over my head when there was a knock on my front door. I was outraged. It was Sunday morning. I glanced at the clock. Okay, afternoon.
I threw open the door. Binkster tried to jump outside to greet her new “friends,” but I blocked her with my foot. “What?”
Ogilvy looked affronted by my tone. “This is Mr. and Mrs. Radcliff. They’re interested in seeing the cottage and wondered—”
“No.” I slammed the door.
“Well,” I heard Mrs. Radcliff sniff.
They wandered away and I stalked into the kitchen to feed Binkster breakfast. She turned an eye up at me, clearly cautious about my mood, but it didn’t stop her from wolfing her meal down in seconds flat.
“You’re not the only bitch in the room,” I told her.
Dwayne called. And then Larrabee called. They’d obviously talked to each other, and what I gathered from their combined notes was that neither of them wanted me to do any more investigating on the Hatchmere case. I sensed a lot of testosterone and some one-upmanship going on and I thought What the hell? I was tired of fighting anyway. Keegan was found out, Dante was dead, Violet was no longer our client.
“I don’t care who did it,” I said to Binks. She gazed at me dolefully.
It was almost four o’clock when I remembered the rum cake.
In the midst of everything I almost forgot one of the most important missions of my day. I raced around in a flurry and charged to the bake sale, bursting into the store as if I were about to announce the winner of a race.
Everyone looked up at me. The usual suspects were all there: Leigh, Melinda, Bitchy Anne and Kathleen, along with other members I hadn’t yet had the pleasure to meet. “Rum cake,” I informed them.
“Jody’s not here yet,” Leigh informed me. “That woman is always late.” There was a murmur of agreement amongst the envious, other would-be pastry chefs. They all looked in silent horror at my black eye.
I decided to spend my time waiting by sidling up to Melinda, who was distracted and short. She was not happy to see me today. Yesterday, fine. Today, I was dirt. I could get a complex, the way she treated me.
Jody blew through the doors, her hair practically standing on end, her eyes a little wild. I had a mental picture of her whipping up batt
er with one hand, an eye on the clock, her other hand lightly greasing a pan and dusting it with flour, all working so fast that it was a blur.
Melinda suddenly started gathering her things together as if she were about to leave. The other women were taken aback and Bitchy Anne said snarkily, “Somebody must have a hot date.”
“I’ve got an appointment,” Melinda said, heading toward the back room. She appeared a few moments later in her white coat, tucking the collar close to her neck.
Jody had wrapped my cake and handed it to me in a bag, holding it gingerly. “Keep it upright,” she warned. “It’s still warm and it’s fragile.”