by Nancy Bush
The sexual tension was thick enough to choke on. I think I made a strangled sound.
“It’s time for me to go home now,” I said.
They didn’t waste time trying to talk me out of it.
I called Mom as soon as their taillights blinked out around the corner of my drive, leaving my nose pressed to the window, a bit lonely. Binks seemed to pick up on my feelings and sat beside me, gazing up at me. Mom’s answering machine kicked on. I wasn’t sure exactly what message to leave. In the end I simply said I had a nice evening with Booth and his fiancée, Sharona, and I thought she would like her a lot. I added that there were no tattoos, facial piercings or Gothic attire and/or hairstyles. Sharona was a criminal defense lawyer which kind of blew my mind. I wondered if there would ever be a time when she and Booth were on opposite sides of the courtroom.
I didn’t mention that Sharona was African American. I saw now why Booth hadn’t enlightened me, either. It seemed small and prejudiced even to address the issue. It didn’t matter anyway. I’d be more concerned with culture shock than race as Sharona seemed more upwardly mobile economically and socially than Booth was. And they were both climbing that ladder a helluva lot faster than I was. I suppose I should worry about these things, but I was more concerned with wondering why my brother should be involved in a healthy sex life while I wasn’t.
I woke up the next morning with this same thought in mind. And throughout the next couple of days while I posted more 72-hour notices for Greg, harangued Tess Bradbury for payment to which she grudgingly told me a five-hundred-dollar check was in the mail—not likely, I thought—and generally thought about Cotton, Bobby, Heather, Dwayne and Murphy, not necessarily in that order. Gleefully I related to Dwayne that Tess had paid me. He said he’d believe it when the check cleared.
My mother called back and left a return message on my answering machine. I could tell she was poleaxed by Booth’s engagement. She wanted me to call her so we could thrash things over. I reluctantly phoned her back. I mean, why was this my job? I nearly crowed in delight when I got her answering machine again. The gods were looking out for me after all. In as nice a way as I know how I suggested that she call Booth herself if she wanted more information and leave me the hell out of it.
On Thursday I walked the dog early. I tell ya, it’s a pain to make certain they’ve emptied their bladders etc. Never ending. Then I ran through the shower, washed and blow dried my hair, pulled on a pair of silky bright red panties and a short, short black skirt, slid on a white silk blouse, undid the top three buttons, then actually added some makeup to my face. In fact, I added a lot of makeup, darkening my eyes to make them as black and mysterious as I could. I seriously thought about teasing my hair before I slicked it down straight, adopting a bored look. I put on my highest black, strappy heels, definitely CFM material. I was meeting Jerome Neusmeyer and I wanted to be anyone but Jane Kelly.
Billy was at the Coffee Nook when I breezed in. He looked me up and down. “Geez, Louise,” he said, more in horror than appreciation.
“I’ve got a meeting,” I said.
“At the Low Brow Lounge?”
“At an estate attorney’s office. What you see is meant to distract and confuse. I have questions that need to be answered.”
“Oh, Mama,” Billy said on a laugh. In fact he kept on laughing right out the door.
Julie said, “I think you look cute,” but then Julie’s beyond kind.
“I look like a slut,” I said, “which is the point.”
I have to admit they shook my confidence a bit, so as I drove to downtown Portland and took a ticket for parking in the underground lot of Neusmeyer’s building, I was starting to rethink my plan. What did I expect to learn? Who the hell did I think I was?
Neusmeyer had a starched-looking receptionist in a tight brown suit and narrow tortoiseshell glasses. She tried not to eye me too carefully. “May I help you?”
“I have a 9:00 meeting with Mr. Neusmeyer.”
“Oh…” She glanced at her appointment book. “Miss Kellogg?”
I nodded. Someone once told me that you should use an alias similar to your own name, otherwise you might not answer to it when it’s called and give yourself away. Kelly, Kellogg…seemed like a good idea. Besides, I like cornflakes. When I remember to keep them on hand.
“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She got up from her chair and turned the corner into a small secondary hallway. The offices weren’t huge but they were in an expensive building, one of Portland’s notable turn-of-the-century edifices that had been spared the wrecking ball, then updated, renovated and the rents jacked up so here we were. Out the eastern window was a view of the Willamette River and most all of Portland’s bridges. I counted the Ross Island, Marquam, Hawthorne, Steele, Burnside, Broadway and a glimpse of the Fremont before I was invited into Jerome’s office.
He did not have a view of the water. Out a narrow window I could see west over and into other downtown buildings. Not nearly so commanding, but then Jerome wasn’t all that commanding, either. If he topped five foot six, I’d be surprised. I was taller in my stocking feet; in these heels I dwarfed him.
I swear he started to salivate. He definitely was doing one of those suck on your own teeth kinds of things. Since my intention was to act as if Cotton, by Heather’s own words, was into affairs and had seen fit to take me as a lover, I took it as a good sign.
I sank down in a chair across from him and crossed my legs. The red undies were there in case I needed them. I couldn’t really picture myself pulling a Sharon Stone, Basic Instinct kind of peek-a-boo, but one never knew. I wanted Neusmeyer to think I was loose in the worst way.
“Miss Kellogg,” he said. “Veronica Kellogg?”
Okay, so I didn’t stick with the alias thing all the way and name myself Janice or Jayleen or something. I like the name Veronica. So, sue me. “Call me Ronnie.” I leaned forward and offered him a hand.
His gaze shot to the gapping vee of my blouse. Had I possessed a bigger chest he would have gotten quite a view. As it was, a faint shadow between my breasts was about as good as it got. I kicked myself for not adding makeup like they do on TV, enhancing the illusion of depth.
“Ronnie.” He savored the word. I hadn’t known for certain if Neusmeyer would take the bait, but apparently all the rumors about him were true. My outfit and attitude were spot on. “You gave Heather Reynolds’ name as a reference.”
I couldn’t blame the quizzical note of his tone. After all, would I be Heather’s friend? “I’m actually an acquaintance of Cotton’s,” I said.
“Ah.”
“I also said that I was coming to see you about my mother, but well, that was a lie. It’s really about Cotton.” I recrossed my legs. Nope, no little flash of red. I hadn’t worked up the nerve. Neusmeyer’s eyes zeroed onto my legs as if magnetized. “Cotton and I have known each other awhile. I’m worried about his health.”
Jerome was having trouble bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. “Um, yes…?”
“Cotton’s always made it clear that…well…he loves me.” Neusmeyer’s gaze shot to my face. “I mean I know he’s married to Heather, and he has an ex-wife, but his heart’s with me.”
“Miss Kellogg—”
“Ronnie, please.”
“I’m not certain what you want from me.” He dug two fingers under the knot of his tie.
Could I bring up tears? I didn’t think so. I sure would’ve liked to, though. With a catch in my voice, I said, “I’ve got to be honest. I’m not truly in love with Cotton, but I really care about him as a person. He’s such a good man. And he’s faced so much tragedy. I don’t want to think about him dying, but I can’t hide my head in the sand. I’m going to keep living. I’m worried that I’ll have wasted a lot of time…years…Can you assure me his health is better than he’s intimated?”
“I’m not his doctor.” His eyes darted all over the silk blouse, following the lines of my breasts. I got to my feet, paced to
the window, glanced back in anguish over my shoulder.
“I just want to hope that I’m remembered, that’s all, in case the worst is realized.”
“I can’t divulge what’s in Cotton’s will, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Yeah? He looked like he might give up the code to Fort Knox for one good feel of a breast. I strolled back toward him, sliding a hip on the corner of his desk. Now, I’m no good at seduction if it’s for real. I’ll start laughing or joking or doing something gauche and stupid. When it matters, I can get all goofy and embarrassed. The man really has to make the move or we can’t get out of the starting gate. But playacting? This I could do.
I batted my eyes, at least I hoped I did. His vision never came north of my faint cleavage. “Isn’t love hard to believe?” I said in a soft voice. “Just when you think it’s impossible, there it is?”
“I thought you didn’t love Cotton.”
Oh. Right. I barreled on as if he hadn’t spoken, “Are you certain you can’t tell me if there’s anything for little old Ronnie in his will?”
His hand lifted to his face. He rubbed his jaw and I saw the slight tremor. “I don’t think you should expect anything…Ronnie. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I don’t think I’m giving anything away by letting it be known you’re not listed as one of the beneficiaries. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
“Disappointed? I’m flabbergasted. And hurt!”
Sensing I was about to move, he grabbed for me. I’m not sure whether he meant to comfort me or if this was merely opportunity. What I did get was a hard squeeze to my right breast, a gasp of pleasure from him, a squeak of surprise from me, and then he had the nerve to rush his palm across my ass when I suddenly jumped to my feet.
“Mr. Neusmeyer…!”
He nodded quickly, as if waiting for something. I was kind of nonplussed. What now? He took control, by suddenly clasping my hand in a strong grip. I feared he might actually put it on his willy but he managed to simply hold on.
“It’s Heather, isn’t it?” I said, upset. In reality, I was a bit shaken up. It’s all fun and games, isn’t it, till somebody puts their eye out. “That bitch gets everything, doesn’t she?”
His gaze was now on my mouth. I tentatively parted my lips. To my utter shock he took the invitation for what it was and suddenly we were in a clinch and he was smashing his lips to mine and thrusting his tongue into my mouth.
Well, good god. I wasn’t really prepared, y’know? It was all I could do, and I mean ALL I could do to keep from biting down on that wet, wiggling muscle. Instead I delicately pulled back, and said, “I’m right, aren’t I? Nothing for Ronnie, everything for Heather.”
He shook his head. I wasn’t certain if that was an answer or he was trying to pull himself together. “Or, maybe it’s Tim Murphy,” I said on a note of discovery. “Cotton acts like he’s his new son.”
“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, fathers leave it all to their real sons,” Jerome said. “I’ve seen it and seen it. Wives get something, but sons, they’re the ones who matter.”
“He’s leaving it all to Bobby?”
“Stick with percentages, honey.” And then he French-kissed me again and I let him until he clasped my hand again and this time tried to do what I’d suspected earlier. As quickly as I could I murmured a tearful good-bye, thanking him for his kindness. Halfway to the car I gagged a little and shivered. But my true distraction was what he’d intimated: Cotton was leaving everything to Bobby. Bobby, whom he’d supposedly disinherited. Bobby, who’d killed his family and disappeared.
Where was Bobby Reynolds?
Chapter Ten
O n Friday Bobby Reynolds’ body was found floating in Lake Chinook. A swimmer encountered something she believed to be a shark in Lake Chinook—fat chance, as it’s fresh water, sweetheart—but the scream could be heard a half-mile away. Her hysteria brought in the Lake Patrol and Bobby’s dripping remains were hauled from the water.
I learned about the news from Dwayne who called me on my cell phone which was nestled in the side pocket of my board shorts as I jogged toward the Coffee Nook. I did an about-face, ran home and then through the shower. Turning on the television, I caught a local special report where Cotton, Heather and Murphy appeared, white-faced and grim. No one knew anything. The reporter added that, “Tess Bradbury, Bobby’s mother, has been notified but she and Bobby Reynolds’ half-brother, Owen Bradbury, have declined an interview at this time.”
The news hit Lake Chinook with gale force. The downtown area was choked with news reporters, vans, cameras and various and sundry media paraphernalia. A crazed, carnival-like atmosphere took over. People gawked and whispered and sagely nodded. Once again we were treated to pictures of Bobby’s family’s black-plastic-shrouded bodies and a skimming view of the area of the Tillamook forest where they’d been found. Once again we saw close-up photos of the family. Standing behind his wife, his hand on her shoulder, was Bobby Reynolds, looking the proud patriarch of Aaron, Jenny and baby Kit, swaddled in her mother’s arms.
The prevailing attitude about the discovery of Bobby’s body was that justice had been served.
I threaded my Volvo through the crowds to Dwayne’s cabana. The heat had escalated and we were facing one of the hottest days of the year so far. Dwayne had told me he was going to be working on his dock, so I peered through the open front door. I could see all the way through the cabana to the back deck where Dwayne was diligently working, bent over a moplike tool, wearing disreputable denim cutoffs, a pair of beat-up Topsiders and not much else.
“What do you think?” I asked as I started to step onto the deck.
“Stay where y’are,” he ordered and I froze with one foot in the air. He was applying some kind of sealer to the boards. The moplike tool was actually a spreader which slid a shiny liquid across the deck’s surface.
Dwayne didn’t immediately answer as he was hard at his task. I watched him work from the narrow opening of his sliding glass door. If I’d been in a better frame of mind I might have admired his back muscles, moving smoothly beneath tanned, taut skin. But this was just Dwayne and besides, I had my ever fertile imagination at work, worrying about the shape of Bobby’s body after days, weeks, months in the water.
Dwayne worked backwards from the water’s edge to the door, slipping out of his shoes, stepping back inside but keeping the applicator outside. He dipped its tip into a bucket full of some strong-smelling liquid. We stood side by side, behind the blockade of his desk, and looked out. One of the Lake Patrol’s boats came into Lakewood Bay, its blue light circling atop its crowning metal frame. I craned my neck to look up and behind me. Atop the ridge that defined Millennium Park, people stood in tight groups. Some even lined the railroad tracks which ran between the cabanas and the short steep cliff where the park and shops pulled away into Lake Chinook proper.
“Have they said how long the body was in the water?” Dwayne asked. “I turned off my set.”
“At least a week, probably longer.”
“No one’s talking homicide yet, are they.” It wasn’t a question.
“Not yet.”
“What are the theories?”
Typical of Dwayne to want his information from me when he was the one who’d first learned of the discovery. “There are a lot more questions than answers. They think Bobby purposely set it up to look as if he’d drowned. Did he hitchhike from there? Did he call someone? They never found any local pay phone records. He had a cell phone but no calls were made that day or ever after. Cotton was on the news along with Heather and Murphy. He looked terrible. I can sure believe he’s sick now. This is going to kill him. Tess isn’t taking calls, but she was so sure Bobby was alive that I know she’s undone.”
“You ever get your money from her?”
“I told you. The check’s in the mail,” I said, bristling.
“It’s just that it’ll be harder to collect now. The question of Bobby’s where
abouts has been answered.”
I didn’t respond. Mostly because he was right. Partly because he pissed me off.
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Tess really wanted me to find out who Cotton’s beneficiary is. I think it’s probably Bobby.” I was reminded of Jerome Neusmeyer’s eager hands and tongue and my stomach momentarily revolted. If Bobby were Cotton’s beneficiary then whoever was next in line would win by default. Unless Cotton rewrote his will. Which he very well might do. “I put a call into Tess this morning. Got her answering machine. Told her how sorry I was and asked her to call me. Guess that’s all I can do for now.”
Dwayne grunted an acknowledgment. “We’ll wait for the coroner’s report.”
“You think it’s murder, don’t you?”
“I don’t see how a guy who’s managed to evade the authorities for over four years just falls in Lake Chinook and dies.”
“It could happen.”
“Playing devil’s advocate isn’t going to get you answers.”
“Thanks,” I muttered tersely.
Dwayne smiled. It was the kind of knowing smile that suggested I was being a difficult child which pissed me off anew. I left him about a half an hour later, feeling anxious. Hanging around him didn’t help as I was alternately too aware of him as a man and irritated with his mentoring, which, between you and me, was way past its pull date.
The second notable occurrence of the day was that the Coma Kid woke up. Everyone committed his name to memory as soon as they learned it from the papers—Jesse Densch. Cheers and happiness abounded though he couldn’t recall much of anything except his name and the name of his parakeet which was Buddy.
I watched television all day, keying into every update. Sometime in the afternoon I managed to do some shopping. My first stop was Rite Aid for a new pair of flip-flops. They might not float but they were the right price. Then I made a return trip to the grocery store to buy bread, milk, eggs, cheddar cheese, waffle mix, and a cheap bottle of Chardonnay. I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the wine. Drinking alone is a problem for me. Instead I poured tap water into a pitcher and put it in the refrigerator to chill, then I fixed myself a cheese sandwich for dinner. This totally captured Binks’ attention, so I broke off bits of crust and tossed them for her to catch. She snapped them in her jaws like a crocodile.