by Nancy Bush
He was waiting for some kind of response. I set his mug down in front of him and cradled mine, distantly aware that I might be burning the pads off my fingers and palms. My hesitation grew into a lengthy pause. Murphy nodded as if I’d slapped him.
“You’re saying no,” he said to my continued silence.
“You tempt me,” I admitted.
“And?”
“But I can’t run away. I’ve got a job here.”
He didn’t believe me. “And what is that job, exactly? Process serving?”
“Among other things.”
He waited for me to elaborate, certain I had nothing left up my sleeve. I hesitated for only a minute, then said, “I’m doing some investigating.”
“Investigating?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Like private investigating? You mean as a job?”
“That’s what I said.”
He was perplexed. “You mean right now? Who are you investigating?” He drew a sharp breath as the full import dawned. “Me?”
“No!” I half-laughed.
“Cotton? You’re investigating Cotton?”
“I’m just looking into some things…”
“Don’t split hairs, Jane. Someone hired you to investigate Cotton? Why? You mean…because of Bobby? Well, who are you working for?” He paused, then came up with the only available answer. “Oh, God. Tess. It’s not Heather. She’s got too clear of an idea of the finances. It’s Tess.”
Bull’s-eye. I simply didn’t respond. Murphy sipped at his coffee, made a face, set the cup down and headed for the door. Binks awoke to say good-bye but Murphy was too pissed to do much more than leave. He hesitated at the door, then came back to where I was standing in the kitchen. He drew me to him and kissed the top of my head, then wordlessly exited.
Murphy’s good at leaving me.
Chapter Eleven
C otton called me within the hour to bawl me out. Murphy is nothing if not efficient and he tattle-taled about as fast as humanly possible. I let Cotton rant on for several long minutes because (a) I felt I deserved it, (b) he sounded so weak, even in his anger, that I seriously worried he might collapse if I put up even the slightest protest, and (c) he needed somewhere to direct his hurt, anger and grief and I was as good a target as anyone.
I said, when he finally ran down, his breath heavy and labored on the other end of the line, “Tess wanted to know where Bobby was. She felt you knew and she asked me to see what I could learn. I’m sorry for the subterfuge. She missed her son.”
“Well, she knew where he was!” Cotton growled, then he slammed down the receiver.
I wondered at that. Was he serious, or just furious and irrational? Tess didn’t know where Bobby was. That’s why she hired me in the first place, wasn’t it?
I called Tess and left another message for her. She didn’t return my call and by the afternoon, I wondered if she ever would. I was pleasantly surprised to find a check in my mailbox made out to yours truly for a thousand dollars. In a moment of giving, I sent her my neatly typed reports that said absolutely nothing she didn’t already know and dropped them in the mail.
I believed our business was finished, and I phoned Dwayne and made a point of letting him know I’d been paid. If I’d been in a better frame of mind, I would have crowed about winning, but the whole Bobby mess had left a deep taint that I didn’t want to touch too much more. I drove to the bank and deposited the check, then stopped at the store for more dog food, some sodas and various and sundry canned goods as if I were piling up for the winter. I was glad to be out of the Bobby Reynolds tragedy.
My neighbors the Mooneys pulled into my boat slip and waved at me to come down the path and meet them. I muttered short, pungent profanities beneath my breath as I smiled like a Judas and waved in return. I really can’t take their bickering at the best of times, and I wanted to be alone.
However, this was not to be. They waved more frantically for me to come to their boat which makes Dwayne’s look like a futuristic model. I stepped down the flagstones with dread. I didn’t want company, unless it was Murphy, and I really just didn’t want to think too much about anything at all.
“Jane, come with us to Foster’s,” Arista Mooney said, motioning me into the boat. “This weather won’t last forever.”
Her husband Lyle nodded at me. He wasn’t much of a talker unless Arista got under his skin and then the bickering began. They were both in their late fifties or early sixties. Their children were grown and gone and they had lived in the little house a few down from mine since they’d built it. Not one bit of remodeling or updating had occurred in all the years since, and repairs were a patch of roof here, a mended gate latch there. Trees and flotinia and laurel bushes obscured it from the bay except for steps made out of cinder block, pounded into the ground. An architectural haven it was not. An expensive waterfront property in need of TLC and lots of bucks it was.
“Did you hear they found that boy’s body in the lake?” Arista said. “The one that killed his family?” She shivered. “Get in, hon. Come on. I want one of those Cosmos that Manny serves up. Yumm!” She smacked her lips.
“I can’t go. I’m just beat.” I made a show of yawning. Besides the Mooneys’ company, I just didn’t feel like another trip to Foster’s, good weather or no.
“Lyle has a gift certificate. Come on, now. We want to take you to dinner. You can’t say no!”
This was unprecedented. I glanced at Lyle. His gray hair was hidden under a stained baseball cap but his yellow-collared T-shirt looked natty coupled with a pair of khaki shorts. The white socks with his loafers sort of spoiled the effect, but considering I was wearing my black capris and a white tank that probably needed a serious trip to the washing machine, I had no room to talk.
“My purse is back at the house,” I said, hooking a thumb in the direction I’d come.
Binks stepped onto my deck, looked down at us and gave a short, staccato bark.
“Is that a dog?” Arista asked, startled.
“That’s Binkster.”
“Been chasin’ parked cars, has he?” Lyle inserted, chuckling deep in his throat.
“You got a dog?” Arista stared at me as if I’d grown horns.
“A temporary duty.”
“My goodness. Is he nice?”
“She’s not bad,” I said.
“Would she like to go in the boat?” Arista waved at Binks who took that as an invitation and raced down the flagstones to stand beside me, her curly tail a-wag.
I don’t know how it happened but I went back for my purse, locked up the cottage and was sitting on the duct-taped white and red tuck-and-roll backseat with Binks on my lap, putt-putting out to the main lake before you could say the cheapskate sold out for free food. I’d managed to bring my cell phone. If I needed rescue I’d call Dwayne. Or maybe, Murphy.
It was evening and the sun burned hot and low in the western sky. Normally I need a jacket or sweater in anticipation of nightfall but today I felt overheated. It seemed as if I would never be cool again. As Lyle thrust the throttle forward and we skimmed across the main lake I turned my face to the resultant breeze. Binks did likewise, her velvety little brown ears flapping backwards.
We arrived at Foster’s On The Lake to join an already loud crowd crammed around the outdoor bar. Lyle maneuvered into a boat slip that another boat was waiting for. The captain tooted us in a series of furious bleats. I remember thinking, “We were here first, you idiot!” then wondered at my simmering hostility.
Binks could not go inside so we left her in the boat where she sat on the back gunwale and looked forlorn. People sitting on the patio made sad sounds and commented on how cute she was and couldn’t she come inside? Foster looked at them all as if they’d collectively lost their minds.
“That your dog?” he asked me suspiciously.
“She is for now.”
“It’s a girl?” He looked again at Binks’ Ernest Borgnine face.
“Most breeds come i
n male and female.”
“Y’sure?” he responded skeptically, still staring at the pug.
I heard a glass break and turned toward the crowd around the bar, two steps up. Several people backed away from the apparent cause of the incident, and I saw Heather, her eyes sort of starey and moist, gazing down at the shattered wine glass. She looked torn between laughter and tears. I was amazed she’d actually shown up in public, given the events of the week. Cotton was nowhere to be seen, which was expected.
“C’mon, Jane.” Arista motioned me to a table under a tilted umbrella whose lime green, plastic-stripped shade sparkled. Lyle grunted an order for bourbon and a Cosmo for his wife. I asked for bottled water.
“I’ll be right back,” I told them. I went back to Binky and poured water into the tiny cap of my bottle. She lapped at it. We both sat in the boat. I had no time to reflect on the fact that I’d eschewed human companionship for the pug when Heather staggered through the gate, slamming it behind her. Several people hung back, as if they’d been trying to engage her but didn’t know quite how. She looked wild and unsettled, her white sundress sporting a wet stain over one breast, possibly the result of her spilled wine. Spying me, she charged like a bull.
“You,” she sneered. “Working for Tess!”
“I’m sorry about Bobby,” I said.
“Everybody’s sorry about Bobby. Except the cops and the Feds and whoever else.” She flung her arm wide to encompass the lake and the whole world. “They’re all over the island.”
I could imagine. After all, Bobby’s body had been found in the lake. It stood to reason, didn’t it, that he might have been on his father’s island?
“Bobby was a killer,” Heather said. “I’m not sorry he’s gone and I’ll tell anybody that.”
“A lot of people won’t mourn his loss too much.”
“I had to get away from the whole damn thing. But Cotton won’t leave. This is killing him. He’s going to die because of it.” Her matter-of-fact manner would have been off-putting if she hadn’t been so drunk. “I considered you a friend!” she added, coming back to her first issue. “But you’re a fucking spy!”
Her scream seemed to echo across the water. Fortunately, music and noise from the bar probably buried the sound for those at Foster’s.
Paula Shepherd appeared on the other side of the gate. In a black short skirt and a red tank top, her skin tanned to a toasty brown, she had none of the hesitation of the others. “Heather,” she said, all smiles. “Brad’s ready to take us back.” She winked at another boat. Sure enough, her sidekick, Brad Gilles was at the helm, firing up the engine.
“Fuck you,” Heather said, stumbling, climbing into the Mooneys’ boat.
Paula didn’t even turn a hair. “Are you going home with her, then?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Paula nodded grimly and returned through the gate, through the patio, then opened another short gate further down where Brad was looking anxious at the wheel. They conferred and Paula climbed in. I watched them reverse. They took a sweep by our boat and Brad yelled, “You all right, Heather?”
Heather, who’d plopped herself in the seat next to the captain’s, closed her eyes as if in pain. “I need another drink. You got anything in this crappy piece of shit.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Figures.”
I skipped dinner and drinks with Arista and Lyle to stay in the boat. Arista came looking for me but upon spying Heather in our boat, scurried back to her table. Heather Reynolds was infamous, at least for today.
“You know what I hate the most?” Heather said after a long period of silence. I thought she’d passed out. “All the lies it takes. Everybody asking about Bobby when they know he’s a homicidal maniac. Well, I’m glad that part’s finished.” She slid me a look. “Murphy’s really mad at you. If you think you’ve got something going, think again.”
She was beginning to bug me. I was getting over feeling sorry for her in a big hurry. “Cotton lost a son today. I’m glad he’s got Murphy with him to offer support.”
“Murphy’s not his son,” she reminded me tersely.
“But he thinks of him that way.”
“Shit.” She staggered up to a pair of wobbly legs and glared down at me. Binks, who’d had her head on my lap, climbed to her stubby legs. She stared right back at Heather. This must have seemed like a call to arms, because Heather jumped back into the fray as if we were in a full-fledged fight. “Murphy doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even like you. And Cotton thinks Murphy’s a pale imitation of Bobby. He thinks Bobby was everything. Bobby could do no wrong!”
“Well…that’s been proven not to be the truth.”
“Bobby was Mr. Lake Chinook Athlete. Bobby gets everything. Always. Even when he’s missing. Even when he’s NOT. Cotton’s so destroyed now that he knows it’s really, really true that Bobby’s dead. Now that everybody knows. Now that there’s no reason to pretend any longer. Bobby was IT. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? He’s dead. And the dead don’t inherit.” She glared at me triumphantly.
I wasn’t working for Tess any longer, but I couldn’t help myself. I said, “Sometimes the wives don’t either.”
Her face suffused with color. “If Murphy said he’s getting the island, he’s dead wrong. You can just dream all you want, but it ain’t gonna happen. Go be his slut. See what it gets you. You won’t get the island!”
With that she climbed over us and onto the dock, teetering her way back to the bar. The crowd quickly moved in, buying her a drink, commiserating, waiting for juicy news.
Arista and Lyle returned to the boat. “What happened?” Arista asked, all agog.
“Heather needed another drink.”
“You know her? Oh, my God. She’s married to the guy who owns the island. The murderer’s dad. What did she say? Do you like her? What’s she like?”
I shrugged.
Lyle turned on the ignition and glanced in the direction of the bar. Heather was pressed against the rail, her white wine glass tipping precariously.
“She can’t hold her liquor,” he said succinctly.
I woke the next morning in a state of mild confusion. It felt as if something momentous had happened. Oh, yes. Bobby Reynolds.
Throwing on my running gear I took Binks out for a quick potty trip, then headed to the Nook. It was still hot. My thoughts were on Heather, but they kept slipping toward Murphy. I had the feeling she was making up some of the stuff. She was mad at me but she was really mad at Bobby. And Murphy, for being the surrogate son.
I grimaced. I didn’t blame Murphy for talking to Cotton about my association with Tess. He liked Cotton and wanted to play fair. And even if they were all mad at me, there was nothing to do about it now.
At the Nook I grabbed a cup of coffee and settled myself on a stool. Billy Leonard came in. “How’s it going?” I asked.
“Good,” he answered.
“How are the hatchery fish?”
“The kids?” He waggled his hand back and forth to indicate so-so. “We got all this shit for college housing. You could go broke.”
“You’d give your kids every dime you own,” I said.
“Well, sure.” He seemed surprised by my observation. This was an understood thing. “Hey, what do you think about that Coma Kid? Doesn’t remember anything but his bird.”
“Is he still in the hospital?”
“I think he’s home. You know my youngest knows his friends pretty well. He said they were on the island.”
“Cotton’s island?”
“Is there another?”
“Well, how did the accident happen?” I asked. Grant Wemberly had clearly stated that the dogs weren’t chasing anyone that night.
Billy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“It happened about a week before the benefit,” I said aloud, taxing my memory.
“They don’t want to get in trouble. You know kids. His friends say he fell off the boat, but my son sa
ys the truth is he was running around that island and the dogs came out.”
“The dogs weren’t out that night.”
“Well, then I don’t know. The kid came racing around and jumped in the water, but he hit his head on something on the way down. They all hauled him into the boat. He was awake at first, then went out cold. Scared ’em all shitless. They cooked up the story that he hit his head on the boat, but the family called the police.”
“So, no one thinks they were on the island except your son says they were.”
“Guess so.” Billy looked at me. “You think it matters?”
“I’d like to talk to the Coma Kid,” I said suddenly.
“He doesn’t remember anything.”
“Actually, I think I’d like to start with his friends.”
“They won’t tell you nothin’ either, believe me. What do you think’s up?”
He regarded me curiously. I lifted my palms in surrender. I wasn’t sure what I was fishing for, but anything about the island interested me these days. “Tell your son I’m not interested in getting anyone in trouble. I just want to hear what they have to say.”
“Is there money in it for him?” Billy laughed.
“You’re hitting me where it hurts, but okay,” I said dryly. “A little bit.”
“What’s the Coma Kid’s name again?” Billy asked.
“Beats me. But the parakeet’s name is Buddy.”
I returned to my routine of process serving and on Thursday Cynthia called me ostensibly to go out for a drink but I think it had more to do with payback for the Woofers incident. She asked me to go with her to First Thursday which is a Portland tradition whereby art galleries mostly around the Pearl District stay open in the evening and the public browses through and around the area, sipping wine or champagne and generally soaking up culture. Cynthia, being the artiste she is, decided the venue as I would normally just stay home alone and either sleep or lament my empty larder or both.
I’d cleaned up for the evening; I’d even combed my hair. In fact, in my black capris and a cowl-necked sleeveless shirt in an ugly shade of mustard that for some reason looks good on me, I was passable. When Cynthia picked me up she gave me a head-to-toe examination. She was in a steel gray jacket and pants with a white form-fitting top tied beneath her breasts in some kind of knot that made her look like a D-cup. Her spiky hair had grown an eensy bit and lay a little smoother against her scalp. Her blue eyes were incisive, however, and when she said, “Next time you’re in trouble, remember to call someone else,” I could tell it was going to be a while before she forgave me.