Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  I walked back down the asphalt toward the main road and looked back. A maple tree, bent over as if it were bowing, obscured that section of my property from anyone casually driving by. You had to look hard anyway, down my long drive, to see anything. A car parked in front of the old garage would never be seen.

  Back inside the house, I called Dwayne on my cell. “There are tire tracks at my house that I don’t recognize,” I said when he answered.

  “You’ve had a lot of people there lately,” he pointed out.

  “Come and take a look.”

  My perfunctory manner seemed to penetrate. He said he’d be over in fifteen minutes. I’m sure he thought I was being paranoid, but I didn’t care. And besides, he’d been kind of overprotective lately anyway. This would give him something to think about.

  As soon as he arrived, I showed him the tracks. He took one quick look and decreed, “High-performance tires.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Angela drives a BMW with high-performance tires. Left marks like these.”

  “You’re kind of observant, aren’t you?”

  “Comes with the job, darlin’.”

  I looked at the tread again. “I don’t know anyone with high-performance tires. None of my friends, anyway.” In my mind’s eye, I suddenly saw Owen’s black BMW parked behind the Pisces Pub, then beside Murphy’s SUV at the island. His shiny, spoked rims had been wrapped with a black strip of rubber, not the full-size width of regular tires, but the narrow band that signified high-performance tires.

  “I know whose they are,” I said and gave Dwayne the details.

  “Leave it alone for now,” he urged me, but I said no. Against his wishes, I called Owen and asked him to meet me at the Pisces Pub. Dwayne had made me promise I would call him immediately on his cell if there was any trouble. He didn’t like it, but he would be standing by.

  Murphy returned as I was dressing to meet Owen. It was a workout for me to pull on real clothes after lounging around in my sweats the past few days, but I had to look semi-presentable. I managed to pull on my black capris and a red, button-up blouse. No moving that left arm much. I tried to cover the scratches on my face with makeup, but it was pretty much a losing proposition. The ivory-to-light beige coverup hid the healing scabs and green-purple bruising but the bumpy skin under the makeup made it appear as if I were hiding some hideous disease. Ah, well, my flip-flops still possessed their little gems, so I looked as good as anyone could expect.

  “Where are you going?” Murphy asked, looking concerned, as he followed me outside.

  I gave him a brief recap as I unlocked the Volvo. I was really going to have to get that scratch fixed. Assholes who key cars should have to pay.

  To my surprise, I hit a hot button with Murphy. “Are you ever going to give this up?” he demanded harshly.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. I was getting sick and tired of all the obstruction I had to deal with. “I’m just going to talk to Owen. I’d like an explanation.”

  “All I want to do is get out of this town,” Murphy muttered.

  That did it. “You think I don’t know that?” I shot back. “You think I haven’t heard you glomping around here, griping and moaning, as if Lake Chinook is the scene of all the tragedy in the world?”

  He was surprised that I talked back to him. I hardly ever talk back to him. Maybe to everyone else, but not really to Murphy. He stared at me as if I were a stranger. Maybe I was. He sure as hell felt like a stranger to me.

  He said with an effort, “This is where it all started.”

  “I know this is where it started. I know it shattered your illusions about your best friend. I know, Murphy.” My voice was calmer, but I wasn’t. “Yet, you don’t want me to even whisper the words: family annihilator. Bobby Reynolds murdered his family. He killed them one by one.”

  Murphy jerked as if I’d physically touched him.

  “And the repercussions probably shortened his father’s life. Cotton’s in an early grave because of Bobby.”

  “And you won’t give it up,” Murphy stated grimly.

  “Not when I’m involved, whether I want to be or not. Owen came to my place and I want to know why. And who’s responsible for Bobby’s death? That’s what I want to know. Who knocked Bobby out with a piece of slate, rowed him out to Phantom’s Cove and tossed his body overboard?”

  “Why do you say rowed? Is that what Lopez told you?”

  “I’m guessing, okay?” I said, frustrated. Couldn’t he just let me rant? Just this once? “Nobody took the powerboat. Somebody would have noticed that. The rowboat was right by the garage, easy to grab. There’s no road to Phantom’s Cove, only steep trails and stairways from private homes. Only one way to get there: by water. And now that we know Bobby was on the island, it stands to reason. Lopez will keep digging till he learns the truth.”

  I climbed into my car. Murphy stood in the shadows. I shut my door, switched on the ignition, then rolled my window down. I stared through the gloom at him.

  “You’re not coming to Santa Fe.” It wasn’t a question.

  I opened my mouth to say something assuring. I love you…I want to be with you… But all I could manage was, “Not till I’m finished.”

  I threw the Volvo into reverse and backed away, my headlights holding him in their lights as he watched me leave.

  The mermaid on the door of the Pisces Pub looked a little worse for wear this evening. Someone had tossed a drink on her and it was dripping down her scales. I didn’t get carded at the door, but it was a different bouncer tonight. He took one bored look at me and went back to a discussion with one of the barmaids—the ones who do not come around and take your order. Their function is still a mystery to me.

  I tucked my hand inside my purse and fingered my cell phone. I wanted to know just where it was in case I needed to call Dwayne. It was comforting to know that with just a press of a button he’d be on his way.

  I beat Owen there. Glancing around, I saw the only private spot was where two bar stools, tucked around the corner of the bar, were squeezed up to the wall. The glass shelves which made up the wall behind the bar itself, stuck out about a foot, kind of blocking the view of the stools. It might be tough to order a drink from this angle, but the area suited me just fine tonight.

  Owen arrived ten minutes later, looking harried. He ran a hand through his hair, a curiously sensual gesture, and glanced around the room for me. His gaze passed over me twice before I lifted a hand and caught his eye. Maybe I was looking worse than I thought.

  “Your invitation—or should I say ultimatum—sounded urgent,” he said.

  “I just wanted to make sure you came tonight.”

  “Why? Is this about Bobby? Do you know who killed him?” he asked quickly.

  I hesitated, thinking through several gambits before deciding to play it straight. It seemed the quickest way to get answers. “Owen, this is about how you came to my house, let yourself in uninvited, and then left. What were you looking for?”

  “I didn’t let myself in,” he answered instantly, so fast I almost missed the other implications.

  “But you came to my house.” He hesitated a moment, thinking fast. “Don’t make up a lie,” I warned.

  “Yes, I came to your house,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “And you parked in front of the garage.”

  His lips tightened. “All right, I thought you were home. I just kind of wanted to block you in. I didn’t want you to leave until I talked to you.”

  “I don’t park in the garage.”

  “Well, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered.” He signaled to the bartender who nodded but didn’t make any move to take his order. “It didn’t matter anyway, because you weren’t there.” He turned my way, frowning at me. I could tell he was assessing me. “Turned out that was the night of your accident. I didn’t know it at the time. So, I figured I’d talk to you later. How’re you doing, by the way? The coverup’s not working all that well.”r />
  “Thanks.”

  He heard the irony and smiled faintly. “You can never get a beer around this place.”

  “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” I wasn’t sure I was completely buying his story, but I was willing to go with it.

  “The book jacket.”

  My brows furrowed. “Book jacket? You mean…?”

  “The book jacket you took from my mother’s condo,” he said patiently. “She wants it back.”

  “It won’t help her. I already told Lopez about the address and what I’m sure it means.”

  “According to my mother’s lawyer, since you stole that item, it cannot be used as evidence by the police. The prosecution will have to prove they learned of that address some other way. This way it’s ‘fruit from the poisonous tree,’ or something like that. Can’t be used in a court of law.”

  “Tess has engaged a criminal defense attorney?”

  He nodded. “She thought it might be a good idea.”

  The bartender brought us both a beer. I’d stopped taking my meds a few days earlier, but I decided not to risk alcohol on my bruised kidney (which I’m happy to report seems to be working just fine now, thank you very much).

  As Owen drank lustily from his glass mug, I said, “So, if it’s meaningless, why does she want it back?”

  “It’s hers. She doesn’t want you to have it.”

  “And you didn’t break into my cottage to steal it back?”

  “Swear to God.”

  I watched him finish his beer, checking my bullshit meter to see how much I believed him. Curiously, I did think he was telling the truth.

  “Did you help her hide Bobby all those years?” I asked.

  “Nope. And I’m not saying she did, either,” he added quickly.

  “Duly noted.”

  “After what Bobby did, I wouldn’t lift a finger for him except to call the police.” Owen was clear on that. “I kind of thought Mom might know where he was…but I wouldn’t be able to swear to it. It’s all over now, anyway. I don’t want her to go to jail.”

  “She broke the law,” was all I said by way of answer.

  “That remains to be proven.”

  Owen slid me a sideways look. “So, why were you so all-fired eager to see me tonight? What did you think I’d done, besides break into your place?”

  “I just wanted to know what you were looking for.”

  “You thought I had something to do with Bobby’s death,” he guessed. “You’re still working on that.”

  “Only as an exercise in futility.”

  He smiled. “You don’t know whether I’m guilty of something or not.” He twisted his beer mug around on the bar. “Well, I didn’t kill Bobby.”

  I was beginning to believe him. “Glad to hear it. I was having a hell of a time ascribing a motive to you.”

  “What about plain old jealousy?”

  “I guess.”

  “What happened to Cuddahy? I thought you were zeroing in on him.”

  “Who told you that? Murphy?”

  Owen nodded.

  “Cuddahy’s got an iron-clad alibi for the night Bobby fought with his killer.”

  “The night Bobby fought with his killer,” Owen repeated. He made it sound like the title of a movie. “What night was that?”

  “Bobby was seen on the island by the kid who ended up in a coma for a while. The kid heard someone yelling at Bobby. The kid ran away, but it’s pretty clear Bobby and another man got in a fight. Bobby was hit over the head with a piece of slate and dumped in the lake.”

  Owen stared at me. Maybe Lopez would have preferred I kept the information to myself, but I wanted to see Owen’s face when I laid it all out. He was surprised, but more than that, he was interested. “Who did it, Jane?” he asked, and I realized all at once that he didn’t know, that he was waiting for me to tell him.

  “I don’t have the answer,” I said, discombobulated.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “You did think it was me,” he said on a note of discovery. “You really did.” He gave a little bark of laughter. “If it’s not Cuddahy, and it’s not me, who is it?”

  I slid off my stool. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “Someone else, I guess. Someone the authorities are going to have to find.”

  “You’re throwing in the investigative towel?”

  “I’m seriously thinking about it.”

  I called Dwayne on my drive home and said, “Owen stopped by to collect Tess’s book jacket with the Hepburn address inside. I wasn’t home because I was being chased by Betty and Benny and taking a trip to Laurel Park Hospital.”

  “That’s all it was?”

  “I think so.” I filled him in on my conversation with Owen and my impressions.

  Dwayne listened hard. “So, you’ve dropped the real estate motive?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think it’s jealousy, either.”

  “Maybe we’ve made it too complicated. Misdirected ourselves.”

  I was gratified that Dwayne included himself, though it wasn’t exactly true as he’d been warning me against staying involved for weeks.

  The jaunt to the Pisces Pub had taken its toll. My tail felt like it was dragging. When I drove into my drive, I saw Murphy’s rented SUV. It was heartening to see, as a part of me had expected him to chuck it all in and take off. It’s what he wanted to do. He’d just been waiting for me.

  But when I walked inside, greeting an eager Binkster with pets and smoochy sounds (yes, I’ve now become officially stupid about this dog) I was met by a sober-faced Murphy whose bags were stacked near the front door and who was wearing a lightweight jacket even though the temperature was still in the high eighties.

  “You’re leaving,” I said.

  “I came to the conclusion a few hours ago that you’re hanging onto this investigation as a means to keep from coming to Santa Fe. There’s no reason for me to stay any longer.”

  “Wait.” Perversely, now that he was really going, I wanted to slow him down somehow.

  “For what, Jane?”

  I didn’t answer. I brushed past him to the kitchen. I wanted a means to stop him. Desperately I glanced around, searching for something to delay his departure until I had a chance to talk to him. I pulled open the refrigerator door and saw milk, eggs and four-day-old waffles.

  “I’m starving,” I lied. “Sharona made me waffles the other day, but I couldn’t eat them. I want some now. Breakfast dinner. Nothing sounds better.”

  “I’ve got a flight scheduled. I’ll catch something on the plane.”

  “Are you kidding? Pretzels and Coke, maybe. Haven’t you got a few minutes?” I cringed at the begging note in my voice.

  I thought he was just going to take off. He was grim, determined and out of patience. But he came back into the kitchen. Hurriedly, I plugged in the waffle maker and grabbed the mix, milk and eggs.

  I was chattering. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you about what. My lack of culinary skills got touched on. A joke about how I was going to have to expand my repertoire past waffles. “Do you know Phil Knight, Mr. Nike himself, used a waffle iron back in the good old days when he was just starting to make running shoes? That’s how he got the soles to have those little designs. Better traction, I guess.”

  Murphy stood near the back door, at one end of my galley kitchen. I faced the counter, whipping up the batter, waiting for the waffle iron to heat. Something was off, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Binkster hung by my feet but her gaze was fixed on Murphy.

  “Aren’t you baking in that jacket?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “What did Owen say?”

  “Oh. Those were his tire tracks, but his visit really wasn’t anything sinister.”

  “I could have told you. I know Owen.”

  “You were friends with him, too.”

  “Not really. He was just around.” Murphy stared off into space. “The guy’s a born wheele
r and dealer.”

  “So I’ve learned.”

  “You’ve learned a lot,” he said.

  “No, I was way off, Murphy. I thought it was all about real estate. I’ve tried to force square pegs into round holes. It seemed to me it was about money and property, but I was…misdirected.” Something clicked in my brain. My dream. Tomas Lopez said the same thing, and then Dwayne had, too. Misdirection. “I don’t know what it’s about, “I said. And then something else fell into place, a second click in my brain. A realization that had been there but I’d ignored. “Yes, I do! It’s about retribution for Bobby killing his family. It has to be! Somebody served him up the justice they felt he deserved.”

  “The waffle iron’s hot,” Murphy observed.

  I poured the batter distractedly then picked up a spatula. “Lopez asked if the man’s voice could have been Cotton’s. I dismissed that. I didn’t want it to be Cotton. I couldn’t believe he would kill his own son. But then Bobby killed Cotton’s grandchildren, baby Kit and Jenny and…”

  There was a long, weighty pause. I looked at Murphy. He stood like a statue. “What’s wrong?”

  He suddenly came toward me and wrapped his arms around me. I still had the spatula in one hand and was so surprised that I just stood there, my arms sticking out on either side of him, one hand holding the spatula, the other reaching forward as if ready to offer a handshake. Awkwardly I patted his back with my free hand. “Murph?”

  He pulled away almost immediately and went back to stand in his earlier position. “His name was Aaron.”

  “Oh…right. Aaron.”

  “I have their pictures from the newspaper. It’s hard to look at those photos and think about what Bobby did.”

  Murphy’s face was white. He was staring at the ground. He’d shoved his hands inside the pockets of his jacket. Binkster growled, low in her throat, staring back at him.

  I gazed at the dog, almost amused. “What’s with you?”

  “She doesn’t like me,” Murphy said in a strangled voice.

  “Binks likes everybody.”

  “Not me.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You really think Cotton killed Bobby?” The words seemed ripped from Murphy.

  “I just said I didn’t want to believe it,” I answered slowly, trying to make sense of the strangeness that had come over the room. There was something in the air. Something off-kilter. “But ‘the area is mine’…who would say that?”