Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  “I’ve got to go, Jane,” he said abruptly. Binks’ eyes were fixated on Murphy’s right pocket.

  “She thinks you have food,” I said. But Binkster’s stance was aggressive. The little roll of ruff on the back of her neck was electrified. Murphy shifted. I realized with a distinct shock that he held his gun in his pocket. I’d felt its hardness when he hugged me but hadn’t registered what it was. “You’ve got your gun,” I said, stupid with disbelief. “You’ve got your gun in your hand. You can’t take a gun on the plane.”

  Murphy’s eyes were glued to the dog. He pulled the gun from his pocket and looked at it, as if deciding what to do. My pulse skyrocketed.

  “What…what?” I asked.

  Binkster quivered. Then suddenly, she charged Murphy. She moved like a shot. I couldn’t take it in. Murphy, surprised himself, automatically aimed the gun on her.

  “Stop!”

  Binkster sank her teeth into Murphy’s calf. Murphy yelped. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Stop! Goddamn it! Stop! Hurt her and I’ll knock your fucking head off!”

  My left arm grabbed the waffle iron. I slammed it against the side of his head with the force and fury of a mother bear.

  Blast! The bullet ripped through my cabinet, sending shrapnel splinters zinging everywhere. I shielded my eyes.

  Murphy went down like lead. The waffle iron bumped away. I scooped up my dog, shaking all over. Binks growled and scrambled to go after Murphy some more, but I held her tight, stunned. I was shocked at myself, shocked at the dog, shocked at Murphy.

  Murphy lifted a hand to his face in disbelief. I could smell batter and cooked flesh. Little, angry red square blisters formed on his cheek. Superficial wounds. He looked up at me. With the emotion I’d felt when he threatened Binks’ life, he was lucky I hadn’t killed him.

  “Why?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Why?”

  His gaze was tortured. “Because…Aaron was mine…”

  Epilogue

  A week later Dwayne took me to Foster’s On The Lake and bought dinner and drinks. He said he was celebrating the fact that I’d finally gotten off the fence and joined with Durbin Investigations, his unofficial business name. He told me I was going to have to apply for an investigator’s license. He also told me I should apply for a gun license. I have yet to do either.

  I’m ashamed to say that when Murphy hit me with the fact that Aaron was his, it took me a few minutes to assimilate. I just couldn’t process. I’d like to say I was right on it. The path to the answer was finally clear to me. Hallelujah! I see all!

  Unfortunately, I was way off. Maybe, in a teensy, dark corner of my heart I’d worried that Murphy wasn’t playing fair and square. He’d told me too many almost lies for me to completely trust him, though I’d sure as hell tried to.

  As soon as he was down, he started to talk. It just came pouring out. A flood of relief that he could finally confess.

  Bobby had taken up with Laura on the heels of her relationship with Murphy. Apparently, she didn’t tell anyone she was pregnant. Maybe she didn’t know. Either way, Bobby seized the opportunity to steal her from Murphy. When he offered marriage, she accepted. Somewhere in the years that followed Laura, or Bobby, confessed the truth about Aaron to Murphy. Bobby had told Cotton already. His motive remained a mystery. Maybe he’d hoped his father wouldn’t care so much about Bobby’s best friend. Maybe he wanted to sever Cotton’s grandfatherly interest in Aaron. Either way, it didn’t work. Cotton loved Murphy like a son and when Bobby showed up on Cotton’s doorstep, the first thing Cotton did was call Murphy. Heather had been right on that and Murphy had lied.

  I wasn’t completely off, as it turned out. Tess had been taking care of Bobby financially, but he’d grown bored and restless and headed like a homing pigeon back to Lake Chinook. Cotton was overwhelmed to see his son again, but Bobby’s actions could not be denied, forgotten or forgiven. And when Bobby seemed to express little or no remorse, Cotton placed the S.O.S. to Murphy.

  For his part, Murphy was torn, desperately hating Bobby for what he’d done, desperately wanting to see him again, to learn anything about why Bobby had killed his family. He planned to beat the hell out of Bobby when they came face-to-face. He wanted answers. He wanted to understand. He wanted some kind of revenge.

  But there were no answers to be had. When Murphy saw Bobby he was swept by more sadness than rage. The question I’d asked Murphy—“Why? Why?”—had no answer from Bobby when Murphy posed it to his best friend. Maybe Bobby just couldn’t respond. And truly, there had never been any answer that could’ve explained killing his family. Nevertheless, Murphy pressed until Bobby grew furious. Murphy didn’t understand. Nobody understood! The whole world was against him. It wasn’t his fault! They drove him to it!

  Murphy couldn’t fathom it. Bobby, the boy who’d had everything, the hatchery fish, was blaming them?

  Heated words became enraged fury. Jesse Densch happened to be running around the island at Bobby and Murphy’s final face-off. What Jesse didn’t see was that Bobby held a gun on Murphy—the weapon Murphy bagged and removed from the scene. But looking down the barrel of his best friend’s gun, Murphy’s rage exploded. He yelled at him, “Aaron was mine!” and slammed him in the head with a piece of slate. Whereas my waffle iron blow merely knocked Murphy down, Murphy’s slate hit Bobby in the temple and killed him.

  It happened fast. Murphy was shattered. He had a moment to choose: go to the authorities or hide the body. Making his choice, he rowed Bobby to Phantom’s Cove, the site of some of my most treasured moments with Murphy. Well, believe me, I don’t feel the same way now.

  Then I showed up at the benefit, all gung-ho about being a private investigator. Did Murphy decide to suddenly invite me to Santa Fe because it would derail me? Or did he actually care?

  That question hasn’t been answered. I choose not to think about it too much. I did, however, suggest Sharona to be Murphy’s criminal defense attorney. His actions were in self-defense, but then there’s that tricky issue of sinking the body….

  I have faith Sharona will do well for him.

  Of course, Cotton suspected what had transpired between Bobby and Murphy, but at some level, I think he believed justice may have been served. Ill as he was, however, the events served to end his life.

  I was seated at the table, lost in thought. Late August and it was still hot. Dwayne leaned into me. “What would you like, darlin’?”

  “How about a Sparkling Cyanide?”

  “That’s a drink?”

  “Blue curacao and some other stuff. Cyan means blue.”

  Dwayne gave me a look that said, “remember who you’re talking to.” “People who ingest cyanide choke from a lack of oxygen, and darlin’,” he drawled, “when you don’t get your oxygen, you turn blue and die. That’s why it’s cyanide.”

  Jeff Foster leaned in to our table. “I’m not naming any drink around here cyanide.”

  “Be adventuresome, Foster,” I suggested.

  “And you’re not getting any more free ones. I had a talk with Manny.”

  I glanced over at Manny as Foster walked away. He grinned at me and winked. I was still safe.

  I’d kind of gone into a mild depression after Murphy’s confession. It was really a blow to my ego to realize everything I’d built my dreams on was false. But the good news was I didn’t have to leave Lake Chinook.

  Tess remains at large somewhere in Texas. It’s a big state, but maybe not big enough to escape the long arm of the law. Tomas Lopez isn’t a guy who’s going to just let it be. But since Tess has already lawyered-up herself, maybe she’ll come out with a light sentence.

  And Heather has apparently listed the island with Paula Shepherd and Brad Gilles. I understand Owen is interested in purchasing it. I wish him all the luck, but even with his apartment building in First Addition, I’m not sure he can swing it.

  Misty, the sassy waitress who Heather thought Cotton had his eye on, took our order. Since Dw
ayne was buying I picked the prime rib. It was the most expensive item on the menu.

  “Knock yourself out,” Dwayne told me, amused.

  I think I love him.

  No. I’m not even sure I like him. Well, okay, I’m mildly attracted but I’m not going there.

  I glanced over to Dwayne’s boat. We brought the Binkster along. I could tell even from the distance she was whining. I’d like to say it was because she wanted to be with me, but I imagine it was the smell of the barbecue. It still amazes me how she read Murphy that day. Honestly, I didn’t think she was capable of it.

  Murphy had broken into my place. I’d apparently worried him right from the get-go. To get me to stop thinking the break-in had been related to Bobby’s death, he’d told me about the unlatched window. I still worry that I’m not cut out for this business, but then I remind myself that love makes you stupid. I’d fallen in love with a guy who dazzled me with a white smile and a red convertible, but I hadn’t known that guy at all.

  Note to self: no more falling in love.

  When Booth learned about my run-in with Murphy, he was nearly as shocked as I was. He’d known Murphy a long while as well. I’m happy to report, though, that it seems like he’s finally accepted that I’m working with Dwayne. We Kellys may be bullheaded, but once in a while we know when to give up. He’s been as good as his word about the medical insurance: I’m scheduled to meet with an agent from my new company next week. Who knows? I may even find I have an internist and orthopedist available.

  Mom is arriving on Monday. Booth and I have kept my exploits to myself, for the time being.

  Misty brought my blue martini on a silver platter. It looked divine. Dwayne shuddered and lifted his beer. His tastes are far more pedestrian than my own. But I can’t complain. He called a friend of his who knows a guy who paints cars. The Volvo is scheduled to get rid of its scratch.

  A lady at the next table over, clad in an expensive taupe suit and carrying a Louis Vuitton bag, leaned toward me. “Do you mind my asking?” she whispered, pointing to my drink. “What is that?”

  “Sparkling Cyanide.”

  “Oh, goodie.” She broke into smiles and looked around. Foster was at another table, making sure his guests were all happy and satisfied. Catching the woman’s signal, he came to her table.

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” she said. “Sparkling Cyanide!”

  I lifted my glass to Foster in a salute.

  Some days are just weird city .

  Take today. Jane Kelly, thirtysomething ex-bartender and current process server, is dutifully putting in slave-labor hours working for Dwayne Durbin, local “information specialist” (i.e., private investigator), and on the road to becoming a P.I. herself. Next thing she knows she’s socializing with eccentric rich people who have a penchant for going crazy and/or dying in spectacularly mysterious ways. A little back story…

  Jane’s usual motto in life is never trust anyone too handsome. But she’s willing to make an exception when Jasper “Jazz” Purcell, son of Lake Chinook’s wealthiest and most famously eccentric family, comes to ask for her help. Sexy, loaded, and charming, the guy’s a real catch. It seems the Purcell matriarch, Orchid, is in her eighties and losing her marbles. And since she controls the family fortune, that could be a bad thing. What Jazz needs is somebody from the outside to convince his grandmother to give up control. Somebody neutral. Somebody…with a dog. Orchid likes dogs. And that’s how Jane and her pug, The Binkster, ended up at Estate Creep-O-Rama, babysitting a dotty old lady, surrounded by a clan so hostile they make Survivor look like a hug-fest.

  From what Jane can tell, the Purcell family all want Orchid’s money; they all hate each other (but not as much as they hate Jane); and they’re all hiding some pretty big secrets. And when Orchid turns up in a pool of blood on Jane’s watch, the free-for-all has just begun. Diving into the Purcell family history leads Jane on some hair-raising twists and turns through mental illness, greed, deception, betrayal, and lies—including, but not limited to several mysterious deaths, two car accidents, a depressed guy who paints knives, one creepy playhouse, a family member packed off to an asylum, an illegitimate birth, and a flamboyant prodigal daughter with great legs and her sights set on Dwayne, who seems only too happy to play along. And when Jane finds the second body, it seems weird city is about to get even weirder…and a lot more deadly…

  In her second smash outing, Nancy Bush’s wickedly funny heroine, Jane Kelly, proves herself a worthy successor to Stephanie Plum, but with a wit, style, and dog that are definitely all her own.

  Following is an exciting sneak peek at

  Nancy Bush’s

  ELECTRIC BLUE

  coming in hardcover in October 2006!

  Mental illness runs in the Purcell family.

  I’d diligently typed this conclusion at the top of the report written in my word-processing program. I’d been so full of myself, so pleased with my thorough research and keen detecting skills that I’d smiled a Cheshire cat smile for weeks on end. That smug grin hung around just like the cat’s. It was on my face when I woke in the morning and it was there on my lips as I closed my eyes at night.

  I spent hours in self-congratulation:

  Oh, Jane Kelly, private investigator extraordinaire. How easy it is for you to be a detective. How good you are at your job. How exceptional you are in your field!

  However…

  I wasn’t smiling now.

  Directly in front of me was a knife-wielding, delusional, growling, schizophrenic—the situation a direct result of my investigation into the Purcells. In disbelief I danced left and right, frantic to avoid serious injury. I looked into the rolling eyes of my attacker and felt doomed. Doomed and downright furious at Dwayne Durbin. It was his fault I was here! It was his ridiculous belief in my abilities that had put me in harm’s way! Hadn’t I told him I’m no good at confrontation? Hadn’t I made it clear that I’m damn near chickenhearted? Doesn’t he ever listen to me?

  His fervent belief in me was going to get me killed!

  Gritting my teeth, I thought: I hope I live long enough to kill Dwayne first…

  One month earlier

  I was deep into the grunt work necessary to earn my license as a private investigator. Dwayne Durbin, my mentor, had finally convinced me I would be good at the job. His cheerleading on my behalf was not entirely altruistic: he wanted me to come and work for him.

  I’d resisted for a while but circumstances had arisen over the summer that had persuaded me Dwayne just might be right. So, in September I became Dwayne Durbin’s apprentice—and then I became his slave, spending my time putting in the hours, digging through records, doing all his dog work—which really irritated me, more at myself than him, because I’d known this was going to happen.

  And though I resented all the crap work thrown my way, Dwayne wasn’t really around enough for me to work up a head of steam and vent my feelings. He was embroiled in a messy divorce case for Camellia “Cammie” Purcell Denton. His association with the Purcell family was why I’d delved into the Purcell family history in the first place. I admit this was more for my own edification than any true need on Dwayne’s part, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.

  That particular September afternoon—the afternoon I wrote my conclusion on the report—was sunny and warm and lazy. It was a pleasure to sit on Dwayne’s couch, a piece of furniture I’d angled toward his sliding glass door for a shining view of the waters of Lake Chinook. I could look over the top of my laptop as I wirelessly searched databases and historical archives and catch a glimpse of sunlight bouncing like diamonds against green waters.

  Resentment faded. Contentment returned. After all, it’s difficult to hold a grudge when, apart from some tedium, life was pretty darn good. My rent was paid, my mother’s impending visit had yet to materialize, my brother was too involved with his fiancee to pay me much attention, and I had a dog who thought I was…well…the cat’s meow.

  I finished the report and
typed my name on the first page, mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. Reluctantly, I climbed to my feet and checked out Dwayne’s refrigerator. If Dwayne possessed anything besides beer and a suspect jar of half-eaten, orange-colored chili con queso dip, life would pass from pretty darn good to sublime. My gaze settled on a lone can of diet A&W root beer. Not bad. Popping the top, I returned to the couch and my laptop.

  Intending to concentrate, my eyes kept wandering to the scene outside the sliding glass door. Dwayne, who’d been lounging in a deck chair, was now making desultory calls on his cell phone. He stepped in and out of my line of vision as I hit the print button, wirelessly sending information to Dwayne’s printer. Nirvana. I’m technologically challenged, but Dwayne has a knack for keeping things running smoothly and efficiently despite my best efforts. Since I’d acquired my laptop—a gift from an ex-boyfriend—I’d slowly weaned myself from my old grinder of a desktop. This new, eager, slimmed-down version had leapfrogged me into a new era of computers. It fired up and slammed me onto the Internet faster than you can say, “Olly olly Oxenfree.” (I have no idea what this means but it was a favorite taunt from my brother, Booth, who was always crowing this when we were kids, gloating and laughing and skipping away, delighted that he’d somehow “got” me. Which, when I think about it, still has the power to piss me off.)

  The laptop untethered me from my old computer’s roosting spot on the desk in my bedroom. Now, I’m mobile. I bring my work over to Dwayne’s, which he highly encourages. I’m fairly certain Dwayne hopes I’ll suddenly whirl into a female frenzy of cleaning and make his place spotless. Like, oh, sure, that’s going to happen.

  Still, I enjoy my newfound freedom and so Dwayne’s cabana has become a sort of office for me. I early on claimed my spot on his well-used but extremely comfortable onetime blue, now dusty gray, sofa. Being more of a phone guy, Dwayne spends his time on his back deck/dock and conducts business outdoors as long as it isn’t raining or hailing and sometimes even if it is.