by Nancy Bush
“Ye-ess…”
“Those are the guys at Do Not Enter. The ones who tell a girl she’s special, say they love her, say they’re her boyfriend to talk her into sex. They’re the same ones who turn their back when she tries to talk to them and whisper and snigger to their friends.”
I’d never seen this side of Dwayne. He was dead serious, and it made me wonder what had happened to him when he was a teenager. Was there a girl from his past who’d been used and abused by some guy? A girl he’d cared about? Someone he couldn’t save?
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, engaged in spite of myself.
“Find out who these guys are, Jane. Get me their names.”
I gazed across the water. Was I really thinking about helping him? “I suppose I could go to Friday night’s football game.”
“It’s the civil war between Lakeshore and Lake Chinook.”
“You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?”
“I’m an investigator.”
I gave Dwayne a sideways look. He was smiling, but he looked more relieved than pleased, which made me decide his motives were in the right place. “Okay, Jimmy Stewart. I’m sure I’m going to be sorry, but what the hell? I’ll try to meet them.”
“Hal Jeffries.”
“What?”
“The character Jimmy Stewart plays in Rear Window is Hal Jeffries.”
“It worries me that you know that,” I said, but I was committed all the same.
Roland Hatchmere’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a development where all the streets were named from the Tolkien fantasy novels: Elf Lane, Hobbit Drive, Aragon Avenue. His home was a tri-level on Rivendell Road; street level being the main floor with an upstairs over the garage and a basement at the sloping western end. There was a lot of glass, a lot of decks and a sweeping entrance lined with impatiens that had been beaten down under the torrential hail. The house itself had an early seventies look and feel, not my favorite architectural era, but the grounds and view up the Willamette River toward Portland’s city center were spectacular.
I parked my Volvo under the dripping branches of a large maple. As I climbed from the car, soggy yellow and red leaves floated onto the hood. A breeze shook through the limbs, sending a cascade of water onto me as I hurried for the front door.
Ringing the bell, I huddled under a narrow overhang, which, I learned, served more for looks than function, then tried to push myself inside when the door opened. It hadn’t worked last time. It didn’t work this time.
Gigi Hatchmere stood in the way with her patented scowl. “You’re dripping,” she said.
“Sorry.”
My boots were soaked and leaving little wet puddles. I slipped them off and, though reluctant, she finally allowed me entry, across a mahogany-lined foyer to a living room with wide windows and no discernible walls. The view was amazing, a wide screen of sky over the roofs of houses down the hill. Portland lay spread across both sides of the river. I could almost count all the bridges and in the far, far distance was the mesalike crown of Mount Saint Helens, which had blown its top in 1980.
Gigi was about my height, five foot seven, and she was slim and serious. Her hair was dark brown as were her eyes, and she wore it straight and parted down the middle like a child of the sixties. She might have been pretty if there were any joy in her expression, but mostly she just looked pissed off.
“So, you’re working for that woman,” Gigi said again, as if telling herself enough times would finally hold the information in her memory. She stood in the center of the living room, which seemed to have acres of cream carpeting. I wiggled my toes into its warmth, admiring the room in spite of myself. Maybe I was just growing envious of other people’s homes because I felt like I soon might be without one. I wanted to practically drop down and roll in the carpet. I would have, too, except I needed to massage Gigi Hatchmere’s bruised feelings if I hoped to learn anything from her that might help Violet.
She stared down at my socks, which were slightly damp. I wondered if she worried they would leave dark stains in the carpet. I wondered, too, if it would be polite or rude to offer to take them off.
“Would you like something?” she said grudgingly. “I was going to open a bottle of wine.”
“Anything’s fine,” I said affably.
“Well, come on in.” She turned around a partition that left a twelve-inch gap at the ceiling into a kitchen decked out in dark brown granite and darker brown cabinetry. The appliances were trimmed with matching wood veneer panels. Gigi gestured to a solarium that ran along the south side of the house and opened into a garden. The room was basically a walkway with a sloped, windowed ceiling and glass walls that looked onto an inner atrium. Wet leaves lay limply against the overhead glass and I looked up at them as I walked along the solarium. An Asian-influenced buffet, ornately carved, sat at the end of the walkway. On a warmer day, the benches inside the atrium looked like they’d be a nice place to settle in and read a book or just commune with the foliage.
I wondered if Gigi meant for me to stay in the solarium, but as there was no place to sit, I decided she’d simply given me an invitation to look around.
I returned to the kitchen where Gigi had pulled out a bottle of cheap white wine. I know this because it’s the kind I buy. She saw me glance at the label and said, “Daddy’s estate’s in probate. It’s not like we have any money. Want something better, ask Violet.”
Had I made a judgment call? I shrugged. “That’s my brand.”
“Poor you.”
She scrounged around on a lower refrigerator shelf and found a plastic party tray with cubed cheese in varying flavors. It might have been opened for a while. Certain sections of the tray looked picked over. I checked my inner “yuk” meter and decided I didn’t care. Free food and drink? That’s an automatic yes. I have my priorities in line.
Though slightly lactose-intolerant, today I was willing to take a chance on the cheese and go for broke.
The crystal stemware was Waterford. When, and if, Gigi inherited, she would get some nice things.
“That’s where Emmett found him,” she said, inclining her head toward the solarium. “I thought you’d want to see.”
“In the solarium?”
“Uh-huh. The tray was on the floor beside him. Violet didn’t bother to wrap it, just put a ribbon on it. The ribbon was still on it.”
“Was anyone else there, when Emmett found your father?” I asked as Gigi handed me a glass.
She eyed my hand, watching me like a hawk. Her expression revealed she was already regretting giving me the good stuff. “It’s crystal. Don’t break it. No, Emmett was alone.”
“I’ll be careful. That must have been hard.”
“It was terrible!” She tossed back a gulp of her drink. She had all the finesse of a stevedore. Apparently the worry over the stemware only applied to me. “The whole thing was terrible. And it started out so great!”
“Tell me about it,” I encouraged.
She gestured for me to sit down at the glass-topped kitchen table. I took a chair, which was molded white plastic and surprisingly comfortable.
“We got to Castellina around ten. That’s where we were doing hair and makeup. It was just Deenie and me, and my hairdresser, of course—she did my makeup, too—but Melinda, my stepmother, stopped by and brought mimosas. It was so fabulous. Do you know Castellina?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“It means ‘little castle’ and it’s just so pretty. It’s owned by the Buganzi family, too, like Cahill Winery. It’s kind of a package deal for weddings, if you want to go that way.”
I nodded. Castellina was the Portland estate used as an entertainment venue by the Buganzi family who also owned Cahill Winery just outside the town of Dundee, in the center of Oregon’s wine country. Before the Buganzi family purchased it, it was a rambling, slightly tired, turn-of-the-century old maven of Portland’s West Hill’s architectural scene. Buganzi razed the old home much to a h
orrendous outcry and a ton of city fees, as he did it gleefully and without permits. Then he built Castellina with its fairy-tale castle design. I’d only seen it from the outside, but people either gush and rave or roll their eyes and wail about its design. Nevertheless, it’s become as popular a place for weddings and parties as Cahill Winery itself, which is about forty-five minutes from Castellina on a Saturday afternoon. Apparently Roland Hatchmere had reserved both venues for his daughter. I’ve heard Cahill produces a more than respectable Pinot Noir, but I’ve never put it to the taste test, its price being outside my budget.
“The weather was just beautiful. We didn’t know how it would be, October and all, but it was just such a great day.” Gigi gulped again and topped off her glass. I chewed on a piece of cheddar and sipped. “I had this great dress, too. It’s a Millie V.,” she added in an aside, looking for my reaction. I had no idea who this designer might be, so I just nodded enthusiastically and sipped some more. I love wine for this reason. Not just drinking, but a whole host of social moves. I can drink and nod and it won’t appear as if I have nothing to say.
“Anyway, everything was perfect. The veil was kind of sucky, actually, but I got rid of it pretty quick. We were having a great time with the mimosas. Melinda brought the champagne, and it was nicer than I expected of her. I mean, we don’t hate her, but she’s not our mother. She never let me have a drop before I turned twenty-one, so I just didn’t think she had it in her.”
“You’re twenty-one now, right?”
“I turn twenty-two in April. Sean’s twenty-four, but I’ve always seemed older than he is. I mean, he’s a complete fuckup, but he is my brother. He used to buy for me before I was legal. We gotta look out for each other.” She said this rotely, without emotion, as if she’d heard it somewhere and thought it might be a good time to trot it out.
“So, Melinda brought the champagne. And…Deenie…was with you?”
“Oh, Deenie’s my maid of honor. We call her Deenie even though her name’s Denise. Everybody does. I’ve known her since third grade. We were having such a good time. I tied my hair up in a chignon but it looked like shit. Had to rip it all out and let it be down. I almost made Shari cry, she was the hairdresser. How was I supposed to know she was so sensitive! God, it was my wedding. Anyway, we got it all straightened out.”
“What about your mom?” I inserted casually. “Was she there?”
“Renee? No way. We don’t get along that great. I mean, she lives in Santa Monica and that’s just fine. I love her. She’s my mom and all, but when Sean and I moved to Portland with Daddy, she just stayed there. I haven’t lived with her since I was a kid.”
“But she came up for the wedding.”
“Yes.” Gigi’s jaw tightened stubbornly. She didn’t like being directed. She wanted to tell the story her way and that was that.
“So, you changed your hair and had mimosas with Deenie and your stepmother.”
“Melinda. Deenie and I had a limo and we were going to meet the other bridesmaids at Cahill for pictures at two. Melinda had her own car, so we all drove off around one o’clock. Deenie and I took a bottle of champagne in the limo. We turned the music up really loud and we were singing. It was so much fun.”
She stopped short, remembering. I could see her face start to squinch up and get blotchy. “So, we got there,” she said, her voice getting small and teary. “And everybody came for pictures but Daddy. It was almost two o’clock. The photographer took some photos of me and Emmett, and then the bridal party, but Daddy wasn’t there!”
“Emmett’s parents were there,” I said, sensing she was about to collapse into sobs.
“Uh-huh.”
“And your mother?”
“Why do you keep saying that! No! She wasn’t invited to the wedding.” Gigi looked like she wanted to throw her glass at me.
“I thought she came up from Santa Monica,” I answered, confused.
“She was disinvited, okay? She was invited. But then she was a bitch at the rehearsal dinner and she was disinvited. Melinda was there and she was being nice so I figured she could be in the pictures. I didn’t care if she and Daddy weren’t living in the same house. They really love each other. In fact, they’d be back together if it weren’t for Violet!”
“Okay,” I said, hoping she’d calm down.
“Want another glass of wine?” she asked, sniffing.
“Sure.”
I handed her my glass and she gave me a refill. It was kind of eerie the way she could throw a fit and then turn around and act like it didn’t happen. Maybe she’d been drinking before I arrived, although it didn’t seem like it.
“So, then…Daddy never showed at all. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, either. Honestly, I was kinda mad. It was my wedding day!”
I shook my head in commiseration, trying to look properly upset for her.
“And then it was three o’clock! Three o’clock! Deenie and I were just crying, holding each other up. It was like…” She shook her head, her nostrils quivering with remembered hurt. “It was like he didn’t care. We didn’t know what was wrong. That’s when we had to call my mother. Just in case she knew something.”
I waited.
Gigi shrugged. “Okay, look, I don’t like talking about my mother that much. It’s no big deal. She just doesn’t know how to act. The rehearsal dinner was a disaster. Big fight between Mom and Daddy, but then what did I expect? They’ve always been that way.”
“They fought at your rehearsal dinner?”
Gigi gestured impatiently. “She brought up Violet in front of Melinda and me and everybody. Asked where Violet was. Why wasn’t Violet there? Wasn’t Daddy seeing Violet? It was all just to bug him. That’s what my mother always does. You’d have to know her to understand. She’s kind of self-involved,” Gigi said with a straight face.
“Ah.”
“We were all at Castellina for the rehearsal dinner. It was a package deal—book the rehearsal dinner and the wedding preprep at Castellina, then go to the wedding and reception at the winery and it was a much better price. You know how expensive weddings are? Daddy got really upset toward the end. I mean, I thought Clarice, our wedding planner, was going to quit. It was awful. I really thought he was going to throw something at her. And Enzo, our florist? I’m not sure he ever got paid.
“Anyway, Mom shows up at the rehearsal dinner. And she brings a date that she didn’t mention. Some guy with dyed hair and a Ferrari. Can you stand it? They drove up from Santa Monica together, but did she tell any of us? We didn’t have a place for him. It was just rude.
“And then she started in about Violet. Melinda tried to intervene. She’s such an idiot sometimes. And Daddy says, ‘Stay away from me, Mel,’ real coldlike. Mom smirked and Melinda looked like she was going to cry. And then Mom says, ‘He gets like this every time he starts up with Violet. I should know.’”
“Did Violet break up your parents’ marriage?” I asked, wondering if Renee still held a grudge.
“Well…no.” Gigi sounded disappointed that she had to tell the truth. “They were split up a long time. But it still upset Mom when Daddy and Violet got together and we all moved away from Los Angeles.”
“Was there any thought of staying with your mother at the time?”
“I don’t know what this has to do with anything,” she muttered, looking away.
I took that as a no. “But it sounds like Renee blamed Violet for a lot of what happened in your family.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
I could tell I was losing Gigi, so I said, “So, your father disinvited your mother to the wedding and reception.”
“The Ferrari guy got real upset. Told my dad he was no kind of man. They’d driven all the way here, they’d been invited, well, Mom had, anyway. Who did he think he was? Blah, blah, blah. It was a real scene. If I’d been sober I would have been even more mad, but we were knocked out by those Italian punch drinks they serve there. They got Campari or something in them? Makes them
red? We drank tons of them. It was really the only way to get through that night, though Daddy did make a nice toast to me.” Fresh tears filled her eyes. “He said how I was his little girl.”
I smiled encouragingly, thinking that was pretty standard stuff for the dads of brides.
Gigi stabbed a piece of cheese with one of the ruffled toothpicks, then twirled it thoughtfully around. I wondered if she was rethinking putting it in her mouth. “I was kinda hungover in the morning, but by noon I was okay. The mimosas sure helped.”
“Hair of the dog,” I said.
“Huh?”
I shrugged, not wanting to sidetrack her with an explanation about why more alcohol was supposed to cure a hangover. I’m not sure I believe it anyway. Gigi went on, “I guess I was still hoping Daddy would show and we’d get a few pictures, maybe after the ceremony. People started arriving. It was just awful. I mean, it was getting close to four. Where was he? We told the caterers to open the champagne, so we started drinking some more. We even called my mother then, and she and the Ferrari guy came right over.”
“Did you try to call Violet?” I asked.
“We’re not stupid. Of course we did. She never picked up.”
“Okay.”
“People kind of moved around the grounds, staying out of the way. I think they were embarrassed. Deenie and I were crying and nobody knew what to do. Finally, we had to say there was an accident and the wedding was postponed. Emmett’s parents, Dave and Goldy, were upset.” Her lips compressed, and she started to say something, then cut herself off. I got the feeling it might have been something not all that nice about Emmett’s parents. She went on instead, “We didn’t really believe something bad had happened to Daddy. Not then…but then Emmett found Daddy and called his dad. He didn’t want to tell me over the phone.” She swept in a breath. “It was David who told everyone Daddy’d been in an accident. He didn’t tell me the truth until everyone had left.”