Ultraviolet

by Nancy Bush

  “She was suspected of killing him?” Mom posed.

  “I got this from Bart’s sister, Patsy Treadway,” Renee revealed. “I was kind of crazy for a while, after Roland hooked up with Violet, and so I looked up Patsy and became friends with her. She was more than happy to rank on Violet, which I needed at the time. She told me Violet never went hiking with him. Never, never, never. That sounds just like Violet, right? She’s not a hiker. Then one day she decides to go with him and they take off together. But later that day she comes off the mountain alone. Says she left Bart to do more hiking. That she got tired. Two days later they find his body at the bottom of a ravine. He ‘fell’ from the trail above.”

  “He didn’t fall,” I guessed.

  “Well…” Renee spread her hands. “Everybody knew Bart and Violet were having problems. She was pretty young in those days. Probably thought she’d get the money, but oops. Didn’t happen. Bart’s family tried to get the D.A. to prosecute, but the case wasn’t strong enough. No money, no motive, was the way they saw it. Violet said she’d gone hiking with him because he’d asked, and she wanted to try and save their marriage. But she got whiny and he grew tired of her, so she walked back to where they’d left their car. She hung around awhile but finally took herself home. She called Patsy and said Bart might need a ride back, which pissed Patsy off but good. She went to collect him but he never came out.”

  “She still maintains that Bart’s death was Violet’s fault. What do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past Violet.”

  “And you told Melinda this.”

  Renee smiled fleetingly. “Oh, you know…Melinda’s so easy to send over the edge.”

  It was interesting how Renee had stayed a part of Roland’s life all these years, and not just through her children. In fact, she scarcely seemed connected to her children by anything more than happenstance. It was like she didn’t know what to do with them.

  “You can talk to Patsy,” Renee encouraged. “I’ve got her address.”

  “What about Violet’s second husband?”

  “They divorced. That’s all I know.”

  Mom and I left soon afterward. Renee pressed Patsy Treadway’s number and address upon me. I put in a call to her as we headed for the car and was sent, as ever, directly to voice mail. The communication age. Like, oh, sure. Not that I was exactly panting to talk to the woman as I felt I’d pretty much gotten the gist of what had taken place from Renee, and I had a feeling I would hear a lot more theory than fact from Patsy.

  Mom and I drove to our four-unit in Venice through heavy commuter traffic down Lincoln. It felt like we hit every light. Finally Mom eased onto Abbott-Kinney and then meandered through narrow beach streets until we turned on Baybridge. Venice is kind of a weird place. All this prime beachfront real estate yet everything has that musty, dank smell and peeling-paint appearance of an area gone to seed. There’s a carnival, Coney Island–type atmosphere about the place: surf shops; wind socks fluttering; roller skaters in shorts zigzagging along the sidewalk that cuts through the sand.

  My mother and I co-own a tan-colored rectangular box. Its front faces the ocean and if it weren’t for the buildings on the three blocks between it and the water, it would have an excellent view. As it is, it pretty much looks at walls, roofs and sprouting antennae, though the tiny balconies on both front units have teensy, peekaboo views if you hang over the rails. They were originally apartments; my mother was savvy enough to convert them into condominiums shortly after she managed to buy the building, yet she and I still maintain ownership of all four units. At the time of the purchase I was working at Sting Ray’s, a beach bar, as one of their bartenders. By my mother’s wheeling, dealing and stretching the boundaries of financial security, I became part owner in the project. My mother actually lives a couple of streets over in the little three-bedroom house Booth and I grew up in. Now, when it was clear she was heading directly toward the four-unit instead of her house, I made a sound of protest.

  “We’re not dropping off my bag first?”

  “I’ve moved to one of the units,” she said, causing my jaw to drop.

  “When?”

  “Mrs. Cassleway died and so the lower front unit was empty. I started redoing it. She had dogs. Big dogs, and cats. It reeked. And then someone wanted to buy my house.”

  “You sold the house?” I asked in horror.

  “No way.” Mom gave me a sideways look, silently chiding me. “But I started thinking about its value, and then I decided to rent it. It’s got a garage, you know. And a driveway. They’re paying me a small fortune.”

  This made me happy. “So you moved into the four-unit,” I repeated.

  “Yep.”

  We drove past our building and circled toward the parking spots in the rear. The upper front space is the “owner’s unit,” which means it’s slightly larger, and it’s been rented to the same couple for two decades. Its grander space cuts into that of the rear upper unit, so we get less rent for that one.

  Mom turned into the alley that leads to our building. There’s no garage, but there’s enough land behind the structure to allow for four parking spots covered by a shingled carport. Signage across the back of the building warns would-be parkers that their lives will be in jeopardy if they so much as edge a tire onto one of our spots. Mostly, we’re treated with respect by the beach people who come in droves on the weekends and circle the narrow streets in search of parking.

  A row of exterior lights, each one covered by a stainless steel grid with a nautical motif, lined the back of the fourplex. Each light offered a pool of illumination against the dark cobalt sky. Mom pulled into her spot and we stepped into a brisk wind. I grabbed my overnight bag, my hair flying around my face. I’d left it loose from its ubiquitous ponytail to fly down here and meet Renee. Now I grabbed it in one fist, hauling my bag with the other hand, my purse bumping my hip and threatening to slide from my shoulder.

  “Whew,” Mom said as she slammed the front door behind us and switched on the interior lights. The room snapped into bright focus. I dropped my bag on the hardwood floor and looked around with interest.

  I knew the property was valuable. I loved having an investment. If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t have anything to call my own, and I could turn religious when I remember how she talked me out of using my hard-earned money to buy a better car, or take a luxury vacation, or consider investing with my first boyfriend, a surfer dude guy who was all California blond good looks and ideas that never materialized. She made me put my money in the four-unit instead. Booth didn’t listen to her, though she tried to get him, too. He bought the car and took the vacation, though the only person I think he’s ever invested money with is Sharona, and believe me, she’s a sure bet. They have a house together in northwest Portland, so luckily Booth didn’t completely miss the investing opportunity, either.

  But his decision made it that Mom and I are in this together. Just the two of us. I said, meaning it, “This is great.”

  “I thought I’d miss my house more than I do. Of course, I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. Got the phone moved over and just settled in. I guess you can tell I redid the place.”

  The cabinets were painted a creamy, buttery color and the countertops were large blocks of a darker, taupe tile. The backsplash tile was another shade of cream, subway style, with a crackle finish. She’d put in a gas range, stainless steel, and a matching refrigerator with a freezer drawer on the bottom. She also had one of those two-drawer dishwashers, also stainless. The effect was contemporary yet warmer than Melinda’s unit. Two hanging lights with glowing dark amber-colored glass shades hung down over the eating peninsula that jutted from one wall.

  The kitchen opened into the living room, and down the hall was one bathroom, two bedrooms and an alcove with a built-in desk. I used the bathroom and took my bag into the spare bedroom, which she’d done in an olive green color trimmed out in white. The furniture was white, louvered and distressed, very bea
chy, and the bed sat on a fuzzy cream-colored area rug.

  I returned to the kitchen where Mom had poured us each a glass of white wine. God, I love my mother.

  “You remember me telling you about Mr. Densworth,” Mom said as she picked up her glass and headed toward the living room. “In the upper back unit, whose daughter-in-law took off with his grandson?”

  I dug my cell phone out of my purse and followed her. “Where the private investigator was shot twice in the head. I remember.”

  Mom settled into a rattan chair and I sat on the tweed-colored love seat opposite her. “Who are you calling?”

  “Sorry. Just a sec.” I phoned Deenie back. She didn’t pick up, so I left her another message.

  “You sound discouraged,” Mom said.

  No shit. I launched into a dissertation on the failings of cell phones and people who don’t seem to understand the proper etiquette, to which my mother listened politely without the slightest bit of interest. When I finally wound down, she did the equivalent of patting me on the hand and saying, “There, there.” She took a sip of wine and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

  “Thanks, Mom. But it’s possible I won’t.”

  She smiled. “You will.”

  My mother has dimples that my cheeks only hint at. She’s sweeter by nature. At least I think she is, although there’s a steel rod up her spine that shows from time to time.

  “You’re not worried I’ll get shot in the head?”

  “I’m always worried. But that’s what I was going to tell you. You were right. That investigator was killed from some other case he was on. It wasn’t Mr. Densworth’s daughter-in-law’s. It was something to do with teenage boys. They were drunk or on drugs or something and they just killed him execution style. They’d seen it in the movies.”

  Teenage boys…I felt slightly light-headed.

  “What were you trying to get from Cat Lady?” Mom asked.

  I corralled my attention with an effort. “Background on Violet Purcell. What happened with her first husband.”

  “You think she killed him?” Mom asked curiously.

  “I don’t know.”

  My mother had met Violet’s nephew, Jasper “Jazz” Purcell, the last time she’d visited and she’d been convinced that Jazz was the guy for me. Handsome, wealthy, gentlemanly…She’d let it be known she thought I should jump into the relationship with Jazz, but then she hadn’t known the whole story. I had no intention of letting her know Violet was related to Jazz.

  “Cat Lady’s daughter, Gigi, calls her Ultra-Violet,” I said, thinking aloud. “More like Ultra-Violent, the way people keep dying around her.”

  “You mean this Roland fellow.”

  “She hit him with a silver tray. The tray’s the murder weapon.”

  “And she’s your client?”

  I nodded.

  “Hunh.” Mom buried her nose in her wineglass and looked concerned.

  I decided to walk to Sting Ray’s and see if Ray was around. I hadn’t been back to the place in several years. When I made the move to Oregon, it was like I’d shed one life for another, a snake leaving its skin behind, unwanted and forgotten.

  Hunching a shoulder to the stiff breeze, I kept to the lighted areas. I didn’t feel like meeting eyes with the pan-handlers and hecklers, an unfortunate section of the homeless population that loitered along the beachfront.

  Like with any beach community, the weather takes its toll wherever you are. Even Venice’s freshly painted apartment buildings looked abused somehow, their stucco sidings circa 1950 and showing the passing of time no matter how much fresh paint was slapped atop it. There are lots of homes that were purchased a long, long time ago and look like they’ve fallen on hard times, their owners unable to keep up with the high cost of maintenance. This same housing sits cheek-by-jowl with multimillion-dollar properties. You just never know what you’re going to get, kind of like Cracker Jack, a surprise in every box.

  Sting Ray’s probably defies all kinds of city codes, meandering off its designated lot onto the beach as if it’s slowly dragging itself toward the ocean. Its beachside eating area is a wooden platform atop the sand with a retractable awning in striped black and tan shading it from the sun.

  I entered through the main entry, a Dutch door on the south side. The maitre d’s stand was directly in front of me and a girl in tan shorts and a bright blue shirt with a tiny, stitched gray manta ray across the left breast pocket that sported “Sting Ray’s” spelled out in yellow script gave me a look and then walked away. I saw that she was in some kind of altercation with another similarly dressed woman who looked about five years her senior. The older woman pointed to me, and my girl returned, her face flushed. The smile she gave me was little more than bared teeth. “Are you having dinner?”

  “Just the bar, thanks.” I strolled past her to the back deck. She gave the older woman a hard look that said, “See?” plain as day. The senior worker watched me with a baleful eye. I was taken back to a time when these little dramas played out daily while I worked the bar.

  Ray wasn’t around, as far as I could tell. I slid my rear end onto a black-and-tan-striped stool and ordered a Sting Ray, which is basically a mai tai with a few extra ingredients added and a clear plastic swizzle stick with a little jellyfish critter on top. The bartender was male and wore the same tan cotton shorts, but his T-shirt was gray with a three-button placket. The yellow, scripted Sting Ray’s logo ran obliquely across the pocket. “Ray not around?” I asked.

  “Nah. He only stops in at night.”

  Well, night was here. The sun wasn’t even a paler part of the sky any longer. The breeze was an out-and-out wind along the beach, and it was blowing stiffly, making it possible to see hard, pinprick stars in between the moving clouds. It was turning the air downright chilly and I could feel gooseflesh rise on my skin. The hanging black and gold Japanese lanterns that ran along the roofline were doing a little dance all their own. One of the employees untied the clear plastic drapes that are pulled shut when the wind kicks up. If it gets really cold, Ray closes down the back deck completely.

  The bartender critically eyed some of the stemware hanging upside down from a wooden rack above his head. He slid out several rows, one by one, placing them in the dishwasher. “Blender explosion,” he said, aware that I was watching. “Strawberry daiquiris. Happened last night and we’re still finding it everywhere.”

  “Sticky,” I said.

  “No shit,” he answered mildly. “You know Ray?”

  “Used to work for him. Bartender.”

  “Yeah? You working somewhere else around here?”

  I shook my head. “Followed a guy to Lake Chinook, Oregon. Relationship ended but I stayed on.”

  “If you’re looking for a job, mine’s going to be open. Got a callback on a new television series. It’s time for me to give it my all, y’know? Now or never, that’s what I think.”

  I’d almost forgotten that nearly all the waiters in Los Angeles were actors at heart. “Thanks, but I’ve switched professions.” I picked up my drink and moved off to stand at the edge of the wooden platform and stare toward the ocean. There weren’t many people left on the sand. They’d already packed up their beach paraphernalia—balls, flip-flops, kites, canopied strollers—and headed home.

  Another wind gust sent a shiver down my back. I was still in the brown slacks and boots I’d chosen for my interview with Renee, but the thin, long-sleeved, dressy T-shirt wasn’t enough for the coming night. I should have changed into my jeans and trusty Nikes. I could have sat myself down in the sand and contemplated life. As it was, I tucked myself into a table at the edge of the platform. A votive candle, its holder blue shark-shaped glass, graced my table, the little flame flickering wildly and threatening to extinguish with each new gust of energetic breeze. I moved it closer to me and it steadied.

  I’d brought my purse with me and the notebook and pen I carry around at all times, just in case I have a sudden compelling
need to write down information. The notebook was scratched with phone numbers and addresses. Sometimes it’s just easier than plugging the information into my phone.

  I wrote down Renee’s timeline information, planning to add it to my computer later. I started doodling as soon as I got all the information notated. Renee acted like she wanted me to follow up on Violet, but it wasn’t like she was dying for me to prove her guilt like Gigi and Melinda were. I hadn’t gotten any real sense of vindictiveness or emotion on her part. The truth was, she didn’t give a shit. Not really. Roland was dead and it was too bad and she would miss him, sort of, but that was about it. Though Renee gave lip service to Roland being the love of her life, it kinda appeared Renee pretty much loved Renee. There wasn’t room for anyone else in her tiny little heart.

  So, where did that leave the investigation?

  I wished Larrabee would call me with more information on the Wedding Bandits. If any of them were caught and would talk, it could make a huge difference. I wanted to know how they’d targeted the Hatchmere wedding and how they’d learned Roland’s home address. More than that, I wanted to know what the story was when they ran across Roland. Was he unconscious, possibly dead, and that’s what scared them off, like Larrabee suspected? The trail of gifts, wrapped and unwrapped, across the front yard showed a very hasty exit. Something sent them scurrying and I thought Roland’s dead body was a good guess.

  That same niggling thought touched a finger inside my brain. This time I didn’t try to grab for it. I stared through the wavering clear plastic curtain toward the dark waves, cresting and foaming white against the wet gray sand. The ocean looked as vast and dangerous as it was.

  “Want another?” a young woman asked. She wore long pants, preparation for the chilly night. The girl at the podium was still in shorts and I could see she was shivering.