by Nancy Bush
"Jane?"
It confuses my mother when I answer already knowing the caller. Mom doesn’t understand caller ID, and I don’t think there’s any power in the universe able to explain it to her in a way that makes sense. Her call was unusual as she generally phones on weekends, claiming to be too busy during the week. I’m almost afraid to ask "doing what?" because the explanation will no doubt be long and involved and never be a true explanation. Most often I’m left struggling to decipher half of what she says, but she never fails to be entertaining.
"Hi, Mom. Yeah, it’s me," I said.
Once assured she’d called the right number, Mom didn’t waste time on preliminaries. "Your Aunt Eugenie died and left you her dog."
"What? A dog?" The events with the pit bull and the image of Dobermans flashed across the screen of my mind. "I can’t have a dog, Mom! I’m not around to take care of it. Dogs need-people-don’t they?" I paused. "Who’s Aunt Eugenie?"
"You don’t remember Eugenie? Shirttail relative who lives around Portland ...? Well ...lived. She’s been sick an awful long time. We started calling kind of regularly after she found out she was sick. It is just still a shock, though."
My brain felt like it was on stall. I could feel things already spiraling out of control. "But...I can’t have a dog. I don’t want a dog. You didn’t tell her I’d take the thing, did you?"
"Well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I knew you’d be happy to help. She’d been worrying so much. You know, I really thought Eugenie would give the dog to her daughter, but they haven’t been close for a long time. Years. What’s that daughter’s name . . . Diana? No, Donna? Maybe it’s just Dawn. Anyway, she has children and a husband with allergies, I think. Oh, he might be in a nursing home. Not sure . . ." My mother’s voice wandered off.
"I can’t have a dog," I reiterated.
"You can have a dog, Jane. You said Mr. Ogilvy allows pets."
I pulled back the receiver and stared at it. How can my mother draw these obscure factoids out of her brain when she has difficulty remembering the name of the city where I live? And how can she remember Ogilvy’s name? I may have mentioned him once to her, but the owner of my bungalow isn’t generally a hot topic between us.
"Aunt Eugenie has a friend who’ll be bringing it by," my mother went on. "I gave her your number."
I seriously doubted whether I ever had a shirttail relative named Eugenie. My mother meets new "best friends" faster than I can blow through a twenty and invariably these new buddies enter my life as well. Leaving it all behind had felt like a side benefit in following Murphy to a new state, but it appeared now that my mother’s incessant friend-gathering had followed me to Portland as well.
"Well, I’m not going to take it. I don’t have room for a dog. I’ll send it to the humane society."
"You need a dog. You need something around to keep you safe."
I almost asked "What kind of dog?" but stopped myself at the last second. No good encouraging my mother. "Aunt Eugenie should have made other provisions for Fido ‘cause it’s not going to be with me."
"You’ll have to tell the girl who’s bringing it over, then," my mother said with a sigh. "I hope it’s not going to be a problem. I promised Eugenie I’d take care of things. If you really can’t take the dog, maybe the girl can talk to Eugenie’s daughter."
"Who is this girl?"
"I’m not sure. Someone Eugenie knew. Maybe she can push Eugenie’s daughter...Dawn, I think...to take the poor thing in. I hope it all works out." Her message delivered, Mom then abruptly changed the subject. "Have you seen your brother lately?"
"Booth? No."
"He has a new girlfriend. I think it’s serious this time. I’d like you to check her out."
"What do you mean check her out? Like, check her out by looking at her, or are you saying you want me to dig into her background?" My mother was cagey this way. You had to be really certain what she was asking at all times.
"I just think you should meet her."
The last time I’d met one of Booth’s dates I’d been unable to drag my eyes from the tattoo she had inked around her neck, one of those choke chain designs meant for feral animals. I really felt this particular female should have been sporting the real thing. She looked like she ate human flesh on a regular basis, and she had a habit of staring straight through you that was meant to be intimidating. It was.
"I’ll... meet her whenever I can."
"Booth’s free right now. I just talked to him."
"Well, I’m not." On that I was firm. "I’m with friends now. And I’ve got a benefit to attend Saturday night."
"With a date?" My mother was completely blown away.
This irked me and sent me into a riff of lying. "Yes."
"With a man?"
Well, hell. "Yes. A real live man." I embellished. "Wealthy, too. Owns an island."
"Oh, Jane."
Clearly, I’d pushed it too far. "Gotta go," I said. "I’m getting beeped and I’m expecting a call. I’ll check in with Booth and let you know what I find."
"And the dog, Jane? Remember the dog. Please think about it."
I ground my teeth. I wanted to scream that there wasn’t an ice cube’s chance in hell of me taking on an orphaned canine, but I managed to keep my cool. I then rushed into a passel of more excuses and hung up before she could say anything more.
"Sheesh," I said, reaching for my wine.
Dwayne appeared at that time. "I’ll have a Bud," he told Manny who brought him the sweating beer tout de suite. Then Dwayne, who’d been nice on the boat ride over, asked, "Evict anyone today?" before sucking down half of his long neck in one swallow. On the heels of my mother’s call, his remark really pissed me off. Billy Leonard can get away with that kind of banter, but it doesn’t work with Dwayne. And the way my mother just assumes I’ll be perennially dateless...
I said, bristling, "That really pisses me off."
"Everything pisses you off," he responded without a care.
Because that pissed me off as well, I felt compelled to defend myself. "I never tack up eviction notices unless it’s three days before Christmas and the family has six children and an unemployed handicapped father." I sipped at Chardonnay number two, determining I wasn’t going to guzzle it as quickly as number one. There were a lot of hours left before bedtime and I didn’t want to flame out too quickly.
"You should take on a real case," he said.
I said, baldly, "I have."
Dwayne’s brows lifted with real interest. And at that same moment another boat docked in a newly vacated boat slip. I looked at the captain of the craft and recognized the glowing white mane of Cotton Reynolds.
Chapter Four
I watched as Cotton guided a young woman ahead of him through the short gate into Foster’s On The Lake, one big hand touching the small of her back. I took this to be Cotton’s wife. She looked past me, smiled, and waved fingers at a couple already seated at one of the tables. My head turned as if pulled by a string. Of the couple, I recognized the woman as one of the most successful real estate agents in the area though I couldn’t immediately come up with her name. The man looked like either her son, or a very young, very buff companion. Cotton’s wife sailed past me, clad in blue culottes, white Polo shirt and a red sweater draped across her shoulders Martha Stewart style. The straw hat atop her reddish-blond hair was encircled by a red, white and blue ribbon. Heather, I remembered. She looked as if she were playacting.
Cotton, his distinctive white hair like a beacon, followed after her and shook hands all around. Waiters hovered and Jeff Foster made an obligatory appearance. Several expensive bottles of wine were deposited on the table with a flourish and everyone looked ready to settle in for a long evening.
Cotton hugged his wife and she smiled and turned her face up to his. It was all very loving.
"What about this case?" Dwayne asked.
I had been prepared to tell him about Tess Bradbury’s request but faced with Cotton Reynolds in
the flesh I found myself suddenly unable to go there. I needed time to think, so I said as a means to collect my thoughts, "I gave a lady a 72-hour notice and her pit bull chased me to my car."
"I asked you if you’d evicted anyone today and you got pissy."
"So sue me." I surreptitiously kept an eye on Cotton’s group. Dwayne, who was turned toward me, twisted on one thigh to see what had captured my attention. I asked quickly, "What are you working on?"
He turned back and lifted his bottle. "A beer. Some R&R." He squinted through the branches of the oak at the lowering sun. "Maybe a tan."
"You were waiting for the call that came in this afternoon."
He grunted. "It’s all about scamming insurance money. Bastards. That’s what the world’s come to. Everybody cheating everybody."
"Hmmm..." I said. I was miles away but luckily Dwayne wasn’t picking up on my social signals. Either that, or he was simply ready to talk and he’d be damned if I were listening or not.
"Northwest Beneficial Life comes to me. They want me to check up on this potential scam artist. Think he’s falsified some life insurance claims. I start digging and it turns out this guy’s rounded up a crew of alcoholic, drug addict, derelict types who are at death’s door. He buys ’em policies in their names through an independent insurance agent who’s listed at the bottom of every policy. Clarkson. He’s the broker. In on the deal. This Clarkson goes out and hunts for policies through lots of insurance companies, not just Northwest Beneficial."
I managed to pick up the fragments and condense his report. "Scam artist buys life insurance policies for derelicts through an agent named Clarkson."
Dwayne nodded. I knew he thought I was paying a hell of a lot more attention than I was. A master trick from one of life’s perpetually distracted. Sometimes I even impress myself. He went on: "Scam artist plans to benefit by the derelicts’ deaths. Figures the derelicts have got one, maybe two years left on this planet. So, he takes out a bunch of policies on them, making himself the beneficiary, then waits for them to kick off."
"That’s not illegal, is it?" I asked.
"Not as long as they have health exams and are proven to be hardy individuals who should have years ahead of them. But these guys couldn’t pass a health exam to well...save their life."
I surfaced for a moment. I couldn’t hear the conversation at Cotton’s table but it was clear they were just ordering from the menu. "Why does this sound familiar?"
"Because a story like this has been on TV," Dwayne said with one of those "can you believe it?" shrugs. "One of those real crime programs. Our scam artist happened to come up with the same idea-or maybe he gets the idea from TV." Dwayne signaled Manny for another beer and a glass of wine for me. I tried to stop the order as I was feeling remarkably giddy and flushed, but the Chardonnay materialized in front of me. "He’s in cahoots with Clarkson who takes a fat commission on all the policies he writes, and probably a kickback from our perpetrator. Clarkson writes up a bunch of smaller payoff policies, say under twenty-five thousand, because you can get by without the physical under a certain limit. Of course, these derelict guys have terrible, checkered medical histories and any honest agent-if there is such a thing-wouldn’t write policies for any of them. Sometimes Clarkson pencils in false social security numbers, too. He doesn’t want there to be any way to fully trace back to these derelicts. So, scam artist pays the small premiums and hopes the derelicts kick off within two years of the policies to make it worth his while. When they die, he collects. The more policies on each guy, the better."
"Why aren’t the false social security numbers a dead giveaway, so to speak? They should be checked out."
"Should they? Why?"
"I don’t know. Isn’t there someone following up?"
Dwayne pointed a finger at me, underscoring his point. "This is why identity theft is becoming such a problem. Somebody could be using your number and you wouldn’t know it until something came up wrong, all of a sudden. Like on your credit report."
This gave me a bad feeling. I vowed to never give out my social security number again unless I was damn sure it was for the purpose it was intended. "What if the guy doesn’t kick the bucket within two years?" I asked.
"Ahh..." Dwayne smiled without humor. "That’s where our perp turns into a monster. He invites the derelicts to live with him in utter squalor, then pours alcohol down the poor losers’ throats, speeding up the process as best he can. Their bodies are in deep shit already. They’re time bombs. Scam artist helps them along, all under the guise of being a buddy, y’know? Let’s party. Let’s drink! They don’t last long."
I pushed my third glass away. "Are you trying to get me on the wagon?"
"You don’t get it," Dwayne said with a shake of his head. I stole another glance at Cotton’s table. They were deep into their entrees. "It’s not about alcohol. It’s about taking advantage, y’know? Hurting someone else for your own gain. I hate those bastards."
I gave him a long look. Dwayne is a decent guy. An attractive, decent guy. I recognized the danger of too much wine a wee bit late, but at least I recognized it. I reminded myself sternly that Dwayne was off limits.
The guy next to Dwayne suddenly let out a loud belch. The woman seated next to him hunched her shoulder and tightened her lips. I didn’t blame her. The incident caused Dwayne to swallow a smile. His attractiveness grew.
I reminded myself of the feminine scent lingering in his condo and pushed dangerous impressions aside. Leaning toward him, I said, "How do you feel about family annihilators?"
Dwayne zeroed in on me as if I’d answered the riddle of the sphinx. "You’re talking Bobby Reynolds."
I nodded. "I was called into Marta’s office today. One of her divorce clients is Tess Bradbury, formerly Reynolds. Tess apparently asked for me. Wants me to interview Cotton." I spoke softly, practically in Dwayne’s ear, bringing him swiftly up-to-date. "I made it clear I thought it was a waste of time."
"How much is she paying you?"
"Five hundred dollars per interview."
"She expects more than one?" Dwayne asked, surprised.
"Well, she’s hoping, I guess."
"Jesus."
"And FYI, Cotton Reynolds, his latest wife and a few friends are seated about four tables from the bar."
Dwayne tapped his fingers on the bar but never turned around to look. Tiny white lights wound around the tree in the center of the bar shimmered in the fading light and threw shadows across Dwayne’s face.
He said, "Go for it. Take Tess for all she’s got."
"I don’t even know if I want to do it at all. What do I know? The only reason she asked for me was because of Murphy."
Dwayne gave me a long look. "You seen Murphy recently?"
"How?" I demanded, annoyed. "He left the state, remember?" I was touchy on the subject.
"He’s your connection to Bobby. I figure he’s in there somewhere."
"So Murphy’s the only reason Tess would call me?"
"What do you think?"
I tried not to let it bug me that Dwayne was right. Of course it was the only reason. Marta Cornell be damned. Tess went to her to make sure she connected with me because I once had a thing for Murphy and that put me inside Cotton’s circle.
"You aren’t going to learn anything new, so you might as well take the money," he pronounced.
"You’re really full of encouragement."
He was unperturbed. "I don’t know what Tess thinks she’s doing. The F.B.I.’s been hunting Bobby like the vermin he is. If they can’t get him, nobody can. Personally, I think he’s dead."
His attitude pissed me off some more. Not that he wasn’t right; I suspected he was. I just wanted some encouragement. "So, Bobby Reynolds is vermin?"
"He shot and killed his whole family and ran away. What do you call him?" At this Dwayne checked his watch, reached across the bar for a bowl of nuts and shot a sideways glance toward Cotton’s table.
"Sick. Twisted. Desperate. He’s
definitely not at the top of my Mr. Nice Guy list."
"You know what I think?" Dwayne dropped his voice to whisper level. "Bobby was mollycoddled. Treated like a prince by both Cotton and his mom. Never had to be responsible for anything. Entitlement. So, he marries this gal who’s all wrapped up in her religion. Her family moves away and Bobby goes with ’em. They all belong to this fundamentalist church. The money gets tight. And she keeps popping out the babies and he gets scared. Then Big Daddy Cotton cuts him off and he’s got money troubles. Suddenly has to do something about wifey and the screaming kids. So, he blows ’em away. That’s his solution."
"I met Bobby. He didn’t seem the type."
"What type is that? The type whose dreams never materialize? The type who suddenly looks around at the old ball-and-chain and the ankle-biters and says to himself, ‘If it weren’t for them I’d be fine’? Can’t you just see that idea taking hold, Jane? Eating away at him. Can’t you just see him in church, watching the plate being passed and wishing he could steal the cash?"
"Lovely," I observed.
"Think I’m wrong? Bobby was born and raised in Lake Chinook, on a private island, the only private island on the lake. He had everything his shriveled little heart desired. During the investigation people had a way of calling him a red-blooded American boy. Shaking their heads, wringing their hands, asking, How could it have happened? How could it have happened?"
"Murphy called him that, too," I admitted.
"Everybody did."
"Except you, obviously," I pointed out.
"I met Bobby a few times," Dwayne admitted. "When he used to run that Master Craft around the lake, breaking all the rules. I can remember him laughing his ass off at some friends he ditched in the water. Lucky they didn’t drown or get killed by another boat."
I absorbed that. "Murphy never believed Bobby was guilty."