by Nancy Bush
"Your real name is The Binkster," I said, "which is okay by me but I don’t think I’m going to be using it all the time. I really will not be able to handle Binky. How about Binks?" For that I got a desultory wag of the curlicue. At least it was something. And for as long as I was going to have this dog, it was good enough.
Booth called just as we entered the cabin. I told him I’d phone back as both Binks and I were done in from the heat. I checked to see Binks had enough water then poured a glass for myself. We both drank thirstily.
A bit reluctantly I called Booth back. There were mere hours left before he and Sharona appeared.
"I’ve got to cancel," he said abruptly. "Work."
"Oh." I sounded appropriately crestfallen-at least I think I did-until he insisted that we meet on Monday. He had Tuesday off, but then Sharona was leaving for a few days, so Monday was both the perfect-and only-opportunity for us to get together.
I really, really wanted to postpone. I had enough on my plate right now. But visions of my mother’s inquisition had me rolling over and saying yes. At least it left Sunday night free. I had thoughts of going to Foster’s On The Lake... maybe in Dwayne’s boat. We settled on Monday, both glad duty had been dispensed with, at least for the moment.
Thinking of Dwayne, I fired up my computer, planning my report for Tess. I started by writing down my impressions from the night before. I tried to remember everything Cotton had said about Bobby. After I wrote down his words, I added my own impressions.
I typed in: DOES HE KNOW WHERE BOBBY IS?
Staring at the words, I examined my feelings, struggling for some kind of thoughts on that. Finally I typed: NO, HE DOESN’T. I put a little jk after this, indicating this was a Jane Kelly thought rather than a fact. When I was finished I was rather proud of my follow-up skills.
Tess called around noon, just about the time I’d remembered to feed Binks who was practically eating the baseboard by this time. I’d managed to run out and buy myself a slice of pepperoni pizza and a Diet Coke, so I was fed and once that happens, hey, everybody else can just get their own.
Except now I owned a pet. Temporarily.
So, while Binks plowed through her food, I reached for the ringing phone and encountered Tess.
"Well?" she asked. "How did it go?"
"It went," I said.
"Did you talk to Cotton about Bobby?"
"It’s not exactly a subject you can raise at a first meeting."
"What am I paying you for?"
I bit my tongue. "Cotton mentioned Bobby when he realized who I was," I said in a flat voice. "He seemed sad and heartbroken, which you’d expect."
"Did he say anything about where Bobby is?"
Like, oh, sure, that’s what he’d blurt out to me, a virtual stranger. "We didn’t discuss it."
"He has to know," she insisted.
"That’s kind of a leap," I pointed out carefully. "If Cotton knows where Bobby is, he might feel compelled to tell the police."
"Bobby’s his son," she said with an edge. "He’d want to protect him at all costs. I know he knows where Bobby is. He’s my son, too!"
"I don’t know how I can help you any further," I said honestly. "I met Cotton. He seemed to want to talk about Bobby but it caused him pain."
"Pain? How?"
"Considering what Bobby’s accused of, I’d say it’s the pain of a parent whose child hasn’t ...lived up to what’s expected." That was putting it mildly.
"Did you talk to Heather?"
"Briefly."
"She thinks she’s getting Bobby’s money."
"Bobby’s money?" I questioned. "You mean Cotton’s?"
"Bobby should inherit everything. It should be his."
I made a face, something I’m prone to do when something just plain smells bad. But then Cotton’s appointment with Jerome Neusmeyer crossed my mind and I suddenly remembered that Neusmeyer was an estate attorney, one of the more flamboyant ones. He might help you take care of your inheritance, but he spent his personal time with pretty young things. I think there was even a rumor of paid escorts. I would have to ask Dwayne, but I was fairly certain my memory was dead-on. "You want me to learn if Cotton’s still leaving it all to Bobby?"
"That would be great!" she said in a rush, as if she’d just thought of it.
"I’m not sure I can accomplish that," I said.
"Oh, sure you can. Scrape up a deeper acquaintance with Cotton. Or, better yet, Heather. She’s close to your age. I’ll pay you an appropriate rate."
Heather had seemed interested in furthering our acquaintanceship. I said to Tess, "Even if I don’t get results?" And where’s that first check, lady?
"Find out any little bit you can about Bobby. I want to see my son again. I want to know he’s okay," she said with a little catch in her voice. Bitch that I am, I wondered if she faked it.
"I’ll do what I can," I said in a tone that suggested she was throwing her money away, hand over fist.
"Good. Time is of the essence. I hate to be so pushy, but we’ve got to get on this thing."
I wondered if Tess knew about Cotton’s appointment with Neusmeyer.
"Why don’t you call up Heather and invite her to dinner?" she suggested. "Just a girl thing. I bet she jumps on it."
"Great idea," I said cheerily, crossing my eyes. Maybe I should have Tess just plan an itinerary for me and send me merrily on my way.
I hung up wondering if I should have asked to see some greenbacks up front. I’m not good about demanding money. It always feels like begging, even if I’ve worked for it. I’m sure this is a flaw in my character. Tess didn’t seem to have qualm one about going after Cotton’s money, however. Her worries over Bobby were tied to his inheritance, or what she perceived his inheritance should be. I wondered if she expected some of that money to find its way to her pocket.
Tess had stated that Cotton was ill and I had a mental image of circling vultures above his estate.
I dug Heather’s card from my purse and dialed her cell. In a totally perky voice, I said, "Heather? It’s Jane Kelly. I was heading over to Foster’s tonight for a little R&R and wondered if you and Cotton, or just you if he’s busy, would like to join me. The weather’s just beastly but it’s perfect for a Mojito or two, don’t you think? I’ll be there around seven. Hope to see you. Bye!"
I hung up and promptly bent over and made retching noises. Lying is easy for me, pretending I’m cute something else again.
Binks eyed me worriedly then curled up in her bed and began studiously licking one paw.
Chapter Eight
I couldn’t reach Dwayne for a ride in his boat, so I had to climb into the Volvo and drive around the lake to the restaurant. Lake Chinook is girded by a couple of main drags, but close to the water myriads of lanes wind aimlessly through tree-shaded neighborhoods. Once you’ve learned these byways, you can cut through and knock off some time. Many times the residents post signs that read: NEIGHBORHOOD TRAFFIC ONLY. I do my damnedest to drive on those roads whenever I can. I’m in the neighborhood, therefore I’m neighborhood traffic. Their asphalt; my asphalt.
Before I left the cottage Binky woofed and frantically guided me to her empty bowl. I scooped out a helping of dog chow from the Ziploc bag and refilled the bowl with the tiny kiblets. Binks ate so fast that the bowl hopped around the linoleum floor, bumped into the cupboards and chipped out a healthy chunk of wood from the corner cabinet. I looked on in dismay. I was glimpsing a whole new world-the world of dog ownership-and it was frightening.
"You have got to go," I said to the smushed-faced animal.
She cocked her head and panted and we went out for another bathroom break before I took off.
Foster’s was hot and crowded and thick with the scents of mesquite and hickory. The patio grills were going full blast. My mouth started watering before I crossed from the inside restaurant to the outside deck. I was so hungry I’d actually eyed Binks’ kibbles. How bad can it be? I’d read once that if you were stranded o
n a desert island, the best, most complete, food to have with you is dog food.
Manny was at the bar and I squeezed up to place an order. This consisted of me elbowing out a guy wearing a white dress shirt, open to his navel, blue slacks with one hand deep into the pocket, making me suspect he was fighting a very frisky woody, and a godawful toupee that left a line horizontally across the back of his head. Always a good look.
"Hey," he said, not affronted, interested.
Since I wore my black capris and a loose green top that quite possibly has a teeny tiny stain near the hem that I fear I’ll never get out, I wondered why he wasn’t hitting on the other women around the bar, the ones dressed to kill and cradling glittering glasses of Chardonnay. The slowly setting sun seemed to shoot rays right off the glasses, fracturing the light, sending dazzling spots over all the patrons. Hair-Piece must be pretty hard up to be turning toward me.
"A Mojito," I told Manny. "When you get a chance."
He winked at me. I turned to find Hair-Piece planted in front of me, his right hand digging away in his pants pocket. Maybe he was just looking for change, I thought hopefully.
"I like a girl in a ponytail."
I gazed at him. Ponytails work for me. It’s true. I don’t look like I’m trying to be too young; I don’t look like I came from the Fifties. I appear mostly athletic. Kind of the girlnext-door thing. Also, it gets the hair out of my face. The only problem is sometimes it gets in the way of the Volvo headrest.
I was pretty sure I was sorry I hadn’t tried harder with my appearance. If I fit in better, maybe I wouldn’t be garnering his unwanted attention.
To my surprise Heather walked onto the patio at that moment. Had she accepted my invitation, or was she merely making the scene? She looked up, saw me, smiled a bit hesitantly and waved. That decided it. I scooted away from Hair-Piece and made my way toward her, fighting through the growing crush of Sunday evening diners and drinkers.
"You came," I said.
"Oh, yeah. I couldn’t wait! I love my husband to death, but today..." She shook her head.
I was mildly surprised that Tess had been so right on the money about Heather wanting a night out with the girls. "I don’t think we’re going to find somewhere to sit. I’ve got a Mojito ordered at the waterfront bar."
"Oh, we’ll get a table." She glanced around imperiously. As if by magic, Foster appeared, all smiles and solicitude upon seeing Mrs. Cotton Reynolds. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he realized I was with her. I gave him the cute little fingertip wave practiced by flirtatious females everywhere. He found us a table at once, pissing off other customers, I was sure, but he paid no attention. I think he might have been uncomfortable having me dining with one of his most notorious and wealthy customers. Oh, the damage I could wreak.
Heather didn’t wait for us to get to know each other better. "You can’t believe the hell that’s gone on today."
"Yeah?"
She ran her fingers through her hair, her goggly eyes rolling around in their sockets in remembered dismay. "You just won’t believe what happened!"
"I’m all ears."
"Cotton got hit in the face. Not that he didn’t ask for it. But I’m so worried about him," she launched in. "I don’t know if you’ve heard . . . this town’s so small there are no secrets. Cotton has a heart condition and the stress over Bobby’s aggravated it. I’m just sick with worry." She stopped long enough to wave down a waiter. "Could we get served some drinks, here? She’s got a Mojito at the bar and bring me a glass of Chardonnay." She snatched up the wine list and pointed to a label that made me want to put a hand over my wallet in protection. As soon as he was gone, she said, "I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him. He’s my rock."
"What do you mean, ‘Cotton got hit in the face’?"
"He tried to punch out one of the developers. Craig Cuddahy." She glanced at the appetizers. "Let’s get some coconut shrimp."
"And Cuddahy hit him?" I asked in disbelief.
"It was just kind of pow pow, y’know? But they both connected. I was screaming. I was just so mad. And scared," she added as an afterthought.
"And Cotton has a heart condition?" Here was loads of information, but it was almost more than I could handle all at once.
"For years and years, I think. Started before me, anyway. Probably brought on by living with that bitch, Tess." She sniffed. "And it worsened with Dolly. Poor guy. Men are so dumb sometimes. He finally gets rid of Tess, then goes out and dates a woman just like her! He was so miserable when I met him, and his heart was acting up. If he hadn’t met me, I don’t know what he would have done."
I tried to picture Cuddahy and Cotton Reynolds in a fist fight and failed. The waiter brought us our drinks. I said lightly, tasting mine, "So, you saved him from Dolly?"
"Yes ...well..." She gave a pretty little shrug. "All this business with Bobby was starting. I helped him through some really bad days, and then we fell in love and got married. Dolly was just all concerned about her image, as was Tess. God, they’re awful." She threw back a slug of Chardonnay that would have left me gasping. "Cotton was just devastated. Our marriage has really been a tonic. He says so all the time." She dimpled in remembrance of something. I could feel heat steal up my neck at my remembrance of something. I looked away to give myself a moment and it was then that I saw Murphy stroll onto the patio.
Heather’s eyes followed mine. "You still love him?" she asked.
"Who? Murph? Love? No." I found myself speaking in monosyllables. "It wasn’t ever like that."
"What was it like?"
I sipped some more. Heather’s blue eyes were now watching me closely. There was a slight smile hovering around her lips. It worried me. Whatever she was thinking, I wanted to squelch it right now. "It was four years ago. Long over now. We’ve all moved on."
"I didn’t really know him until he came back. He seems like a really great guy. Cotton just loves him. I probably should be jealous."
I murmured something inconsequential. Murphy spotted the two of us. For a moment I thought he was going to be downright rude and ignore us, but he reluctantly made his way to our table. Our view of him was crotch level, as we were seated and he was standing. Heather wasn’t abashed in the least. She stared at his zipper and gushed, "Sit down with us! We were just catching up on old times."
"Not really," I said automatically, horrified.
He shook his head. "I’m sorry, I can’t. I just stopped in for a minute between appointments."
"Appointments?" Heather slid him a sideways look. "What kind of appointments?"
He shrugged and looked around. I could feel how anxious he was to leave. He shot me a look. "What’s that?" he asked, pointing to my drink.
"A Mojito," Heather jumped in.
"How are they?" His blue eyes were on me.
He still had the power to make my pulse leap, which pissed me off to no end. "Good."
"Sit down and have one with us," Heather insisted.
He gave her his full attention for the first time, smiling faintly. "I can’t, Heather. Maybe next time."
Whatever he’d planned on doing, he changed his mind, because he strode back across the patio and out through the restaurant. Heather signaled for another Chardonnay. "I wonder what he’s up to," she said, clearly annoyed. "I swear, everybody’s got an agenda."
"Mmmmmm," I said.
"Oh, God..."
Her tone was full of repugnance. I looked around to see what was up. Craig Cuddahy had just appeared. His gaze passed over the guests at the restaurant, pausing momentarily on us before moving on. Whomever he’d come to see wasn’t here, apparently, as he frowned and made his way toward us.
"What was the fight about?" I asked.
"The island, what else? Cuddahy wants it but won’t pay the price. I don’t want to sell it, but what are you gonna do? It got heated, to say the least. They were drinking and suddenly bam, bam. Stupid idiots."
"Cotton really wants to sell?"
&n
bsp; "Oh, you know..." She swivelled in her chair. "Hi!" she greeted Craig, looking both pissed and amused at the same time.
Craig’s bottom lip was thicker than normal. I tried not to stare.
"Sit down," Heather invited, scooching her chair over. I turned to her in surprise but I guess she held no grudges. Craig cautiously perched across from me. I hadn’t known he was involved in real estate when we’d first met, but with additional information my perception of him had changed. He’d been a pain at the benefit, half-drunk and sticky. Sober now, I sensed in him a hunger-a money hunger, no doubt- that was ravenous and needed to be fed.
"I’m surprised you’ll even talk to me," he said diffidently.
She slapped a hand at him. "Oh, for God’s sake. He threw the first punch. You were just automatic. They say men have better control of their emotions," she added, leaning toward me, conspiratorially, just girl-to-girl. "Their emotions just don’t leak out of their eyes, they’re in their fists."
Then Heather began chatting on about real estate as if nothing untoward had taken place. Cuddahy was definitely having trouble keeping up with her, as was I. But eventually Craig joined in the real estate discussion, animatedly going on about other homes on the lake, a topic Heather seemed to know a lot about.
"They tore down that cottage on Lakeview," Craig said. "It was a piece of shit."
"Worse than," Heather agreed. "The foundation was crumbling. When you walked inside? It like sloped to one side. Scary! I told Cotton to buy it and redo it. You just can’t get that kind of property these days."
"Well, you’re on the property that counts." Craig smiled easily. I detected some covetousness there. Heather just smiled at him.
A waitress came by and took our dinner order and Jeff Foster cruised by to offer some more welcoming words to Heather, Craig and myself. I got up to find the ladies’ room and Jeff was right on my heels.
"What’s going on?"
"Oh, you mean because I’m here with my dear friend, Heather?"