Jane Kelly 01 - Candy Apple Red

by Nancy Bush

  I braced one hand on the offending tree and listened as hard as I could. Tracy and Elvis were murmuring to each other. I carefully moved toward the edge of the corner, peering through the top leaves of a rhododendron. They were heading toward his car, a dark mid-size with the kind of huge, chrome wheels that look like they could run over an elephant.

  I decided if she actually tried to get in the vehicle I was going to run straight at them, screaming. That oughtta put the breaks on for a while. And where was Tracy’s mother? Wasn’t she supposed to be at the performance? Maybe she was still inside, looking forward to when the oldest group finally got its time on stage. What would she do when Tracy’s face wasn’t amongst them?

  "C’mon, Dwayne," I whispered to myself. Where the hell was he? He only lived a few blocks away.

  I was on the balls of my feet. If I had to run, I should really remove the sandals. What to do? My pulse and breathing ran light and fast. I didn’t relish the idea of tearing at them like a madwoman, but I couldn’t come up with a better idea.

  Elvis seemed to be coaxing. Tracy, the little minx, was giggling and twitching her ass some more. Good God. They were dopey teenagers. It was more embarrassing than sinister.

  Elvis climbed behind the wheel. Tracy leaned in to him. I saw some smooching. I prayed she wouldn’t walk around to the passenger door. Dear God, don’t make me look like a complete idiot...

  "Tracy!" a woman’s voice shrieked.

  My prayers were suddenly answered as woman number one, the brayer, shot from the top of the porch steps, screaming at them in much like the manner that I’d planned to.

  "Mom!" Tracy shrieked back in embarrassment. "What are you doing?"

  Angela barreled toward them. I braced myself for their collision, but then Dwayne’s truck pulled into the lot, parking a few spots down from the group. Angela managed to keep from bowling Tracy over, but she grabbed hard at her arm. Tracy pulled back so fast she stumbled. Elvis was out of the car to catch her which sent Angela into higher-pitched screaming. "Get your hands off her! I’ve called the police. You’re going to be arrested! You... pedophile!"

  I groaned aloud and glanced toward Dwayne’s vehicle. He wasn’t getting out of the car.

  Elvis said something soft to Tracy and got back in his car, slamming the door. Angela started pounding on his window and Tracy grabbed her mother’s arm and yanked as hard as she could.

  "You’re crazy!" she screamed. "You’re fucking crazy!"

  "What did you say?" Angela’s voice was so high it pierced the air.

  "You’re fucking crazy!"

  Dwayne’s voice said, "Stop it, both of you," as he slammed his door and strode toward them.

  Elvis reversed in a tight little circle and a squeal of wheels. I gauged the distance to my car and started walking fast. Angela reared back. I thought she was going to hit Tracy but I saw she was just stunned with shock. Her face was white, disbelieving, her eyes bulging.

  "She... she was getting in that boy’s car . . ." she choked to Dwayne. "That sick drug addict boy!"

  "God, Mom, you’re so stupid!"

  "Tracy," Dwayne warned.

  "You’re the one who’s stupid!" Angela cried. "Getting in a car with a stranger!"

  "Angela." Dwayne tried to get between them.

  "He’s not a stranger! He was in class with me! We’re friends!"

  "Don’t lie to me."

  "I’m not!" Tracy was outraged.

  I’d reached the Volvo. I slid in, turned the ignition and pushed the button to lower the window. Angela was attacking Tracy with all her proof. "...followed you from Seattle. I’ll nail his ass. He won’t see sunlight until he’s fifty!"

  "He lives in Lake Chinook," Tracy declared, infuriated and baffled. "I don’t get you!"

  I turned the car to follow Elvis. I was beginning to believe something was amiss. Maybe this wasn’t the guy from Seattle. Maybe this was just a kid from acting class. But I figured a good information specialist would try to get more information.

  I’d just about decided Elvis was okay as I followed him down State Street when he turned the corner and into the lot of the Pisces Pub. My radar went up. Was he twenty-one? I drove past and circled back. I suddenly longed for something else to wear. Elvis had paid next to no attention to me, but my clothes were a dead giveaway. "Shit." I dug furiously through the backseat of my car and found a pair of sweats I hadn’t worn in weeks as the weather was simply too hot.

  I jumped into them. I’d have to keep the camisole as I had nothing else for a top. Damn. I unclipped my hair and finger-combed it. Looking in the rearview mirror I noticed the "hat ring" the hair clip had left behind. I furiously finger-combed some more and finally slammed out of the car behind my quarry. At the last second I turned back and dug through my glove box, finding the pair of prescription lenses my mother had inadvertently left the last time she’d visited. I’ve been planning to send them back, I really have. Now, they seemed like a gift. I put them on and nearly fell into the scraggly bank of azaleas outside the Pisces Pub’s front walkway.

  Note to self: always keep surveillance clothes available. In sweats, aqua camisole, weird hair and glasses, I was about as cool as anyone had a right to be.

  As I pushed open the door I called Dwayne. He answered tersely. I could still hear Angela and Tracy going at it. "I followed Elvis to the Pisces Pub."

  "What?" That caught his attention.

  "More later," I said, then hung up.

  I pushed open the door, a heavy oak piece carved with waves and I think what was once a mermaid. But someone had sawed off her bare tits long ago. Probably concerned citizens of Lake Chinook. She looked kind of pissed off. I couldn’t blame her.

  Loud music and the smell of stale popcorn assaulted me. A bouncer with huge, hairy forearms stepped in front of me. "I.D.," he demanded.

  I was kind of flattered he carded me. I handed him my license and he eyed it skeptically. He handed it back to me with a look that said he thought I was up to something. Geez. Maybe this is just my paranoia at work.

  He let me pass and I moved through the center room which sported scarred tables and chairs and a rough fir ceiling hung with wagon-wheel chandeliers. The motif had once been the wild west and there were still remnants mixed in with the sea theme. In fact there was a smiling fish statue carved out of wood sitting on the bar. He was standing on his tail and he sported a cowboy hat, bandana, and tiny holster. He’d been stolen once or twice, so now he was bolted onto the bar.

  The music was pouring out of the back room which was dark and lined with banquettes covered with black Naugahyde. On weekends the scattered tables are shoved aside to make room for a teensy dance floor. The bands are surprisingly good and this one was running through some music from the sixties. I recognized a stylized version of The Beatles’ "Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?"

  Elvis was inside. I’d bet money he was using fake identification. If I really wanted to be a killjoy I could whisper as much to the bouncer and all hell would break loose. With the fear of identity theft running rampant throughout the land, new laws were clamping down on the poor underage kids just trying to get a beer. If one was eighteen and showed fake I.D., he could be charged with fraud-a felony-and face serious penalties and possibly jail time. With all the real crime out there, it boggles the mind. However, I could see how I could use this information to my advantage. I just wasn’t sure whether Elvis was a bad guy or not.

  He was standing to one side, snapping his fingers to some beat inside his own head that was about triple speed of the song. I gazed at him over the tops of my mom’s eyeglasses and had an epiphany. Disguise, dis-schmize. This kid didn’t know me. I was in control here. I should have left the skirt on as I was roasting in the sweatpants.

  I shoved the glasses to the top of my head and strode over to him. He looked at me, looked away, looked again, slightly alarmed. I leaned into him. His eyes rolled around as he tried to gaze anywhere but at me. I said, "Let me see your I.D. I know you’re not
twenty-one."

  "The hell I’m not," he blustered, scared.

  "I don’t even think you’re eighteen. But whatever your age, you’re too old for a fourteen-year-old, you get me?"

  "You’re...?" He couldn’t form a question.

  "C’mon, let’s dance."

  I grabbed his arm and led him, protesting, onto the postage-stamp-sized floor. There was only one other couple out there.

  "I can’t dance," he moaned.

  "You were supposed to be at the performance arts class. You can dance."

  "No, I can’t."

  "Trust me, making a fool of yourself out here is the least of your worries."

  He was shorter than I thought. My gaze hit him right in the middle of his forehead. If I pulled him close to my chest, his face would crush my breasts. I wondered if he would straight-out panic. Probably. "What are you, seventeen?"

  He swallowed. I put my hands on his shoulders, strictly the preteen school of dance, and gave him a hard look. He managed to place his hands at my waist. He didn’t want to touch me. His fear was palpable.

  "Sixteen?" I guessed. He half-jerked away and I knew I’d hit pay dirt. "What the hell are you doing with Tracy?"

  "You don’t understand," he muttered.

  "Are you from Seattle?"

  "Seattle?" His eyes met mine straight for the first time. "I’m from here. My stepmom thought I should take this dumb class. She wants me out of the house. I hate it. Tracy’s the only good thing about it." "You never met her before this class?" "How could I?" he asked miserably. "Let me see that I.D. How old are you supposed to be?" "My brother’s twenty-one. It’s his license. He doesn’t know I have it. I’ve gotta be back in an hour." He threw a harried glance at his wristwatch. "Why’d you come here?"

  "I heard you could get in here. I just wanted a beer." "Looked like you were trying to talk Tracy into getting in your car. What were you going to do with her? Sneak her in here somehow?"

  "I wanted to show her I could get in. That’s all." His voice trailed off, barely audible beneath the music. We’d switched to George Michaels’ "I Want Your Sex." The band had a nice little theme going.

  "Her mother thinks you’re bad news." "She’s a friggin’ weirdo. Did you see us?" "I was there." "Well, shit. A pedophile? She’s nuts!" "She thinks you’re older than you are. You’d better be able to prove you’re not."

  That was all it took. He started scrambling for his wallet. I led him over to a more private corner and squinted in the dim light at a copy of an Oregon driver’s license for sixteen-year-old Quentin Emerson. He was smiling in the photo which showed the start of his sideburns. Without them, he looked about twelve.

  "This your address?" At his nod, I memorized it. "I know where you live." "Does this mean I can’t see Tracy anymore?" He was stricken. I had a vision of Angela screaming and running at them. "All signs point to yes."

  "That just sucks."

  I didn’t say it, but I thought he was probably lucky to stay away from both of them.

  "I’m going," he muttered and headed for the door, shoulders down. I would have followed him but the truth was he wasn’t the only one who wanted a beer. I glanced around, wondering if I could sit down somewhere for a few moments and think things through. I wanted to call Dwayne and check in, but if he was still with his relatives chances were he had his hands full. And it was all a tempest in a teapot anyway. Young love. Who knew?

  My gaze fell on the farthest banquet which was occupied by a lone man. I did a double take and my heart squeezed. It was Owen Bradbury. He was seated on a section of Naugahyde where there was just enough room for me to sit. I didn’t think I was likely to get a better invitation.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I made my way over to Owen. The shape of his head still gave me shivery reminders of Bobby, but his eyes were blue, like Tess’s. And his hair was a few shades lighter, brown with faint touches of blond.

  "I know you," he said on a note of discovery. "I saw you at Bobby’s memorial service. I asked my mom who you were and she said you were Murphy’s girlfriend."

  "‘Were’ being the operative word," I said. I wished keenly that Murphy would call me back. I figured he was dealing with Heather, but I wanted his company. I wanted to comfort him and be comforted in return. Was that asking so much?

  His eyes wandered over my sweatpants. I had to fight not to give some kind of explanation. "What are you doing here?" Owen asked with a slight slur.

  The guy was wasted, I realized belatedly. "Looking for a drink. How d’ya get one around here?"

  He waved a hand in the general direction of the bar. "They don’t come around and serve."

  "Ahh..." The Pisces Pub was no Foster’s On The Lake.

  "You can share mine," he suggested, offering up a chilled mug of beer that was half empty.

  Now, normally I have aversions to slurping another per-son’s drink. Especially one belonging to someone I don’t know. You can actually hear the germs getting sucked into your system. Even when I’m in a relationship with someone, spending a good portion of my time kissing them, I struggle with sharing their drink.

  But tonight I was hot through and through. The air was sweltering and it felt as if steam were running through my veins. Besides, I wanted to ingratiate myself a little. I’d planned on showing up at the Pisces sometime and interviewing some of Owen’s friends, but this was even better. And where were those friends, anyway? Owen looked remarkably alone.

  I took the proffered mug, fought back my germ phobia and took a swallow. It was still cold. Like heaven, actually. I tried not to gulp the last half down at once. I did manage to leave a little bit for him. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I didn’t belch so I figured it was a win.

  He squinted at me. "I like a woman who can drink."

  "I feel like I’m melting from the inside out."

  He nodded. "I feel like dog shit. Don’t know if you heard, but my old man died today."

  "Cotton?" He surprised me with the "old man" line since they weren’t actually related. But then, blood wasn’t always what made one a father. "I did hear. From Murphy."

  "He wasn’t my real dad. He wasn’t even much of a stepdad. He was a real piece of work, actually. But he was okay to me, y’know? He was always okay." Owen’s jaw tightened. He was fighting emotion. "Fuck," he muttered, holding the mug to his lips and draining the bit I’d left him.

  "Let me get us two more," I said.

  I went to the bar and ordered a couple of drafts. I wasn’t sure what to think of Owen, but he seemed genuinely distraught over Cotton’s death. I brought the beers back and we sat side-by-side, drinking in silence. Finally, he asked, "You still on the case?"

  "What do you mean?" I responded carefully.

  He gave me that "don’t con a conner" look. "You were working for Mom, trying to figure out who gets what, where Bobby’s been, who’s in on it, the whole nine yards." He thought a moment. "Did you follow me here?"

  "No."

  "You seem kind of uptight. Like you’re pretending to be someone you’re not. Is this how you play private dick?" Another glance at the sweatpants.

  "I’m not working for your mom anymore," I informed him.

  "Who are you working for?"

  "Right now, no one."

  "You want to know what happened to Bobby?" He gazed at me but he swayed a bit, his eyelids drooping. "I’ll tell ya. They were all in on it. Every last one of ’em. But it was really Colonel Mustard, in the billiard room, with the wrench. Shhh... don’t tell anybody." He nearly fell off the banquette.

  "Did you drive here?"

  "Yep. Why? You don’t think I can drive home?" He half-laughed. "Well, guess what? You’re right! I’m shit-faced. You are a good detective."

  "I’ve got a car. Let’s go to your place."

  "Wow . . . I haven’t had a woman say that in a long time . . ." He staggered to his feet. Before we headed out he drained the rest of his beer. I’d set mine down, barely touched. I would have liked
to have poured it over my head for relief, but I didn’t need the extra alcohol.

  Owen threw his arm around me and I guided him outside. The bouncer watched us warily. We staggered to my car where I practically dumped him in the passenger seat. "That’s my car," he said when I slid behind the wheel. He was pointing through the windshield to a shiny black BMW with spoked rims.

  My cell phone chirped. I scrambled through my purse for it. "Hello?"

  "Did you find the kid?" Dwayne asked, sounding out-of-breath.

  "Uh-huh. He wasn’t really who we were looking for, though."

  "How do you mean?"

  "He’s sixteen and from Lake Chinook."

  Dwayne sighed. "That’s what Tracy’s been saying."

  "How are mom and daughter?" Dwayne’s answer was a strangled sound that expressed complete disdain. I shot a glance toward Owen whose chin was resting on his chest. "I’m with someone right now. Can I call you back?"

  That woke him up. "Who ya with?"

  "Not what you think."

  "You have no idea what I think, darlin’."

  "You owe me money." I pulled out of the parking lot.

  "Sounds like you’ve gotten over your shock," he observed.

  "Good luck on the home front."

  He snorted, drawled, "I think Angela’s about to eat her young," then muttered something I couldn’t quite catch. I swear to God it was "thank you." Cheerily, I told him I’d bill him for my services.