by Nancy Bush
I drove up Macadam and caught the 405 to Glisan Street. At 23rd I had to rouse him enough to scare an address out of him. He guided me through the newly chi-chi Pearl District, once warehouses, now condos, natural food stores and martini bars amidst clumps of turn-of-the-century Portland homes. It was the high-rent district, for sure. He was apparently cohabitating with Tess in her high-rise condo.
"I didn’t know you lived with your mom," I said, probing a bit as Owen, climbing unsteadily from his seat, came around the car and punched in a code for the gate that led to subterranean parking. As the metal gate slid aside, he sank back in his seat.
"I might not be wonder boy, but I’m still her son."
By wonder boy, I figured he meant Bobby. "I’ve been trying to get in touch with Tess, but haven’t been able to."
"She’s in Texas. Went home after Bobby’s body surfaced. Nothing to stay for."
I absorbed that, glad to hear Cynthia’s comment about trouble for Tess was not true. So, Tess had gone home, so to speak. "Is she coming back for Cotton’s funeral, or memorial service?"
"Only if there’s money involved." He snorted.
I parked the car in one of the few spots designated for visitor parking. Owen took his time finding his way from his seat to the elevator. He punched the button for the twelfth floor. The elevator doors opened, whispered shut behind us, then we zoomed upward.
Portland’s skyline has been changing in this western corner of the city. High-rise condominiums have sprung up one after another, each trying to outclass the last one. Real estate is out of sight. As Owen pushed open the door, I inhaled on a breath of admiration. Tess’s condo was spacious and had a commanding view of the city, her view eastward over downtown and the Willamette River. The lights of the city twinkled. Where the Willamette cut through the center of Portland, it was a pure black ribbon.
The air-conditioning, going full blast, hit me like a welcome arctic wind. I turned my face to it and sighed. Tess must not have given Bobby all her money, I thought. Marta had said she’d made out well in the divorce. She would’ve had to in order to afford this place and let the air-conditioning run.
Owen cut across the thick, cream carpet and through a swinging door into the kitchen. I could see through a large cutout in the sheet rock which formed an eating bar. I watched him come into my vision and open the left-side door of a stainless-steel refrigerator. I heard the clink of ice.
Straight ahead of me was a fireplace faced in thin strips of taupe, manufactured stone. A white mantel sat atop ornate corbels, capping the firebox like a single eyebrow. Tess had a grouping of crystal birds for decoration. All the furniture was shades of brown, ecru and white. It was devoid of color but reflected Tess’s taste impeccably.
I heard more clinking and glanced toward the kitchen. Owen was stirring a pitcher full of either gin or vodka. He poured two drinks, adding several fat, pimento-stuffed olives.
"I don’t think I’m ready for a martini," I said. He carefully carried two brimming glasses into the room, ignoring me completely. "I’m serious. I’m driving."
"It’s not for you," he said.
He stood in front of the fireplace, held up one of the glasses and gazed skyward. "Bottoms up, Dad," he said, then carefully placed one of the martinis on the mantel, shoving some of the crystal birds out of the way. "Y’know, he loved a good gin martini. Taught me how to do it just right."
I recalled Cotton drinking martinis at the benefit. I stared at the martini on the mantel and thought of the man. I warmed to Owen as he silently sipped his drink.
"He gave my mother more than she deserves. Enough to buy some property in the Pearl. A crappy little house that she demoed about eight years ago. She rebuilt, sold the new one, bought two more crappy little houses, did it all over again, then bought this." He gestured around the room.
"She started the Black Swan, too," I put in. If Owen wanted to wax rhapsodic about his family, I was all ears.
"That business sucks. Too much debt. Recently she refied this, too. Put her money somewhere else." He slid me a sideways look. "Cotton sure gave her enough, but it ain’t here."
"You sure she’s not a smart saver?" I suggested lightly.
"My mother?" He threw back the rest of the martini. "Come on. I know what you’re thinking."
"What am I thinking?"
"You think the money went to Bobby. Maybe you’re right." Since I hadn’t said anything, and I didn’t appear to need to, I kept my mouth shut. Owen was in the mood to talk and who was I to stop him? "Mom’s got enough to keep going, but not in the manner to which she’s accustomed. That’s why she hired you. To find out who inherits what. But now that Dad’s gone, it won’t be a secret much longer."
"Cotton did intimate that your mom was funding Bobby these last four years," I admitted.
"Why wouldn’t she?" He shrugged. "She did everything else for him."
"She thought Cotton had a hand in it."
"You know what I think?" Owen suddenly said. "I think Bobby finally slipped his leash. She had him stashed away somewhere for four years and he just couldn’t stand it anymore. So, he left. And maybe he went to Cotton. He always needed money. Why wouldn’t he try to tap out the old man?"
"So, where was he?"
"Who the hell cares? He’s dead now. Somebody made sure of that."
A long pause ensued. I checked my watch. I wanted to get home and let my dog out and think. But I also didn’t want to lose a golden opportunity to learn more. "You lived here long?"
"Nah... I’m just staying for a while. I’m unemployed at the moment," he added, smiling faintly. "Y’see, Dad was all about teaching Bobby how to invest money. How to make your money make more money. He was always lecturing Bobby and his friends, like your pal, Murphy. Everybody. Any friend of Bobby’s was a friend of Dad’s. And he told ’em what to do. Told ’em, and told ’em. It was a joke. They never listened."
He gazed at the martini on the mantel. "But I did. Dad hardly knew I was there. And when I graduated high school I asked him for a loan. Wanted to buy some real estate. So, he helped me out." Owen nodded. "Bobby went off to college and dropped out, and went back, and dropped out, and got Laura pregnant and got married and then had a couple of more kids and then killed them all. But I bought a place on the east side. Sellwood area. Fixed it up and sold it to Cotton!" He chuckled. "I helped my mom with her projects. And I kept making some money and it kind of snowballed and now I own a decrepit apartment complex in First Addition. I’m going to fix it up next year."
I was totally blown away. Owen, not Bobby, had become Cotton’s protege. Owen had learned from his stepfather. The First Edition neighborhood of Lake Chinook was tiny cabins near the center of town which were being revitalized at an alarming rate, at least for the other homeowners in the area. It was one of the fastest-growing areas in Lake Chinook and the house prices were steadily rising. If Owen owned an apartment building there, he was well on his way to making his own small fortune.
"It’s all about real estate," he said.
It’s all about real estate.
The words sank into my brain. It was the theme of the whole sordid mess, I thought. Money and real estate.
"Bobby never got it," I said, thinking aloud.
"He never got nothin’ if it didn’t have to do with sports and flash. He was all front, no back." Owen laughed. "Dad used to say, ‘Big hat, no cattle.’ ’Course he never meant it about Bobby, but it was true."
"What do you think really happened?"
"To Bobby?" I nodded. Owen considered for a long moment. "I need another drink. You want anything?"
"No, thanks," I said regretfully. I would have loved a drink, something cold and refreshing. But I didn’t feel like leaving the Volvo and calling a cab, so it meant alcohol abstinence, more’s the pity.
While Owen fixed himself another martini I walked toward the bookcase that ran along the south wall. It was painted white and the books and objets d’art filling its shelves were arranged by
design. Bobby wasn’t the only one who was all about flash. The books were all classics, leather bound, the titles gold embossed, but I doubted Tess had ever read anything from any of them. I saw Shakespeare and Dickens and poetry by Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and William Butler Yeats, to name just a few. They seemed out of place in this white, cold room. There were biographies mixed in as well, past presidents and emperors and famous industrialists.
One name was out of place. A small book tucked against two others with similar gold-colored spines. Audrey Hepburn. Well, okay, maybe Tess had read one book, or at least part of one, I thought meanly. I slid it from its spot and noticed the book jacket was tucked inside the front cover. Unfolding it, I gazed at a photo of Audrey wearing a pink scarf around her head and a pair of round, black sunglasses. Too weird. There was writing inside the jacket. It was an address in Hepburn, Oregon, which was way east in the dry part of the state, towards the Idaho border.
"She’s never read a book in her life," Owen said, startling me. I dropped the book to the carpet. When I picked it up again, I slid the book jacket inside the pocket of my purse.
My phone rang. Sliding it from my purse, I checked the number: Murphy. "I’d better go," I said. The phone kept ringing.
"You going to answer that?"
I clicked the red ‘off ’ button. "I’ll call them back."
"I don’t even know your name."
"Jane Kelly."
"Come back any time, Jane Kelly. ’Course I probably won’t be here. Mom’ll lose this place unless Dad left her a hefty chunk of his estate. But I might fix up a couple of those apartments into an owner’s unit and move back to Lake Chinook. You live there, right?"
"Don’t forget your car’s at Pisces," I deflected.
I was out the door before he could turn the tables and start grilling me.
"Are you hungry?" Murphy asked as soon as my cell phone connected with his. I was driving fast toward the I-5 freeway, south.
"Starving."
"I’ll meet you at your place."
"There’s nothing there."
"I’ll bring pizza."
"Pepperoni," I said.
My mouth watered at the thought of pepperoni pizza. It was after ten and there was hardly a place open for food consumption, although I imagined some frozen jalapeno peppers or fish sticks might still be available at the Pisces Pub.
I realized as I drew close to my exit that I was grinning like an idiot. Murphy wanted to see me. My wish had been granted.
"You’re a glutton for punishment," I reminded myself aloud. But even scolding myself couldn’t stop me from being happy.
Murphy’s SUV was parked in my driveway. I walked to his car and looked in the window. No sign of him. Stumped, I glanced around, then headed to my front door. He had to be around somewhere. Maybe he’d opened the gate to the backyard.
But I had to let the dog out, so I threaded my key in the front door lock. Before I could twist the knob, the door opened inward. I gasped in shock. "Murphy?"
Binkster wriggled around my legs, half-jumping, trying to lick my hands. I bent down to her automatically, as Murphy said, "The pizza’s on the kitchen bar."
I could smell it, the scent pulling me inside. Binky whimpered in expectation. "How did you get in?"
"You’ve got a window in the back that doesn’t quite latch. I hauled myself inside." When I didn’t make a beeline for the food, he asked. "Should I have waited?"
I realized then how tired he looked. His eyes were dark-rimmed, sunken. Cotton’s death had dealt a blow. "No big deal. I just thought someone had been in my place a while ago, but I didn’t see how. Now, I guess I know."
Murphy said, "Test a few windows on some of these old cottages and there’s a good chance one’ll give."
I nodded. I’d all but decided no one had actually entered my bungalow uninvited. Now I didn’t feel safe. I walked through the bungalow and opened the back door to let Binks out. She stood in the kitchen, torn, needing to relieve herself but unwilling to leave the prospect of food. I went outside with her and she finally capitulated, running down the steps, sniffing around the yard, nose to the ground, then taking care of business in record time and racing back to me.
"How’s Heather?" I asked Murphy as I sat on the stool next to him. Murphy flipped open the pizza box. Hot pepperoni and little orange bubbles of oil mixing with melted cheese greeted me. I had a momentary rational thought and popped a lactaid pill before I dug in. I didn’t want anything slowing me down while I ate. And I didn’t want any regrets later. Binks put one paw on my leg, so I quickly filled her bowl with crunchies. She stared at the hard, little brown kernels, then looked at me askance. I ignored her.
"Not as broken up as I would have expected, or maybe just hoped," Murphy admitted. "It’s like she’s moved into phase two. Cotton’s dead and now we must all go on." He grabbed a slice of pizza and bit into it almost viciously.
For my part, I propped my arms on the counter and gave myself up to the pizza. It was heavenly. Juice ran down to my elbows and onto the Formica. I closed my eyes and munched.
We ate in companionable silence, punctuated by some moaning by the Binkster. I finally broke down and gave her a little piece of crust which she gobbled up quickly and stared at me for more.
"Who do you think killed Bobby?" I asked.
Murphy gave me a look. "What brought that on?"
"I think whoever killed Bobby basically killed Cotton. Once Cotton knew his son was gone, he gave up. He knew Heather married him for his money and whatever he’d once gotten out of that relationship was over. Everybody wanted a piece of his fortune. The real estate agents were panting over the island. The only person Cotton seemed to really care about is you. Maybe Owen."
Murphy dropped the remainder of his pizza crust back in the box. There were two slices left. "You’re still in the thick of it, aren’t you? You’re still working for Tess!"
"Nope. She’s off in Texas."
"Texas?" he demanded.
I gave him a quick rundown of my conversation with Owen. My eyes strayed to my purse where the book jacket was carefully folded. "She left after she knew Bobby was dead. I think she was helping him. Owen said he thought Bobby slipped his leash. Maybe Tess figured he’d gone to his father and she wanted me to learn what I could about Cotton- his health and whether he could be hiding Bobby."
"He wasn’t hiding Bobby." Murphy was adamant.
"Maybe he was," I argued. I thought of Hepburn, Oregon. I’ve never been there and I’m sure it’s a nice town, but it would be nowheresville for someone like Bobby Reynolds. "Maybe Bobby thought it was time to get out of Podunk,
U.S.A. and start living again," I suggested. "Maybe he never felt remorse for killing his family. Maybe he turned to dear old dad and-"
"Goddammit, Jane!" Murphy exploded. "You’re such an amateur!"
My mouth dropped open. I’d expected him to be like Dwayne; someone I could bounce ideas off. But he was way too close to the situation, I realized belatedly. Still, that didn’t give him the right to call me names. Amateur? I never claimed to be anything but! "I asked you what you thought," I reminded a bit tensely. "I was just telling you what I thought. How do you know Cotton wasn’t hiding Bobby?"
"The man’s been dead a matter of hours and you’re maligning him."
"Come on, Murphy. I’m theorizing. Somebody helped Bobby. He didn’t stay hidden for four years alone. And he got to Lake Chinook somehow. And he met with someone because someone killed him."
Murphy seemed to want to say something more, but he held it inside. Swallowing hard, he exhaled on a long sigh. "You know what I want? I want to get through the next couple of days. I want to be here for Cotton’s memorial service. I want to be there when they pour his ashes into Lake Chinook. Then I want to leave. For good. I don’t want to think about Bobby or Cotton or anybody involved ever again."
He rose abruptly, nearly knocking over the stool, and strode into the living room. Binkster watched him and I followe
d after him. Whatever I’d hoped for with Murphy didn’t look like it was going to materialize. He’d called me to get away from it all, but I’d jumped in with both feet. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was obsessing about this case. Maybe I should take a tip from him and just forget the whole thing. What was it to me, anyway?
He was standing by my television set. In his hands was a business card. Tomas Lopez’s. He looked up from it and stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns and a tail. "What is this?" he asked, but his expression said he’d already leapt to his own conclusions.
"He stopped by," I said, indicating the card. "Cotton sicced him on me when he learned I was working for Tess." "What did you tell him? Your theories?" I bristled at his tone. "I didn’t tell him anything." "Why have you got his card?" "He wanted me to get in touch if I learned anything. I may be an amateur but I guess Lopez figured he’d take whatever help he could get." If Murphy chose to look at this thing rationally he would realize that it was him telling Cotton about me that had set the whole thing in motion.
"It’s like you have this gruesome fascination with this tragedy."
Now that was just plain unfair. "I was dragged into this by Marta Cornell and Tess Bradbury." And the offer of cold hard cash. "And then you told me Cotton wanted to talk to me. I can’t seem to give it up even when I try."
Murphy set the card back down on the television. His whole body radiated anger. I remembered a couple of doozy fights we’d had when we were together. We’d ended up in bed, having some of the best sex of our lives.
"What are you trying to do, Jane?" "Honestly? I don’t really know." "Jerome Neusmeyer is going to read Cotton’s will on Monday." "Well, goody. Hope Tess makes it back in time." I was good and angry. It had been one very long day. Murphy had a hand on the front door handle. "For what it’s worth, I think you’re right about Tess. I think she knew where Bobby was, and I think she sent him money. But if that’s ever proven, she’ll go to jail."
"I know." "Cotton wouldn’t want that."
"Are you telling me to back off ?"