by Nancy Bush
"You’re sure?"
"Cuddahy was on a flight from Phoenix to Portland from nine p.m. until eleven. Jesse was taken to the hospital at ten-thirty. If there was a man confronting Bobby Reynolds as Jesse said, then he’s someone else."
Chapter Twenty
It took me another two days before I felt like really stirring around. Everyone said it was so fast. I was so lucky. Well, I didn’t feel either fast or lucky. I felt irritated and annoyed. Everyone said grouchiness was a sign of improvement. That really pissed me off.
Murphy was the only one who seemed to think I was taking my sweet time, but then he was chomping at the bit to get the hell out of Dodge. For my part, I simply did not know how to feel. I wasn’t up to planning a move out of state. I could tell Murphy wanted some sign that I was ready to go, but it just wasn’t in me.
On Friday evening Cynthia stopped by. She examined Murphy’s roses which had passed their zenith of beauty. She brought me a bouquet of long stemmed glass flowers: roses, irises, and snapdragons. I was overwhelmed and worried about the cost.
"They’re on sale at the Black Swan," she said.
"I’m afraid to think about the price."
She gave me a crooked smile. "Well, since it looks like it’s my gallery, I figured I could splurge."
"You bought the gallery?"
"I’m in the process. Your friend Tess has apparently moved back to Texas permanently. I made her an offer. She turned me down flat. I made her another offer and said that was it, and she accepted. She likes to think she’s driving a hard bargain." Cynthia’s smile deepened. "So many people do."
"Tess isn’t exactly a friend of mine. Certainly not anymore."
"Your ex-client, then." She gazed critically at my face. "Glad to see you’re going to live. And playing house with Mr. Murphy, too. Finally getting some good sex?"
"I was."
"Where is the man?"
"Tying up every loose end he ever had in Lake Chinook. He wants me to move to Santa Fe with him."
That caught her attention. "Are you?"
I lifted my palms.
Cynthia could only stay a few minutes, but I assured her I would let her know my decision as soon as I’d made it for certain. After she left I removed Murphy’s dying flowers from the only vase I possessed, cleaned it out, then arranged the glass flowers inside. I really liked them. If I’d had a mantel, I would have set them on it, but as it was my beat-up end table would have to suffice.
Bored, I wandered around the bungalow. Murphy had purchased a new computer, ostensibly for me-a laptop. It was so quiet, it worried me. He spent half his time on the Internet. He’d managed to find buyers for the four vintage Cadillacs Cotton had given him, and he was wrapping things up at the speed of light. A last few items were scattered across the kitchen counters. His smallest bag was there and I unzipped it and peeked inside, only to be faced with the gun again. I rezipped the bag. He was going to have to ship the damn thing back.
I walked out my back door and rested my elbows on the deck rail. The evening was warm. It was still light out, but growing darker. I watched a boat slowly pass by, its lights switched on as it cruised along. Slightly depressed, I walked around the house, passing between the cottage, the shed and the detached garage where Ogilvy stored God knew what. I’d argued with the man long and hard about letting me use the garage, but Ogilvy liked to play the deaf card when it suited him. He was old enough to be hard of hearing, but I knew it was a ploy.
I was itching to get in my Volvo and go somewhere. I wasn’t leaving my car. And I wasn’t leaving Binkster, either.
Standing in front of the cottage now, I glanced back. Binky was on a chair under the window, her nose pressed to the glass. She watched me as I stood in the middle of my driveway, gazing back at the house, memorizing it. I hate to admit it, because I don’t like getting all sappy, but I loved my cottage. Okay, strictly speaking it was Ogilvy’s, but I’d put my stamp on it.
I didn’t want to leave.
Kicking a rock out of the way, I walked back toward the garage which lay on the east side of the cottage. From the west side there was no getting to the backyard, as the access was cut off by an overbearing laurel hedge. But a dirt path cutting through volunteer tufts of crabgrass gave access on the east side. I retraced my steps but stopped about halfway toward the deck.
The dusty ground in front of the garage bore the tire tracks of a car that wasn’t mine. Nor was it any of my recent visitors. None of us ever parked off the asphalt that led from the road to the front of the cottage. My usual spot, where the Volvo sat currently waiting, was the parking pad which was perpendicular to the dirt drive that led to the garage.
But there were a clear set of tracks in the dust. I thought hard. Murphy didn’t park there. Neither did Dwayne. I’d seen Cynthia’s car in the driveway, and I didn’t believe Lopez would have pulled up so far.
I walked back down the asphalt toward the main road and looked back. A maple tree, bent over as if it were bowing, obscured that section of my property from anyone casually driving by. You had to look hard anyway, down my long drive, to see anything. A car parked in front of the old garage would never be seen.
Back inside the house, I called Dwayne on my cell. "There are tire tracks at my house that I don’t recognize," I said when he answered.
"You’ve had a lot of people there lately," he pointed out.
"Come and take a look."
My perfunctory manner seemed to penetrate. He said he’d be over in fifteen minutes. I’m sure he thought I was being paranoid, but I didn’t care. And besides, he’d been kind of overprotective lately anyway. This would give him something to think about.
As soon as he arrived, I showed him the tracks. He took one quick look and decreed, "High-performance tires."
"How do you know?"
"Angela drives a BMW with high-performance tires. Left marks like these."
"You’re kind of observant, aren’t you?"
"Comes with the job, darlin’."
I looked at the tread again. "I don’t know anyone with high-performance tires. None of my friends, anyway." In my mind’s eye, I suddenly saw Owen’s black BMW parked behind the Pisces Pub, then beside Murphy’s SUV at the island. His shiny, spoked rims had been wrapped with a black strip of rubber, not the full-size width of regular tires, but the narrow band that signified high-performance tires.
"I know whose they are," I said and gave Dwayne the details.
"Leave it alone for now," he urged me, but I said no.
Against his wishes, I called Owen and asked him to meet me at the Pisces Pub. Dwayne had made me promise I would call him immediately on his cell if there was any trouble. He didn’t like it, but he would be standing by.
Murphy returned as I was dressing to meet Owen. It was a workout for me to pull on real clothes after lounging around in my sweats the past few days, but I had to look semi-pre-sentable. I managed to pull on my black capris and a red, button-up blouse. No moving that left arm much. I tried to cover the scratches on my face with makeup, but it was pretty much a losing proposition. The ivory-to-light beige coverup hid the healing scabs and green-purple bruising but the bumpy skin under the makeup made it appear as if I were hiding some hideous disease. Ah, well, my flip-flops still possessed their little gems, so I looked as good as anyone could expect.
"Where are you going?" Murphy asked, looking concerned, as he followed me outside.
I gave him a brief recap as I unlocked the Volvo. I was really going to have to get that scratch fixed. Assholes who key cars should have to pay.
To my surprise, I hit a hot button with Murphy. "Are you ever going to give this up?" he demanded harshly.
I narrowed my eyes at him. I was getting sick and tired of all the obstruction I had to deal with. "I’m just going to talk to Owen. I’d like an explanation."
"All I want to do is get out of this town," Murphy muttered.
That did it. "You think I don’t know that?" I shot back. "You thi
nk I haven’t heard you glomping around here, griping and moaning, as if Lake Chinook is the scene of all the tragedy in the world?"
He was surprised that I talked back to him. I hardly ever talk back to him. Maybe to everyone else, but not really to Murphy. He stared at me as if I were a stranger. Maybe I was. He sure as hell felt like a stranger to me.
He said with an effort, "This is where it all started."
"I know this is where it started. I know it shattered your illusions about your best friend. I know, Murphy." My voice was calmer, but I wasn’t. "Yet, you don’t want me to even whisper the words: family annihilator. Bobby Reynolds murdered his family. He killed them one by one."
Murphy jerked as if I’d physically touched him.
"And the repercussions probably shortened his father’s life. Cotton’s in an early grave because of Bobby."
"And you won’t give it up," Murphy stated grimly.
"Not when I’m involved, whether I want to be or not. Owen came to my place and I want to know why. And who’s responsible for Bobby’s death? That’s what I want to know. Who knocked Bobby out with a piece of slate, rowed him out to Phantom’s Cove and tossed his body overboard?"
"Why do you say rowed? Is that what Lopez told you?"
"I’m guessing, okay?" I said, frustrated. Couldn’t he just let me rant? Just this once? "Nobody took the powerboat. Somebody would have noticed that. The rowboat was right by the garage, easy to grab. There’s no road to Phantom’s Cove, only steep trails and stairways from private homes. Only one way to get there: by water. And now that we know Bobby was on the island, it stands to reason. Lopez will keep digging till he learns the truth."
I climbed into my car. Murphy stood in the shadows. I shut my door, switched on the ignition, then rolled my window down. I stared through the gloom at him.
"You’re not coming to Santa Fe." It wasn’t a question.
I opened my mouth to say something assuring. I love you . . . I want to be with you . . . But all I could manage was, "Not till I’m finished."
I threw the Volvo into reverse and backed away, my headlights holding him in their lights as he watched me leave.
***
The mermaid on the door of the Pisces Pub looked a little worse for wear this evening. Someone had tossed a drink on her and it was dripping down her scales. I didn’t get carded at the door, but it was a different bouncer tonight. He took one bored look at me and went back to a discussion with one of the barmaids-the ones who do not come around and take your order. Their function is still a mystery to me.
I tucked my hand inside my purse and fingered my cell phone. I wanted to know just where it was in case I needed to call Dwayne. It was comforting to know that with just a press of a button he’d be on his way.
I beat Owen there. Glancing around, I saw the only private spot was where two bar stools, tucked around the corner of the bar, were squeezed up to the wall. The glass shelves which made up the wall behind the bar itself, stuck out about a foot, kind of blocking the view of the stools. It might be tough to order a drink from this angle, but the area suited me just fine tonight.
Owen arrived ten minutes later, looking harried. He ran a hand through his hair, a curiously sensual gesture, and glanced around the room for me. His gaze passed over me twice before I lifted a hand and caught his eye. Maybe I was looking worse than I thought.
"Your invitation-or should I say ultimatum-sounded urgent," he said.
"I just wanted to make sure you came tonight."
"Why? Is this about Bobby? Do you know who killed him?" he asked quickly.
I hesitated, thinking through several gambits before deciding to play it straight. It seemed the quickest way to get answers. "Owen, this is about how you came to my house, let yourself in uninvited, and then left. What were you looking for?"
"I didn’t let myself in," he answered instantly, so fast I almost missed the other implications.
"But you came to my house." He hesitated a moment, thinking fast. "Don’t make up a lie," I warned.
"Yes, I came to your house," he admitted reluctantly.
"And you parked in front of the garage."
His lips tightened. "All right, I thought you were home. I just kind of wanted to block you in. I didn’t want you to leave until I talked to you."
"I don’t park in the garage."
"Well, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered." He signaled to the bartender who nodded but didn’t make any move to take his order. "It didn’t matter anyway, because you weren’t there." He turned my way, frowning at me. I could tell he was assessing me. "Turned out that was the night of your accident. I didn’t know it at the time. So, I figured I’d talk to you later. How’re you doing, by the way? The coverup’s not working all that well."
"Thanks."
He heard the irony and smiled faintly. "You can never get a beer around this place."
"What is it you wanted to talk to me about?" I wasn’t sure I was completely buying his story, but I was willing to go with it.
"The book jacket."
My brows furrowed. "Book jacket? You mean ...?"
"The book jacket you took from my mother’s condo," he said patiently. "She wants it back."
"It won’t help her. I already told Lopez about the address and what I’m sure it means."
"According to my mother’s lawyer, since you stole that item, it cannot be used as evidence by the police. The prosecution will have to prove they learned of that address some other way. This way it’s ‘fruit from the poisonous tree,’ or something like that. Can’t be used in a court of law."
"Tess has engaged a criminal defense attorney?"
He nodded. "She thought it might be a good idea."
The bartender brought us both a beer. I’d stopped taking my meds a few days earlier, but I decided not to risk alcohol on my bruised kidney (which I’m happy to report seems to be working just fine now, thank you very much).
As Owen drank lustily from his glass mug, I said, "So, if it’s meaningless, why does she want it back?"
"It’s hers. She doesn’t want you to have it."
"And you didn’t break into my cottage to steal it back?"
"Swear to God."
I watched him finish his beer, checking my bullshit meter to see how much I believed him. Curiously, I did think he was telling the truth.
"Did you help her hide Bobby all those years?" I asked.
"Nope. And I’m not saying she did, either," he added quickly.
"Duly noted."
"After what Bobby did, I wouldn’t lift a finger for him except to call the police." Owen was clear on that. "I kind of thought Mom might know where he was...but I wouldn’t be able to swear to it. It’s all over now, anyway. I don’t want her to go to jail."
"She broke the law," was all I said by way of answer.
"That remains to be proven."
Owen slid me a sideways look. "So, why were you so all-fired eager to see me tonight? What did you think I’d done, besides break into your place?"
"I just wanted to know what you were looking for."
"You thought I had something to do with Bobby’s death," he guessed. "You’re still working on that."
"Only as an exercise in futility."
He smiled. "You don’t know whether I’m guilty of something or not." He twisted his beer mug around on the bar. "Well, I didn’t kill Bobby."
I was beginning to believe him. "Glad to hear it. I was having a hell of a time ascribing a motive to you."
"What about plain old jealousy?" "I guess." "What happened to Cuddahy? I thought you were zeroing in on him." "Who told you that? Murphy?" Owen nodded. "Cuddahy’s got an iron-clad alibi for the night Bobby fought with his killer."
"The night Bobby fought with his killer," Owen repeated. He made it sound like the title of a movie. "What night was that?"
"Bobby was seen on the island by the kid who ended up in a coma for a while. The kid heard someone yelling at Bobby. The kid ran away, bu
t it’s pretty clear Bobby and another man got in a fight. Bobby was hit over the head with a piece of slate and dumped in the lake."
Owen stared at me. Maybe Lopez would have preferred I kept the information to myself, but I wanted to see Owen’s face when I laid it all out. He was surprised, but more than that, he was interested. "Who did it, Jane?" he asked, and I realized all at once that he didn’t know, that he was waiting for me to tell him.
"I don’t have the answer," I said, discombobulated. "Oh, come on." "No, I’m serious." "You did think it was me," he said on a note of discovery.
"You really did." He gave a little bark of laughter. "If it’s not Cuddahy, and it’s not me, who is it?"
I slid off my stool. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. "Someone else, I guess. Someone the authorities are going to have to find."
"You’re throwing in the investigative towel?" "I’m seriously thinking about it." I called Dwayne on my drive home and said, "Owen stopped by to collect Tess’s book jacket with the Hepburn address inside. I wasn’t home because I was being chased by Betty and Benny and taking a trip to Laurel Park Hospital."
"That’s all it was?"
"I think so." I filled him in on my conversation with Owen and my impressions.
Dwayne listened hard. "So, you’ve dropped the real estate motive?"
"Yes, but I don’t think it’s jealousy, either."
"Maybe we’ve made it too complicated. Misdirected ourselves."
I was gratified that Dwayne included himself, though it wasn’t exactly true as he’d been warning me against staying involved for weeks.
The jaunt to the Pisces Pub had taken its toll. My tail felt like it was dragging. When I drove into my drive, I saw Murphy’s rented SUV. It was heartening to see, as a part of me had expected him to chuck it all in and take off. It’s what he wanted to do. He’d just been waiting for me.
But when I walked inside, greeting an eager Binkster with pets and smoochy sounds (yes, I’ve now become officially stupid about this dog) I was met by a sober-faced Murphy whose bags were stacked near the front door and who was wearing a lightweight jacket even though the temperature was still in the high eighties.
"You’re leaving," I said.