Candy Apple Red (2 page)

I finished the rest of my coffee. Every muscle felt stretched out of whack from my run. I don’t think exercise can seriously be good for you, but I sure as hell have to keep up with it. The last time I process-served, the woman opened her door, reluctantly accepted the eviction notice I thrust into her hands, gave it one look and howled as if I’d hit her. She then grabbed a broom and whacked me once, hard. I left with one shin smarting and my pride bruised even worse. Talk about killing the messenger. I don’t plan on being taken by surprise again.

I wondered what Marta had in store for me. Her jobs tend to be a little more involved than mere process serving. I’d once been asked to drive to Baker—a city plopped way off in eastern Oregon and miles and miles from
anything
else—and question the locals about the habits of a Portland businessman who’d suddenly grown a hankering for ranch life out in this remote windblown part of the state. His wife wanted to know whom he was ranching with and what she looked like. It turned out the lady in question was surprisingly plump, sweet and homegrown, and I didn’t blame the guy one bit when I met the real wife, Marta’s client, who was thin, grim, long-nailed and tense. It sorta bothered me to be on her side, so to speak. But, once again, it paid well.

With a last gulp of now cold coffee I gathered up my energy and jogged back to my rundown 1930s bungalow on West Bay, the small body of water on Lake Chinook’s westernmost tip. Once upon a time wealthy Portlanders owned summer homes on the man-made lake. Lake Chinook was created by Chinese laborers who dug a canal in the late 1800s and connected the sluggish nearby river to what was by all accounts little more than a large pond, beautifully named Sucker Lake. Now the town thinks it’s beyond upscale, and though Lake Chinook is a nice community, I think it’s good to remember one’s roots.

My cottage is a ramshackle remnant, built a few decades after the lake became a desirable locale for summering. It’s Craftsman style, which means there’s a lot of wood trim, a wraparound porch and the exterior is composed of shingles. The inside must have been utter crap because my landlord, Mr. Ogilvy, updated the place before I moved in. Ogilvy’s known for his pecuniary ways, so the improvements—new kitchen appliances and a low-water pressure toilet which requires two or three good flushes to work properly—are a complete and utter gift. The cottage sits on a flag lot, encroached on each side by huge new homes whose builders fought city ordinances against the setbacks and succeeded. Ogilvy is about sixty-five and hates government, especially city government, so he cheerfully okays every variance sent his way. Along the way he’s chopped off chunks of his own property and sold them for a premium price so now I have a teensy line of sight and strip of land that leads to the water. Still, there’s enough room for a boathouse, also ramshackle, which matches the taupe, shingle siding of the cottage. This matching color scheme exists because last year I talked Ogilvy into painting the place. This is saying a lot for my skills of persuasion as Ogilvy bitched, moaned and sidestepped until we were both beyond exasperation. Eventually, he just bellowed, “Fine!” and signed on the painters. Now the place looks semi-presentable and if I had any serious cash I’d try to buy it. On my own dime I’d cleaned out everything on the inside—some of the items in the storage shed had been left over since the cottage was built, I swear—ripped up the carpet and had the old hardwood floors stripped, sanded and generally redone. I possess a modicum of furniture, all of it castoffs that, for some reason or other, I can’t seem to cast off as well. Except my bed, which is new, springy and a double—nothing bigger fits in the bedroom—and covered with a solid red, quilted cover—a splurge at Pottery Barn.

As I jogged up to my front door, catching my breath and slipping the key in the lock, I mentally congratulated myself on my industrious fitness program. Self-affirmation is all that stands between me and the depression of reality so I keep a steady “Atta, girl!” going in my head at every given opportunity.

Stripping off my In-N-Out Burger T-shirt (which I brought back with me from my last trip to California) I walked into the bathroom and reminded myself I had to buy groceries or die. My desktop computer—years old and a real electronic grinder—sits cold, blank and silent in the little desk/nook I’ve arranged next to my bed. Though mainly used for writing up short reports for Dwayne, invoices for my process serving services, e-mail, and the occasional resume, I worry its life is close to ending and whenever I hit the switch, I fear its little green “on” light might sputter and slowly fade out forever. I’m not only afraid of the cost of replacing it, I’m afraid of new technology, period. I keep a laptop in a case nearby, just in case. It’s far newer, though given how quickly computers grow obsolete, it’s definitely in its twilight years. I’m attached to both of them in a way that defies description, especially for a loner like myself. And what’s really amazing is although they both have this nagging quality about them—their very silence a stern reminder for me to get to work—I would be completely bereft without them.

I took a quick shower, toweled off, threw on a robe, then pushed the play button on my answering machine. Marta’s voice loudly told me to phone her A.S.A.P. I made a face, sensing I should avoid the call. Then Billy’s hatchery fish comment skimmed across my mind and propelled me into action.

“Jane Kelly returning Marta’s call,” I snapped out to the receptionist. This particular woman has one of the snottiest voices on record and I always try to cut her off as fast as possible.

She smoothly responded, “Ms. Cornell’s in a meeting.”

Though I should have felt relief that I could delay my talk with Marta, I was consumed with impatience. There’s a whiff of smugness to the receptionist’s tone which calls me to battle in spite of myself. “Tell her I’m on my cell phone,” I said, then reeled off the number as fast as humanly possible.

“Could you repeat that, please?” she asked, not bothering to hide her scorn.

“Oh, sure.” This time I spoke clearly and slowly. Even while I was running through this mini-drama I asked myself why I do such things. Call it my low tolerance for frosty self-importance.

“I’ll give her the message,” she said and abruptly clicked off.

I sat back in my chair and surveyed my domain. Pretty much a desk, chair, phone, notepad, pen and stapler. And computer, of course. I switched it on and waited while it went through its beeps, whirs and flashing screens. I know others grow annoyed if their computer doesn’t jump to attention like a military cadet but I don’t mind the wait. It’s like a cat stretching awake.

Sometimes, there’s a moment of perfect synergy when what you’re thinking suddenly comes into the moment of your life. As I waited for my computer to finish its wake-up routine, my mind drifted to thoughts of Murphy. Tim Murphy, to be exact, though no one called him by his first name. He was the guy who’d walked into Sting Ray’s one night and bowled me over with quick repartee, wicked sarcasm, innate politeness and one dimple in an otherwise masculine jaw. I’d fallen in lust with him right there and then. When I learned he was taking criminology courses, I’d signed up at the first opportunity. And when he’d finally left L.A. for his native Oregon, I’d followed him blindly to Lake Chinook as soon as I could. I’d wanted to live with him, soak him into my system, wrap our lives together, but Murphy had resisted. He’d sworn he loved me, but it turned out his love hadn’t been quite as real as mine. His was the kind that disappeared like fairy dust as soon as I grabbed for it. And though it lasted a while, it had already faded some by the time a horrific tragedy involving his best friend from high school placed us on opposite sides of the law. Murphy never forgave me for believing the worst of his friend, despite overwhelming evidence. He chose to run away from me and all things related to Lake Chinook. I, however, have remained. A part of me I don’t often face knows that although Murphy was devastated by his friend’s tragedy, he also used that event as an excuse to end our faltering relationship.

These thoughts flashed across my mind in quick succession, about three seconds in real time. At the end of those three seconds my cell phone buzzed, splintering the images and memories.

“Hello?”

“Jane!” Marta boomed over the phone. The woman was over six-feet-tall with a voice to match. She could deafen with one word. I yanked the phone from my ear and hoped I still possessed my hearing.

“Jane?” Marta demanded, her voice now tinny and faraway as my arm was stretched straight out from my torso. I carefully placed the receiver to my ear.

“I hear you.”

“I have a client who has an unusual request and I think you’re just the person to help.”

I opened and closed my mouth several times, seeing if I could pop my ears. They seemed okay but there was an alarming little creaking sound at the corner of my jaw. I thought about TMJ. Temporal…mandibular…jaw thing. Whatever. It was bad and sometimes it takes an operation where your jaw’s wired shut for six weeks. I don’t normally worry about such things, but the thought of all food coming through a straw for six weeks was enough to scare me straight. No more caramels? No more Red Vines? I’d
never
be able to eat beef jerky again?

“What unusual request?” I asked.

“It’s about Cotton Reynolds.”

My heart leapt. Christ, I thought a bit shakily. Had thoughts of Murphy actually triggered the past? “What about him?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady.

“My client wants some follow-up on…Bobby Reynolds.” Marta hesitated, unlike her to the extreme. “She wants you to interview Cotton.”

I stared at my office door and instead of its scarred, paneled wood saw the white-haired man who happened to be one of the wealthiest in the state of Oregon. Cotton Reynolds lived on the island—the site of the Coma Kid’s accident—and it was less than a mile from my bungalow. By boat, I could be there in ten minutes, if I wanted to. By car, it would be trickier. The island was private and Cotton’s was the only house on its three acres. If I dropped in to say hello, I wouldn’t get past the huge wrought iron gate nor the Dobermans.

But interviewing Cotton wasn’t what was on my mind. Following up on Bobby Reynolds was. Murphy’s close, high school friend. His best buddy. The cause of the horrific tragedy my mind had briefly touched on.

I almost hung up right then. I probably should have. A shiver slid coldly down my spine; someone walking on my grave.

Bobby Reynolds had murdered his family and left their bodies lined up in a row—wife, Laura; Aaron, 8; Jenny, 3; and infant, Kit—somewhere in the Tillamook State Forest, just off the Oregon coast. Bobby Reynolds was a “family annihilator”: a man apparently overwhelmed with the responsibility of his family so he chose to send them to a “better place.” He shot them each once in the back of the head, then drove away. He dumped his Dodge Caravan on a turnout off Highway 101 which meanders along the West Coast throughout Washington, Oregon and into California, then disappeared without a trace, though he’d been rumored to have been seen as far north as the Canadian border, and as far south as Puerto Vallarta. To date, after four years, he was still very much a fugitive. The murders—disputed by Murphy who simply could not believe his friend capable of cold-blooded homicide—had driven Murphy away from Lake Chinook, the tragedy and me.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Who is this client?”

“Tess Reynolds Bradbury.”

“Bobby’s
mother?
”

“Cotton won’t talk to her about Bobby or anything else. They haven’t spoken civilly in years. When it was all over the news they had words, but it wasn’t exactly what I would call communication.”

“I remember,” I said, recalling how Cotton’s ex, with her blond bob, hard eyes and angry mouth had been bleeped out by the local news, time and again. Cotton had been silent and stony, although my impression was that it was a mask for deep, deep pain and shock. I’d tried to talk to Murphy but he’d gone to a place inside himself, as distant as a cold moon, before he’d left for good.

“Why does she want me to talk to him?” I asked, baffled. “The police and F.B.I. and every news channel around has been on this since it happened. What could I learn? I don’t even know Cotton.”

“You’ve met. You were Tim Murphy’s girlfriend.”

“I wouldn’t call myself his girlfriend,” I said succinctly. “I knew him.” Not as well as I thought I did, as it turned out.

“Murphy was close to Bobby and Cotton. Tess thinks you can use that connection—”

“
No
,” I said again, with more force. “I’m outta this. I’d be useless.”

“She stopped by my office the other day, and we started talking about Bobby a little. She never could before. But it’s like she’s suddenly gotta get it out.”

“You’re a divorce attorney,” I reminded Marta tonelessly. I couldn’t keep up with this. My head reeled. I felt ill.

“I’m her divorce attorney,” Marta agreed. “But I’m also a friend. After she started talking, your name came up. She remembered you.”

If I hadn’t been so overwhelmed I would have been surprised. Tess had barely seen me. She’d been divorced from Cotton in those few months before Bobby’s deadly deed was discovered. I hadn’t known Bobby very well, as he and his family had moved to Astoria. I mostly knew about them through Murphy. I’d only met Bobby and his wife Laura a few times, so when their pictures were in the papers they’d looked like the strangers they were to me. I said, “It would be a miracle if Cotton remembered me.”