Ultraviolet (12 page)

The owner of the black and white dog stepped out and grabbed it by its collar, dragging it back inside and slamming the door. Binkster gave a few more barks, delighted that she’d scared it off, apparently. A few muffled woofs sounded back. Binkster looked at Dwayne for approval and he petted her head. She then splayed herself across his stomach, about the only way she could balance herself on Dwayne and the chair. I stayed just inside the gap in Dwayne’s slider door, my nose and face catching the brunt of the moisture.

“So, I made contact with your friends across the bay last night.”

Dwayne lowered the binoculars and looked at me. “And?”

“I didn’t learn if the girl from Rebel Yell is pregnant. Her name’s Dawn Wilson, by the way. I didn’t see any sister, but I think she might be the younger one. She was driving the red Taurus.”

“What’s she look like?”

I described Dawn as best I could: five-four, short, dark hair; serious expression.

“She’s the younger one,” Dwayne confirmed, frowning a bit. “Her older sister has longer hair. How’d she seem?”

“Like a high school kid.” I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What about the guys?”

I made a face, then told him about my impressions and escapades of the night before. I tried not to completely give away my feelings about Keegan Lendenhal, but Dwayne picked up on them anyway.

“You think Lendenhal’s a dealer?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “This kid’s the quarterback and apparently a hell of an athlete and it’s hard to believe he’d risk all that, you know?”

“People do stupid things.”

“It just didn’t feel like drugs. I’m no expert but nobody seemed totally wasted. They were drinking beer. They were making out. It was more like I remember high school parties, but…I don’t know. Something was off. I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like him.”

“He’s the man,” Dwayne said, dropping the binoculars to give me a look.

“He’s a pain in the ass.”

“You think he’s screwing the girls?”

“Yep.”

“One girl…a girlfriend? Or many?”

“More than one,” I said, although I didn’t have evidence to that effect. “The guys get the beer and cigarettes, or whatever else he wants, and they all go to Do Not Enter after the games and they bow to the king.”

“He’s Lake Chinook High’s quarterback?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think we should alert the cops?” Dwayne asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. Makes me feel like a rat.” I stepped into the rain and let it pour onto the top of my hood. I’m not good at turning people in for what I consider minor crimes. Was there something more than teen partying going on at Do Not Enter? Or had that been a product of my overactive imagination, brought on by both Dwayne’s description of the guys and a need to put an egotistical teen in his place?

I deliberately changed the subject. “I’ve called a number of the guests on Sean’s list. Waiting for some callbacks. Nobody seems to be able to pick up the phone. And Violet’s holding out on us. She’s not being entirely truthful about her relationship with Roland. Probably thinks we’ll start thinking she’s guilty.”

Dwayne didn’t respond. He was petting Binkster and staring into the middle distance.

“You’re not listening,” I accused.

“Yes, I am.”

He was making me crazy. I ran my hands through my hair in an effort to buy time and keep myself sane, then said, “And what about the Wedding Bandits? We haven’t heard anything in weeks. Nothing on the news. What do you think’s going on?”

“There hasn’t been a high-profile burglary since Roland Hatchmere.”

“Not one? How do you know?”

“Larrabee.”

“Larrabee just hands out this information to you?” I asked the back of Dwayne’s cowboy hat. “What’s the deal with you and him?”

“Let’s go inside,” Dwayne said. He set Binkster on the ground, then levered himself to his full height. I never know quite whether to offer help, unless the sky’s raining hail. He didn’t seem to need me, so I squeezed back through the gap and he and Binkster followed me inside. Binks jumped onto the couch and I scolded her for her wet, dirty feet, but Dwayne waved the issue aside. “I’ll have the cleaning people take care of it.”

“The cleaning people. Who are they? Slaves you keep in the attic?” I knew he didn’t have “cleaning people.”

“The lady next door, Mrs. Jansen, decided to sic her maid, Darlene, on me. Darlene needs more work. Something about her kids moving back home and bringing their kids with them. Sounded grim.”

“This is altruism on your part?”

“I do what I can.”

“Bullshit.”

Dwayne smiled. It’s a lazy smile, guaranteed to melt female hearts, but it’s not just for show. It represents real amusement on his part. “The woman needs a job. She comes in every other week or so. Sometimes more. You looking for help?”

“Always. I just can’t afford it.”

Dwayne let that pass. “Speaking of the attic. What do you think about making it an office?”

“For midgets?”

Dwayne’s attic is accessible only by an outside stairway, and as I’ve said before, it’s not exactly adult-friendly. The few times I’ve been up there, shoving boxes around, looking for past data, I’ve been lucky I didn’t concuss myself on the rafters.

“I’ll bring the walls in, so there’s some headroom. Make it smaller but more functional.”

“You think about a lot of things when you’re sitting on your dock.”

“Not much else to do. When Ogilvy kicks you out, you can move upstairs for a while.”

“No bathroom? I don’t think so. Stop depressing me.”

“Got a timeline on that?”

“No. I don’t want to think about it.”

“I know a mortgage broker—”

“
No
. What is this? I don’t have the money. I’d have to rob a bank. Or maybe I’ll join the Wedding Bandits and sell stolen toaster ovens, wine refrigerators and food processors. Make a fortune.”

“Let’s buy it together.”

“I
can’t,
Dwayne.”

“Can’t and won’t have two different meanings,” he said.

I clapped my hand to my forehead. “Wow. I was really confused until now. Thanks for explaining that.
Can’t
isn’t the same as
won’t
…”

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, faintly amused. It really torques me when he won’t rise to the bait.

“Let’s get back to Detective Larrabee. Bring me up to speed,” I said.

“Larrabee’s helped me out a time or two. I’ve done the same for him. He knows we’ve been hired by Violet, so he’s been careful about the Hatchmere case. But we exchange information. Have for years.”

“Huh…” I said.

Dwayne shrugged lightly. “Sometimes he needs something I can get for him.”

“You mean something outside of the law. Not strictly legal.”

“I’m a law-abiding citizen, Jane.”

I snorted. Strictly speaking, Dwayne was. But neither one of us stood on ceremony if a more effective, quasi-unlawful means to further our ends presented itself.

“Larrabee’s steered me in the right direction a time or two when I’ve needed it. And I’ve procured information for him.”

“He’s on the Hatchmere case, and that entails the Wedding Bandits?”

“Inside the Portland PD there aren’t specific departments for crimes like burglary and robbery. Larrabee sometimes works cases besides homicide, anyway.”

This I know, as Booth, my twin brother, works for the Portland police and has been trying to work his way up to detective. I hadn’t heard from him in a few weeks and figured he was hard at it. That, and/or taking care of his fiancée: black, beautiful, high-powered, high-maintenance criminal defense attorney Sharona Williams.

“So, Larrabee told you there’s been no bandit activity since Roland?” I asked.

“Says they’re lying low. Probably scared shitless. They came into the place, scattered through the house, grabbing gifts, money, electronics. Then somebody stumbled over the body, sounded the alarm and they were outta there.”

“No one believes they’re responsible for Hatchmere’s death?”

“Not so far as I can tell,” Dwayne agreed.

“So we’re back to Violet.”

I half expected Dwayne to argue with me, but all he asked was, “Have you called her?”

“Left a message.”

Dwayne was looking at me, so I phoned her again. This time she answered on the second ring, surprising me.

“Violet, it’s Jane. Can we meet today? I stopped by Gigi’s, well, Roland’s, the other day for an interview. She gave me some background on the wedding day.”

“Yeah? How was the sweet young thing?” Violet asked dryly.

“About what you’d expect.”

“Sure. Let’s meet for lunch. Where do you want to go?”

“Uh…Dottie’s?” I suggested a local sandwich shop in Lake Chinook that was within my budget. Violet might be paying for my information specialist services, but if she didn’t offer to buy lunch, I didn’t quite see how I could put it on her tab. Dwayne might act like I had money to burn, but Dwayne spied on his neighbors with binoculars, so was I going to listen to him?

“Twelve-thirty?”

“Great.” I clicked my cell phone closed. “Wanna join us?” I asked Dwayne.

He shook his head. “Binks and I’ll keep the Border collie in line.”

“I take it, that’s not Mrs. Jansen’s place.”

“She’s on the other side.” He inclined his head toward the west wall.

“Who’re the people with the dog?”

“Renters. Just moved in.” He shrugged.

“Haven’t turned your binoculars on them?”

“All they do is watch TV. And yell at their dog.”

“Bummer,” I said and headed for the door.

Dottie’s is a teeny shop with teeny chairs clustered around teeny tables. You mark your selection on a plastic-coated menu right down to the type of mayonnaise: plain, garlic or blue cheese. Shaking rain off my jacket and hair, I chose roast beef and Havarti cheese, opting for tomatoes and onions and romaine, eschewing the alfalfa sprouts. Can’t do ’em. I have this mental image of fields of grass and cows chewing their cud. I’m from California, originally, where the alfalfa sprout is king, but I just can’t make them work for me. Makes me feel like a traitor somehow.

I swept my hood from my head but kept my coat on. I paid for my sandwich and my chosen beverage, a soda, which I then grabbed from the serve-yourself glass refrigerator at the end of the counter. I snagged the last postage-stamp-sized table, beating out a kid who was running ahead of a family of five. Who were these people, anyway? They didn’t deserve a place to sit if they couldn’t figure out this wasn’t a family restaurant. Why weren’t they at fast food? Or a Denny’s or Shari’s? Something with revolving pies in a case next to the cash register. How did they expect to all sit together here?

The kid was about seven. He gazed at me in that scary, unabashed, wide-eyed way that says nothing and everything at the same time, dripping water from the hem of his coat to the floor. Mom was carrying a baby on her hip, its face hidden behind the brim of a yellow, plastic duckie cap. She came up beside her goggle-eyed son, laying a hand on his shoulder. Dad and another little brother were grabbing plastic menus and trying to order for everyone. Water flew off their clothes, as if it were raining inside as well as out.

I looked through the window to a sheet of rain just as Violet sailed in, snapping closed an umbrella. She took one look at the clientele and said loudly, “Jane. Let’s go to Foster’s. I’ll buy.”

“I already ordered.”

“Make it to go,” she said and turned back outside.

I couldn’t be happier. I graciously gave up my table and watched as the family tried to squeeze around it. “Good luck with that,” I told them. There were only three chairs and that was two too many for the table size. I swept up my sandwich and soda and hurried outside to catch up with Violet.

She’d parked her Mercedes illegally on one side of the wide drive that leads to Lake Chinook’s only multistory (three-level) parking structure. I have serious parking issues, so I’m reluctantly impressed by those who threaten the parking gods and get away with it.

I was intrigued to see what she would do when she got to Foster’s as there’s never any good parking available. Violet cruised to the nearest bank’s parking lot and squeezed her Mercedes into an end space that looked like it was made for golf carts or Minis. I had to suck in my gut and hold my breath to climb out.

“Don’t let me forget my sandwich,” I said as we hurried toward Foster’s street-side door. “It’s dinner.”

Violet didn’t answer, just held her umbrella against the wind and rain like a shield. I stayed close to her as it was getting really nasty out. We entered Foster’s in a whoosh of rain and wind, closing the door behind us quickly as other patrons looked up in panic at the blast of wet weather.

“God, I need a drink,” she said, and set about talking directly to the bartender about her signature drink. Something amethyst, I recalled, as she’d tried to foist this concoction on me once before. I’d opted for a beer instead. I did the same thing now, but this time I asked for it to come with a lemon slice, just to be fancy.

“So, tell me more about Gigi,” Violet said as she joined me by the maitre d’s stand down the steps toward the rear of the establishment where the tables and circular booths resided for main dining. Beyond the pane windows lay the patio, currently being blitzed by slanting, furious rain that bounced off the pavement.

The hostess showed us to a table next to another of Foster’s gas fireplaces. I could feel warmth on my left shoulder but couldn’t quite shake off the shiver that hit me from head to toe. I gave Violet a quick recap of my visit to the Hatchmere house, then drew a deep breath and said, “I’ve been dinking around with this thing for nearly a month. I finally got to talk to both Sean and Gigi, and I’ve left messages with other wedding guests and friends. But it seems like a roundabout way of gaining information when you’re sitting right here.”

Violet’s eyes are that amazing shade of electric blue that serves a lot of the Purcell family. She was gazing at me hard and there’s just something unnerving about being captured in those twin, aqua laser beams. The sensation made me uneasy. Just like I’d been throughout my dealings with her family. “What are you asking?”