Ultraviolet (25 page)

Mom and I walked up to the front door and knocked. I could smell the jasmine and turned my face to a surprisingly warm sun. November, and you’d never know it. I thought of Randy Newman’s song “I Love L.A.” Yep. I was feeling it. I know it’s popular to denigrate L.A. and its glitzy, shallow image, but hey, ya gotta appreciate the weather.

Renee didn’t immediately open the door, so I pulled out my cell phone and called her again. I could hear the sound of it distantly trilling away inside the house, so I knew she was probably home. She didn’t answer its call, however. Figured.

Mom asked, “She a recluse, or something?”

“Or something,” I agreed, knocking again. I was wondering about the wisdom of bringing my mother along for this trip, but I hadn’t known how to say thanks for the ride and now get lost.

It took about ten minutes of impatient waiting until I saw a twitch at the front window’s curtains. I waved at the movement and smiled brightly. Let her try to figure out who Mom and I were. Jehovah’s Witnesses in jeans and sneakers? Not likely. I could be with Publishers Clearing House, though.

My cell phone rang as we were waiting. I debated on answering it, not recognizing the number. I snatched it up impatiently and demanded, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Deenie. Sorry I couldn’t talk to you before. My boyfriend and I are just—well…it’s such a mess.”

“Unfortunately, now I’m the one who can’t talk. Let me call you back.”

“Well, God…fine.” She hung up.

“Who was that?” Mom asked.

Before I could answer, the door finally opened. Mom and I turned our heads and stared in astonishment. Catlike, they’d said? No shit. Renee’s eyes were pulled into a slant that tilted upward at the outside corners, and she’d darkened the brows in a way that accentuated the feline look. Her whole face appeared stretched back and her mouth had lengthened into a flat line that seemed to go halfway around her head. Her hair lopped forward over her forehead in a tawny mane, then swept to a sort of fashionable mullet down her neck. The scariest part of it was that it wasn’t unattractive. It was kind of arty and interesting. And, well, weird.

She was slim and dressed in a pair of black capri stretch pants and a sleeveless black top. She looked as if she were about to do some kind of performance art whereby she would scratch, claw and hiss. If I’d had Binkster with me I think she would have started whining, which is what she does when she encounters a feline. She likes them, but they worry her. I understood the feeling.

“I’m Jane Kelly,” I said, thrusting my hand toward her. “I called you earlier. I’m the private investigator looking into Roland Hatchmere’s death.”

She cautiously accepted the handshake. My mother followed suit, smiling beneficently. “Carole Kelly.” Renee shook her hand, too. Her face showed no expression. I doubted there were enough muscles left for that.

“I don’t know how I can help you,” she said in a normal voice. I had so expected a purr. “You didn’t come all the way here just to interview me, did you?”

“My mother lives here,” I said easily.

“I’ve been trying to get Jane to visit for months. Finally the time was right,” my mother put in, just as easily.

It took all I had not to give her the proverbial double take. Sometimes Mom surprises me. Actually, oftentimes Mom surprises me, it’s just that sometimes the surprise isn’t exactly a welcome one.

Renee clearly didn’t know what to do with us. Grudgingly she stepped back from the door, then suggested we go back outside through the rear door and follow the gravel path to the backyard. We followed her across a scarred oak floor scattered with area rugs in varying jungle prints. The kitchen was tiny and hadn’t been updated since the fifties, but it was clean and tidy.

We went down the four steps, past the Cadillac, to a tall wooden fence, a portion of which was a gate with a hook on top. Renee reached up and unlatched it, swinging the gate section inward, and we entered an area that was more patio than yard, but nicely done. Swept concrete was surrounded by potted plants: a lush jade, a red bottle brush plant, some kind of ground cover flowing over one pot that perfumed the air. A round, redwood table with semicircular benches sat under the shade of a coral tree, the branches of which curved and twisted, reminiscent of an ocean reef. Tucked along the grassy edges were metal posts with hooks, and from the hooks hung lanterns with fat, white candles.

“This is lovely,” my mother said admiringly.

It went a long way in getting Renee to thaw. She smiled, and that, too, had a cat-who-ate-the-canary quality to it. “I spend most of my time out here. The house needs work but it’s peaceful here.” She grabbed a red flame lighter and touched it to the candles, sending out flickering illumination. Shadows were beginning to spread across the backyard and patio as it was after four o’clock.

“I own a four-unit in Venice,” Mom added. “Amazing what the property values have risen to, isn’t it? This place, when it was built, when you think about it…” She shook her head, marveling, looking around.

Renee nodded eagerly. I watched in amusement as she jumped into the game. People love, love, love to tell you how much they’ve made on their real estate investments, as if it’s a ruler for their business acumen and general smartness when in reality if you hold prime real estate long enough, and don’t have an abyss of debt, you’ll generally do fine and sometimes make out like a bandit. I was intrigued that my mother, whose age was probably close to Renee’s, was deliberately getting Renee to warm to her, pulling down her barriers. It saved me a helluva lot of effort.

They talked price and location and the market for a good ten minutes. I listened with a growing sense of unease I didn’t initially identify. I did an inner search and discovered the source of this dread was my soon-to-be eviction. I would be losing my own piece of real estate unless I did something about it.

Like what? I asked myself.

Renee offered to serve us some lemonade and went to take care of it. I gave Mom a look.

“What?” she asked, but her little smile said she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“I might have to bring you on all my interviews.”

“You might,” she agreed.

Renee returned with a tray holding a pitcher of pink lemonade and three glasses filled with cubes of ice. There was also a stack of hors d’oeuvre plates, an array of crackers covered with dabs of cream cheese, a wedge of cold, sliced salmon and a little glass bowl of different varieties of olives. It was damn good on short notice. Maybe not in Melinda’s league, but better than I could ever hope to manage.

Mom selected a plate, filled it with salmon, crackers and a grouping of olives and accepted the glass of lemonade Renee poured for her. Leaning back in her chair, she eyed me expectantly.

Showtime.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
mentally prepared myself for the interview, aware that I was slightly nervous.

Her odd looks just put me on edge.

Renee was gazing toward the back of her property. “Roland and I were madly in love once. The kind of thing that happens once in a lifetime, at least to me.” She gave us a quick, wry look, which was a little disconcerting. Sort of like a cat with the power to be self-effacing. “He was an incredible surgeon. I’ve never been able to find anyone who could do work like he did.”

“You’ve tried, then?” my mother asked politely.

Like, duh. How much surgery had this woman had?

Renee nodded, totally serious. “I’ve had some facial reconstruction since Roland retired. But it’s never been the same.”

“So, you’ve seen Roland—professionally—for years,” I said.

“Absolutely. He used to try to talk me out of it, but after a while I think it was kind of peaceful for him. Familiar. We knew each other well.” She waved a hand at me. “Violet hated it, when they were together. Wanted to get Roland away from me. That’s why they left for Portland, you know. Oh, sure, Roland was expanding his business, starting those clinics, but Violet was all for it because it got him away from me. I did make a couple of trips to Portland for some touch-up, though, before Roland’s problems got in the way.”

“Naturally,” Mom said.

Renee gave her a swift look, as if sensing something wasn’t quite on the level but Mom gazed back, all innocence and interest.

“Violet and Roland lived here for a while before they left for Portland,” I said, to put things back on track.

“A long while,” Renee agreed.

“When they left, Gigi and Sean went with them.”

“I suppose you think I’m a terrible mother,” she said to me.

“Things happen for a lot of reasons,” I responded vaguely.

Renee plucked an olive with her fingernails, which were long and bloodred. “Roland wanted Gigi and Sean and I fought him on that. I figured Violet would be a terrible influence. But…Gigi was such a daddy’s girl, it became…problematic. And where Gigi went, Sean wanted to go, too. Believe me, it made everybody happier to have them all head to Portland together, except possibly Violet. Roland and I had a huge house in the valley with a swimming pool. We sold it and that’s when I bought this bungalow.”

“You drove to Gigi’s wedding with a friend,” I said, changing the subject. I wanted to get to Violet’s background, but I sensed it wasn’t time yet. Interviews typically have a life of their own and it’s best to let them unfold on their own schedule. I’ve learned less by forcing questions than biding my time, even when I feel the clock ticking in my head, urging me to get going in all due haste.

“Ah, Aaron.” She hesitated, seeming to have a debate with herself. In the end she shook her head and said, “He’s from some of my classes. I just couldn’t bear to go alone and he thought it would be a kick to drive up in the Ferrari. Actually, it was horrible. Drive a thousand miles to Portland, and another back? My tush still hurts. Should have taken my Caddy.” She gave a disparaging laugh. “We’ve scarcely spoken since we got back. Some bonding experience.”

“What kind of classes?”

“Pilates, spinning, low-impact aerobics.”

“Are you an instructor?” Mom asked.

I kept myself from giving my mom a “look,” but just barely. I’d begun to wonder how to ask Renee what she did careerwise, if anything, but Mom just popped up with a way to get the information.

“Oh, sure, I help out sometimes. But I’m not really good with a schedule. Mostly I just take the classes to keep in shape.”

I had this picture of Renee’s life: one fitness class after another. One plastic surgery after another. She’d as much as said she hadn’t been interested in another man since Roland. She seemed to only care about her appearance, such as it was.

I asked her about Gigi’s wedding, which events she’d attended, how many days she’d been there, when she learned of Roland’s death.

“You probably know I was disinvited to the wedding,” Renee said, her expression tightening with the first sign of annoyance I’d seen. Either that or her stretched face just couldn’t handle any nuances of emotion. “You know I loved that man, but Roland could be such a prig. He
hated
it that I was there with Aaron. Just hated it.” A tiny trill of triumph rang in her voice. “I called him that at the rehearsal dinner. A prig. I was kidding, really, but Roland never could take a joke. Well, he got all heated up. Before that he hadn’t cared a whit that I’d brought Aaron to the dinner, but all of a sudden—holy mother of God, I’ve committed the faux pas of all faux pas! He starts yelling at me. And Melinda…she’s so damn stupid. She gets all fluttery and anxious and tries to make nice with everybody. I ignored her. I mean, give me a friggin’ break. Aaron tried to talk reason to Roland and that didn’t work. Then Gigi started that whining thing.” She made a dismissive gesture and rolled her eyes. “I told them all they should change their diet. Less red meat, more whole grains and leafy green vegetables. It’s not rocket science, now, is it? Turn on the Food Channel, for Pete’s sake. Learn what a healthy diet is. Hello! But there they were, forks loaded with bloody meat.” She made a retching sound. “Gigi just freaked. Told me I was ruining everything. Oh, sure, she’s my daughter and all, but there’s no denying she’s a little bitch. Really, I was glad to have a reason to leave.” Lifting the lemonade pitcher, she looked at my mother. “A little more?”

“Hit me,” Mom said.

Surreptitiously, I glanced at my watch. “Was the rehearsal dinner your first event with the family?”

“First and only, except when they called looking for Roland. At first I thought it was funny that they’d lost him, the Father of the Bride. I was still pretty hot about the way they’d treated us the night before. But Gigi was just sobbing, so Aaron and I drove to Cahill Winery. Gigi threw herself in my arms. Kind of surprised me, to be honest. Then Emmett called with the news….” She pulled her lips back in what I took to be a rueful expression.

“Was there any indication that anyone thought Roland might be with Violet? That she was the reason for the delay?”

Renee thought back. “Not really. I mean, Gigi was just shattered. Her wedding was ruined. She wasn’t thinking about what was keeping Roland. She just wanted him there.” She selected another olive, capturing it with her nails and dropping it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t think anybody really thought about Violet until Roland’s body was discovered. Then, of course, it all made sense. It’s the same thing that happened with Bart. She was the last one to see him alive, too.”

“Bart…?”

“Treadway. Violet’s first husband. You don’t know about him?” Her tawny brows arched.

“Melinda mentioned something about it,” I murmured.

Renee looked at me as if she was doubting my ability as an investigator. I could scarcely blame her. “You know it’s amazing Roland ever hooked up with Violet in the first place. I mean, he is a prig. And she’s so…ripe. Once upon a time, I guess I was like that, too. Good old Roland. He never changed much over the years.” She touched a hand to her cheek, looking mildly embarrassed. “We met at the same escort service, if you can believe that.”

“You and Roland? The same one as…?”

“Roland and Violet. I actually knew Violet first. We were both part of Landon Escort Services. Landon Ladies, that’s what we were called. Then that scandal stopped everything for a while, and they came back as something different. Something generic. Connections, I think it was called. Didn’t have the same ring.”