Ultraviolet (43 page)

He came wide awake and looked at me. I was going to make some comment about sleeping alone and taking his bed, but he stopped me with, “You’ve got a helluva shiner.”

This wasn’t really a surprise as my right eye was practically swollen shut. I turned to the bathroom to take a look. Purple and black and fat. The blood was seeping into the flesh all around my eye socket.

“How does it feel?” he asked.

“Like it looks. And the rest of my body, too.”

Dwayne thrust his hands in his jeans and leaned against the bathroom doorjamb. “Violet called and said to send her our last bill. We’re off the Hatchmere case.”

I gazed at him in dismay. “That’s it?”

“At least Keegan Lendenhal’s going to see his day in court. They’ve got his fingerprints on the can, and the Wilsons are going to press charges.”

“Dawn? I don’t believe it. You learned that last night?”

He nodded. “Dionne’s the one who’ll testify. She said Lendenhal did the same thing to her. I don’t know what proof they have, but the secret’s out.”

“Good.” I was undoubtedly going to be part of this legal circus as well, since the beer with the date rape drug had been intended for me. I had this picture of myself on the witness stand, some bright defense attorney pointing out that I had misrepresented myself as a minor.

“Why’s Violet ditching the investigation?”

“She’s convinced the police know she’s innocent.”

“That’s not true,” I protested. “Larrabee hasn’t given up. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

He lifted his palms.

“I’m not giving up. Are you giving up? I’m not giving up. I’m going right back to the truck stop. I want to talk to Tammie. I want to know who Dante is, and I think she can tell me.”

I could hear the belligerent tone in my voice, but I didn’t care. I was mad at Violet. She drags me to the CMC party and then blithely says it’s over? Talk about your unfinished business.

My cell phone rang. I examined caller ID and said, “It’s Melinda,” in some surprise as I said hello.

“Hi, Jane, it’s Melinda. I suppose you forgot, but today’s the pre-Thanksgiving bake sale at the Village.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t been all that warm and fuzzy the last time we’d spoken. “Right. I’ll stop by. What time will you be there?”

“About three.”

“See you then.” Dwayne looked at me askance as I hung up. “Bake sale,” I reminded him.

“Can you get more of those fruit bars?” he asked instantly.

“And I’m working on a rum cake, too. Oh God. Is next Thursday Thanksgiving?” I asked, knowing the answer in advance. I’d warned Dwayne about Cynthia’s invitation though he didn’t apparently regard it with the same horror I did.

I changed back into my muddy clothes and Dwayne drove me and Binkster to my car. I was thrilled to see my purse was still there, untouched, and all my credit cards and identification were right where they should be. Sketching Dwayne a good-bye, I headed back to my cottage, my gaze darting around in search of possible garage-salers.

Since last weekend, things had been pretty quiet, but I feared Ogilvy might be planning another event. I was happy to see there were no signs, no items on display and no cars. I noticed the garage was no longer locked and, snoop that I am, took a peek inside after I put Binkster in the house.

There was a pile of unwanted junk in the center of the floor, but the rest of the place was surprisingly cleared out. Almost clean enough to actually park a car inside.

I spent the rest of Saturday morning finishing my final report and billing for Violet. I gave her a quick call as I was getting ready to go to the latest bake sale, and when Violet answered we suffered through one of those conversations that’s filled with a lot of hemming and hawing, and which I’m completely no good at. Finally, I said, “What gives? You don’t want to know who killed Roland?”

“Hon, it’s time to stop wasting money, don’t you think? I appreciate the work you and Dwayne have put in. It’s really helped. I think it even helped convince Dwayne’s detective buddy that I’m innocent. But I’m ready to just put it behind me. More than ready. I’d love to know who killed him,” she added, as if she heard how much she’d abandoned her cause. “I just don’t think it’s a priority anymore.”

She deftly switched the subject to George Tertian and the Columbia Millionaires’ Club, her voice growing animated. Her focus had completely changed. Why, why was it so hard for me to give it up?

“If you have a chance, can you ask George about Dante?” I finally cut in.

“The guy who sent you out the window?”

Violet found my aversion to the man slightly humorous. I said, “If all the men are millionaires, I’d like to know what his business is.”

“Sure, I’ll ask him,” Violet said.

“Thanks.”

The bake sale was at an empty storefront in Lake Chinook Village, a fairly new development where all the stores are designed to appear as separate buildings even though they’re joined together. A small art gallery had failed and moved location, and its abandoned storefront was now rented conditionally by various groups.

The Junior League ladies were helping out the neighborhood association with another bake sale. They’d decorated with fall leaves and cornstalks and cornucopias. Inside they’d lined their tables with paper Thanksgiving-themed tablecloths, and the baked goods were displayed in all their luscious, mouthwatering glory. Leigh and Bitchy Anne were manning one table; Jody and Melinda another. I’d cleaned myself up again and wore a long black sweater that covered my hips and my best jeans. I’d combed my hair down straight and I’d worked pretty darned hard on my makeup. Couldn’t do much about the black eye, though, and as I approached they gazed upon me with varying degrees of horror.

“Walked into a door,” I explained.

I could see the “oh, sure” looks pass over their faces as they threw each other sideways glances. I wondered if they would believe me more if I told them star quarterback Keegan Lendenhal had clocked me on purpose.

Melinda regarded me with real concern. She was wearing peach-colored slacks and a cream blouse today. Her own hair was perfectly coiffed and her skin looked luminous. I wondered if she’d been to The Face. “What really happened?” she asked, pulling me away from the tables. I kept my eye on the goodies. I was pretty sure I saw some of Jody’s peach bars. No rum cakes visible.

“This wasn’t related to Roland’s case,” I assured her.

“Really?” Melinda couldn’t tear her gaze from my injury.

“Really.”

“Have you learned anything more about Roland?”

“Actually, I’m off the case. The police have turned their attention from Violet, and she decided to terminate our investigation.”

A series of emotions crossed Melinda’s face, relief being chief among them. “I’m glad you’re going to quit harassing Gigi, Sean and Emmett. It was a waste of time anyway, since Violet killed Roland.”

“I’m still going to investigate on my own.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I want to know who killed him.”

“Why is it so hard for you to realize Violet’s guilty? She’s not even paying you anymore. Why don’t you investigate
her
? You’ve wasted your time on Roland’s kids. And those Wedding Bandits, I guess. And Emmett! And probably me! The one person you haven’t looked at is Violet.”

A cell phone began ringing. Leigh said, “Melinda, it’s yours.”

Melinda didn’t want to give up her tirade, but she tippy-tapped her way to her purse and dug out her phone. I watched as her expression darkened and she clicked it off like she had the last time I’d been with her. She clearly wasn’t a slave to taking a call, but then I knew that from personal experience.

I purchased some peach bars, then wangled a rum cake out of Jody, who said I would have to come back the next day as she’d presold all of today’s. I was thrilled she was going to make the extra effort for me.

“Treat it right, and it’ll still be fresh for Thursday,” Jody said. “I’ll tell you how.”

“Thursday? Oh. Thanksgiving.” I had no intention of waiting that long. As soon as I got my cake I was going to have an orgy of calories all by myself. Okay. I might invite Dwayne.

Melinda offered to carry the peach bars to my car. I told her not to bother, but she had things on her mind. “What do you plan to do?” she asked me.

“About the investigation? I don’t know. Follow some leads.”

“What kind of leads?”

“The kind that lead to answers.”

“You have stopped harassing us, haven’t you? We can count on that, right?”

“I’m going in a different direction,” I assured her, gently placing the peach bars on the seat.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, but she didn’t look glad about much of anything as I drove away.

In the evening, I headed down I-5 to the truck stop again, having squirreled away the peach bars untouched. It was like a strange hoarding need on my part, my cache of nuts for the winter. I figured I could have a piece of pie à la mode at the truck stop and get today’s quota of sugar and calories and still have tons more at home. Yes, my diet leaves something to be desired, but I don’t much care.

I tucked my hair into my baseball cap and put on my fake glasses one more time. It went a long way to taking the focus off my shiner, though anybody who took a good look at me couldn’t miss it. I was beginning to recognize a few of the regulars, but hopefully they did not feel the same about me. I lived in a bit of anxiety that the trucker who’d shooed me away would burst through the doors and point an accusing finger at me. But, as I’d come to expect, no one paid me any attention as I settled onto a counter stool. The video poker machines at the far end were a lot more interesting.

My pregnant friend wasn’t on duty tonight, probably at the hospital giving birth. I was served instead by a dour-faced, gum-cracking thirty-something whose gaze narrowed on my black eye like a target. I ordered the pie—which they were out of, more’s the pity—and after reconsulting the menu ended up asking for a hamburger. Okay, I probably deserved more than the granulated sugar food group anyway.

She hustled up the burger and slipped it in front of me. I noticed there was no check, though she’d certainly dropped off the bill to every other customer. I looked up at her questioningly. “On the house,” she said.

“Why?” I asked cautiously.

She gestured toward my face and turned back to her task with a surge of energy, an I’m-so-busy cover-up that left me mystified.

I ate slowly, thinking. I wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed to learn more about Tammie. Should I question this waitress? Did she know what was going on? Or maybe I should just hide outside by the trash bins and wait for the truckers to come and go, hoping Tammie would be on duty tonight. A sane little voice inside my head had started questioning everything I was doing. What
was
I doing? This was dumb. Because Dante had possibly called Roland, and was possibly a pimp for Tammie, and was definitely intent on scaring me, here I was skulking around this truck stop, just for the fun of it.

My waitress came back my way but didn’t make eye contact. “Don’t know if I’d be here tonight, lookin’ like you do,” she said, flicking her towel across the counter at nonexistent crumbs. She leaned in close and dug her thumbnail at the counter. Since she wouldn’t meet my eye, I dragged my gaze from her as well. For some reason she didn’t want to appear as if she were talking with me.

She also seemed to think I knew something I didn’t.

Around a last bite of burger, I said to my plate, “I don’t care who sees me.”

“Girl, you are askin’ to get smacked again.”

A guy at the end of the counter stood up and reached in his pockets for change. My waitress hurried over and picked up the money, exchanging a few friendly words. He took off his hat, smoothed his gray hair, then pushed through the door, heading toward the side of the building and, I assumed, his truck.

It took a few minutes, but she came back my way. I pretended to be chastened. “Maybe you’re right.”

“You got about ten minutes before he gets back.” She shot me a look. “One of these days you girls’ll smarten up.”

“Like Tammie?”

Her expression darkened. “She tell you that? She’s the dumbest of the lot of you.”

“I think she just wants to get her kids back,” I said, shooting in the dark.

“She’s got a funny way of goin’ about it. Now go.” She grabbed my plate with a clatter and huffed away.

I hung around awhile, but she wouldn’t engage me again. Finally, I ducked out the door and headed toward my car, but then walked right on by it. I did exactly what I’d planned to earlier: I hid by the Dumpster and watched the goings-on.

It got later. And later. And later. Apart from a few men climbing from their rigs and going in to eat or play video poker, the back of the building was quiet.

I’d put my phone in my pocket and it suddenly vibrated, giving me an unexpected goose. I glanced around. There were a couple of truckers smoking outside their cabs and talking. They would hear me if I answered the phone. I didn’t want to give away my position, so I let it go to voice mail.

I had a lot of time on my hands. I got to thinking about what Melinda had said about Violet. I got to thinking about my own feelings about Violet. I got to thinking about a lot of things.

I shifted position. I’d been squatting. Now I was sitting, my butt cold, numb and slightly damp from its perch on a wet curb.

I thought about Dwayne. I thought about myself. I thought about Larrabee, though that sent me back to thinking about Dwayne.

I returned to Violet.

I pictured her with Roland. I pictured that morning. I could almost see her electric-blue eyes, anxious, filled with concern after the uncertain night she’d just spent with the man she supposedly loved. I thought about Roland, thought about his change of mood after talking to Sean or whoever had called him from the club, be it Dante or someone else. I could practically feel the escalation of Violet’s anxiety as Roland brushed her off. No, she wasn’t invited to the wedding. No, she wasn’t a part of his family anymore.

My mind’s eye witnessed their fight. It ended with Roland grabbing her shoulders, pushing her to the wall, yelling furiously, blasting her with the news that he didn’t want her. Violet didn’t crumble. She wouldn’t. She picked up the tray and whacked him hard.