Candy Apple Red (16 page)

“Disappointed? I’m flabbergasted. And hurt!”

Sensing I was about to move, he grabbed for me. I’m not sure whether he meant to comfort me or if this was merely opportunity. What I did get was a hard squeeze to my right breast, a gasp of pleasure from him, a squeak of surprise from me, and then he had the nerve to rush his palm across my ass when I suddenly jumped to my feet.

“Mr. Neusmeyer…!”

He nodded quickly, as if waiting for something. I was kind of nonplussed. What now? He took control, by suddenly clasping my hand in a strong grip. I feared he might actually put it on his willy but he managed to simply hold on.

“It’s Heather, isn’t it?” I said, upset. In reality, I was a bit shaken up. It’s all fun and games, isn’t it, till somebody puts their eye out. “That bitch gets everything, doesn’t she?”

His gaze was now on my mouth. I tentatively parted my lips. To my utter shock he took the invitation for what it was and suddenly we were in a clinch and he was smashing his lips to mine and thrusting his tongue into my mouth.

Well, good god. I wasn’t really prepared, y’know? It was all I could do, and I mean ALL I could do to keep from biting down on that wet, wiggling muscle. Instead I delicately pulled back, and said, “I’m right, aren’t I? Nothing for Ronnie, everything for Heather.”

He shook his head. I wasn’t certain if that was an answer or he was trying to pull himself together. “Or, maybe it’s Tim Murphy,” I said on a note of discovery. “Cotton acts like he’s his new son.”

“Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, fathers leave it all to their real sons,” Jerome said. “I’ve seen it and seen it. Wives get something, but sons, they’re the ones who matter.”

“He’s leaving it all to Bobby?”

“Stick with percentages, honey.” And then he French-kissed me again and I let him until he clasped my hand again and this time tried to do what I’d suspected earlier. As quickly as I could I murmured a tearful good-bye, thanking him for his kindness. Halfway to the car I gagged a little and shivered. But my true distraction was what he’d intimated: Cotton was leaving everything to Bobby. Bobby, whom he’d supposedly disinherited. Bobby, who’d killed his family and disappeared.

Where was Bobby Reynolds?

O
n Friday Bobby Reynolds’ body was found floating in Lake Chinook. A swimmer encountered something she believed to be a shark in Lake Chinook—fat chance, as it’s fresh water, sweetheart—but the scream could be heard a half-mile away. Her hysteria brought in the Lake Patrol and Bobby’s dripping remains were hauled from the water.

I learned about the news from Dwayne who called me on my cell phone which was nestled in the side pocket of my board shorts as I jogged toward the Coffee Nook. I did an about-face, ran home and then through the shower. Turning on the television, I caught a local special report where Cotton, Heather and Murphy appeared, white-faced and grim. No one knew anything. The reporter added that, “Tess Bradbury, Bobby’s mother, has been notified but she and Bobby Reynolds’ half-brother, Owen Bradbury, have declined an interview at this time.”

The news hit Lake Chinook with gale force. The downtown area was choked with news reporters, vans, cameras and various and sundry media paraphernalia. A crazed, carnival-like atmosphere took over. People gawked and whispered and sagely nodded. Once again we were treated to pictures of Bobby’s family’s black-plastic-shrouded bodies and a skimming view of the area of the Tillamook forest where they’d been found. Once again we saw close-up photos of the family. Standing behind his wife, his hand on her shoulder, was Bobby Reynolds, looking the proud patriarch of Aaron, Jenny and baby Kit, swaddled in her mother’s arms.

The prevailing attitude about the discovery of Bobby’s body was that justice had been served.

I threaded my Volvo through the crowds to Dwayne’s cabana. The heat had escalated and we were facing one of the hottest days of the year so far. Dwayne had told me he was going to be working on his dock, so I peered through the open front door. I could see all the way through the cabana to the back deck where Dwayne was diligently working, bent over a moplike tool, wearing disreputable denim cutoffs, a pair of beat-up Topsiders and not much else.

“What do you think?” I asked as I started to step onto the deck.

“Stay where y’are,” he ordered and I froze with one foot in the air. He was applying some kind of sealer to the boards. The moplike tool was actually a spreader which slid a shiny liquid across the deck’s surface.

Dwayne didn’t immediately answer as he was hard at his task. I watched him work from the narrow opening of his sliding glass door. If I’d been in a better frame of mind I might have admired his back muscles, moving smoothly beneath tanned, taut skin. But this was just Dwayne and besides, I had my ever fertile imagination at work, worrying about the shape of Bobby’s body after days, weeks, months in the water.

Dwayne worked backwards from the water’s edge to the door, slipping out of his shoes, stepping back inside but keeping the applicator outside. He dipped its tip into a bucket full of some strong-smelling liquid. We stood side by side, behind the blockade of his desk, and looked out. One of the Lake Patrol’s boats came into Lakewood Bay, its blue light circling atop its crowning metal frame. I craned my neck to look up and behind me. Atop the ridge that defined Millennium Park, people stood in tight groups. Some even lined the railroad tracks which ran between the cabanas and the short steep cliff where the park and shops pulled away into Lake Chinook proper.

“Have they said how long the body was in the water?” Dwayne asked. “I turned off my set.”

“At least a week, probably longer.”

“No one’s talking homicide yet, are they.” It wasn’t a question.

“Not yet.”

“What are the theories?”

Typical of Dwayne to want his information from me when he was the one who’d first learned of the discovery. “There are a lot more questions than answers. They think Bobby purposely set it up to look as if he’d drowned. Did he hitchhike from there? Did he call someone? They never found any local pay phone records. He had a cell phone but no calls were made that day or ever after. Cotton was on the news along with Heather and Murphy. He looked terrible. I can sure believe he’s sick now. This is going to kill him. Tess isn’t taking calls, but she was so sure Bobby was alive that I know she’s undone.”

“You ever get your money from her?”

“I told you. The check’s in the mail,” I said, bristling.

“It’s just that it’ll be harder to collect now. The question of Bobby’s whereabouts has been answered.”

I didn’t respond. Mostly because he was right. Partly because he pissed me off.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Tess really wanted me to find out who Cotton’s beneficiary is. I think it’s probably Bobby.” I was reminded of Jerome Neusmeyer’s eager hands and tongue and my stomach momentarily revolted. If Bobby were Cotton’s beneficiary then whoever was next in line would win by default. Unless Cotton rewrote his will. Which he very well might do. “I put a call into Tess this morning. Got her answering machine. Told her how sorry I was and asked her to call me. Guess that’s all I can do for now.”

Dwayne grunted an acknowledgment. “We’ll wait for the coroner’s report.”

“You think it’s murder, don’t you?”

“I don’t see how a guy who’s managed to evade the authorities for over four years just falls in Lake Chinook and dies.”

“It could happen.”

“Playing devil’s advocate isn’t going to get you answers.”

“Thanks,” I muttered tersely.

Dwayne smiled. It was the kind of knowing smile that suggested I was being a difficult child which pissed me off anew. I left him about a half an hour later, feeling anxious. Hanging around him didn’t help as I was alternately too aware of him as a man and irritated with his mentoring, which, between you and me, was way past its pull date.

The second notable occurrence of the day was that the Coma Kid woke up. Everyone committed his name to memory as soon as they learned it from the papers—Jesse Densch. Cheers and happiness abounded though he couldn’t recall much of anything except his name and the name of his parakeet which was Buddy.

I watched television all day, keying into every update. Sometime in the afternoon I managed to do some shopping. My first stop was Rite Aid for a new pair of flip-flops. They might not float but they were the right price. Then I made a return trip to the grocery store to buy bread, milk, eggs, cheddar cheese, waffle mix, and a cheap bottle of Chardonnay. I couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for the wine. Drinking alone is a problem for me. Instead I poured tap water into a pitcher and put it in the refrigerator to chill, then I fixed myself a cheese sandwich for dinner. This totally captured Binks’ attention, so I broke off bits of crust and tossed them for her to catch. She snapped them in her jaws like a crocodile.

Note to self: don’t get on the dog’s bad side.

The third and last event—and this was the one that really got me—happened as I was getting ready for bed: Murphy dropped by my bungalow, flowers in hand. It was barely nine o’clock and though the heat of the day lay thick in the air, the day’s events had left me chilled and peculiarly tired and I’d fallen hard asleep on my sofa. When the doorbell rang Binky launched into a strange barking howl that sounded sort of like
woo-woo-woo
. I was trying to figure out what that meant as I glanced down at my oversized orange T-shirt which says simply: Go Beavs! It’s an homage to Oregon State University, sixty miles south in the city of Corvallis, Oregon. I also own a Duck shirt as I’m bi-fan-ial, if that’s a word, and root for the University of Oregon as well. But I don’t like their colors—yellow and green—so I stick with orange and black.

Peering through the peephole I recognized Murphy in the fading purple light. “Shit.” Rapidly finger-combing my hair I wondered if little grains of sleep were stuck in the inner corners of my eyes from my nap. Quickly I scrubbed them with my fists like a child.

Reluctantly, I opened the door. “Hello there,” I said with just a trace of question in my voice.

“Catch you at a bad time?”

“It’s bad for all of us today.”

“You got that right.” He brought irises. My favorite. My mind raced. When people are nice to me I don’t know what to do. Mostly I think they want something from me.

“Thank you.” I shut the door behind him.

He looked like hell, to put it nicely. His jeans were dirty, as if he’d been wiping muddy hands on them. Maybe he’d been part of the rescue team. His hair was slightly mussed, but it was the deeply etched lines bracketing his mouth and the dullness of his eyes that revealed his true state of mind.

“How are you holding up?” I asked, taking the flowers from him.

“Not good.”

“I’m sorry about Bobby. And his family. And everything.”

“Jane…” He swallowed hard.

I stared at him, my heartbeat beginning to speed up. To my shock he suddenly wrapped his arms around me and held tight. From a distance I saw myself, holding out the flowers, my arms stretched out straight and stiff while Murphy drew me to him like a life-giving elixir. I was too surprised to do much else.

“I feel…sick,” he murmured against the side of my throat.

I shivered from the frisson that raced down my spine. It was my turn to swallow and gently bring my hands around his back.

Binky, whom I’d managed to forget in the heat of the moment, let out a sharp, little bark. I felt Murphy start and he pulled away from me to look down at the dog. The little traitor. I’d just been beginning to enjoy the wonder of Murphy’s embrace.

“You have…a pug?”

Murphy knew my aversion to pets of all kinds. “She was a gift,” I said, scooping Binks up and carrying her to the bathroom where I firmly shut her in.

The moment had passed. I wasn’t sure how to feel. My pulse raced light and fast. The depression that had loomed all day hadn’t dissipated. It had manifested into something else. Something between us.

“I have some wine,” I said through a dry throat.

“Good.”

Murphy followed me to the kitchen, his gaze turning toward the bathroom door as Binky began a furious scratching. I figured the paint job was already ruined. Without asking, Murphy let the eager little beast out again. Binks snuffled Murphy’s sneakers which were covered with leftover grass from a newly mown lawn. He bent down to scratch behind her ears but she sidestepped him. She’s not that easily won.

He said, “Did you hear the Coma Kid woke up?”

“Uh-huh.” I thought for a bit. “What’s his name again?”

“Jesse something, I think.”

“Oh, yeah.”

I uncorked my bottle and poured us two glasses of Chardonnay, hoping against hope that Murphy hadn’t become a wine connoisseur during our time apart. I possess two wine glasses just for an occasion such as this. One’s a little chipped on the edge, and hostess that I am, I kept that one for myself.

“I’m really worried about Cotton,” Murphy said as he settled onto one of my two kitchen stools. They sit beneath my counter overhang and like my wine, they’re cheap. The stool’s legs creaked ominously beneath his weight. “He’s not doing well.”

“I can imagine. It was a rough day.”

“This has put him over the edge. He wasn’t well before, but now…”

I nodded and sipped the wine. Kinda tart. Spicy. Not especially good, but since we were drinking at my place it was either this or a few shots of vanilla extract. I’m pretty sure I have a bottle of that around somewhere. Doesn’t everybody? “There’s no more wondering whether Bobby’s alive or not. There’s no more kidding himself.”

Murphy grimaced. “Cotton’s always had a soft spot for Bobby, regardless of what he’s said. Bobby was his only son. I don’t think he believed he could really kill his family.”

“No one wants to believe it.”

He gave me a straight look. “I had to face facts eventually, Jane. I’m pretty sure you meant that for me.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

“I hated Bobby for what he did,” Murphy bit out intensely. “I didn’t want to hate him. It was easier not to believe. It was easier to go away.”

“It’s over now. At some level, anyway. Maybe this will help Cotton, in some strange way. Give him closure.”

He shook his head, teetering a bit on the stool. I prayed it would hold his 6’4” frame. Binks sat nearby, alternately staring up at us and panting.

We drank the entire bottle of wine, saying little of any further import. Two or three glasses in I remembered why I liked Murphy. Or, more truthfully, I forgot what I didn’t like about him.

I suddenly wanted to kiss him. To hell with that, I wanted to make out with him like it was a reality show requirement to keep from being kicked off the team/tribe/show. I managed to keep my lust from obvious view. At least I think so. When Murphy moved to the couch, I took the dilapidated rocker—the only other seat in the living room. Binks was torn. She wanted to sleep on the couch by Murphy but apparently felt she needed to show some allegiance to me. She stayed by my chair, flopped on the hardwood.

Time passed and Murphy began to talk about Bobby. It wasn’t anything specific, just some memories of childhood that were positive. I think he’d been waiting for the chance, but Bobby’s heinous crimes and disappearance had prevented him. Now it came pouring out, all the love of their friendship, all the competitiveness between them, the hurt over betrayals, some minor, some large.