Candy Apple Red (27 page)

“Yes, Jesse. I was interested in that night, when you fell from the island?”

“I already talked to the police.” He was skittish, barely audible. I knew he was already sorry he’d called me. “I don’t remember anything. I already told ’em.”

“I know. I was just wondering if there was anything else. Some little thing maybe? The dogs weren’t chasing you but you fell. How did that happen?”

“I don’t remember.”

He was lying. I heard it flat out. For a moment I forgot my newfound resolve to let the whole thing lie and I asked, “Do you mind if I stop by and see you?”

“I…think I’d better go…”

Desperate, I blurted out, “How’s Buddy?”

“You know Buddy?” he responded, surprised.

I knew it was all he could only remember in the beginning, the name of his pet parakeet. But it sounded to me like he was recalling a lot more now. At least he knew his own name—some of the rest of us had a hard time remembering it.

“I know he’s a parakeet.”

“A budgie. Yeah.” He seemed to roll that over. “You know where I live?” He reeled off the address and directions, as if the faster he spoke, the less real it would be. I memorized and visualized and scrabbled around at my desk for pen and paper. Jesse could change his mind in a heartbeat.

“I could be there, in say, twenty minutes?”

“O—kay.” The hesitancy was back.

“Looking forward to meeting Buddy,” I said with enthusiasm, then hung up before I overplayed my hand. It was scary how these young kids could be bowled over by animals.

Note to self: Don’t get overly stupid about your dog.

“Guard the place,” I told Binkster, and she watched me go with wide, solemn eyes.

J
esse’s house, a daylight-basement on stilts in serious need of new paint, lay on the south side of Lake Chinook, perched on a hill. Its window side faced northeast and they might have had a view of the Willamette River except for the thick grove of Douglas firs which canopied their backyard and obscured everything from sight.

I carefully worked my way up the asphalt drive. Tree roots had buckled the left side and the ground sloped away toward a ravine. A rusting Chevrolet was parked on the right. I moved carefully as fir needles made the incline slick. Nobody seemed that interested in maintenance.

A woman cracked open the door. She looked to be somewhere in her forties with hair dyed jet black and blue eyes clogged with eye makeup. She gave me a head-to-toe once-over, but good. “I’m here to see Jesse,” I said with a smile.

She swung the door wider and left without a word. Sheesh. So what was I supposed to do? Gingerly, I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me. She could have really stood to open the drapes. It was a beautiful evening beyond these dark, shadowy shapes. I inhaled dust. Not much going in the way of housekeeping, either.

“Jesse!” she suddenly hollered from somewhere out of sight, causing me to jump. “There’s someone here for you!”

A few moments later Jesse appeared. He wore a baseball cap, but I could see hair to his shoulder on one side, a buzz cut on the other. Apparently his head wound had been shaved and treated. In some circles, his hairstyle could be the height of fashion.

He wore khaki shorts that covered his knees and a blue T-shirt advertising wakeboards. “Hi,” I greeted him, holding out my hand. “I’m Jane.”

Uncomfortably, he shook my hand. “I guess you know who I am.” He seemed to wake up to his duties as a host and gestured toward the couch. I perched on the end of it. He sank into an overstuffed chair opposite me and I saw the
poof
of dust rise into the air.

Yeah, like I had any room to complain about housekeeping. Still, I couldn’t quell the little cough that fought its way up my throat. “Do I get to meet Buddy?” I asked, trying to break the ice.

Jesse perked up. “Ya wanna? He’s in my room. C’mon back.” He leaped up and I followed him down a narrow hallway to another dimly lit room. But here Jesse threw back the curtains and I was treated to the disaster of an unmade bed, athletic gear and clothes strewn over the floor and a cage near the window which smelled sourly of bird.

“He’s molting some,” Jesse told me.

No kidding. Buddy had once been blue and white. Now he was a splotch of ragged feathers which he dug at ferociously with his beak, his little head bent to his task. Tiny pebbly black, green and white bird poop littered the bottom of his cage.

I hardly knew what to do next. For the life of me I couldn’t dredge up the fire of interest I’d once had concerning the Coma Kid. I’d thought he might know something. Maybe he’d even seen something the night he was on the island. Something to do with Bobby Reynolds. Now, I wondered if I hadn’t been overly zealous in my “investigation.” I’d wanted to crack a case that the authorities were still working on. Call it beginner’s overeagerness.

Jesse was studiously watching Buddy gnaw at his little body. Not sure what to do, I studied Buddy, too.

Eventually, Jesse cleared his throat. “I know that old guy who owned the island died, so I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, really.”

His voice was a decibel or two below comfortable hearing. I leaned into him. “What doesn’t matter?”

He swallowed hard. “Y’know, I saw him. The one in the paper. The killer guy.”

The hair on my arms lifted in spite of myself. “You
saw
him?”

“I didn’t really remember, but then I kinda did,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to say. It’s weird, y’know? Like a dream? But I’m pretty sure it happened.”

I felt myself go cold. So, Bobby had been on the island. Hearing it from this boy’s lips made it real. I felt less elated than I would have expected having my theory proved true. “What did you see?” I asked.

“I was coming around the path. It was dark and I was looking for the dogs, y’know? My buddies left me.” He still sounded upset.

“They were circling the island. Trying to keep from drawing attention to themselves.”

“So, I was scared, y’know? Running kinda light and fast. And I came around this curve. The path kinda jogs inward there? It’s right by that garage building? Runs along the back of it. But you step out into this grass where there’s no trees, if you’re not careful.”

I visualized the garage. I could almost pinpoint where he meant. “Go on.”

“There were two guys there. One of ’em was the guy who killed his family.”

“You’re sure?”

His eyes were huge, scared. “Yeah. I could only see one of ’em.
Him
.”

“But they were both men?”

He nodded. “I heard their voices. They were shouting at each other.”

I took a breath. “Do you remember what they said?”

“No. I was about to shit my shorts. They were just yelling and I turned around and sorta slipped. Then one of ’em yelled louder. At first I thought it was at me! I was running away, but careful like, ’cause I didn’t want to make a sound.” Jesse shivered involuntarily.

“What was he yelling?”

“He was really mad. I mean, like really mad.”

“Bobby?”

“Uh-uh. The other one. He said…” Jesse screwed up his face, thinking hard. If he were milking the moment for drama, he was sure doing one hell of a job. I wanted to reach down his throat and pull the words out. “I think he said…
the area’s mine
…” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I remember wondering if the area was his. Like he owned it? Or maybe he used to own it and was really mad that he didn’t now? It kinda creeped me out.
The area’s mine
. That’s pretty close. Made the hair stand up on my head. Like my scalp lifted, y’know? The killer guy stepped away from him and I just kept running.”

“You didn’t ever see the other guy?”

“Uh-uh. I wanted out of there. I just took off as fast as I could. Got to the fence and jumped over, but then I fell. Smacked my head, I guess.” He reached up and gently touched the shaved side of his scalp below his hat.

“Do you think you’d recognize his voice again, if you heard it?”

“Hell, no! He was just yelling. I could never pick it out. Uh-uh! I wouldn’t. No way!” Terror filled his eyes. “I’m just telling you this ’cause Kurt said you were okay. You have a dog and you wouldn’t turn me in. But I won’t tell anybody else, and if you tell ’em I told you, I’ll say you’re lying. I will!”

“Relax. I’m not really investigating this case. I don’t know if what you saw means anything anyway.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

Jesse pressed the knuckles of one hand to his lips, his eyes on Buddy again. After a long moment, he said, “They say the killer guy was murdered. Do you think…it happened that night?”

I thought it was a damn good bet, but I said offhand, “I don’t think anyone knows. Probably not.”

“You think they killed him ’cause he killed his family?”

I shook my head and shrugged. I thought it sounded a lot like they killed him over the island. I didn’t say so to Jesse, but I thought the terms of Cotton’s will just became a hell of a lot more interesting.

I didn’t go into the main salon where Jerome Neusmeyer was presenting the last will and testament of Clement Reynolds, but I did go to the island because Murphy insisted. I wore a black skirt, this one a little longer than the one I’d had on Friday, and a dark lavender blouse that I absolutely detested as it had way too many frills and was a misguided gift from my mother so I hadn’t been able to throw it out. Yet.

I stood near the pool and gazed beyond to the green waters of the lake. Trolling near the property was the cleanup barge, a watercraft operated by mostly teenagers for a summer job which cleared debris from the lake. Idly, I watched it move out of sight along the bank. Other people would be joining us in about an hour, post will-reading. Then we could all watch as Heather poured Cotton Reynolds into Lake Chinook.

I thought about the last time I’d seen Cotton on the island. Then, he’d been trying to convince me that Bobby was the one and only, the good son, innocent of all charges. Later, on his deathbed as it turned out, he’d taken a different tack entirely.

Murphy had moved in with me Saturday night. He’d displaced The Binkster who, before his arrival, had slowly inched her way from her bed and into mine. I’d stopped shooing her out, but Murphy’s arrival had shoved her into the living room where she whined piteously. Luckily, a little carnal knowledge between Murphy and myself had kept me from caring too much. Hey, how bad was the sofa really, anyway?

Tess had managed to show up for this occasion. She was in a dark blue suit with a narrow skirt and short jacket. Her blond hair had been cut and coiffed and her nails done a faint shade of puce. She looked as hard and brittle as glass. I’d steered clear of Neusmeyer so I hadn’t been able to speak to her. It was just as well. One look my way and her blue eyes narrowed. We really didn’t have a lot left to say to each other.

Murphy couldn’t understand my aversion to being with the others while the will was read, but I held firm. I’d slicked my hair into a very tight, librarian-type bun, sprayed the hell out of it, then placed a pair of sunglasses firmly on my nose. I didn’t think Neusmeyer would tumble to whom I was, given the old lady, feminine blouse and sensible shoes, but I didn’t want to take the chance. I really did not want to have to make half-assed explanations should the issue of Ronnie come up and ruin the solemn tenor of the day.

There were several surprise attendees. A woman who reminded me a lot of Tess came in at the last moment, dabbing her eyes with an embroidered hankie. She wore a black sheath and a hat with a net. Very forties. Very chic. I learned from Murphy’s surprised intake of breath that she was Dolly Smathers, Cotton’s paramour after his divorce from Tess. A woman hated equally by both Tess and Heather. Upon seeing her, both Tess and Heather stiffened like mannequins.

The other surprise beneficiaries appeared to be George and Ruth Monroe. The lot of them were ensconced inside the house, listening to their bequeathments.

I strolled over to the garage and looked around. The grounds were groomed and trimmed, the patio swept. Grant Wemberly in action. I walked in the direction Jesse had indicated and found the little jog of the trail. I stood on that jog and looked toward the house and garage, the angle I believed Jesse had been positioned. My view was obscured by Douglas firs, naturally, but I could see slices of grounds and house between the trees. If Bobby and his combatant were standing away from the garage, Jesse would have been able to see and hear most of what was happening. If they were standing closer to the garage, which I expected our mystery man had been, it would have been more difficult.

I’d been wrestling with the idea that I should tell someone what Jesse had told me. But who? Dwayne? I had yet to stop by and see him, mainly because I was so involved with Murphy. Murphy? Nah…He was focused on getting through this ordeal today and I didn’t want to muddy the waters with information that would probably only depress or anger him. Tomas Lopez? I shied away from going to the authorities, especially since Jesse had said in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t back me up. Booth? Now, Booth was a possibility. He was an officer of the law, but he was also my brother. Hypothetically, I could give him what I’d learned and he might be able to make a judgment call on it that we could both live with. However, Booth was unpredictable. More than once when I’d brought him a problem, he’d gone all “big brother” on me and made me sorry I’d ever said anything to him.

So, to date, I was sitting on that information. I had a theory I applied to:
the area is mine
. After all, it was all about real estate, wasn’t it? Real estate agents had been circling the island all summer, waiting for a chance to pounce. Paula Shepherd and her sidekick, Brad, were especially obnoxious. However, it was Craig Cuddahy where I’d put my money. He was the developer. He was the one who wanted to subdivide. He was the one who’d gone a few rounds with Cotton over it. I wasn’t sure what Paula’s plan was, but Craig seemed the more likely suspect. He wanted the island. He’d stayed around all summer in the hopes of gaining it. I believed he would make a deal with the devil to gain control of it.

Or maybe just a deal with whomever inherited it.

Which meant that Craig Cuddahy had faced off with Bobby Reynolds. Had snarled at him that the area was his. Had…killed him?

I grimaced, trying to picture that. I already knew Cuddahy was quick with his fists, but even Heather had said that was after Cotton took a poke at him first. So, what had happened? Had he knocked Bobby unconscious, taken him out in a boat and then sunk him? To gain control of the property? How? He couldn’t have expected Cotton to die. I mean, sure, we all heard he was ill, but death is coy. It isn’t something that can be predicted with any accuracy. I did not for a minute believe Cotton had been murdered by Craig Cuddahy or anyone else.

So, how had Cuddahy felt the island was his? Why would he murder Bobby for it?