Ultraviolet (26 page)

“When was this?” I asked.

“Violet joined Landon’s right after Bart’s death. I was already there and we struck up a friendship of sorts. She wasn’t there very long because she met her second husband right away. I cannot remember his name for the life of me. This is about the time Roland and I started seeing each other, so I wasn’t really paying much attention. He’d spent all that time in med school and it was like he’d never had time for a girlfriend. We met in January and were married by June. Sean and Gigi came along and I guess we were happy for a while, then things just sort of fell apart. You know how that goes.”

“My husband left me for his secretary,” my mother said.

“Bastard,” Renee said.

“Jane’s father,” Mom reminded.

“You can’t hurt me with that one,” I assured Renee. “I haven’t seen him in years.”

My father took off when Booth and I were still toddlers. My mother helped support him through law school; then he left her for his secretary, whom he promptly married and started a new family with. I believe I have three half siblings; I probably have a lot more by now. To date that’s all I know about Richard Booth Kelly. My brother is Richard Booth Kelly Jr.

The shadows had lengthened and I was done with the trip down my own personal memory lane. “So, you met Roland at Landon Ladies, where Violet met her second husband.”

“That’s right. Then Roland went back to it after it became Connections, or whatever it was, and that’s where he and Violet found each other. Isn’t that just lovely?”

“Violet worked for the same company twice,” I confirmed. “The one that had the scandal?” At Renee’s nod, I asked, “What was that about?”

“A couple of the Landon Ladies were selling more than their sparkling conversation. Lucrative, but it was illegal, of course, and well…” She shrugged. No judgment. “So Landon Services became Connections.”

I hadn’t realized Violet had worked for the escort service more than once. She’d told me that she’d quit the job upon realizing her dates had expected more than a handshake at the end of the evening. It was a surprise to learn she’d gone back for a second try. It was also a surprise to learn that’s how she’d met Roland.

“How did Violet’s first husband die?” I asked.

“Bart Treadway was a hiker. One of those outdoorsy guys everybody just loves. I never met the man, personally. He was dead before Violet showed up at Landon Ladies, but she talked about him quite a bit in the beginning. She was upset that his family blamed her for his death. They had money, but everything was in trust for him, and it didn’t pass on to Violet. She got nothing, and I suppose that’s how come she was never indicted for his death.”

“She was suspected of killing him?” Mom posed.

“I got this from Bart’s sister, Patsy Treadway,” Renee revealed. “I was kind of crazy for a while, after Roland hooked up with Violet, and so I looked up Patsy and became friends with her. She was more than happy to rank on Violet, which I needed at the time. She told me Violet never went hiking with him. Never, never, never. That sounds just like Violet, right? She’s
not
a hiker. Then one day she decides to go with him and they take off together. But later that day she comes off the mountain alone. Says she left Bart to do more hiking. That she got tired. Two days later they find his body at the bottom of a ravine. He ‘fell’ from the trail above.”

“He didn’t fall,” I guessed.

“Well…” Renee spread her hands. “Everybody knew Bart and Violet were having problems. She was pretty young in those days. Probably thought she’d get the money, but oops. Didn’t happen. Bart’s family tried to get the D.A. to prosecute, but the case wasn’t strong enough. No money, no motive, was the way they saw it. Violet said she’d gone hiking with him because he’d asked, and she wanted to try and save their marriage. But she got whiny and he grew tired of her, so she walked back to where they’d left their car. She hung around awhile but finally took herself home. She called Patsy and said Bart might need a ride back, which pissed Patsy off but good. She went to collect him but he never came out.”

“She still maintains that Bart’s death was Violet’s fault. What do you think?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past Violet.”

“And you told Melinda this.”

Renee smiled fleetingly. “Oh, you know…Melinda’s so easy to send over the edge.”

It was interesting how Renee had stayed a part of Roland’s life all these years, and not just through her children. In fact, she scarcely seemed connected to her children by anything more than happenstance. It was like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“You can talk to Patsy,” Renee encouraged. “I’ve got her address.”

“What about Violet’s second husband?”

“They divorced. That’s all I know.”

Mom and I left soon afterward. Renee pressed Patsy Treadway’s number and address upon me. I put in a call to her as we headed for the car and was sent, as ever, directly to voice mail. The communication age. Like, oh, sure. Not that I was exactly panting to talk to the woman as I felt I’d pretty much gotten the gist of what had taken place from Renee, and I had a feeling I would hear a lot more theory than fact from Patsy.

Mom and I drove to our four-unit in Venice through heavy commuter traffic down Lincoln. It felt like we hit every light. Finally Mom eased onto Abbott-Kinney and then meandered through narrow beach streets until we turned on Baybridge. Venice is kind of a weird place. All this prime beachfront real estate yet everything has that musty, dank smell and peeling-paint appearance of an area gone to seed. There’s a carnival, Coney Island–type atmosphere about the place: surf shops; wind socks fluttering; roller skaters in shorts zigzagging along the sidewalk that cuts through the sand.

My mother and I co-own a tan-colored rectangular box. Its front faces the ocean and if it weren’t for the buildings on the three blocks between it and the water, it would have an excellent view. As it is, it pretty much looks at walls, roofs and sprouting antennae, though the tiny balconies on both front units have teensy, peekaboo views if you hang over the rails. They were originally apartments; my mother was savvy enough to convert them into condominiums shortly after she managed to buy the building, yet she and I still maintain ownership of all four units. At the time of the purchase I was working at Sting Ray’s, a beach bar, as one of their bartenders. By my mother’s wheeling, dealing and stretching the boundaries of financial security, I became part owner in the project. My mother actually lives a couple of streets over in the little three-bedroom house Booth and I grew up in. Now, when it was clear she was heading directly toward the four-unit instead of her house, I made a sound of protest.

“We’re not dropping off my bag first?”

“I’ve moved to one of the units,” she said, causing my jaw to drop.

“When?”

“Mrs. Cassleway died and so the lower front unit was empty. I started redoing it. She had dogs. Big dogs, and cats. It reeked. And then someone wanted to buy my house.”

“You sold the house?” I asked in horror.

“No way.” Mom gave me a sideways look, silently chiding me. “But I started thinking about its value, and then I decided to rent it. It’s got a garage, you know. And a driveway. They’re paying me a small fortune.”

This made me happy. “So you moved into the four-unit,” I repeated.

“Yep.”

We drove past our building and circled toward the parking spots in the rear. The upper front space is the “owner’s unit,” which means it’s slightly larger, and it’s been rented to the same couple for two decades. Its grander space cuts into that of the rear upper unit, so we get less rent for that one.

Mom turned into the alley that leads to our building. There’s no garage, but there’s enough land behind the structure to allow for four parking spots covered by a shingled carport. Signage across the back of the building warns would-be parkers that their lives will be in jeopardy if they so much as edge a tire onto one of our spots. Mostly, we’re treated with respect by the beach people who come in droves on the weekends and circle the narrow streets in search of parking.

A row of exterior lights, each one covered by a stainless steel grid with a nautical motif, lined the back of the fourplex. Each light offered a pool of illumination against the dark cobalt sky. Mom pulled into her spot and we stepped into a brisk wind. I grabbed my overnight bag, my hair flying around my face. I’d left it loose from its ubiquitous ponytail to fly down here and meet Renee. Now I grabbed it in one fist, hauling my bag with the other hand, my purse bumping my hip and threatening to slide from my shoulder.

“Whew,” Mom said as she slammed the front door behind us and switched on the interior lights. The room snapped into bright focus. I dropped my bag on the hardwood floor and looked around with interest.

I knew the property was valuable. I loved having an investment. If it weren’t for Mom, I wouldn’t have anything to call my own, and I could turn religious when I remember how she talked me out of using my hard-earned money to buy a better car, or take a luxury vacation, or consider investing with my first boyfriend, a surfer dude guy who was all California blond good looks and ideas that never materialized. She made me put my money in the four-unit instead. Booth didn’t listen to her, though she tried to get him, too. He bought the car and took the vacation, though the only person I think he’s ever invested money with is Sharona, and believe me, she’s a sure bet. They have a house together in northwest Portland, so luckily Booth didn’t completely miss the investing opportunity, either.

But his decision made it that Mom and I are in this together. Just the two of us. I said, meaning it, “This is great.”

“I thought I’d miss my house more than I do. Of course, I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. Got the phone moved over and just settled in. I guess you can tell I redid the place.”

The cabinets were painted a creamy, buttery color and the countertops were large blocks of a darker, taupe tile. The backsplash tile was another shade of cream, subway style, with a crackle finish. She’d put in a gas range, stainless steel, and a matching refrigerator with a freezer drawer on the bottom. She also had one of those two-drawer dishwashers, also stainless. The effect was contemporary yet warmer than Melinda’s unit. Two hanging lights with glowing dark amber-colored glass shades hung down over the eating peninsula that jutted from one wall.

The kitchen opened into the living room, and down the hall was one bathroom, two bedrooms and an alcove with a built-in desk. I used the bathroom and took my bag into the spare bedroom, which she’d done in an olive green color trimmed out in white. The furniture was white, louvered and distressed, very beachy, and the bed sat on a fuzzy cream-colored area rug.

I returned to the kitchen where Mom had poured us each a glass of white wine. God, I love my mother.

“You remember me telling you about Mr. Densworth,” Mom said as she picked up her glass and headed toward the living room. “In the upper back unit, whose daughter-in-law took off with his grandson?”

I dug my cell phone out of my purse and followed her. “Where the private investigator was shot twice in the head. I remember.”

Mom settled into a rattan chair and I sat on the tweed-colored love seat opposite her. “Who are you calling?”

“Sorry. Just a sec.” I phoned Deenie back. She didn’t pick up, so I left her another message.

“You sound discouraged,” Mom said.

No shit. I launched into a dissertation on the failings of cell phones and people who don’t seem to understand the proper etiquette, to which my mother listened politely without the slightest bit of interest. When I finally wound down, she did the equivalent of patting me on the hand and saying, “There, there.” She took a sip of wine and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks, Mom. But it’s possible I won’t.”

She smiled. “You will.”

My mother has dimples that my cheeks only hint at. She’s sweeter by nature. At least I think she is, although there’s a steel rod up her spine that shows from time to time.

“You’re not worried I’ll get shot in the head?”

“I’m always worried. But that’s what I was going to tell you. You were right. That investigator was killed from some other case he was on. It wasn’t Mr. Densworth’s daughter-in-law’s. It was something to do with teenage boys. They were drunk or on drugs or something and they just killed him execution style. They’d seen it in the movies.”

Teenage boys…I felt slightly light-headed.

“What were you trying to get from Cat Lady?” Mom asked.

I corralled my attention with an effort. “Background on Violet Purcell. What happened with her first husband.”

“You think she killed him?” Mom asked curiously.

“I don’t know.”

My mother had met Violet’s nephew, Jasper “Jazz” Purcell, the last time she’d visited and she’d been convinced that Jazz was the guy for me. Handsome, wealthy, gentlemanly…She’d let it be known she thought I should jump into the relationship with Jazz, but then she hadn’t known the whole story. I had no intention of letting her know Violet was related to Jazz.

“Cat Lady’s daughter, Gigi, calls her Ultra-Violet,” I said, thinking aloud. “More like Ultra-Violent, the way people keep dying around her.”

“You mean this Roland fellow.”

“She hit him with a silver tray. The tray’s the murder weapon.”

“And she’s your client?”

I nodded.

“Hunh.” Mom buried her nose in her wineglass and looked concerned.

I decided to walk to Sting Ray’s and see if Ray was around. I hadn’t been back to the place in several years. When I made the move to Oregon, it was like I’d shed one life for another, a snake leaving its skin behind, unwanted and forgotten.

Hunching a shoulder to the stiff breeze, I kept to the lighted areas. I didn’t feel like meeting eyes with the pan-handlers and hecklers, an unfortunate section of the homeless population that loitered along the beachfront.

Like with any beach community, the weather takes its toll wherever you are. Even Venice’s freshly painted apartment buildings looked abused somehow, their stucco sidings circa 1950 and showing the passing of time no matter how much fresh paint was slapped atop it. There are lots of homes that were purchased a long, long time ago and look like they’ve fallen on hard times, their owners unable to keep up with the high cost of maintenance. This same housing sits cheek-by-jowl with multimillion-dollar properties. You just never know what you’re going to get, kind of like Cracker Jack, a surprise in every box.