Ultraviolet (27 page)

Sting Ray’s probably defies all kinds of city codes, meandering off its designated lot onto the beach as if it’s slowly dragging itself toward the ocean. Its beachside eating area is a wooden platform atop the sand with a retractable awning in striped black and tan shading it from the sun.

I entered through the main entry, a Dutch door on the south side. The maitre d’s stand was directly in front of me and a girl in tan shorts and a bright blue shirt with a tiny, stitched gray manta ray across the left breast pocket that sported “Sting Ray’s” spelled out in yellow script gave me a look and then walked away. I saw that she was in some kind of altercation with another similarly dressed woman who looked about five years her senior. The older woman pointed to me, and my girl returned, her face flushed. The smile she gave me was little more than bared teeth. “Are you having dinner?”

“Just the bar, thanks.” I strolled past her to the back deck. She gave the older woman a hard look that said, “See?” plain as day. The senior worker watched me with a baleful eye. I was taken back to a time when these little dramas played out daily while I worked the bar.

Ray wasn’t around, as far as I could tell. I slid my rear end onto a black-and-tan-striped stool and ordered a Sting Ray, which is basically a mai tai with a few extra ingredients added and a clear plastic swizzle stick with a little jellyfish critter on top. The bartender was male and wore the same tan cotton shorts, but his T-shirt was gray with a three-button placket. The yellow, scripted Sting Ray’s logo ran obliquely across the pocket. “Ray not around?” I asked.

“Nah. He only stops in at night.”

Well, night was here. The sun wasn’t even a paler part of the sky any longer. The breeze was an out-and-out wind along the beach, and it was blowing stiffly, making it possible to see hard, pinprick stars in between the moving clouds. It was turning the air downright chilly and I could feel gooseflesh rise on my skin. The hanging black and gold Japanese lanterns that ran along the roofline were doing a little dance all their own. One of the employees untied the clear plastic drapes that are pulled shut when the wind kicks up. If it gets really cold, Ray closes down the back deck completely.

The bartender critically eyed some of the stemware hanging upside down from a wooden rack above his head. He slid out several rows, one by one, placing them in the dishwasher. “Blender explosion,” he said, aware that I was watching. “Strawberry daiquiris. Happened last night and we’re still finding it everywhere.”

“Sticky,” I said.

“No shit,” he answered mildly. “You know Ray?”

“Used to work for him. Bartender.”

“Yeah? You working somewhere else around here?”

I shook my head. “Followed a guy to Lake Chinook, Oregon. Relationship ended but I stayed on.”

“If you’re looking for a job, mine’s going to be open. Got a callback on a new television series. It’s time for me to give it my all, y’know? Now or never, that’s what I think.”

I’d almost forgotten that nearly all the waiters in Los Angeles were actors at heart. “Thanks, but I’ve switched professions.” I picked up my drink and moved off to stand at the edge of the wooden platform and stare toward the ocean. There weren’t many people left on the sand. They’d already packed up their beach paraphernalia—balls, flip-flops, kites, canopied strollers—and headed home.

Another wind gust sent a shiver down my back. I was still in the brown slacks and boots I’d chosen for my interview with Renee, but the thin, long-sleeved, dressy T-shirt wasn’t enough for the coming night. I should have changed into my jeans and trusty Nikes. I could have sat myself down in the sand and contemplated life. As it was, I tucked myself into a table at the edge of the platform. A votive candle, its holder blue shark-shaped glass, graced my table, the little flame flickering wildly and threatening to extinguish with each new gust of energetic breeze. I moved it closer to me and it steadied.

I’d brought my purse with me and the notebook and pen I carry around at all times, just in case I have a sudden compelling need to write down information. The notebook was scratched with phone numbers and addresses. Sometimes it’s just easier than plugging the information into my phone.

I wrote down Renee’s timeline information, planning to add it to my computer later. I started doodling as soon as I got all the information notated. Renee acted like she wanted me to follow up on Violet, but it wasn’t like she was dying for me to prove her guilt like Gigi and Melinda were. I hadn’t gotten any real sense of vindictiveness or emotion on her part. The truth was, she didn’t give a shit. Not really. Roland was dead and it was too bad and she would miss him, sort of, but that was about it. Though Renee gave lip service to Roland being the love of her life, it kinda appeared Renee pretty much loved Renee. There wasn’t room for anyone else in her tiny little heart.

So, where did that leave the investigation?

I wished Larrabee would call me with more information on the Wedding Bandits. If any of them were caught and would talk, it could make a huge difference. I wanted to know how they’d targeted the Hatchmere wedding and how they’d learned Roland’s home address. More than that, I wanted to know what the story was when they ran across Roland. Was he unconscious, possibly dead, and that’s what scared them off, like Larrabee suspected? The trail of gifts, wrapped and unwrapped, across the front yard showed a very hasty exit. Something sent them scurrying and I thought Roland’s dead body was a good guess.

That same niggling thought touched a finger inside my brain. This time I didn’t try to grab for it. I stared through the wavering clear plastic curtain toward the dark waves, cresting and foaming white against the wet gray sand. The ocean looked as vast and dangerous as it was.

“Want another?” a young woman asked. She wore long pants, preparation for the chilly night. The girl at the podium was still in shorts and I could see she was shivering.

“Sure.” To stay ahead of my alcohol consumption I ordered off the happy hour menu. Some cold shrimp and a salad. In my notebook I wrote down the cost. I was really getting into this expense account thing.

And suddenly the thought coalesced. It was the timing, yes, but I was concentrating on the wrong timeline. It was the Wedding Bandits who were off. From Dwayne’s notes I knew they robbed homes while weddings were in progress. That was their m.o. and they hadn’t varied from it even once while they were running and gunning.

But they’d shown up to the Hatchmere house early. Way early.

Basics from the timeline read:

12:00 p.m.—Violet and Roland get into a fight. She hits him and storms out.

2:00 p.m.—Roland doesn’t show for pictures at Cahill Winery. Guests become worried. Emmett calls Roland several times.

3:00 p.m.—Emmett leaves to find Roland.

3:30 p.m.—Emmett discovers Roland’s body.

4:00 p.m.—Scheduled wedding ceremony. Canceled. Gigi and remaining guests leave.

The police hadn’t said much about Roland’s time of death, but Violet told me she hit him around noon, so it had to be sometime around there. Therefore, Roland must have died at noon or shortly after. The Wedding Bandits must have burgled the house after noon, when Violet left, and before three-thirty, when Emmett arrived. But the wedding was scheduled for four.

Based on their m.o., they would not have arrived at Roland’s house any earlier than three-thirty. They always robbed the homes during the scheduled ceremony.

Always.

Yet, this time they were early. Why?

What was different?

I gave it some thought, rolling the idea around in my head.

Had the Wedding Bandits known Roland was supposed to be at pictures at two? Had they received inside information? Giving them more time to rob the place blind?

Inside information…from the man or woman who was their leader? The one who’d apparently quit the team after Roland’s death? Leaving them to their own devices…?

Who was this person who had access to addresses, finances?

I wondered if Larrabee, who’d brought up the inside man, had an idea and just hadn’t shared it.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
was booked on a 1:00 p.m. flight the next day and had thoughts of sleeping in when my cell phone caught me at seven-thirty. Groaning, I checked caller ID. An 818 area code, which is Burbank, the Valley and surrounding environs, and it also happened to be where Bart Treadway’s sister, Patsy, lived.

“Hullo?”

“This is Patsy Treadway. You called and left a message on my phone about Violet Purcell.”

Her tone was slightly aggressive. My hope for a relaxing morning grew dim, although I could hear Mom already puttering around in the kitchen and the scent of coffee and cinnamon wafted into my bedroom. Cinnamon what? I wondered. Rolls? Toast? “Um, yeah.”

“Well, you came to the right person. I have a lot to say about Violet. Did Renee fill you in at all?”

“A little bit.”

“You’re a private investigator? Does that mean Violet’s up to her old tricks again, luring men with her siren’s call? I just hope you get her this time. She killed my brother, and if I can help you in any way, any way at all, just ask! When do you want to meet?” she swept on. “I’m in Burbank. Where are you?”

“Venice.”

“Well, that’s perfect. I’m heading to San Clemente this afternoon, so I’ll be shooting right by you. I’ll come your way. Maybe have lunch?”

I perked up. If anyone offers to come your way in the Greater Los Angeles area, it’s a gift. “I have a flight at one. Could we meet around eleven?”

“Do you have somewhere in mind? Oh, wait. How about Encounter?”

Encounter is the mod, Lava Lamp–motifed restaurant situated in the spaceshiplike structure that is the symbol of Los Angeles International Airport. It has a futuristic nightclub feel any hour of the day.

“I’ll be there.”

It was cinnamon English muffins, black coffee and fresh tangerine slices. I made appreciative noises around mouthfuls. Today was one of those days when I can scarcely believe my luck: breakfast
and
lunch. Many mornings I’m relegated to coffee and Chap Stick.

Mom was disappointed that I was leaving so soon. She really wanted me to stay, but it wasn’t going to work right now. As she drove me to the airport I promised again that I would come back and see her soon. She’d made noise about Thanksgiving, but she’d been invited to a friend’s home, so I skated on that one.

I strapped my purse atop my roller bag as I headed up the elevator to the restaurant. Encounter feels like it’s got its tongue planted very firmly in its cheek. It turned out eleven o’clock was as early as it opened, and I was led to a window seat for two, where I looked out at the hazy gray sky and the buildings and ramps and vehicles that make up Los Angeles International Airport. Inside, Encounter’s Lava Lamps were in full swing and I watched as a purple blob goopily separated into several smaller blobs within the lamp’s clear liquid.

I text-messaged Larrabee again, just for the hell of it.

don’t leave me hanging. jk

Probably wouldn’t do any good. People might not be calling me, but good old Jane was standing by, cell phone at the ready.

I pegged Patsy Treadway as soon as she stepped off the elevator. There were four arriving guests, two gentlemen in business suits, a woman in a simple green dress and sensible pumps and a middle-aged woman in a caftan. Had to be Patsy. Her hair was long, gray and wavy, and looked like it could catch and pull in the oversized hammered silver chandelier earrings that hung to her shoulders. She had that “life is serious, so don’t laugh” and “I won’t drink pasteurized milk” look. I tried to imagine Violet married to this woman’s brother and failed. Sexual chemistry is a strange and incomprehensible thing.

She picked me out as well. I lifted a hand to indicate she was right and she said a word to the maitre d’ and came directly to my table. She wore sandals that looked as if they’d been bought in Nazareth. I began to rethink my dreams of a BLT for lunch, afraid I might get the evil eye. But I’d be damned if I went for the alfalfa sprouts. Can’t do it.

“Hello, I’m Patsy,” she said, holding out a hand. Her nails were short and devoid of any kind of polish. Once in a great while I do the girly thing and get a manicure, but there was something so intimidating about her I wanted to curl my nails up and hide them, just because they looked more feminine.

“Jane Kelly.”

We assessed each other. She said, “I hope Violet will finally get what’s coming to her.”

“Renee gave me some background on your brother’s death, but she thought I should hear it from you.”

Patsy nodded vigorously, waving a hand in front of her face as her skin grew red and blotchy. “Hot flashes,” she said by way of explanation. “That’s why I’m going to San Clemente. A famous herbalist lives there.”

“Ah.”

She then launched into the tale of Bart and Violet, with a lot of Patsy thrown in, and how Violet was the root of all evil, Satan herself, a gold digger, a murderess, a liar and a fraud.

I listened, but my hunch about her proved true: I didn’t really learn anything new on the Bart Treadway death. Violet left him while they were hiking and he fell off a cliff and died. I tried to get to the timing of the whole thing. Did Patsy think Violet pushed him? Was that why Violet should be brought to justice? But Patsy couldn’t be pinned down with specifics, and I got the feeling there was a large enough gap between the time Violet left Bart and he died that it was clear it was an accident. Throughout our lunch Patsy tried her damnedest to ignore the facts and convince me with rhetoric, but as I ate my chicken Caesar salad and listened I realized I was hearing an age-old, vitriolic song that had become lore in Patsy Treadway’s world but didn’t amount to much in mine.

While she talked, I compared Patsy to Violet. The two women couldn’t have been more different, even though they were probably close in age. Patsy had called Violet a siren, and that was apt. Patsy herself was an earth mother.