Ultraviolet (3 page)

“Wedding robbers?” I asked, looking at Dwayne, since he’d already been investigating the Wedding Bandits.

“What happened?” Dwayne asked her.

“I don’t know! The police came to see me today,” Violet said, her eyes huge. “God, I don’t believe this. They seem to think
I
did it.” We asked her why that was and after hemming and hawing, she finally admitted, “Because he was killed with a heavy metal platter that has my fingerprints on it.”

“Did you kill him?” Dwayne asked her.

“I don’t think so,” she responded in a small voice.

And that’s when Dwayne checked out completely, picked up his binoculars and returned to his perusal of his buddies across the bay. If I’d known then he was going to make a serious job out of it, I might have been more concerned, but instead after he told Violet I was the lead investigator, I started thinking about how much money I could make and I agreed to take the case.

Since then my job had been mostly about keeping Violet calm and focused. She lived in a certain amount of fear the authorities were going to swoop down and haul her criminal ass to justice. I soothed with words about needing real evidence and motive and whatever else I could draw from the criminology classes I’d taken and my own vast repertoire of bullshit that I like to dress up as fact.

I’d managed to piece together the events of the wedding day from Violet’s disjointed recitation. Apparently Roland’s daughter Gigi had been slated to marry Emmett Popparockskill at the Cahill Winery in Dundee, Oregon, which is about an hour’s drive from Roland’s house in Portland’s West Hills District.

The wedding was scheduled to be outdoors with the requisite flowers, arches, ring bearer and flower girl—two additions I always cheer for since they pretty much rip focus away from the bride by screwing up somehow. I swear to God they are the best part of any wedding, beyond the champagne, alcohol and food.

Violet was not invited to the ceremony as she and Gigi were not on the best of terms, but she’d stopped by Roland’s house to drop off a gift for the bride and groom—the metal platter. While there, she and Roland got into some kind of fight, which culminated with Violet whacking him alongside the head with the platter and leaving in a huff.

Roland never showed for pictures and a search went out. He was found dead on the solarium floor from a blow to the head. Murder weapon, the tray.

Violet insists she didn’t kill him. “He was perfectly fine when I left him! He was moving. Breathing. Swearing at me! I didn’t kill him. Those robbers must have. After I left, they came in and murdered him. I didn’t kill him!”

I’ve gotta say, she’s quite convincing. I would probably believe her, but…well, Roland Hatchmere died from head trauma. And Violet hit him in the head with the tray. And the police only found one set of fingerprints on the tray: Violet’s.

Now I heard the loud purr of a sports car and figured the woman in question had arrived. She gave a perfunctory knock on Dwayne’s door, then pushed in, calling loudly, “I’m letting myself in!”

“Dwayne’s on the dock,” I greeted her.

She burst inside loaded with packages from several major department stores. A cloud of perfume wafted into the room, trailing in her wake. Catching my look, she held the bags higher. “I just couldn’t stop. Am I spending all my funds to fill a need? I’d bet on it, hon. I have too much money and not enough friends. Look, I bought you something.”

I tried hard not to react as Violet dug inside one of the bags. Scary, scary thought. I don’t want to owe Violet
anything
. Working for her is one thing, but friendship. Clothes buying…?

To my consternation she pulled out a dress. “Purple,” I said faintly. I didn’t want to be ungrateful but the thought of Violet buying me clothes…I just know it’s not going to work somehow.

“It’s my signature color,” she said unnecessarily. “It’s more amethyst, don’t you think? It’s like voile, really sheer in that sort of netty way? I just love it. I could just see you in it. Here, try it on.” She held it out to me.

I instantly turned back to my screen. “In a minute, I need to finish this.”

“Oh, come on, Jane.”

I finally really looked at Violet. I’d been spending so much time on the dress and dealing with my internal horror that I hadn’t given much thought to Violet herself. Now I saw clearly that this was important to her. Even worse. There was no polite way out.

“Sure,” I said, taking the proffered garment and heading toward Dwayne’s bathroom.

I stripped off my clothes and pulled it over my head. The dress, actually a gown, hung to my ankles and hugged like a second skin. I’d been wearing jeans and boots and had left dark socks on. Taking them off, I gave myself a studied look, turning to capture a view of the side and back.

I looked…well…good.

I’m not a clothes shopper. It’s just so darn much trouble. I get irritated at salespeople and nothing ever seems to work the way I think it should. How could Violet pick out something like this just by deciding it would be right?

“Okay, I like it,” I admitted after I changed back into my clothes and I returned to the living room. “How much do I owe you?”

Violet’s gaze was out the sliding door to the back of Dwayne’s cowboy hat. Her face was wistful. “It’s a gift,” she said distractedly.

“No,” I argued without much strength. I’d been afraid to look at the price tag.

“Just wear it sometime when we’re out together,” she said, turning back to me and smiling.

Here’s the thing—I think she really likes me. Not in a weird way, just as a friend. Which makes me feel like a heel because I don’t want to like her.

She didn’t wait for more arguments but headed outside. I glanced toward the sky, but the clouds were holding back further precipitation. As she moved into Dwayne’s line of vision, she smiled at him even more warmly than she’d smiled at me.

My cell phone buzzed.

“Hello,” I answered, my gaze zeroed in on the two of them.

“This Jane Kelly?” a flat male voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Hey, it’s Sean Hatchmere. You called?”

Unbelievable. Dwayne was right; I’d just gotten my first break. Sean was Roland’s son. I’d left messages on his cell phone explaining who I was—just like I’d left messages on Gigi’s phone and Roland’s wife Melinda’s and many others’—but I’d assumed Sean wasn’t interested in me any more than any of the rest of them were. “I sure did.”

“You’re trying to help Violet, right? My sister said you were.”

He didn’t bring up Gigi slamming the door in my face, so maybe he didn’t know about her response. I said cautiously, “More like I’m trying to figure out what happened.”

“Isn’t that what the police are doing?”

There was noise in the background. Some kind of unidentifiable music? Techno-rock? I couldn’t tell. But it was loud and Sean’s flat voice was mere microdecibels above it, barely enough for me to make out what he was saying.

“Yes.” One thing I’ve learned in my brief foray into the P.I. business, answer as truthfully as you dare but don’t offer up any more information than necessary. Let whomever you’re talking with develop their own conclusions. Those conclusions might surprise you, more often than not.

“Yeah, well, if you wanna see me you can come down to the Crock pretty much any night.”

“The Crock?” I repeated, surprised.

“You know it?”

“Sure do. How about I stop by tonight? What time will you be there?”

“We start about midnight and go till two or three.”

I paused a beat before saying, “Okay.”

I hung up, my momentary excitement at finally breaking through the Hatchmere wall taking a nosedive. The idea of
starting
anything at midnight made me inwardly groan. I’d been a bartender for a number of years, but I’d lived a different lifestyle then, becoming by necessity a “night person” and sleeping during the day. I’d effectively switched fully to the daylight hours in the time since, so I knew I would struggle to stay awake tonight. Napping always sounds like a good alternative, but, except for that bartending era when my days and nights were completely flipped, I’ve never been able to master it.

But Sean Hatchmere had given me a gift.

As I squeezed my way to the dock, I was just in time to hear Violet say, “What is it with you and those binoculars?” in a peeved voice.

I smiled inwardly, seeing Dwayne’s obsession in a positive light for the first time. Especially when he answered, “Darlin’, you have no idea what you can learn. See that house over there? The one under construction? Do Not Enter’s got some serious teen parties happening every weekend.”

“Teenagers,” Violet responded derisively.

“Can’t decide whether to report ’em to our local law enforcement, or head over there myself and score whatever they’re sharin’ amongst their secretive little selves.” Dwayne grinned up at Violet from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat.

Violet threw a look my way. “I can’t get him to take me seriously.”

“Jane’s your lead investigator.”

“I know, I know.” Violet sighed.

I broke in. “I just got a call from Sean Hatchmere. I’m meeting him at the Crock tonight.”

“Good,” Violet said with feeling. “That’s what I’m paying for! Still no luck with Gigi?” I shook my head. “Well, maybe Sean can help you there. He doesn’t like his sister much, though. Nobody does—did—except Roland.”

Violet and I left Dwayne on the dock as we headed through his cabana and out to our cars. A brisk breeze whipped past, running like a ribbon through the tree boughs. I paused to look around me, waiting for Violet to get into her car, a white Mercedes convertible, which she did after searching in her purse for her cell phone. I watched her unlock the vehicle by remote while she connected to her housekeeper, outlining what she wanted done with the red wine stains on the carpet. As she drove away I had a mental picture of her alone in her mansion, drinking wine, worrying about whether she would be indicted for murder.

She’d married a series of husbands and never improved her financial situation with each divorce. She’d married for love, I guess. Or the hope of love and companionship.

It was ironic that the wealth had come to her from her own family, a group of relatives she’d been separated from for years. She might be facing a murder trial in her future, but at least she could pay for it with Purcell funds.

I climbed into my Volvo wagon and headed home. Another blast of hail came at me like a round of artillery. It made me wonder what I was going to wear to my midnight rendezvous with Sean at the Crock. I found myself beginning to look forward to the event, now that I’d mentally conditioned myself.

And there was always the chance that I might see Megan Adair, one of the Crock’s bartenders and the woman who’d dropped The Binkster, my newly adopted pug, on my doorstep.

Who knew? If I wasn’t careful, I might learn something.

CHAPTER TWO

I
arrived back at my cottage around four o’clock, realizing I had a full eight-hour shift of waiting time till midnight and my rendezvous with Sean. There’s a lot of waiting in this job, and I’m not all that good at it. Maybe I should take up a hobby. Like crossword puzzles or that Sudoku rage. Currently my pastimes appear to be coffee and wine consumption. I’m going for the gold in both pursuits, and I think I could actually get a medal. For exercise I jog from my cottage to the Coffee Nook.

Binkster, my adopted pug, met me at the door, wriggling wildly. I picked her up and we sat down on the couch together, where I petted her and she flopped across my lap as if to say, “Mine.” This pleased me to no end. Unconditional love. Who knew it could be so good? I’ve only had the dog a few months, but she’s become this integral part of my life in a way that still stuns me. I suspect this must be what motherhood’s like—a new addition to your family/life that wasn’t there before, and suddenly is too important to even quantify. She tangled with a car recently and still has the shaved hind leg to prove it. It looks a little like she’s wearing stockings. Well…stocking. I feel gut-wrenchingly bad about the accident, both because Binks was hurt and it was partially my fault. The great thing about Binks, though, is she neither holds it against me, nor probably even remembers. Except when she sees the grill of a vehicle. Then she tends to shy away and who can blame her? She feels the same way about grates over storm drains. She always eyes them warily and gives them a wide berth. I don’t know what that’s from, though I suspect there may be some buried trauma there from puppyhood.

After a few minutes I dislodged the pug who heaved a disappointed sigh and pressed right against my leg as I reached for my laptop. I decided I might as well edit my notes. I’d made a timeline of the events that read:

FRIDAY

6:00 p.m.—Rehearsal dinner at Castellina, forty people invited, Roland was there. Everyone invited is in attendance except Sean (the bride’s brother), who has previous plans of unknown origin. Violet is not invited to any wedding event.

SATURDAY

10:00 a.m.—Gigi (the bride) and Melinda (the bride’s stepmother) at Castellina early for hair and makeup. Various bridesmaids arrive. Female bonding all around. Emmett Popparockskill stays at apartment he and Gigi shared before the wedding day. (Roland is apparently at his house. Never made it to the winery/ceremony.)

1:00 p.m.—Gigi and bridesmaids head by limo to Cahill Winery for pictures, wedding and reception.

2:00 p.m.—Pictures scheduled at Cahill Winery. Emmett drives himself to winery for pictures. His parents arrive, David and Goldy Popparockskill. Various groomsmen arrive. Concern grows when Roland neither shows nor answers his home or cell phone.

3:00 p.m.—More guests arrive. Wedding is slated for four, but by now the atmosphere’s tense with worry. People leave in search of Roland. Gigi stays, breaks down. Emmett heads to Roland’s house. The bridesmaids and groomsmen hit the bar early.