Читать книгу Ultraviolet - Nancy Bush - Страница 7

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.

3:30 p.m.—Emmett discovers Roland’s body. There are items scattered around, wedding presents dropped in the front yard. Suspicion grows that the Wedding Bandits were interrupted by Roland and killed him. Violet’s prints are the only ones on the tray.

My timeline didn’t offer much more than a listing of the events as they occurred. I’d grilled Violet about her own timeline for that morning, and Violet was forthcoming about the fact that she and Roland had gotten in an argument and she’d hit him with the silver tray. But that information was documented fact from the police report, something she couldn’t deny. Obviously, there was a hell of a lot left unsaid. She’d been pretty cagey about her relationship with her third ex, acting as if they were just reunited friends, but we’re talking about Violet here. She’s not known for platonic relationships with men.

At the time of his death, Roland was still married to Melinda McCrae Hatchmere, though they were living apart. I believe Violet reconnected with Roland and they started a steamy affair. Let’s face it: some pretty powerful feelings caused Violet to hit him with the tray. Maybe the relationship had started to sour. Maybe he decided to stick with Melinda. Maybe Gigi got in the way of her father’s new romance. Whatever the case, I’d taken to calling him Rol-Ex, which I think is screamingly hilarious but other people seem to find lame. Violet sure does.

Sometimes I think I’m the last person left on the planet with a real sense of humor.

So, whether she cops to it or not, I believe Violet and Rol-Ex were hitting the sheets together. It’s almost a given. There’s just something ripe, luscious and ready to pick about Violet that can’t be missed. And she’s not the type of woman to spend time mourning the death of a previous relationship, such as the one she was working on with Dwayne. Nope. More likely, Violet would simply zero in on the next opportunity and head that direction. I admire her ability to get over bad stuff. She says there’s no time to dwell, regret, rue or wallow. She’s supercharged in a sultry, throbbing way that reminds me of Mae West or Marilyn Monroe.

And she’s nobody’s fool.

I come by my paranoia over Violet’s chances with Dwayne for good reason. I don’t care that she’s ten to fifteen years older. It didn’t stop Demi Moore, and it would never stop Violet.

And I’ve grown pretty sick of her evasions, to tell the truth. No “amethyst” gown is going to change my feelings. After I talk with Sean I plan to have a serious tête-à-tête with my client and hopefully an exchange of information. I’ll offer up what I learn from Sean, and she’d better come completely clean with a full account of what went on between her and Rol-Ex before she hit him with the platter.

I got ready for the evening early, more out of boredom than an urge to be ahead of the game. I opted for a pair of expensive brown pants—something my friend Cynthia had made me buy in a weak moment—a white, silky shell and a black leather jacket. The weather was unpredictable. Hail one minute, followed by surprisingly warm wintry sun the next, followed further by gale winds that shook the windows and rattled the branches. Whatever the case, Oregon nights in November require layering. It was going to be cold, cold, cold once that sun went down.

I threw a longing glance toward my sneakers; I like to be ready to move, if need be. The Binkster was curled up in her little bed in the corner of my bedroom watching me as I pulled items from the closet, tried them on, discarded them, then put them back. When I was finally dressed to my satisfaction I turned around and looked at her, splaying my palms up to ask for her opinion. Her little tail whipped into a curl, the only movement I could discern apart from her eyes. I’ve come to recognize this as “Hi, there.”

“So, what do you think?” Her tail jerked into a speedy wag. “I have to go out tonight, so you need to head outside and take care of business.” I moved to the kitchen door of my cottage, which leads to a back deck. Stairs descend to the backyard and a body of water known as West Bay. At the eastern end of the bay is a bridge, and once beneath the bridge you enter Lake Chinook itself.

Binks’s toenails clicked against my hardwood floor. I opened the back door, then followed her down the steps, waiting patiently while she nosed around the yard. She can let herself out through her doggy-door cut into the wall, but I wanted to get the job done and lock her inside for the rest of the night. She looked up at me once, her wrinkly black face comically quizzical. I motioned for her to get at it and she got right down to business. I cleaned up after her as I can’t stand dog doo-doo littering my yard and flushed the remains down the toilet.

Binkster looked at me expectantly. She seems to think everything she does requires a reward. Have I created this expectation? Undoubtedly. Do I regret it? Well, yeah, some. Did anyone tell me how to train a dog that was dumped on me unceremoniously? Hell no. I figure Binks is lucky to be alive, at this point.

I reached over and grabbed her face and leaned down and let her half jump up to lick my lips. These kisses used to gross me out. The idea of dog germs is a very real thing. But now I don’t know…I just sort of go with it, which is surprising because I have real Seinfeld-ish problems with that kind of thing.

My cell phone started singing. I dug in my purse for it. Why are those things so damn hard to find? When I finally corralled it and looked down at its brightly lit LCD and recognized the name and number, my brows lifted in surprise. It was my landlord, Mr. Ogilvy. This is not a man who calls me up. Our communication is by mail. I write him a rent check and send it to him. He responds by cashing the check.

“Hi,” I answered.

“Jane?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t waste time. “I’ve decided to sell the place. I’m putting a sign up tomorrow.”

My legs sagged beneath me and I had to sit down. Selling? My cottage? I’d been renting from Ogilvy for over four years. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. I can afford the rent. The house is on the water. There’s nothing like it anywhere in my price range. I don’t want to leave. Ever. “Selling?” I repeated faintly.

“You don’t have to move till it’s in escrow,” he said magnanimously.

Well, la-di-da. My mind immediately searched for a way to buy the property myself, but it wasn’t possible. It was too much money. The property’s value had to be in the stratosphere by virtue of the lakefront land beneath the cottage. The one-bedroom building itself wasn’t much, but it was my home. I was horrified.

“You’re going to have to take your stuff out of the garage,” I said in a voice I barely recognized as my own. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’d never been able to use the garage because of all of Ogilvy’s junk that was padlocked inside. I guess I hoped this might deter him, but apart from an unhappy grunt of acknowledgment, he didn’t react.

I left the cottage with that bad feeling that comes from unresolved issues, the kind that stays in your head, never quite put aside, remembered with a jarring lurch and a pit in your gut. I couldn’t think about moving. I couldn’t. I was pissed off at Ogilvy for even suggesting I should.

In a funk, I drove to my friend Cynthia’s art gallery, the Black Swan, located in Portland’s chichi Pearl District, and hung around until she closed at nine, and then even later, sharing a glass of red wine with her in her office. She looked sharp in a short forest-green skirt, a matching double-breasted jacket and a pair of silver heels. I asked her to go with me to the Crock.

“Can’t,” she declined. “Got to get to bed early. Much to do tomorrow. And I’m short-staffed, as ever, since Ernst left, which isn’t a bad thing because the last thing I needed was to look at his ugly face every day.”

Ernst was an ex-lover and ex-employee.

I walked her to her car, then climbed back in mine, heading east toward the Willamette River which feeds into the Columbia River, the dividing line between Oregon and Washington. The Willamette bisects Portland whose city center lies on the west side. The Crock, short for Crocodile, is located on the east side, not far from Twin Peaks, the two bluish glass towers that are perched atop the Convention Center. I crossed the Morrison Bridge and began a kind of haphazard journey down narrow streets in search of the bar. I’d never been to the Crock and I wasn’t all that familiar with this area. It’s a part of Portland that was once, and is largely still, industrial, this close to the river, but there are cubbyholes of trendy restaurants and nightclubs tucked here and there. In a few years it will probably be blocks of urban hot spots. I’d been to several of the clubs around town to see up-and-coming bands at a number of these joints: they were, to a one, dark, bare, crammed with young people and loud noises.

It had been a number of months since Megan Adair left Binkster in my care. She’d made noise that she might actually give the dog a home since Aunt Eugenie, Binky’s original owner and a friend of my mother’s, had departed this world, leaving her beloved pet in my mother’s care. The fact was, Aunt Eugenie was not my aunt. She was, however, Megan Adair’s. In our one meeting, when Megan dropped off the dog, I’d learned that Megan worked at the Crock and that she was in between places to live. I’d hoped she would come back for the pug soon, but now I felt completely different. If anybody were to try to take Binkster from me, they were in for a fight. It was like a bad love affair, really; the dog belonged to me and only me, and by God, I’d go to any means to keep her.

So it was with a slight chip on my shoulder that I entered the bar. If I saw Megan I was going to make it clear straight up that the dog would not be leaving my care. Which was just another reason why I couldn’t be ousted from my cottage. My heart karumphed hard, hurting. I had to have a place that would take me and my dog. Had to.

“Five dollars,” the bouncer manning the door said on a bored yawn. He was broad, shiny bald and wore all black.

“Five dollars? Really.”

“Five dollars.” He gazed at me hard, his left hand knotted into a fist that he lightly pounded atop a narrow podium.

“The cover’s for…music?”

He just stared at me. Normally this kind of thing totally intimidates me, but I hate parting with money, especially when I can’t see any discernible value to a potential purchase.

“I’m meeting Sean Hatchmere here? He’s a musician?”

He mouthed, “Five dollars.” The way he did it sent a shiver down my spine. I forked over a Lincoln and he stood aside. I could feel my heart beating inside my rib cage like it was trying to escape. Sheesh. Sometimes it feels like the whole world’s in a really bad mood.

I was too early for the bands, even though they were already charging a cover, so I headed around a corner—I swear the wall was simply a sheaf of black cardboard—and turned into a room with a circular bar in the center. It was all corrugated metal and chain link and spotlights that sent silver cones of illumination down upon a motley assortment of patrons.

I saw Megan immediately, her short, spiky blond hair taking on a bluish tint. She wore a tight T-shirt in some gray tone, if the lighting could be trusted, and a pair of darker cargo pants. She was rattling up drinks in a silver shaker, straining a dark red liquid into two martini glasses that looked to be made of molten silver. Everything had that urban, hard, cold feel to it, which I guess was the point. I could think of a million different names more suitable than The Crocodile, but no one asked for my opinion.

A barmaid in black pants and a gray top studded with rivets swooped down on me as I pulled out a metal stool and settled myself at the bar. I ordered a Mercury, and hoped I wouldn’t be poisoned.

I watched as Megan assembled my drink. Something cool and grape-colored disappeared into the shaker with some sugar solution and premium vodka. I sweated the cost. Sometimes they’ll charge you damn near ten dollars for a martini. I’d been so intent on slipping inside without Megan seeing me that I hadn’t registered the price. Or maybe I just didn’t want another fight like with the bouncer. I am kind of a chicken.

I worried that I’d obsess over the cost. Then I worried that I would worry about obsessing over the cost.

Life’s hellish when you’re cheap.

The silver martini glass was pushed toward the barmaid, who in turn carefully put it on her tray, and carefully brought it to me. “Three dollars,” she said, much to my grateful surprise. To my look, she said quickly, “You paid the cover, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Then you’re okay till midnight. Price goes up then.”

“Really.”

“We get a lot of good musicians here. A lot of ’em. Nothing gets going till late, though.”

I sipped away. The drink tasted more pomegranate than grape and it was good. I slurped it down so fast I pretended to keep drinking long after the last drop was absorbed. Thank God for opaque glasses. But then I remembered I could probably put this on an expense account, so I ordered another, and this time Megan herself brought it to me as my barmaid was busy elsewhere.

We locked eyes. I could tell she registered that she knew me from somewhere, but she was having a hard time placing it. I said, “Hello, Megan. I’m Jane Kelly. You brought me the pug this summer. Your aunt Eugenie’s?”

“Oh, Binky!” Her eyes widened. “Is everything all right with the dog? Can’t you keep her any longer?”

“Oh no, she’s fine. I’m…well, I’ve grown attached to her. Honestly, I’d have a hard time giving her back now.”

“Oh, good. I’m just struggling with my apartment, y’know? Good roommates are like hen’s teeth.” She smiled. “One of Aunt Eugenie’s favorite sayings.”

“Good old Aunt Eugenie.”

“I’ve got a guy living with me now who tried to tell me he doesn’t spank the monkey. This after he ate a bag of Cheetos. Your Honor, I saw evidence to the contrary.”

In my mind’s eye, I witnessed what she’d seen in all its orange glory.

“I don’t care what he does. Masturbation’s supposed to be healthy. It’s the lying I can’t stand. You know what I mean?”

I nodded. I hate being lied to. Lying to others, however, is what I live for. An unfair dichotomy that rarely bothers me.

“Gotta get him out and someone else in.” She eyed me some more. “You looking to move? It’s a nice place. Not far off Hawthorne.”

Her words had the power to almost pierce me. It was like the whole world knew I was being kicked out. “I’m pretty happy where I am.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she said a bit ruefully. “That’s a nice cottage. I was just hoping.”

Aren’t we all?

“So, what brings you down to the Crock?”

“I’m meeting Sean Hatchmere here.”

“Who?”

I half twisted in my chair. “I think he’s with a band…maybe?”

“Oh. Yeah, the musicians. They’re all stoned or worse. That’s a stereotype and a fact. I’ve smoked some weed, but that other stuff’ll kill ya.”

Megan, I remembered, smoked Players as well. Sometimes I like the scent of a freshly lit cigarette, but the environs of the Crock were saturated with that stale, musty scent of old cigarettes, dust and, drifting from the kitchen, overused grease. I imagined boiling oil somewhere beyond that turned out jalapeño poppers, clam strips, chicken fingers and assorted deep-fried appetizers at an alarming rate.

“Didn’t you say you used to tend bar?” she asked.

“In Southern California. A place called Sting Ray’s.”

“If you ever want to moonlight, we’re always looking for someone to fill in.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said as Megan went back to fill another barmaid’s order.

I tried to put myself in the picture as an employee of the Crock. I liked the dress code. Pants, as opposed to shorts or short skirts. Easier to work in. But the hours, and the lingering smells, and the drunks…

Not that process serving, one of the offshoots of my business, doesn’t have its perils and pitfalls. While Violet’s case was on stall, I’d delivered a few notices with varying risks to my person. Three days ago I’d damn near gotten run down by a guy I’d served with divorce papers. The asshole got in his car while I was heading toward mine, suddenly shifted in reverse and stamped on the accelerator, roaring backward straight for me. I’m always a little more on my toes when I deliver people bad news, so I nimbly leapt out of his Porsche’s path. He reversed right into the street and broadsided a passing sedan, luckily catching it at the back wheel well, so no one was seriously hurt. Everyone started screaming and shrieking and a man the size of Greenland unfolded himself from the sedan’s driver’s seat and glared down at the prick in the Porsche. I gave Greenland my phone number, told him I’d seen the whole thing, then climbed into my Volvo and calmly drove around them. I’d really wanted to flip the Porsche driver off. He’d tried to kill me, after all. But it looked to me like justice would be served, so I just rolled down my window and whistled the theme from Rocky at him as I cruised past.

Maturity may not be my long suit. Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel good.

I finished my drink but held on to my silver glass as I strolled away from the bar and toward the back of the room where scruffy men in dark T-shirts and wrinkled pants checked the sound and lights. I watched a guy unroll a wad of thick electrical cable, his movements so deliberate I wondered if he was in a zone. A drug zone, possibly, although I’ve known other people who moved at the speed of sloth.

There was a grouping of two-person café tables in front of the stage and I snagged a chair. The lighting was dim, which was probably a blessing as I tend to get anxious when I see the accumulation of dirt and crud that seems to go hand in hand with small nightclubs. I can live with a certain amount of dog hair clinging to my clothes. But true dirt? Inside, not outside? Uh-uh.

My eyes narrowed on the dusty footprints layered upon each other atop the dark stage. Get a broom, somebody.

“Sean, get up the catwalk and check that spot.”

The speaker was an older guy with a frizzy, gray ponytail. He was pointing to a track light attached to a crossbeam above the far end of the stage. Sean was the guy slowly wrapping up the cable.

Could there be two Seans? I wondered hopefully. This one was slight with shaggy hair to his shoulders and a dopey expression on his thin face. Either he was under sedation or there was one very long neuron between sensory input and brain processing. He was, however, about the right age. Twenty-five, maybe?

Sean slowly balanced a tall ladder against the aforementioned catwalk. I held my breath as he climbed upward, his movements at a steady pace of .002 miles per hour. He trudged across the walk to the light, which he fiddled with and fiddled with while Frizzy Ponytail barked orders. Eventually they were both satisfied and Sean crept back down the rungs and returned to coiling cable. He’d sounded a lot more energetic on the phone.

I checked my watch. Eleven-thirty. Maybe I could get this interview over early and skedaddle before the witching hour. The thought of my bed was an invitation I wanted to accept sooner rather than later.

“Sean Hatchmere?” I asked, as he walked across the stage in front of me, his sneakers and pant legs passing by at eye level.

He stopped, shading his eyes against the lights to look down at me. “Yeah?”

“Jane Kelly.”

It took a moment. “Oh. Yeah. Ya wanna come on back?” He veered toward the rear of the stage and after a brief second of hesitation, I hauled myself onto the dusty apron and followed, brushing off my palms.

Behind the enormous speakers and false walls was a rabbit warren of alleyways fashioned from more enormous false walls and black set boxes. I could see the bright green of an EXIT sign through a slit between black curtains. Sean stopped ahead of me and motioned me into a room with a haphazard selection of folding chairs. The greenroom, apparently, where the performers waited before going onstage.

Sean took a folding chair and I pulled up one beside him. The light was dim enough that I couldn’t tell if his eyes were unfocused or not. “You wanted to talk about Dad,” he said. His voice was a near monotone, but I thought that might be just his natural way of speaking rather than a passive-aggressive kind of compliance, the kind I might have used in the principal’s office once upon a time.

“Violet didn’t kill your father, either purposely or by accident,” I said, forcing myself to sound positive. “She wants to find who did, and I’m trying to make that happen. I’m just gathering information. You’re the first person interested in talking to me.”

“You’re a private eye?”

“Something like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s a work in progress.” I explained about the steps it took to be licensed, and Sean listened with apparent interest.

“That’s cool.” He bobbed his head. “You can’t, like, bust some-one for something, though, huh? Like drugs, or…stuff…”

“I’m not the police.”

“I dunno what I can tell ya. Dad was a control freak. Really wanted me to be a doctor, like he was. But y’know how that turned out.” He peered at me through hanks of hair.

“He got his medical license revoked,” I said.

“He was a lot more fun before that.” His tone was wistful. “All of a sudden he’s, like, climbing down my throat, turning my room upside down, sniffing around like a drug dog, y’know? Found a little stash of weed and thinks I’m a crackhead. Sends me to this rehab place with, like, these old people. Everybody’s got a prescription drug problem. I mean, really. Like housewives and businessmen and lawyers and shit. They are really messed up. If these people had had a little weed, y’know? They’d be a lot better off.”

“Did you tell your father that?”

“You bet. I told him lots of stuff. All that hypocritical shit. I kinda laughed at him, if you want the truth,” Sean said sheepishly. “He just, like, blew a blood vessel. Really, really out of control.”

I decided Sean might be stoned. His emotions seemed detached from his narrative. “So, were you and your dad having a problem when he died?”

“We were always having a problem. I was his problem. Well, and Gigi, too. I always kinda thought he wanted other kids, y’know? Smarter kids. Better athletes. More motivated.” He shrugged. “Some parents are just like that. My friend Dillon? His dad’s a total fuck wad. Told Dillon that if he didn’t get a job, he wasn’t invited to Thanksgiving. That’s cold, man.”

“How old is Dillon?”

“Twenty-four.”

Sometimes I worry about the state of America’s youth, but then I remember what I was like at his age, which although different—I wasn’t a drug user—was kind of the same. I hate to use the word slacker. It’s just got too many bad connotations. I prefer motivation-challenged. I didn’t know what the hell to do with my life, and I spent my time stumbling through some college courses that still have the power to cause me moments of intense puzzlement. I remember one class titled Strategic Achievement in Common Socioeconomic and Cultural Workplace Situations in Conjunction with, or without, Today’s Technological Advances. I dropped out after a week of obscure lectures. The only thing I remember is great bandying about of the term utopic model. My strategic achievement was getting the hell out.

“So, you’re working for Violet, huh?” He sounded more curious than appalled. “Wow. I hear she inherited a ton a’ money. Maybe that’s what killed Dad.” He barked out a laugh. “He hated not being in control.”

“He controlled with money?”

“Oh, shit yeah. Totally. I don’t mean to, like, talk bad about him. I’m sorry he’s gone. He was…my dad.” Sean stopped short. It took him a couple of tries to get started again. Clearing his throat, he finally said, “But he really got upset when we didn’t follow the plan. ‘The blueprint,’ he called it. Y’know?”

“The blueprint.” I was getting a bigger picture of Roland Hatchmere beyond Violet’s description of him as a good father and an excellent plastic surgeon. “Sean, have you thought about who might have killed him?”

“Besides Violet…?” He looked away, staring into space for long moments. “Those robbers, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

“Nobody hated him, if that’s where you’re going. He didn’t make enemies. No botched surgeries, when he was practicing. And he didn’t screw anybody over in his business dealings. I mean, I don’t think he did. Y’know Gigi and I had our problems. Like all kids, right? But everybody else thought he was great. Just ask ’em.”

“Can you give me some names?”

“Like of his friends? Sure.”

Quickly I pulled a small tablet and pen from my purse. Sean scribbled down a list of people. “Is there anyone else? Other relatives? Businesspeople?” I tried to jog his memory.

“Oh yeah.” He added a few more scratch marks to the list.

When he handed it back I felt jubilant. With Sean’s tacit endorsement, these people might actually talk to me. “Thanks.”

“Who do you think did it?” he asked.

“I’d have to get a lot more background before I could venture a guess.”

“You don’t think Violet did it.”

I shook my head.

He grinned. “You don’t like her, do ya? What happened? She screw you over, too?”

“Did she screw you over?”

“Oh, sure. Tried to get Dad to change his will, leave it all to her. He balked and they fought, and he lost his license and she was gone. But then she was back. You should talk to Melinda.” He gestured at the list. “Dad’s wife. You know she had to be really crazy, thinking about Violet returning to Portland, probably worming her way back in. Violet’s like that. She just doesn’t give up.”

“Mm.”

“You should talk to my mom, too,” he added. “I put her name on the list.”

I glanced down, pretending I didn’t know whom he meant, though I’d practically memorized the names of the main players. “Renee?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t live around here. She came up for the wedding, but, well, you know how that turned out.”

Actually, I didn’t. Violet had mentioned a minor brouhaha at the rehearsal dinner between Roland and his first wife, but she hadn’t been there and I hadn’t been able to gather any more information.

“What happened with Renee?”

But Sean, having realized I was fishing, decided to shut down. He shrugged and said, “She didn’t like Violet, either, I guess.”

I thought of my timeline and said, “What time did she get to the wedding? Was she with Gigi at Castellina, getting ready?”

“I don’t know…” He glanced over his shoulder. “You know, we’re gonna be playing some good stuff. You wanna get ready?”

“I’ll stay for some of it,” I promised. He was clearly trying to get me off track and I wasn’t ready to give up.

“No, I mean. Ya wanna get ready?” He inclined his head toward the rear of the building.

I looked in that direction. “You mean, get high?”

“Hey, alcohol’s way worse than weed,” he said, apparently hearing some condemnation in my tone I hadn’t meant to voice.

“I’ve got my poison, thanks.” I hoisted my empty glass.

“Well, okay…I guess we’re done, then.” He made a face and headed toward the back.

I hesitated a moment, then returned to my seat. Apart from some leftover questions concerning Renee Hatchmere, I felt I’d gotten all I could from Sean. I managed to stay through the first set before heading for the door. Either I’m growing old or my tolerance is shrinking, but I couldn’t handle the pounding beat and roaring, amplified electric guitar. Everything inside my head was throbbing with the music. I slipped out into the icy night air and drew a deep breath. Outside, the din was muffled and almost okay.

I walked quickly to my Volvo, climbed inside, switched on the key and shivered until I was almost home. Hurriedly, I ripped off my clothes and threw a T-shirt over my head. When Binkster gave me a blinking, hopeful look, staggering to her feet, I threw back the covers in an invitation and we both settled into bed with a sigh.

I fell asleep with doggy toenails planted against my back.

In the night I heard a peculiar ringing sound I didn’t associate with any noise I knew. I lifted my head reluctantly and saw it was after 3:00 a.m. Vaguely I discerned that the noise, now silenced, had come from my cell phone, which was lying on my nightstand, being charged. I grappled for it and knocked an empty plastic glass onto the floor. “Shit,” I muttered as Binky snorted loudly but refused to lift her head.

I punched a button to light up the dial and saw that I had a text message. Aha! That was the undefinable ring. I pressed the button with the little envelope on it, and a message popped up:

party at Do Not Enter broke up at one. Since then, lots of crying at Rebel Yell. Something’s definitely wrong. Need you to investigate.

DAD

I set the phone down and drifted back to sleep. Dwayne’s initials are DAD for Dwayne Austin Durbin. Now he wanted me to investigate what was happening across the bay?

“He’s around the bend, Binks. Completely around the bend,” I mumbled.

She answered with an inhaled doggy snort that I swear made the bed thrum as if it were equipped with Magic Fingers.