Читать книгу Ultraviolet - Nancy Bush - Страница 8

The next morning I made my usual run to the Coffee Nook and poured myself a cup of basic black coffee while Julie, the shop’s proprietress, and Jenny, Julie’s number-one employee, served up a rush of customers. One of the regulars I know only as Chuck had been to a charity auction and had bid on, and won, a ride-along with the Lake Chinook cops. I was slightly amazed anyone would be interested. I pictured the cops racing out, sirens screaming, to rescue a cat from a tree. Of course with the current sensibilities of Lake Chinook, it would probably be rescuing a tree from a cat. Either way I was glad it was Chuck who’d parted with his hard-earned money for this treat rather than myself.

“The cop’s name is Josh Newell,” Chuck said, reading from his “certificate,” a page with a glued on gold seal that said he was a WINNER!!! “Ever heard of him?”

Jenny shook her head, but I said, somewhat surprised myself, “I have.” Everyone turned to look at me. “I gave his sister Cheryl a ride from the airport. She told me Josh was with the LCPD.”

“I thought you avoided the police,” said Julie.

“I’ve never met the guy. Just his sister.” I’d tucked the information away for future use, but hadn’t expected it to pop into my world so soon.

“Wanna go with me?” Chuck invited eagerly. “It’s for two.” He waved the certificate in my direction.

No…thank…you…please…God…

“I don’t think I could fit it into my schedule,” I demurred.

“Hey, it’s not for any specific time. Any time next week work?” Chuck looked at me hopefully. He’s around sixty with a barrel torso and close-cropped Homer Simpson hair.

“Not really.”

“Thursday?”

“No.”

“Yeah, right. Weekends’d be better. Friday. I’ll take you to dinner, and then we’ll ride around with Josh.”

“Take her to Foster’s on the Lake,” Jenny said. “Her favorite place. She won’t say no.”

I gave Jenny a long look. She was grinning.

“Foster’s it is,” Chuck said merrily. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I said. He threw an arm up as a good-bye and I turned to Jenny as soon as he was out the door. “Judas.”

“You could have said no.”

“Free food at Foster’s? Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”

“We’ll come and meet you. Right, Julie? Jane, tell Jeff Foster to comp us a meal.”

I laughed. We all knew Jeff Foster was a major cheapo and ice cubes would freeze in hell before he comped the likes of me a meal.

“Tell him it’s for me and Julie.”

I snorted.

“Come on, Jane. Go with Chuck. It’ll be fun.”

Right up there with root canals.

“We’ll all meet at Foster’s,” she said. I could practically see the wheels turning inside Jenny’s head as she planned to weasel a meal. I appreciate this about her.

“All right,” I said on a sigh.

My cell phone rang as I was taking a shower. I don’t know what it says about me, but I have a hell of a time letting a phone ring, any phone, and I half debated on jumping out and running naked for it. It was with a supreme effort of self-control that I let it go to voice mail, and so I was perturbed when there was no message and the number on caller ID was one I didn’t recognize.

I threw on my jeans, a blue V-necked, long-sleeved T-shirt and my black jacket, then punched in the digits to see who’d phoned. A woman’s voice answered in irritation: “Yes? Who is it?”

“Jane Kelly, returning this number’s call.” I grabbed for my brown boots and encountered the wriggling body of The Binkster as she decided she needed some attention right then and there. I began petting her and she grabbed my hand with her mouth, a surefire sign she would prefer food over attention.

“Oh.” A pause. “This is Gigi Hatchmere.”

“Oh,” I repeated in surprise. The last time I’d seen her was on the opposite side of her quickly shutting door. I’d had a brief glance of short dark hair, angry brows and a mouth turned down in what looked like perpetual displeasure.

Binkster gave a sharp yip when her ploy failed. I ignored her so she grabbed my pant leg with her teeth and growled. Her growls sound like they were made by Mattel: cute and puppyish. I pushed her aside but she came back for more.

“Sean told me you went to see him last night. What a dope head. I hope you didn’t listen to anything he said. He should be committed, he’s so screwed up. And he has no family loyalty!”

“He seems to want to know what really happened to his father.” Not exactly what he’d said, but she didn’t have to know.

It incensed Gigi. “Well, of course he does. We all do. What do you think? Violet killed him! And she gets to just walk around with all her money? That’s just plain wrong! Why don’t you stop harassing us and put her in jail where she belongs? Jesus, I can’t believe this. The police are doing nothing. Nothing.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth, either, but I saw an opportunity to push my own agenda. “I’ve been hired to investigate your father’s death and find out what really happened.”

“I know! By Violet. You’re working for her.”

“If I learn Violet’s involved at some level, I’m duty-bound to report that to the authorities.” Again, not exactly the truth.

“Violet killed him. And she’s paying you.”

What a stickler for detail. “Are you interested in finding your father’s killer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then talk to me. Meet with me. Let me get some background. It may be just as you think, Violet could be guilty, but my loyalty’s to the truth.”

I heard the ring of conviction in my voice and was impressed with my skills of persuasion. I crossed my fingers that Gigi was impressed, too.

“You would really turn on Violet even though she’s paying you?”

“What do you care, as long as justice is served?”

“I don’t, I guess…”

“Who knows how long it will take the police to follow leads? I’m working on the case right now. I want to know what happened that day.”

“Hunh,” she said, rolling that around. My quest for might and right seemed to have mollified her somewhat. “Where do you want to meet?”

“I could come by the house?” I suggested. I was taking a chance, as my last trip there hadn’t ended well. But Gigi and Emmett had moved into her father’s house after Roland’s death, and, as it was the scene of the crime, I wanted to see it for myself.

“I guess we could meet here,” she said reluctantly.

“Terrific.” I pounced on it, afraid she might talk herself out of it.

“Maybe the end of next week?”

“Well, yes…that would work. But…any chance I could stop by today?” I pushed. “I’d like to get moving on this and I’m sure anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

“I don’t know about that. Violet was the one who was here that day. I was at my wedding. Or, my almost wedding. When Daddy didn’t show I just couldn’t go through with it. Ohmygod, I still can’t believe it. I mean, isn’t your day supposed to be perfect? Isn’t this the one day of your life that’s perfect?”

I thought about all the divorces that occur after that one day but decided to keep quiet on that, too.

“And then Violet kills my father and he can’t come and everything’s ruined,” Gigi went on, sounding as if she was working herself up. “I was waiting and waiting and he just didn’t show.”

“It sounds—traumatic.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” She sniffed. “Can you be here around four?”

“You bet.”

“I really could use someone to talk to,” she said in a teensy, little girl voice.

“It’s been a trying time,” I assured her as I hung up. I found myself already worrying that she might cry, hug me and need the kind of support I’m terrible at giving.

I looked over at Binkster, who’d given up biting my pant leg and had retreated to her furry little bed, gazing at me with an injured expression. “Chicken strip?” I said, and she raced over to the cupboard where I keep her treats.

My dog, I understand.

I had to stop by Dwayne’s before heading to Gigi’s though I was reluctant to learn what he wanted me to do about his friends across the bay. I brought Binkster with me because I feel guilty leaving her alone in the house too many days in a row, and I had an inner hope that I could talk Dwayne into keeping her for a few hours and that the dog might divert him from his new obsession.

Binkster loves Dwayne. Just loves him. It could seriously hurt my feelings except I’m a bigger person than that…most of the time. I watched her race up the sidewalk to his front door and dig one paw at the wood, scarcely able to contain herself. As soon as I opened the door she charged inside straight down the hall to the gap in the sliding glass door and out to the dock. I heard Dwayne exclaim as he saw her and I purposely took my time joining them, letting their bonding ritual run through its paces. By the time I stepped onto the dock, Binks was on Dwayne’s lap, giving his lips some doggy licks. He was laughing and I think she tried to French him ’cause he scooped her up and put her on the ground, his laughter even deeper while she wriggled beneath his chair and began barking, her tail wagging furiously, totally into the game.

The game is simple. For Binkster it’s: I will squeeze myself beneath your chair, the bed, the couch, the bar stool or whatever and then bark my silly head off like I’m stuck. When you come to rescue me, I’ll pretend to snap at your hands, not to hurt, just to be a happy idiot. You, in turn, will laugh and pretend to drag me out, but you won’t really, because then I’ll just have to squeeze back in somewhere else and start the game again.

The game is dumb, but we all play it.

“I got your text message last night,” I told Dwayne.

“Took you long enough to respond.”

“Didn’t know I was on the clock for Slot A and Tab B.”

“Tab A. Slot B,” he corrected. “Basic human anatomy, Jane. He’s Tab A. She’s Slot B.”

“I get it.”

Dwayne always says that everyone has secrets they don’t want someone else to know about. I agree with him. I just wondered why he felt compelled to learn the secrets of the people across the bay.

He stretched and levered himself out of his deck chair. I leaned forward but resisted the urge to help him. I find myself shying away from physical contact, which really pisses me off at myself, but for the moment it’s how things stand between us. At least how it stands for me.

I said, “Ogilvy’s selling my cottage.”

Dwayne tipped his hat back and gave me a penetrating look. “He tell you that?”

“Kind of announced it. Called me up and dropped the bomb. Looks like I’m going to be hunting for a new abode whether I want to or not.”

“Why don’t you buy it?”

“Great idea. With all the money I have.”

“You have enough for a down payment.”

“Look who you’re talking to.”

“I’m looking.”

We stared at each other for a full ten seconds. By God, I wasn’t going to turn away first. I said firmly, holding his gaze, “Inactivity has addled your brain. I’m Jane Kelly. I have nothing. Half the time my refrigerator’s empty enough to use as an extra room.”

“You’re cheap. You’re not poor.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m luxury-challenged, not cheap. Since when do you get to call me ‘not poor’?”

Dwayne smiled in that knowing way that sometimes intrigues me. I gazed over the bay, deciding I’d had enough of this meeting of the eyes. I wasn’t up to this challenge right now, and though I didn’t know where it was going, how it had begun and what it meant, I wanted to step out of it before something altered between us. Sometimes you recognize those moments when you’re in them with just enough time to save yourself; sometimes you don’t.

“You own a fourplex unit with your mother in Venice. You horde every dollar you make. I’ve heard you barter with Ogilvy on the rent more times than I can count. You have enough for a down payment, and if you don’t, I’ll help you.”

“I don’t barter with Ogilvy. I don’t even talk to him.”

“Yes, you do.”

That stopped me for a moment. “You’re thinking about years ago, when he was trying to jump the rent a hundred dollars a month. A hundred dollars!”

“I believe you set him straight.”

“You bet I did,” I harrumphed. I’m not sure what I think of rent control. My mother and I deal with it in our Venice four-unit. In some ways, it sounds great, but when costs spiral upward, repairs start becoming more and more expensive and pretty soon you realize you can’t afford the upkeep with the amount of rent you’re receiving. But I sure as hell didn’t want Ogilvy gouging me. There is no rent control in Oregon, as far as I know. There’s certainly none in Lake Chinook, and I don’t think it generally counts on single-family dwellings anyway. But if he was selling the place, none of it mattered. Any way around it I was screwed.

“Did you say you’d help me?” I asked, reviewing our conversation.

“Afraid of what that might mean?” He lifted one brow.

“Yes.”

“Tell me how much money you’ve got.”

“Hell no,” I said. “It isn’t polite to ask, don’t you know that?”

“Politeness ain’t my strong suit, darlin’.”

“Oh yes, it is. You can be as polite and charming as a politician stumping for votes. Worse, even.”

“Tell Ogilvy to give you a price.”

“I can tell this is a bad idea. I don’t know why I even told you.”

“’Cause you want me to rescue you,” Dwayne said equably, and that sent me into overdrive. Every time I think I like him, he makes me crazy. It was far better when we were just compatriots. Buddies. Partners. And the hell of it is, I fear deep down I might be the only one of us who truly feels all this angst. I think Dwayne likes me fine, trusts me, is attracted to me, in fact. He’s just not as worked up about the whole thing as I am.

“I’m not even having this talk,” I said, walking away from him, toward the edge of the dock. “You want to tell me about what’s going on over there, then tell.” I swept an arm to encompass the south side of Lakewood Bay.

“Maybe I’ll buy your cottage,” Dwayne said as if the idea had just struck him. “Then I can be your landlord.”

“What fun,” I snarled.

He started laughing so hard I thought he’d split a gut. What is it about men that makes them goad me? Maybe it’s not just me. Maybe it’s the whole female gender.

No, it’s probably just me.

When I didn’t think it was a full-on laugh-riot, he finally pulled himself back from the edge of hilarity. Taking off his hat, he swept a hand through his hair, sank back on the lounge, then turned his attention back to his new friends. I watched the transformation as he gazed across the bay, his expression sobering.

“There’s trouble over at Rebel Yell,” he said. “They have two teenaged girls. The younger one’s been crying her eyes out. The parents alternate between trying to talk to her and losing patience and yelling. She hasn’t been yelling back, which is a change.”

“For the better, it sounds like.”

“Not so sure. Something’s eating at her. I think the gal’s got some big secret.”

I should add that Dwayne says all this with a drawl and a lot of “g” dropping, like he’s from the South somewhere, although that hasn’t been firmly established yet. Sometimes my vast ignorance of Dwayne’s history bothers me. He seems to be on a need-to-know basis only, when it comes to talking about his personal life. Since the Violet thing, I’ve steered clear of any discussion about his history that might provide more insight into him. I’ve known Dwayne for nearly five years as an acquaintance, and our friendship has developed largely because Dwayne wanted me to come work for him. A part of me thirsts for more information—bits of data that I can obsess over whenever I start thinking maybe, just maybe, Dwayne and I could be a “thing.” But that other part of me—the sane part—wants nothing to do with him. He could be bad for my mental health.

“High school secrets,” I mused. “Test cheating, alcohol stealing and drinking, pot smoking, pregnancy…”

“I vote pregnancy,” Dwayne said seriously.

“Who’s the daddy?”

“That’s what I need you to find out.”

“Hell no.”

“She’s a good kid. Gets good grades. Plays soccer. Or played. I think she quit the team. Lots of yelling over that. Her older sister’s a piece of work. Bossy. The parents are always trying to get her to behave, but you can tell she just tunes them out. Reminds me of Tracy.” He grimaced.

Tracy is Dwayne’s niece. And yes, she is a piece of work. Luckily, she lives in Seattle and neither Dwayne nor I have seen her since a spectacularly horrible few weeks last summer.

“But she’s protective of the younger sister. When she thinks of it, anyway.”

“This is a family problem between Mr. and Mrs. Rebel Yell—the Wilsons—and their two daughters. Not for me to get involved.”

“You’re good with teenagers.”

“Do you hear yourself?” He reached for the binoculars again, but I snatched them away from him. “So help me God, Dwayne. I can’t have you look through these one more time. Now, what did you mean by that? I’m not good with teenagers.”

“They’re your best sources of information. I wish I had your gift,” he said, and with a muscular twist from his deceptively relaxed position, he grabbed my arm and the binoculars and wrested them from me. “Steal a cripple’s binoculars,” he muttered.

He was lucky I didn’t smack him alongside the head with them. No one makes me want to act infantile quicker than Dwayne Durbin. It’s like a bad sitcom where you just know the man and woman are going to get together because they’re either acting like they’re going to throttle each other, or they’re goofily trying to one-up the other, or they’re each trying to set the other one up with their best friend with hilarious results.

Half the time I cannot believe my own embarrassing thoughts.

Dwayne’s blue eyes assessed me. “No witty comeback?”

“Teen pregnancy? Dwayne, I’d be useless to the girl. She needs to talk to her parents about it. Maybe she already has. Maybe that’s what the yelling’s about.”

“They’re always yelling. If she’d told them, something new would have happened.”

“You’re making up a soap opera. You don’t know anything.”

“She’s been hanging around at Do Not Enter with a bunch of other kids. They’re drinking and sneaking around. Pretty cagey about it, but I’ve kept an eye on them. They string colored lights. Little ones. Just enough to give themselves some illumination, but not draw too much attention.”

“Do the parents have any idea?”

“No one does, otherwise they’d be busted. There are a lot of guys hanging around. The girls seem to wait to be picked.”

“You have kept an eye on them.”

“I’ve had to watch from inside,” Dwayne admitted. “If my leg were better, I’d go up to the attic and watch from there.”

Dwayne’s cabana has a steep set of stairs to an attic whose roofline makes it hard not to hit your head against the slanted walls. To my knowledge, it’s full of boxes and junk, like Ogilvy’s garage.

“If your leg were better, you wouldn’t have started watching them in the first place,” I murmured.

“Probably.”

“Look, Dwayne, I’m meeting with Gigi later today. I met with Sean last night. I’m finally moving on the Hatchmere case. You were right when you said things would get going. I’m busy, and anyway, it’s not my place to step into some teen scene with sex, drugs and alcohol.”

Dwayne said, “You know those guys, the ones who smile and act responsible and polite in front of parents. The ones who lie through their orthodontia-perfected teeth. Who play sports and give talks on the responsibility of today’s youth. Who denounce drugs and alcohol, then get wasted every Friday night after the football game. The ones who lie to their parents and feel powerful about it. Who promise that they’ll take good care of their younger siblings, then damn near kill them with alcohol poisoning the first chance they get. You know those guys, Jane.”

“Ye-ess…”

“Those are the guys at Do Not Enter. The ones who tell a girl she’s special, say they love her, say they’re her boyfriend to talk her into sex. They’re the same ones who turn their back when she tries to talk to them and whisper and snigger to their friends.”

I’d never seen this side of Dwayne. He was dead serious, and it made me wonder what had happened to him when he was a teenager. Was there a girl from his past who’d been used and abused by some guy? A girl he’d cared about? Someone he couldn’t save?

“What do you want me to do?” I asked, engaged in spite of myself.

“Find out who these guys are, Jane. Get me their names.”

I gazed across the water. Was I really thinking about helping him? “I suppose I could go to Friday night’s football game.”

“It’s the civil war between Lakeshore and Lake Chinook.”

“You’ve done your homework, haven’t you?”

“I’m an investigator.”

I gave Dwayne a sideways look. He was smiling, but he looked more relieved than pleased, which made me decide his motives were in the right place. “Okay, Jimmy Stewart. I’m sure I’m going to be sorry, but what the hell? I’ll try to meet them.”

“Hal Jeffries.”

“What?”

“The character Jimmy Stewart plays in Rear Window is Hal Jeffries.”

“It worries me that you know that,” I said, but I was committed all the same.

Roland Hatchmere’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a development where all the streets were named from the Tolkien fantasy novels: Elf Lane, Hobbit Drive, Aragon Avenue. His home was a tri-level on Rivendell Road; street level being the main floor with an upstairs over the garage and a basement at the sloping western end. There was a lot of glass, a lot of decks and a sweeping entrance lined with impatiens that had been beaten down under the torrential hail. The house itself had an early seventies look and feel, not my favorite architectural era, but the grounds and view up the Willamette River toward Portland’s city center were spectacular.

I parked my Volvo under the dripping branches of a large maple. As I climbed from the car, soggy yellow and red leaves floated onto the hood. A breeze shook through the limbs, sending a cascade of water onto me as I hurried for the front door.

Ringing the bell, I huddled under a narrow overhang, which, I learned, served more for looks than function, then tried to push myself inside when the door opened. It hadn’t worked last time. It didn’t work this time.

Gigi Hatchmere stood in the way with her patented scowl. “You’re dripping,” she said.

“Sorry.”

My boots were soaked and leaving little wet puddles. I slipped them off and, though reluctant, she finally allowed me entry, across a mahogany-lined foyer to a living room with wide windows and no discernible walls. The view was amazing, a wide screen of sky over the roofs of houses down the hill. Portland lay spread across both sides of the river. I could almost count all the bridges and in the far, far distance was the mesalike crown of Mount Saint Helens, which had blown its top in 1980.

Gigi was about my height, five foot seven, and she was slim and serious. Her hair was dark brown as were her eyes, and she wore it straight and parted down the middle like a child of the sixties. She might have been pretty if there were any joy in her expression, but mostly she just looked pissed off.

“So, you’re working for that woman,” Gigi said again, as if telling herself enough times would finally hold the information in her memory. She stood in the center of the living room, which seemed to have acres of cream carpeting. I wiggled my toes into its warmth, admiring the room in spite of myself. Maybe I was just growing envious of other people’s homes because I felt like I soon might be without one. I wanted to practically drop down and roll in the carpet. I would have, too, except I needed to massage Gigi Hatchmere’s bruised feelings if I hoped to learn anything from her that might help Violet.

She stared down at my socks, which were slightly damp. I wondered if she worried they would leave dark stains in the carpet. I wondered, too, if it would be polite or rude to offer to take them off.

“Would you like something?” she said grudgingly. “I was going to open a bottle of wine.”

“Anything’s fine,” I said affably.

“Well, come on in.” She turned around a partition that left a twelve-inch gap at the ceiling into a kitchen decked out in dark brown granite and darker brown cabinetry. The appliances were trimmed with matching wood veneer panels. Gigi gestured to a solarium that ran along the south side of the house and opened into a garden. The room was basically a walkway with a sloped, windowed ceiling and glass walls that looked onto an inner atrium. Wet leaves lay limply against the overhead glass and I looked up at them as I walked along the solarium. An Asian-influenced buffet, ornately carved, sat at the end of the walkway. On a warmer day, the benches inside the atrium looked like they’d be a nice place to settle in and read a book or just commune with the foliage.

I wondered if Gigi meant for me to stay in the solarium, but as there was no place to sit, I decided she’d simply given me an invitation to look around.

I returned to the kitchen where Gigi had pulled out a bottle of cheap white wine. I know this because it’s the kind I buy. She saw me glance at the label and said, “Daddy’s estate’s in probate. It’s not like we have any money. Want something better, ask Violet.”

Had I made a judgment call? I shrugged. “That’s my brand.”

“Poor you.”

She scrounged around on a lower refrigerator shelf and found a plastic party tray with cubed cheese in varying flavors. It might have been opened for a while. Certain sections of the tray looked picked over. I checked my inner “yuk” meter and decided I didn’t care. Free food and drink? That’s an automatic yes. I have my priorities in line.

Though slightly lactose-intolerant, today I was willing to take a chance on the cheese and go for broke.

The crystal stemware was Waterford. When, and if, Gigi inherited, she would get some nice things.

“That’s where Emmett found him,” she said, inclining her head toward the solarium. “I thought you’d want to see.”

“In the solarium?”

“Uh-huh. The tray was on the floor beside him. Violet didn’t bother to wrap it, just put a ribbon on it. The ribbon was still on it.”

“Was anyone else there, when Emmett found your father?” I asked as Gigi handed me a glass.

She eyed my hand, watching me like a hawk. Her expression revealed she was already regretting giving me the good stuff. “It’s crystal. Don’t break it. No, Emmett was alone.”

“I’ll be careful. That must have been hard.”

“It was terrible!” She tossed back a gulp of her drink. She had all the finesse of a stevedore. Apparently the worry over the stemware only applied to me. “The whole thing was terrible. And it started out so great!”

“Tell me about it,” I encouraged.

She gestured for me to sit down at the glass-topped kitchen table. I took a chair, which was molded white plastic and surprisingly comfortable.

“We got to Castellina around ten. That’s where we were doing hair and makeup. It was just Deenie and me, and my hairdresser, of course—she did my makeup, too—but Melinda, my stepmother, stopped by and brought mimosas. It was so fabulous. Do you know Castellina?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“It means ‘little castle’ and it’s just so pretty. It’s owned by the Buganzi family, too, like Cahill Winery. It’s kind of a package deal for weddings, if you want to go that way.”

I nodded. Castellina was the Portland estate used as an entertainment venue by the Buganzi family who also owned Cahill Winery just outside the town of Dundee, in the center of Oregon’s wine country. Before the Buganzi family purchased it, it was a rambling, slightly tired, turn-of-the-century old maven of Portland’s West Hill’s architectural scene. Buganzi razed the old home much to a horrendous outcry and a ton of city fees, as he did it gleefully and without permits. Then he built Castellina with its fairy-tale castle design. I’d only seen it from the outside, but people either gush and rave or roll their eyes and wail about its design. Nevertheless, it’s become as popular a place for weddings and parties as Cahill Winery itself, which is about forty-five minutes from Castellina on a Saturday afternoon. Apparently Roland Hatchmere had reserved both venues for his daughter. I’ve heard Cahill produces a more than respectable Pinot Noir, but I’ve never put it to the taste test, its price being outside my budget.

“The weather was just beautiful. We didn’t know how it would be, October and all, but it was just such a great day.” Gigi gulped again and topped off her glass. I chewed on a piece of cheddar and sipped. “I had this great dress, too. It’s a Millie V.,” she added in an aside, looking for my reaction. I had no idea who this designer might be, so I just nodded enthusiastically and sipped some more. I love wine for this reason. Not just drinking, but a whole host of social moves. I can drink and nod and it won’t appear as if I have nothing to say.

“Anyway, everything was perfect. The veil was kind of sucky, actually, but I got rid of it pretty quick. We were having a great time with the mimosas. Melinda brought the champagne, and it was nicer than I expected of her. I mean, we don’t hate her, but she’s not our mother. She never let me have a drop before I turned twenty-one, so I just didn’t think she had it in her.”

“You’re twenty-one now, right?”

“I turn twenty-two in April. Sean’s twenty-four, but I’ve always seemed older than he is. I mean, he’s a complete fuckup, but he is my brother. He used to buy for me before I was legal. We gotta look out for each other.” She said this rotely, without emotion, as if she’d heard it somewhere and thought it might be a good time to trot it out.

“So, Melinda brought the champagne. And…Deenie…was with you?”

“Oh, Deenie’s my maid of honor. We call her Deenie even though her name’s Denise. Everybody does. I’ve known her since third grade. We were having such a good time. I tied my hair up in a chignon but it looked like shit. Had to rip it all out and let it be down. I almost made Shari cry, she was the hairdresser. How was I supposed to know she was so sensitive! God, it was my wedding. Anyway, we got it all straightened out.”

“What about your mom?” I inserted casually. “Was she there?”

“Renee? No way. We don’t get along that great. I mean, she lives in Santa Monica and that’s just fine. I love her. She’s my mom and all, but when Sean and I moved to Portland with Daddy, she just stayed there. I haven’t lived with her since I was a kid.”

“But she came up for the wedding.”

“Yes.” Gigi’s jaw tightened stubbornly. She didn’t like being directed. She wanted to tell the story her way and that was that.

“So, you changed your hair and had mimosas with Deenie and your stepmother.”

“Melinda. Deenie and I had a limo and we were going to meet the other bridesmaids at Cahill for pictures at two. Melinda had her own car, so we all drove off around one o’clock. Deenie and I took a bottle of champagne in the limo. We turned the music up really loud and we were singing. It was so much fun.”

She stopped short, remembering. I could see her face start to squinch up and get blotchy. “So, we got there,” she said, her voice getting small and teary. “And everybody came for pictures but Daddy. It was almost two o’clock. The photographer took some photos of me and Emmett, and then the bridal party, but Daddy wasn’t there!”

“Emmett’s parents were there,” I said, sensing she was about to collapse into sobs.

“Uh-huh.”

“And your mother?”

“Why do you keep saying that! No! She wasn’t invited to the wedding.” Gigi looked like she wanted to throw her glass at me.

“I thought she came up from Santa Monica,” I answered, confused.

“She was disinvited, okay? She was invited. But then she was a bitch at the rehearsal dinner and she was disinvited. Melinda was there and she was being nice so I figured she could be in the pictures. I didn’t care if she and Daddy weren’t living in the same house. They really love each other. In fact, they’d be back together if it weren’t for Violet!”

“Okay,” I said, hoping she’d calm down.

“Want another glass of wine?” she asked, sniffing.

“Sure.”

I handed her my glass and she gave me a refill. It was kind of eerie the way she could throw a fit and then turn around and act like it didn’t happen. Maybe she’d been drinking before I arrived, although it didn’t seem like it.

“So, then…Daddy never showed at all. He wasn’t answering his cell phone, either. Honestly, I was kinda mad. It was my wedding day!”

I shook my head in commiseration, trying to look properly upset for her.

“And then it was three o’clock! Three o’clock! Deenie and I were just crying, holding each other up. It was like…” She shook her head, her nostrils quivering with remembered hurt. “It was like he didn’t care. We didn’t know what was wrong. That’s when we had to call my mother. Just in case she knew something.”

I waited.

Gigi shrugged. “Okay, look, I don’t like talking about my mother that much. It’s no big deal. She just doesn’t know how to act. The rehearsal dinner was a disaster. Big fight between Mom and Daddy, but then what did I expect? They’ve always been that way.”

“They fought at your rehearsal dinner?”

Gigi gestured impatiently. “She brought up Violet in front of Melinda and me and everybody. Asked where Violet was. Why wasn’t Violet there? Wasn’t Daddy seeing Violet? It was all just to bug him. That’s what my mother always does. You’d have to know her to understand. She’s kind of self-involved,” Gigi said with a straight face.

“Ah.”

“We were all at Castellina for the rehearsal dinner. It was a package deal—book the rehearsal dinner and the wedding preprep at Castellina, then go to the wedding and reception at the winery and it was a much better price. You know how expensive weddings are? Daddy got really upset toward the end. I mean, I thought Clarice, our wedding planner, was going to quit. It was awful. I really thought he was going to throw something at her. And Enzo, our florist? I’m not sure he ever got paid.

“Anyway, Mom shows up at the rehearsal dinner. And she brings a date that she didn’t mention. Some guy with dyed hair and a Ferrari. Can you stand it? They drove up from Santa Monica together, but did she tell any of us? We didn’t have a place for him. It was just rude.

“And then she started in about Violet. Melinda tried to intervene. She’s such an idiot sometimes. And Daddy says, ‘Stay away from me, Mel,’ real coldlike. Mom smirked and Melinda looked like she was going to cry. And then Mom says, ‘He gets like this every time he starts up with Violet. I should know.’”

“Did Violet break up your parents’ marriage?” I asked, wondering if Renee still held a grudge.

“Well…no.” Gigi sounded disappointed that she had to tell the truth. “They were split up a long time. But it still upset Mom when Daddy and Violet got together and we all moved away from Los Angeles.”

“Was there any thought of staying with your mother at the time?”

“I don’t know what this has to do with anything,” she muttered, looking away.

I took that as a no. “But it sounds like Renee blamed Violet for a lot of what happened in your family.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I could tell I was losing Gigi, so I said, “So, your father disinvited your mother to the wedding and reception.”

“The Ferrari guy got real upset. Told my dad he was no kind of man. They’d driven all the way here, they’d been invited, well, Mom had, anyway. Who did he think he was? Blah, blah, blah. It was a real scene. If I’d been sober I would have been even more mad, but we were knocked out by those Italian punch drinks they serve there. They got Campari or something in them? Makes them red? We drank tons of them. It was really the only way to get through that night, though Daddy did make a nice toast to me.” Fresh tears filled her eyes. “He said how I was his little girl.”

I smiled encouragingly, thinking that was pretty standard stuff for the dads of brides.

Gigi stabbed a piece of cheese with one of the ruffled toothpicks, then twirled it thoughtfully around. I wondered if she was rethinking putting it in her mouth. “I was kinda hungover in the morning, but by noon I was okay. The mimosas sure helped.”

“Hair of the dog,” I said.

“Huh?”

I shrugged, not wanting to sidetrack her with an explanation about why more alcohol was supposed to cure a hangover. I’m not sure I believe it anyway. Gigi went on, “I guess I was still hoping Daddy would show and we’d get a few pictures, maybe after the ceremony. People started arriving. It was just awful. I mean, it was getting close to four. Where was he? We told the caterers to open the champagne, so we started drinking some more. We even called my mother then, and she and the Ferrari guy came right over.”

“Did you try to call Violet?” I asked.

“We’re not stupid. Of course we did. She never picked up.”

“Okay.”

“People kind of moved around the grounds, staying out of the way. I think they were embarrassed. Deenie and I were crying and nobody knew what to do. Finally, we had to say there was an accident and the wedding was postponed. Emmett’s parents, Dave and Goldy, were upset.” Her lips compressed, and she started to say something, then cut herself off. I got the feeling it might have been something not all that nice about Emmett’s parents. She went on instead, “We didn’t really believe something bad had happened to Daddy. Not then…but then Emmett found Daddy and called his dad. He didn’t want to tell me over the phone.” She swept in a breath. “It was David who told everyone Daddy’d been in an accident. He didn’t tell me the truth until everyone had left.”

I heard a car engine and looked through the window to see a dark blue Mercedes convertible pull into the driveway and park. Emmett Popparockskill climbed from the driver’s seat, removing a pair of Ray-Bans. He glanced toward the heavens, but the rain had briefly abated and rays of sunlight stabbed downward through black-bottomed clouds. Emmett was lean and dark like Gigi, and I watched him run a hand slowly alongside his hair, then do it again, a narcissistic habit that said a lot about him. Then he tucked his hands together in that way golfers do, as if they have an actual club in their palms, swept his arms back and made a deep swing. He finished, arms upward, staring in the direction the “ball” had gone. His clothes were golfers’ togs: tan chinos, collared black T-shirt with three-button placket.

“There were just a few of us at the end,” Gigi went on distractedly. She, too, was watching Emmett’s swing. “I remember Melinda making a point to try to be nice to my mom even though she’d been such a bitch the night before. Renee was really quiet. I think she was scared. Like she knew something really bad had happened. I guess we all knew, just didn’t want to face it.”

Emmett entered the house and Gigi suddenly broke into action, running to him, juggling her wine. She managed to keep from sloshing, but after planting a smack on his mouth, she slurped some more from her glass. Emmett regarded her with a look threaded with both indulgence and annoyance, as if she were a bratty child, which wasn’t that far from the truth. “Watch the wine,” he said.

“Oh, pooh. Let me get you a glass.” Gigi twirled back into the kitchen and grabbed another Lismore. She filled it full, saw that the bottle was empty, and after placing the stemware in Emmett’s somewhat reluctant hand, plucked a new bottle from the fridge.

Emmett clearly hadn’t expected visitors and his expression was long-suffering.

I stuck out a hand. “Jane Kelly.”

“Emmett Popparockskill.”

What a mouthful. He shook my hand and it was a decent handshake.

“She’s here ’cause I invited her,” Gigi said quickly. I shot her a look, not sure if she was hiding my true agenda for reasons of her own or not. “Have some cheese.”

Emmett popped a couple of squares of pepper jack into his mouth and started drinking with more enthusiasm. “I quit my job today,” he said.

Gigi’s mouth dropped open, then shut, then dropped open again. She looked like a beached fish. “What? Why?”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Which was couple-speak for “after the guest leaves.”

But Gigi was having none of it. “How’re we supposed to pay our bills? Oh my God. You’re kidding, right?”

“It’ll all be okay.”

“Oh my God…”

“Nobody knows what they’re doing there. The other salesmen don’t know fuel injectors from wiper blades.” He flicked a look my way. “I work—worked—at Miller-Kennedy, the Mercedes dealership. Mike Miller’s my uncle and there is no Kennedy anymore.”

“A family-owned business,” I said politely.

“You got that right. My dad’s the account manager.” Something about his tone suggested he thought his father wasn’t much of an employee, either. I got the feeling Emmett thought the place would fall apart without him.

Gigi was going through a rapid thought process. “She’s still there, I take it.”

“Everybody’s still there. Except me.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips.

I wondered who “she” was. Emmett’s mother?

“Well, you can’t quit now, Emmett! My dad’s estate isn’t even close to being settled. We gotta wait.”

“Too late. I walked. Mike was yelling and screaming. I think he scared two customers out of the showroom.”

“You should have that dealership,” Gigi stated flatly. “But Mike’ll leave it to those morons, you know he will.”

“His sons,” Emmett said for my benefit.

“But you’re the only one who knows anything. Y’see?” she said, turning to me. “And then there’s Violet. She gets her family’s money? And she’s awful. It’s just not fair. Unbelievable! She hit Daddy with that tray and killed him and it’s like it never happened! Why haven’t they arrested her?”

Emmett gave me an assessing look. “You know Violet?”

Gigi apparently decided to come clean, saying, “She’s working for her,” then proceeded to put her spin on my role in searching for Roland’s murderer, making me sound like I was just using his death as a means to suck off some of Violet’s money.

“Violet’s paying me,” I admitted. “She’s fully aware that if I find out she’s at fault, I’ll turn her in.”

He looked skeptical. “She’s a liar,” he told me.

“Daddy used to call her Ultra-Violet, like it was a pet name,” Gigi revealed. “Made me want to puke! She always tried to be so nice to us. I never liked her. I just know she slithered back into Daddy’s bed.” She shivered all over. “They were probably screwing while I was supposed to be walking down the aisle.” Her face was suffused with color.

“She killed him,” Emmett said.

“I’d like some proof, before I go there,” I said.

“She hit him with a silver tray in the head and he died. What I wonder is, why aren’t the police doing their job? She should be in jail.”

His sentiments and Gigi’s were one and the same. “She says he was alive when she left.”

“But she admits she hit him.” Gigi pounced on that one. “Who says he was alive? Emmett’s right. Violet is a liar!”

“Can you think of anyone else who might have a reason to want him dead?”

“Violet hit him,” Gigi repeated stubbornly. “That’s a fact.”

“The Wedding Bandits were there, too,” I reminded her.

“Who says? Violet?” Gigi crossed her arms over her chest. “She could have stolen those things.”

“The police are pretty sure the bandits were interrupted.” I didn’t feel I needed to go over all the particulars. The fact that items had been scattered around the house and yard was well documented.

“I found the body,” Emmett reminded me soberly. “I know the crime scene.”

Gigi tossed her head. “I don’t care what anybody says. Violet killed Daddy. I hope she goes to jail forever. I hate her.” She turned to Emmett, her nose turning red, angry tears welling. “It’s so awful!” Emmett cuddled her into his arms, but Gigi turned her head toward me, her cheek pressed up against his shirt. “You’re going to find Daddy’s killer?”

“I’m gonna try.”

“Good luck.” Emmett didn’t sound convinced of my abilities and I didn’t blame him. They thought I was wasting my time. Neither of them liked Violet. And both of them thought she was guilty.

Hell, she probably was.