Читать книгу Candy Apple Red - Nancy Bush - Страница 7

It felt like I waited an inordinately long time for Tess to answer. She shot me a look, glanced away, then gave me another cool, blue-eyed stare. In the end she turned to Marta who assumed command like the general she was.

“Bobby’s been missing for nearly four years,” Marta started in. “The Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department and F.B.I. and God knows who else haven’t been able to turn him up. They’re beginning to think he headed out to sea. A small boat was stolen during those same two days. Capsized, apparently. Pieces floated back along the coast about ten days later.”

“But no body,” I put in, remembering.

“But no body.” Marta nodded.

“One theory is that he set it up to look as if he drowned,” I pointed out, “but that he’s living large and free.”

“If he’s dead, I need to know.” Tess’s voice was flat, nearly emotionless. I gave her a careful look while trying to appear as if I were merely waiting for direction. Her hair was obviously bleached but done so expertly that it could almost be natural. It was cut in a short bob that curved in at the edge of her chin. She was probably in her late forties, but she could have passed for ten years younger. Her nails were lacquered a pastel pink shade, and she wore a pair of cream-colored slacks and matching jacket. I admired the suit’s lack of wrinkles. If I’d been wearing it, it would have looked like I’d pulled it from the bottom of the laundry basket. The pink scarf added the right touch, making her look like a confection. Hard candy, I thought, if the set of her mouth were anything to go by.

Marta continued, “The authorities believe he killed his family, each with a shot to the back of the head, then left them on state forestry land outside Tillamook. There’s been precedent for this. Two other alleged family annihilators: Edward Morris and Christian Longo have been arrested for committing similar crimes in this state. Morris left his family in the Tillamook State Forest like Bobby, Longo dropped the bodies in coastal inlets off Newport and Waldport. Maybe they gave him the idea.” At this point Tess tried to interrupt, but Marta, once engaged, hates losing the floor, so she threw Tess a quelling look and added in an aside, “I’m just filling in background. Bobby may have been a victim as well, but this is what the authorities are thinking, I guarantee it.”

Tess settled back in her chair but her body remained tense. I felt tense, too. Fighting off Woofers seemed like child’s play compared to this. I was already out of my league.

“Familicide is fairly rare. Nationally, maybe 50 cases a year. For some reason, Oregon’s got more than its share. Usually these guys are white, in their 30’s or 40’s, and they feel intense responsibility for their families. Meanwhile, their lives are falling apart, usually financially. Oh, and they generally have a strong faith. Most often, once they’ve killed their families, they take their own lives. That happened with our third local family annihilator, Robert Bryant, who shot his family in his home then turned the shotgun on himself.”

I threw another glance at Tess to see how she was taking this. The pink nails were digging into the arms of her chair. With an effort, she folded her hands back in her lap. Hands are betrayers, I thought. Tess Bradbury looked as if she wanted to claw herself out of this life.

Marta pulled a slim folder from a drawer and laid it out in front of her, consulting her notes. “The perpetrators are usually depressed, often paranoid, men. They can’t face failure, so they see killing their families as their only option.” She put a finger to the page and looked up, studying Tess. “There’s a lot more, but you’ve heard all this before.”

“Over and over again,” Tess gritted.

“Do you mind if I give Jane this file? She can read up on it later.”

Tess didn’t immediately respond. Finally realizing Marta was waiting for an answer, she flapped a hand at the file which meant “yes.” Marta slid the blue folder my way. I flipped open the edge and saw several reports off the Internet and copies of newspaper articles from the Oregonian.

Switching gears, Marta said, “I handled Tess and Cotton’s divorce five years ago. Bobby was married to his wife, Laura, and they’d just had Kit. Their other two children were Aaron and Jenny. Tess, would you like to fill Jane in on what your thoughts are, what you’d like her to do?”

Tess drew a long breath, then exhaled delicately. “My husband was seeing another woman. Dolly Smathers.”

It was curious she went to her divorce first. I was having trouble keeping my mind off anything but Bobby and the deaths of his children. With an effort I pulled my thoughts to Tess herself, and her ex, Cotton. Let’s face it. Any man involved with both a Dolly and a Tess has got to have a country western fetish, big time. But then with a nickname like Cotton, you had to figure Reynolds was a man full of boots and bonhomie. I thought about voicing this opinion, but now didn’t seem the time.

“I sued him for every dime I could get,” Tess went on. “I put the money in an art gallery in the Pearl District, the Black Swan.”

My ears perked up. Cynthia had shown some of her art at the Black Swan. It was a trendy, spacious gallery in an area where the floor space went for mucho-grando-buckos per square foot. “I’ve been there,” I said.

She smiled faintly. “I hardly made a dent in his fortune, but it was enough to get me going. He got the house, the boat, three of the cars. I went back to my maiden name.”

Owen Bradbury…the name of Tess’s other son, Bobby’s older half-brother, crossed my mind. From the way we were talking, Bobby could have been Tess’s one and only. But Owen wasn’t Cotton’s son and since he went by Bradbury, Tess’s maiden name, it didn’t appear as if his real father counted for much. Maybe in Tess’s mind Owen didn’t count for much, either. Again, I kept my mouth shut and just listened.

“Tess, we did well by you in the divorce,” Marta reminded her dryly.

Tess raised a hand in agreement. “But Cotton still has a lot of assets, and the bastard told Bobby that he wasn’t worth one thin dime. His only child. That’s why Bobby was in financial trouble. And Cotton wouldn’t help him. At the time I was all tied up in legalities. I gave Bobby as much as I could, of course, but he’d made these investments…”

I nodded, remembering. Bobby Reynolds had been floundering in a sea of debt. And some of his “investors” were purported to be out-and-out crooks looking for a way to tap into Cotton’s mega-assets. But Cotton had cut that off quick. He’d let Bobby deal with his own problems and apparently those problems had fast become insurmountable, at least in Bobby’s mind, hence the exit from reality. I wondered if Bobby were still alive if he was now horrified at his own actions. With an act so heinous, could anyone really accept his own responsibility, culpability?

“I’ve had the F.B.I. all over me,” Tess went on bitterly. “Every cent I make, or lose, is examined by the goddamn government! They want to know if I’m helping Bobby. Because it’s a murder investigation, they seem to have the right to harass me forever!”

Marta said, “The I.R.S. has been particularly diligent about fine-tooth-combing Tess’s income and assets.”

I nodded again. The government was marshaling their resources, determined to find Bobby and anyone who might be helping him out. They wanted to know if Tess was sloughing off money to her fugitive son.

“Are you under active surveillance?” I asked.

Tess straightened her spine, clearly jolted by the idea. “After all this time? I don’t think so. Not anymore, anyway. I think they’re finally realizing that I’ve got nothing to do with Bobby. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“Why do you want me to talk to Cotton?” I finally got back to the only part of the issue I was really involved with at this point.

“If Bobby is alive…” She stopped, swallowed, drew another breath. “If Bobby’s alive, Cotton knows it. And I think he could be helping him.”

That caught my attention. “Back up. If Cotton wouldn’t help him before…why would he now that Bobby’s on the run? That’s aiding and abetting a wanted felon.”

“His guilt. Finally.” She practically spit the words. Her fury at her ex-husband was deep and real, maybe even more so with the passing of time. “Cotton never treated Bobby right. And I think it’s rotted his soul.”

“Have you thought about talking to the police about any of this?” I asked cautiously.

“It’s all supposition,” Marta interjected smoothly. The last thing she wanted was to lose a client’s money.

“I don’t know anything for sure. It’s just a feeling I have, and frankly, if Bobby’s alive, and Cotton’s been helping him…I don’t want the police to know.”

A knot of discomfort tightened in my lower back. Like someone twisting a screw into my spine. “You know, if by some long shot, I found out where Bobby was, I would have to go to the police myself. He is wanted for murder.”

“I understand,” Tess said quickly. “All I’m asking is for you to go to the benefit on Saturday, have fun, get some kind of impression. Do you see?”

For the first time I read the desperation in her eyes. True, naked desperation. A mother’s need to know. “So, what is this benefit?” I asked, already knowing.

Tess relaxed. “It’s part of the Lake Chinook Historical Society’s annual showing of homes. Cotton had to lobby like crazy because he’s a pariah now. He’s been quietly shunned by some of the more prominent Lake Chinook and Portland snobs.” She sniffed. “They come into the gallery sometimes, but it’s mostly to get a look at me.”

I saw how much she hated being the monkey in the zoo. Famous was one thing; infamous something else.

“Tickets for the event are in the file, too,” Marta said.

“I’ll go,” I said to Tess. “But I honestly don’t see what I can do.”

“Cotton loves Tim Murphy. Just mention Murphy’s name and he’ll love you, too.”

I never mention Murphy’s name, I thought. I try not to think about him too much. With a stab of honesty, I said, “This may be a waste of your money.”

“It’s mine to waste,” she said.

“Just meet with Cotton,” Marta inserted quickly. “See what you think. See if you can get to meet him again.”

“If he’s really helping Bobby, he’s hardly likely to talk to anyone,” I pointed out.

“I need to know if my son’s alive,” Tess insisted, her curiously flat voice taking on an edge of determination…or hysteria. “I’m at my wit’s end. Cotton won’t speak to me. And his wife’s even worse.”

I’d forgotten that he’d remarried. “Dolly?” I guessed.

She shook her head. “Heavens, no. She was trash. This one’s more sophisticated. A real snake in the grass. Heather.” Her mouth recoiled around the word. “Younger than my son. Cotton seems to be having a second midlife crisis. Sixty-two, going on seventeen.”

There was something about the way she was looking at me. She thought Cotton would like me. Maybe that’s why she’d come to check me out this morning, incognito. “Is there some reason this has all cropped up right now?” I asked. “Bobby’s been missing a while.”

Marta cleared her throat. “There’s a rumor,” she said slowly, her eyes on Tess. “One we can’t substantiate.”

I waited.

“Cotton’s ill,” she said. Rumor or no, she’d made up her mind. “I think he’s got a pre-nup with Heather, and if so, his estate will go to…” She shrugged her small shoulders lightly. “Bobby, I’d imagine.”

“But if he’s cut out of the will…”

“I think he’s back in. I just have the feeling that if Cotton’s dying, he’s making amends.”

I looked from her to Marta and back again. So, this was where the big money supposedly was. Cotton’s fortune might be earmarked for Bobby. If Bobby was still alive, that is. And if Bobby were found and arrested, and Cotton was gone, Bobby might put his mother in charge of his finances.

A lot of “ifs” to bank on, but then we were talking about a lot of money.

I wondered what the terms of Cotton’s will were. Was Bobby back in? And was he Cotton’s designated heir? What about Heather, his wife? Or Owen, who might not be his own flesh and blood but was someone Cotton had taken care of for the greater part of Owen’s life? Who else would Cotton Reynolds want to leave his fortune to?

Murphy…

The thought came unbidden and once in my head, couldn’t be dislodged. Murphy had been very close to Bobby. They’d gone through school together: little league, Pop Warner football, high school athletics…From all accounts Murphy could “whup Bobby’s ass” in sports, but they’d remained friends. When I’d followed Murphy back to Oregon, he’d taken me around to the usual haunts. The Pisces Pub was the hangout for all the legal (and under-aged kids with good fake IDs) graduates from both Lakeshore and Lake Chinook High Schools. Murphy had barely begun to reacquaint himself with old friends when Bobby disappeared. Tess called Murphy, looking for Bobby. I’d never hung out with either Bobby or Laura all that much. If I’d had any inkling about what was to come, I would have paid closer attention, believe me. As it was, my impression of Bobby hadn’t been all that flattering, but neither was it criminal. He’d seemed like a typical red-blooded American boy who’d outgrown high school and therefore the height of his popularity. He’d married Laura, a high school sweetheart, who probably had been a beauty in her day but whose figure after three kids was well on the way to matronly. She was also quite religious. It was clear she didn’t feel comfortable having a beer with Bobby, his good buddy Murphy, and Murphy’s sometime girlfriend, me. She carried a small worn book in one hand, a prayer book I later learned, and I came out of the Pisces feeling like I didn’t quite fit in.

Murphy was quiet afterwards. We didn’t talk much about either one of them. Bobby, Laura and the kids went back to Astoria the next day. They lived near members of his wife’s family and were apparently pretty locked in with Laura’s family’s small, local church. Murphy and Bobby’s friendship clearly wasn’t what it once was, but it was still the deepest of either of their lives.

But when the familicide story broke, Murphy was frantic. He fell instantly back into “best friend” role, ardently decrying the outrage of the media, law enforcement officials, anyone who even entertained the idea. Like Tess, Murphy would not believe Bobby was responsible. The whole thing consumed him. I just figured Bobby did it. I also figured that Murphy might be using his absorption to not only come to grips with the depths of Bobby’s crimes, but also as a means to slowly pull away from me.

Marta got up from her desk, shaking hands all around, acting as if we’d just signed some kind of Nobel Peace pact. I certainly felt a pact had been formed, but I wasn’t convinced of its positive nature. But there was the matter of the money…five hundred per visit with Cotton. Tess was ready to pay and though I sorely wanted to take a check in advance, I kept my mouth shut on the subject. I would go to Cotton’s benefit and see what I thought. I was firmly convinced it would be a one-time-only event. I wasn’t sure I wanted more than that anyway.

And it seemed to me that Tess was counting her chickens before they were hatched. She seemed to believe that Bobby would inherit and that she would be a side beneficiary. Where that left Heather, I don’t know.

“Did I see you in the Coffee Nook this morning?” I asked her as I picked up the file and trailed after her and Marta. Tess stopped short at the door, clearly surprised by my question.

For a moment she was going to deny me; it was in her eyes, her body language. But then she must have known I wouldn’t be convinced because she muttered, “I sometimes get my coffee there. Yes, I stopped by this morning.”

“Small world,” I said.

The snotty receptionist gave me the elevator eyes, a silent comment on my dust-grimed clothes. I rewarded her with a brilliant smile while calling her all kinds of names in my head. She wrinkled her nose and got back to work.

“Call me after the benefit,” Tess ordered. She started to hold out her hand in that same princess-like manner, then thought better of it, shaking my hand in the customary way instead. A frisson of fear shivered down my back. A vision of someone sticking pins in a voodoo doll with my likeness came to mind.

Have I mentioned I have a very active imagination? I can be overly dramatic at times.

Unfortunately, I was going to learn that this time wasn’t one of them.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon lost in thought while posting the rest of Greg Hayden’s 72-hour notices. Easily accomplished, it reminded me that process serving was more my speed. Apart from an occasional Woofers, it was fairly benign. I headed home a couple hours later, feeling unclean and anxious in a way I didn’t want to analyze too closely. With an effort I shoved thoughts of Bobby Reynolds and Tim Murphy aside and concentrated on food, or my lack of it.

Foster’s On The Lake is the one and only restaurant actually on Lake Chinook, and therefore the only restaurant-bar with boat docks. I don’t own a boat myself. I firmly believe in the definition that a boat is a hole in the water in which to throw money away. That said, I love to be invited on someone else’s boat and it’s convenient that my boat dock is still in working order in case that someone wants to pick me up.

I called Cynthia, asking her to meet me for a drink, leaving a message on her cell phone. She sent a text message back on my cell, telling me she was unavailable. I am going to have to figure out how to do that, I reminded myself, marveling at the tiny typing on my LCD screen. I may fear technology but I also admire it.

The idea of driving to Foster’s held no attraction. Patrons of Foster’s On The Lake take up the parking spots early and it’s an overall pain in the ass to find anywhere else to leave a car.

I debated on whom to call. Reluctantly, I settled on Dwayne. He’s perfect for two reasons: (1) he’s someone I can share information with, and (2) he owns a boat. Another plus is that he doesn’t blather. He’s the strong, silent type a lot of the time, and when he does speak it’s not wasted small talk. And though he’s physically attractive, he’s not for me, which is just as well, since thoughts of Murphy circling my brain make me unstable and unreliable when it comes to sex. I can make a huge mistake, if I’m not careful. After all, I was nuts over Murphy. Much as I would like to believe differently, I’m not sure I’ve learned resistance over the years. Luckily Dwayne’s name alone puts me off.

His answering machine picked up on the fourth ring. “Dwayne?” I called, knowing he was probably there and ignoring the beep. “Dwayne, pick up. Let’s go to Foster’s and have a drink. Get your boat and come get me.”

I waited. Dwayne has a derelict boathouse attached to his cabana which is in need of serious work. He also is a proud owner of a broken boat lift which is meant to keep the boat out of the water and save the hull, but is pretty much a hunk of twisted metal in need of excising. One of his professed long-term projects is fixing the boathouse/lift, but while he tinkers away Dwayne pays for an easement. There are several such easements dotted along the shores of Lake Chinook. Depending on where you reside, you might have easement access. However, there are only so many boat slips within the easement and you have to put your name on a waiting list if they are all full, which they generally are. Dwayne was lucky enough to pick one up the third year of owning his cabana. He bought a well-used boat with worn seats and suspiciously squishy floorboards, but he keeps the engine running like a top. “Dwayne?” I yelled again.

The line clicked on. “Quit belly-aching,” he complained. “I was finishing up some notes.”

“What are you working on?”

“You throwing in with me, darlin’?”

“Not yet.”

There was a hint of equivocation in my response that I tried, and failed, to suppress. I could tell he heard it. “Not yet” was far better than plain “no.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

I hung up. Dwayne wanted an intern, a protege, an acolyte. He wanted me to be that person, but I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. Bartender, process server…hatchery fish…that was me. Damn Billy Leonard for labeling me so accurately. Yes, I was unfocused and undisciplined and at a loss to find a serious career path, but so what? Couldn’t I bump along as I’d been doing? Did I have to make some kind of choice?

Dwayne was true to his word, putt-putting at six miles per hour as he came into West Bay—lake requirements—and smoothly drifting up to my dock, his hull kissing the once white bumpers Mr. Ogilvy had installed several seasons earlier. I was waiting in khaki shorts and a white tank over a blue two-piece swimsuit. Not that I intended swimming. Good lord, no. But being prepared came naturally to me. A fact Dwayne had pointed out on more than one occasion which added to my inherent gifts as an information specialist.

“Hey,” he grunted as I stepped into the boat.

“Hey, there,” I responded, and we took off.

I saw a bottle of wine nestled in a spot beside the throttle, ready for consumption as soon as we reached Foster’s. By unspoken understanding Dwayne and I would share the wine after he docked the boat and before we walked into the restaurant. This meant we would sit in our boat and drink, viewing the restaurant diners as if they were a kind of open theater. Believe it or not this was considered okay behavior even though we would be docked at On The Lake’s pier. It’s all part of Lake Chinook’s summer customs. It’s perfectly okay to pull up next to someone else’s boat and examine what they’d brought to drink or possibly eat as sometimes people didn’t even bother walking into the restaurant at all.

On The Lake’s owner, Jeffrey Foster—known simply as Foster to anyone who’s acquainted with him—allowed this behavior because when the weather is nice enough for boating the place is already spilling over its edges with customers. This is amazing in itself since the prices at On The Lake are astronomical. The rest of the cheapies and myself generally sway in our boats, listen to the live music and refuse to open our wallets. Foster doesn’t have time to pay attention to us. Every chance I get I complain to him about the prices, but he just shrugs his shoulders and tells me to go somewhere else. Like, oh sure, there is nowhere else on Lake Chinook. So, I have to limit my nights of food buying. To this end I sometimes go beyond the limits of cheap into downright miserly by circumventing the restaurant altogether. I trek along the sidewalk which is squeezed next to the teensy movie house which is part of On The Lake’s building and which boasts excellent popcorn and a fireplace in the lobby, then I cross State Street and sneak into Johnny’s Market to buy Doritos and a jar of salsa. Affordable, and a few notches closer to real food than Chapstick.

I used to cadge rides to the restaurant with Murphy, but since that broke up I’ve been forced to rely on Dwayne and sometimes my neighbors, two houses down, who are screechingly, unhappily married at the best of times; sullen, boiling fury at the worst. Not exactly a laugh-fest are the Mooneys. They’re in their late forties/early fifties and haven’t experienced a moment of joy in their quarter-century of marriage, I’m sure. Whenever they get a notion in their heads to go boating, they always invite me. I guess they need a referee. Whether I accept or not depends on my own phase of boredom. Luckily, I hadn’t resorted to their company yet this summer.

Foster’s was rocking and rolling as we pulled up. Blue flags fluttered at the top of poles attached to each boat slip. Luckily, we were able to nab a docking space, one made available as a boat was just pulling out. It was a Master Craft with a pole jutting out of the center, constructed for water-skiing and wakeboarding. I can wake-board and water-ski, but it’s so much work I pretty much just don’t do it. Anyway, I just had alcohol on the brain, and food, if I could afford some. If not, just alcohol. I’m pretty sure this is a bad sign, but I didn’t much care.

There were two seats open at the outdoor bar, a curving wooden structure nestled beneath the boughs of an oak tree which was arranged for a perfect view of the water. Dwayne grunted that he was going across the street to Johnny’s Market but I beelined for the chairs. I settled myself down with a sigh of contentment and ran my repertoire of mixed drinks through my head.

Manny, On The Lake’s best bartender, looked over at me.

Even though I’ve done my share of bartending I buckled, turning toward the all-time female standard. “Could I have a glass of Chardonnay?”

“Any particular kind?”

“The cheapest.”

I used to make all kinds of fancy concoctions at Sting Ray’s. Once in a great while I still manage to whip something up. I spent a lot of hours at Sting Ray’s trying to create a drinkable drink that includes blue curacao. Personally, I feel the stuff is damn near toxic but its electric blue shimmer is inviting as hell. My best answer to date: cut its godawful taste with Sprite or Seven-Up or some other lemon-lime soda.

I wasn’t sure whether I cared that Dwayne had left me to my own devices. Two weeks ago I’d been forced to drive over and sit by myself at the bar as, once again, I’d been looking for friends and everyone was busy. It had been one of the few, rare, lovely nights like this one, the kind where it stays warm way past dusk and beyond. I’d actually struck up a conversation with a guy who’d just arrived in Lake Chinook and was surprised by the good weather.

“I thought it rained all the time here,” he said.

I warned ominously, “Don’t let this fool you. Once or twice a year. Maybe three times tops. That’s all the really fabulous weather you can count on. Some years, not even that.”

“Lived here long?” he asked, then proceeded to look me over in a way that made my inner voice go, “Uh-oh.”

“Awhile,” I allowed.

He gazed speculatively over the water. “I’m traveling through, though I’m really thinking about making a move.”

Our small talk dwindled from that point, mainly because I bowed out of the conversation. After a while he went and stood on one of the docks, his back to me. My last vision of him was in silhouette, the flags dancing above him in a quirky little breeze. Now, I glanced automatically to where he’d stood. I wondered idly if he’d made the move from wherever it was he’d come.

Manny brought me my Chardonnay and I managed to down most of it by the time Dwayne reappeared from across the street with a bag which he hefted into the boat. I watched him from my perch, aware that he was debating whether to open up his cache and munch away in the boat, or join me at the bar. While he considered, Manny poured me a second glass and slid it my way without asking.

I said, “I hope you’re trying to get me drunk, and if you are, great. But I warn you, I have limited resources.”

“It’s on the house,” he said.

“And what if Foster finds out?”

“He doesn’t get worked up over a few ‘on the house’ glasses of wine.”

I sent Manny a knowing look. “I bet those specials are supposed to be for the paying customers.”

Manny shrugged and smiled to himself. He wasn’t a serious conversationalist but he looked damn good in Hawaiian shirts and shorts, Foster’s summer employee uniforms.

My cell phone buzzed at that moment. I hate people who get calls in crowded restaurants and then proceed to yak loudly on and on about nothing. But I was curious because this was my second unexpected cell call of the day. Unheard of.

Squinting at the LCD display I saw my mother’s phone number pop into view. I grimaced. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the kind of convoluted conversations that were as much a part of my mother as her Thursday hair appointments. But guilt won out, as it most often does, and I answered cautiously, “Hey, there, Mom.”

“Jane?”

It confuses my mother when I answer already knowing the caller. Mom doesn’t understand caller ID, and I don’t think there’s any power in the universe able to explain it to her in a way that makes sense. Her call was unusual as she generally phones on weekends, claiming to be too busy during the week. I’m almost afraid to ask “doing what?” because the explanation will no doubt be long and involved and never be a true explanation. Most often I’m left struggling to decipher half of what she says, but she never fails to be entertaining.

“Hi, Mom. Yeah, it’s me,” I said.

Once assured she’d called the right number, Mom didn’t waste time on preliminaries. “Your Aunt Eugenie died and left you her dog.”

“What? A dog?” The events with the pit bull and the image of Dobermans flashed across the screen of my mind. “I can’t have a dog, Mom! I’m not around to take care of it. Dogs need—people—don’t they?” I paused. “Who’s Aunt Eugenie?”

“You don’t remember Eugenie? Shirttail relative who lives around Portland…? Well…lived. She’s been sick an awful long time. We started calling kind of regularly after she found out she was sick. It is just still a shock, though.”

My brain felt like it was on stall. I could feel things already spiraling out of control. “But…I can’t have a dog. I don’t want a dog. You didn’t tell her I’d take the thing, did you?”

“Well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I knew you’d be happy to help. She’d been worrying so much. You know, I really thought Eugenie would give the dog to her daughter, but they haven’t been close for a long time. Years. What’s that daughter’s name…Diana? No, Donna? Maybe it’s just Dawn. Anyway, she has children and a husband with allergies, I think. Oh, he might be in a nursing home. Not sure…” My mother’s voice wandered off.

“I can’t have a dog,” I reiterated.

“You can have a dog, Jane. You said Mr. Ogilvy allows pets.”

I pulled back the receiver and stared at it. How can my mother draw these obscure factoids out of her brain when she has difficulty remembering the name of the city where I live? And how can she remember Ogilvy’s name? I may have mentioned him once to her, but the owner of my bungalow isn’t generally a hot topic between us.

“Aunt Eugenie has a friend who’ll be bringing it by,” my mother went on. “I gave her your number.”

I seriously doubted whether I ever had a shirttail relative named Eugenie. My mother meets new “best friends” faster than I can blow through a twenty and invariably these new buddies enter my life as well. Leaving it all behind had felt like a side benefit in following Murphy to a new state, but it appeared now that my mother’s incessant friend-gathering had followed me to Portland as well.

“Well, I’m not going to take it. I don’t have room for a dog. I’ll send it to the humane society.”

“You need a dog. You need something around to keep you safe.”

I almost asked “What kind of dog?” but stopped myself at the last second. No good encouraging my mother. “Aunt Eugenie should have made other provisions for Fido ‘cause it’s not going to be with me.”

“You’ll have to tell the girl who’s bringing it over, then,” my mother said with a sigh. “I hope it’s not going to be a problem. I promised Eugenie I’d take care of things. If you really can’t take the dog, maybe the girl can talk to Eugenie’s daughter.”

“Who is this girl?”

“I’m not sure. Someone Eugenie knew. Maybe she can push Eugenie’s daughter…Dawn, I think…to take the poor thing in. I hope it all works out.” Her message delivered, Mom then abruptly changed the subject. “Have you seen your brother lately?”

“Booth? No.”

“He has a new girlfriend. I think it’s serious this time. I’d like you to check her out.”

“What do you mean check her out? Like, check her out by looking at her, or are you saying you want me to dig into her background?” My mother was cagey this way. You had to be really certain what she was asking at all times.

“I just think you should meet her.”

The last time I’d met one of Booth’s dates I’d been unable to drag my eyes from the tattoo she had inked around her neck, one of those choke chain designs meant for feral animals. I really felt this particular female should have been sporting the real thing. She looked like she ate human flesh on a regular basis, and she had a habit of staring straight through you that was meant to be intimidating. It was.

“I’ll…meet her whenever I can.”

“Booth’s free right now. I just talked to him.”

“Well, I’m not.” On that I was firm. “I’m with friends now. And I’ve got a benefit to attend Saturday night.”

“With a date?” My mother was completely blown away.

This irked me and sent me into a riff of lying. “Yes.”

“With a man?”

Well, hell. “Yes. A real live man.” I embellished. “Wealthy, too. Owns an island.”

“Oh, Jane.”

Clearly, I’d pushed it too far. “Gotta go,” I said. “I’m getting beeped and I’m expecting a call. I’ll check in with Booth and let you know what I find.”

“And the dog, Jane? Remember the dog. Please think about it.”

I ground my teeth. I wanted to scream that there wasn’t an ice cube’s chance in hell of me taking on an orphaned canine, but I managed to keep my cool. I then rushed into a passel of more excuses and hung up before she could say anything more.

“Sheesh,” I said, reaching for my wine.

Dwayne appeared at that time. “I’ll have a Bud,” he told Manny who brought him the sweating beer tout de suite. Then Dwayne, who’d been nice on the boat ride over, asked, “Evict anyone today?” before sucking down half of his long neck in one swallow. On the heels of my mother’s call, his remark really pissed me off. Billy Leonard can get away with that kind of banter, but it doesn’t work with Dwayne. And the way my mother just assumes I’ll be perennially dateless…

I said, bristling, “That really pisses me off.”

“Everything pisses you off,” he responded without a care.

Because that pissed me off as well, I felt compelled to defend myself. “I never tack up eviction notices unless it’s three days before Christmas and the family has six children and an unemployed handicapped father.” I sipped at Chardonnay number two, determining I wasn’t going to guzzle it as quickly as number one. There were a lot of hours left before bedtime and I didn’t want to flame out too quickly.

“You should take on a real case,” he said.

I said, baldly, “I have.”

Dwayne’s brows lifted with real interest. And at that same moment another boat docked in a newly vacated boat slip. I looked at the captain of the craft and recognized the glowing white mane of Cotton Reynolds.