Candy Apple Red (24 page)

“What do you think really happened?”

“To Bobby?” I nodded. Owen considered for a long moment. “I need another drink. You want anything?”

“No, thanks,” I said regretfully. I would have loved a drink, something cold and refreshing. But I didn’t feel like leaving the Volvo and calling a cab, so it meant alcohol abstinence, more’s the pity.

While Owen fixed himself another martini I walked toward the bookcase that ran along the south wall. It was painted white and the books and objets d’art filling its shelves were arranged by design. Bobby wasn’t the only one who was all about flash. The books were all classics, leather bound, the titles gold embossed, but I doubted Tess had ever read anything from any of them. I saw Shakespeare and Dickens and poetry by Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and William Butler Yeats, to name just a few. They seemed out of place in this white, cold room. There were biographies mixed in as well, past presidents and emperors and famous industrialists.

One name was out of place. A small book tucked against two others with similar gold-colored spines.
Audrey Hepburn
. Well, okay, maybe Tess had read
one
book, or at least part of one, I thought meanly. I slid it from its spot and noticed the book jacket was tucked inside the front cover. Unfolding it, I gazed at a photo of Audrey wearing a pink scarf around her head and a pair of round, black sunglasses. Too weird. There was writing inside the jacket. It was an address in Hepburn, Oregon, which was way east in the dry part of the state, towards the Idaho border.

“She’s never read a book in her life,” Owen said, startling me. I dropped the book to the carpet. When I picked it up again, I slid the book jacket inside the pocket of my purse.

My phone rang. Sliding it from my purse, I checked the number: Murphy. “I’d better go,” I said. The phone kept ringing.

“You going to answer that?”

I clicked the red ‘off’ button. “I’ll call them back.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Jane Kelly.”

“Come back any time, Jane Kelly. ’Course I probably won’t be here. Mom’ll lose this place unless Dad left her a hefty chunk of his estate. But I might fix up a couple of those apartments into an owner’s unit and move back to Lake Chinook. You live there, right?”

“Don’t forget your car’s at Pisces,” I deflected.

I was out the door before he could turn the tables and start grilling me.

“Are you hungry?” Murphy asked as soon as my cell phone connected with his. I was driving fast toward the I-5 freeway, south.

“Starving.”

“I’ll meet you at your place.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“I’ll bring pizza.”

“Pepperoni,” I said.

My mouth watered at the thought of pepperoni pizza. It was after ten and there was hardly a place open for food consumption, although I imagined some frozen jalapeno peppers or fish sticks might still be available at the Pisces Pub.

I realized as I drew close to my exit that I was grinning like an idiot. Murphy wanted to see me. My wish had been granted.

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” I reminded myself aloud. But even scolding myself couldn’t stop me from being happy.

Murphy’s SUV was parked in my driveway. I walked to his car and looked in the window. No sign of him. Stumped, I glanced around, then headed to my front door. He had to be around somewhere. Maybe he’d opened the gate to the backyard.

But I had to let the dog out, so I threaded my key in the front door lock. Before I could twist the knob, the door opened inward. I gasped in shock. “Murphy?”

Binkster wriggled around my legs, half-jumping, trying to lick my hands. I bent down to her automatically, as Murphy said, “The pizza’s on the kitchen bar.”

I could smell it, the scent pulling me inside. Binky whimpered in expectation. “How did you get in?”

“You’ve got a window in the back that doesn’t quite latch. I hauled myself inside.” When I didn’t make a beeline for the food, he asked. “Should I have waited?”

I realized then how tired he looked. His eyes were dark-rimmed, sunken. Cotton’s death had dealt a blow. “No big deal. I just thought someone had been in my place a while ago, but I didn’t see how. Now, I guess I know.”

Murphy said, “Test a few windows on some of these old cottages and there’s a good chance one’ll give.”

I nodded. I’d all but decided no one had actually entered my bungalow uninvited. Now I didn’t feel safe. I walked through the bungalow and opened the back door to let Binks out. She stood in the kitchen, torn, needing to relieve herself but unwilling to leave the prospect of food. I went outside with her and she finally capitulated, running down the steps, sniffing around the yard, nose to the ground, then taking care of business in record time and racing back to me.

“How’s Heather?” I asked Murphy as I sat on the stool next to him. Murphy flipped open the pizza box. Hot pepperoni and little orange bubbles of oil mixing with melted cheese greeted me. I had a momentary rational thought and popped a lactaid pill before I dug in. I didn’t want anything slowing me down while I ate. And I didn’t want any regrets later. Binks put one paw on my leg, so I quickly filled her bowl with crunchies. She stared at the hard, little brown kernels, then looked at me askance. I ignored her.

“Not as broken up as I would have expected, or maybe just hoped,” Murphy admitted. “It’s like she’s moved into phase two. Cotton’s dead and now we must all go on.” He grabbed a slice of pizza and bit into it almost viciously.

For my part, I propped my arms on the counter and gave myself up to the pizza. It was heavenly. Juice ran down to my elbows and onto the Formica. I closed my eyes and munched.

We ate in companionable silence, punctuated by some moaning by the Binkster. I finally broke down and gave her a little piece of crust which she gobbled up quickly and stared at me for more.

“Who do you think killed Bobby?” I asked.

Murphy gave me a look. “What brought that on?”

“I think whoever killed Bobby basically killed Cotton. Once Cotton knew his son was gone, he gave up. He knew Heather married him for his money and whatever he’d once gotten out of that relationship was over. Everybody wanted a piece of his fortune. The real estate agents were panting over the island. The only person Cotton seemed to really care about is you. Maybe Owen.”

Murphy dropped the remainder of his pizza crust back in the box. There were two slices left. “You’re still in the thick of it, aren’t you? You’re still working for Tess!”

“Nope. She’s off in Texas.”

“Texas?” he demanded.

I gave him a quick rundown of my conversation with Owen. My eyes strayed to my purse where the book jacket was carefully folded. “She left after she knew Bobby was dead. I think she was helping him. Owen said he thought Bobby slipped his leash. Maybe Tess figured he’d gone to his father and she wanted me to learn what I could about Cotton—his health and whether he could be hiding Bobby.”

“He wasn’t hiding Bobby.” Murphy was adamant.

“Maybe he was,” I argued. I thought of Hepburn, Oregon. I’ve never been there and I’m sure it’s a nice town, but it would be nowheresville for someone like Bobby Reynolds. “Maybe Bobby thought it was time to get out of Podunk, U.S.A. and start living again,” I suggested. “Maybe he never felt remorse for killing his family. Maybe he turned to dear old dad and—”

“Goddammit, Jane!” Murphy exploded. “You’re such an amateur!”

My mouth dropped open. I’d expected him to be like Dwayne; someone I could bounce ideas off. But he was way too close to the situation, I realized belatedly. Still, that didn’t give him the right to call me names. Amateur? I never claimed to be anything but! “I asked you what you thought,” I reminded a bit tensely. “I was just telling you what I thought. How do you know Cotton wasn’t hiding Bobby?”

“The man’s been dead a matter of hours and you’re maligning him.”

“Come on, Murphy. I’m theorizing. Somebody helped Bobby. He didn’t stay hidden for four years alone. And he got to Lake Chinook somehow. And he met with
someone
because
someone
killed him.”

Murphy seemed to want to say something more, but he held it inside. Swallowing hard, he exhaled on a long sigh. “You know what I want? I want to get through the next couple of days. I want to be here for Cotton’s memorial service. I want to be there when they pour his ashes into Lake Chinook. Then I want to leave. For good. I don’t want to think about Bobby or Cotton or anybody involved ever again.”

He rose abruptly, nearly knocking over the stool, and strode into the living room. Binkster watched him and I followed after him. Whatever I’d hoped for with Murphy didn’t look like it was going to materialize. He’d called me to get away from it all, but I’d jumped in with both feet. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was obsessing about this case. Maybe I should take a tip from him and just forget the whole thing. What was it to me, anyway?

He was standing by my television set. In his hands was a business card. Tomas Lopez’s. He looked up from it and stared at me as if I’d sprouted horns and a tail. “What is this?” he asked, but his expression said he’d already leapt to his own conclusions.

“He stopped by,” I said, indicating the card. “Cotton sicced him on me when he learned I was working for Tess.”

“What did you tell him? Your
theories
?”

I bristled at his tone. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Why have you got his card?”

“He wanted me to get in touch if I learned anything. I may be an amateur but I guess Lopez figured he’d take whatever help he could get.” If Murphy chose to look at this thing rationally he would realize that it was
him
telling Cotton about
me
that had set the whole thing in motion.

“It’s like you have this gruesome fascination with this tragedy.”

Now that was just plain unfair. “I was dragged into this by Marta Cornell and Tess Bradbury.”
And the offer of cold hard cash
. “And then you told me Cotton wanted to talk to me. I can’t seem to give it up even when I try.”

Murphy set the card back down on the television. His whole body radiated anger. I remembered a couple of doozy fights we’d had when we were together. We’d ended up in bed, having some of the best sex of our lives.

“What are you trying to do, Jane?”

“Honestly? I don’t really know.”

“Jerome Neusmeyer is going to read Cotton’s will on Monday.”

“Well, goody. Hope Tess makes it back in time.”

I was good and angry. It had been one very long day.

Murphy had a hand on the front door handle. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right about Tess. I think she knew where Bobby was, and I think she sent him money. But if that’s ever proven, she’ll go to jail.”

“I know.”

“Cotton wouldn’t want that.”

“Are you telling me to back off?”

“In simple English: yes.”

“What about the will? Who inherits? Think that has any bearing on any of this?”

“I don’t give a damn. I just don’t want it to be me.”

So, that was what was really bugging him. “You’ll know on Monday.”

“And then I’m out of here, Jane.” He gave me a long look, the kind of smoldering gaze that tended to curl my toes. “I’m starting my life over. I know we’ve circled around it, but I’m serious about Santa Fe. I want you to come with me.”

I was still nursing my anger. Still…“I don’t know, Murphy.”

“I haven’t forgotten…how we were.”

We stared at each other. My gaze seemed to move from his eyes, to his mouth, to his chest, to his jaw, then back to his mouth. I hadn’t forgotten either. It had been a long, dry four years.

Something in the air pressure changed. I flashed on moments with Murphy: the sight of our limbs tangled together, rumpled bed sheets and laughter caught in the back of our throats. I saw his finger tracing the curve of my calf. My mouth was dry. My heart lurched.

“Jane…”

I don’t remember crossing the distance between us. It wasn’t like those commercials where we were running in slow motion and finally embraced. One second we were ten feet across the room, the next we were all over each other, the next we were ripping off clothes as we stumbled toward my bedroom. Binkster tried to get underfoot and we slammed the bedroom door in her flat, little face. Maybe it was rude, but who needs anyone watching you in the throes of passion, be it human or fuzzy little beast?

I’m never sure about protocol during sex. Should we take it slow, say soft, sensual things to each other? That wasn’t what was happening. It was pure animal. Too much time had passed.

We stopped for a moment to take a breath. I was in my sweatpants, bare from the waist up, breathing hard. Murphy’s shirt was off, his eyes slitted as he examined my heaving chest. It’s not huge, but it’s adequate, and it certainly seemed to be doing the trick tonight. He reached out a hand and cupped one breast. My skin shivered involuntarily.

“I’ve missed you…” he murmured.

Ditto, Bucko.