Candy Apple Red (9 page)

I snagged another glass of Dom. Might as well knock back the good stuff before it ran out or it rained.

I sipped out of one drink and held the other as if I were waiting for my date to appear. A middle-aged woman with a huge purse nearly backed into me. I did a quick sidestep out of harm’s way.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t see you.” She was going to stick out her hand to greet me but realized my hands were full. “What a beautiful setting,” she said, almost on a sigh. “This is the most unique property on the lake. I’m glad Mr. Reynolds allowed this benefit before he sells it.”

“He’s selling the property?”

“That’s the rumor. I’m Lorraine Bluebell,” she introduced. “I’m a Realtor with Lakeside Realty.”

“You’re Cotton—Mr. Reynolds’—agent?”

“No…” She wrinkled her nose. Lorraine was about fifty-five, a shade plump, with a whitish streak of bangs against an otherwise dark blond bob. She was stylishly dressed in a taupe linen jacket and straight skirt. Her purse was an iridescent lilac shade and looked big enough to carry a bowling ball. A leaf-shaped brooch of amethyst-like stones sparkled on one lapel. Catching my look, she said, “They’re fake. Pretty though. I think Paula Shepherd’s got the lock as Cotton’s real estate agent, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find the buyer.”

So, Cotton was selling. What did that mean? Anything? Or were he and his wife just ready to move on? “Why is he leaving?” I asked Lorraine.

“I’m not sure. Lot of grounds to maintain, although he does a beautiful job.” She glanced around with admiration.

“How much is he selling for, do you know?”

“It’s all speculation at this point. If and when Paula gets the listing, she’ll put it in the RMLS for some exorbitant amount. Everyone will gasp and it will sell at a couple of hundred thousand less than what they’re asking. But it’s bound to be in the ten million plus range.”

“Wow.”

Lorraine slid me a sideways glance full of suppressed humor. “It would be a nice sale.”

“Yeah,” I said with feeling. “What’s the RMLS?”

“Realty Multiple Listing Service.”

She signaled one of the waiters. I finished my first glass of champagne and started on my second. In tacit agreement Lorraine and I became “benefit buddies” and we toured the house and the grounds as the crowd around us grew larger and louder.

“You remind me of my daughter,” Lorraine said, her hand hovering over the canapes. These were tiny rolls of roast beef, sour cream and some kind of green leaf. Possibly basil. “Her name’s Virginia but she goes by Ginny. She lives in Santa Monica. Works as a production manager on commercials. I don’t really know what that is, but she organizes everyone involved in the shoot.” She cocked her head. “What do you do?”

Good question. I wasn’t sure how to answer her. I was saved from a response by the roar of a motor boat engine. We were standing on the grassy level above the pool. Both Lorraine and I looked toward the water where a deluxe Ski Nautique in mustard yellow was docking. Waves from the boat’s wake lashed the stone wall, rocking the boat violently. I winced, half expecting it to smash into smithereens, but a couple of party employees scurried over and managed to find safe mooring in a sheltered cove behind a wall of large screening rock. The new guest stepped onto a slippery rock step, half inundated with slapping water and made his way around the pool and up to the party. I was surprised to see I recognized him: my acquaintance from my night at Foster’s some weeks ago. The one who was thinking of moving here; it looked as if he had.

Lorraine’s gaze followed mine. She seemed about to say something, just as a thin, forty-something woman with blond, spiky hair and a tense walk strode up to her. I recognized her immediately as half of the couple sharing a table with Cotton and Heather at Foster’s On The Lake.

My curiosity was all but choking me. I couldn’t believe I knew not one, but two people, both of whom I’d met at Lake Chinook’s one hot dining spot on the lake.

“Hello, Lorraine,” she greeted tautly. Her eyes swept past both of us to the man arriving below.

“Hello, Paula,” Lorraine answered. There was cool reserve in her voice, one I hadn’t heard in our hour spent together.

Paula Shepherd. Aha. I guessed Lorraine’s detachment was a form of professional rivalry. And to be honest, on first impression Paula Shepherd was not the warmest and fuzziest person on the planet. She seemed pent-up and tense, her eyes following the newcomer with laser-like intensity.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

She turned to look at me, frowning. “Have we met?”

I stuck out my hand. “Jane Kelly.”

“Paula Shepherd. Are you with Lakeside?”

“She’s not a real estate agent,” Lorraine informed her.

“I’m just another Lake Chinook resident,” I said.

“That’s Craig Cuddahy.” She jerked her head in the direction of Cotton’s latest guest. “We’re not supposed to arrive by boat. Since the accident last weekend Cotton specifically requested all guests come by car. The moorage isn’t safe and Cotton doesn’t want uninvited gawkers to just show up.”

“The accident with the teenagers?” I asked.

She nodded. “But the dogs are locked up, so no one’s going to stop him.” Her tone was full of contempt. She smiled at the end, as if negating everything she’d just said, but her feelings about Cuddahy were clear.

“I didn’t think he lived here,” I said.

“He doesn’t. He’s staying at the Shoreline.” Her lip curled. Hearing herself, she laughed. “He’s a developer. From somewhere in the Southwest. He wants to buy this property for a song. I’m sure he hopes the accident will work in his favor.”

And he’s not using you as his real estate agent,
I thought. “He’s made an offer?”

“There are always tacit offers, Miss Kelly.” She left abruptly and I looked around to realize that Lorraine had moved away to mingle with others. I couldn’t blame her. Paula Shepherd might be an effective real estate agent, but she wasn’t someone you could happily sip champagne with. Not when you were standing on a piece of property that had anyone involved with real estate salivating over it.

I meandered toward the three-piece-string combo, strumming softly on a buried section of lawn away from the action. A few drops of rain fell on my head and I looked up anxiously. The fir trees rustled in warning, but the deluge held off for the moment.

I’d caught glimpses of Cotton and Heather on my tour with Lorraine. They were always surrounded by a small crowd. I’d learned more about the dynamics of the house than what my host was all about. I’d even seen Heather’s and Cotton’s bedrooms, separate, but with a shared bath, and I’d been shown the closed door to Cotton’s den, situated at the far eastern corner of the house.

In my head I was totting up the five hundred dollars Tess was going to pay and feeling a little self-satisfied. As long as no one wanted serious results, this kind of work was easy. I had to manage a few words with Cotton to make my job legit, but that was duck soup.

Craig Cuddahy caught up with me as he was knocking back a glass of the cheaper champagne, reaching for another, knocking it back as well. The waiter tried to turn away but he stopped him and swept another glass off the tray, dropping off his dead soldiers with an alarming clink of glass against glass. I imagined there was “chippage” involved. Cuddahy didn’t even notice.

He did, however, notice me. A line drew between his brows. I could tell he was trying to place me. I debated on ending his struggle, but his demeanor wasn’t exactly warming me to him, either. He’d seemed thoughtful and pleasant that night at Foster’s, staring over the water, but tonight he was impatient and bordering on rude. I glanced at my watch. At this rate, he’d be drunk by eight o’clock.

“We’ve met,” he said.

I should have grabbed another glass of champagne while I had the chance, cheap or no, but it was too late: the waiters were avoiding Cuddahy like the proverbial plague. Since I was currently talking with him, they were avoiding me by default.

Great. Where was Lorraine when I needed her? Someone benign and helpful? I determined right there that I was going to become Lorraine’s friend. I liked her. And she knew people in the area. If I were to become an information specialist, I needed friends.

And it would be nice to have friends I actually liked.

“I saw you at Foster’s,” I said, offering Cuddahy a clue.

“The restaurant?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Oh…” Remembrance flashed over his face. “You were wearing that red shirt.”

Actually, I was wearing a skimpy red skirt, way outside of my usual attire. The need for femininity—something that rarely attacks me—had taken hold that night and I’d actually curled my hair and made myself look pretty okay. The disappointment Cuddahy showed as he viewed me now really gave my ego a beating. Okay, so I wasn’t dolled up. I was all right, wasn’t I? It took all I had not to self-consciously touch my hair or look down at my clothes.

“Well,” he said, lifting his now empty glass. “Let me see if I can get us a refill.”

“Let me,” I said, jumping at the chance to vamoose.

I had no real interest in hanging around with Cuddahy, but I’d spied Cotton in a heated conversation with a young man whose back was toward me. I had a strangled moment when I thought it was Murphy, but this guy’s physique wasn’t even close. I’m just paranoid that way. Murphy is tall and lean and serious with eyes that seem to look right through you. It’s his smile that does me in: wide and bright in true Hollywood style. And his dimples…and his developed sense of humor. Whoever was bending Cotton’s ear was far shorter and his hair was darker. As I glanced at him, he half-turned. I realized he was the other half of the couple who’d joined Cotton and Heather at Foster’s the other night. I’d overheard Paula say she’d brought her partner, Brad Gilles. This must be the man.

“Well, we’re all accounted for,” I murmured to myself as I tracked down a waiter and pulled off two more glasses of champagne. These were now sans raspberries and of some brand far less lofty than Dom. The night was wearing on.

I turned and just missed face-planting myself into a broad, male chest.

“Is one of those for me?”

A sudden shift in air pressure. The hairs on my arms lifted and I shivered.

My smile felt stilted. I stepped back and said, “Hi, Murphy.”

W
ell, I knew he was going to be here, didn’t I? It was just a matter of time until I ran into him. I’d worried and fretted and wondered about him, and he’d finally materialized. No need for histrionics. It was what it was. Still, I had to struggle really, really hard to look merely glad to see him, not sweating and tremoring from emotion.

Murphy accepted a glass of champagne from one of my nerveless hands. His gray eyes searched my face. I don’t know what he saw but it felt like my skin had turned to thick rubber. Nothing moved apart from my heartbeat, racing light and fast.

“How’s Santa Fe?” I asked, congratulating myself on my faintly interested, not overwhelmed, tone. There was a funny little thrumming beneath my skin. My legs seemed to be shaking. I was half afraid my right knee was going to break out into a can-can.

“It’s all right.”

“Been involved in criminology somehow?” He’d been far keener on his studies when we were at college than I had. I’d been merely keen on him.

“Not much.” He was abrupt, glancing around as if he were looking for a way to escape. He didn’t have to explain that Bobby’s murdered family had spun him off the investigation track. I didn’t explain that the same had not happened to me. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“I, um, heard that Cotton was selling.” I broke smoothly into the lie. No sense in telling him the truth. We had enough to wade through without me breaking into an explanation of why I’d come to the benefit. “This seemed like my one chance to see the island. Whoever buys it might not be as interested in opening its gates.”

“He’s selling?” Murphy was clearly surprised.

“That’s the rumor.”

“I’d never sell.”

I looked past him, past the crowds of people, toward the lake. In the distance a red and white boat skimmed by, pulling a water skier under threatening skies. Another day you would be able to hear the dim roar of the motor; today there was too much chatter, laughter, music and overall noise.

“It’s a lot to keep up,” I pointed out. Landscaping and grounds maintenance, so important, but areas where I stumble, fall and die. Housekeeping nearly does me in. I can’t imagine the world beyond my front door expecting me to take care of it. Not that Ogilvy does such a hot-shot job. Once in a while I sweep my flagstone steps, but hey, that usually requires libations and plenty of rest. I’m not really lazy, but I’m intimidated and just plain disinterested in outdoor labor.

“What are you doing now?” he asked.

I liked the timbre of his voice. It just reminded me of so many pleasant memories. When you’re in love—obsessively in the first blush of that nearly fatal emotion—everything is so damn wonderful it hurts. I was being assailed by those haunting moments when Murphy and I were buried inside each other’s self, as if there was nothing else.

“I’m process serving. And working with Dwayne. You know him.”

He nodded but his brows knit. I could tell he was faintly disappointed. I felt the urge to tell him what my real mission was, but I bit my tongue. There was no point in defeating my purpose so early in the game. Lots of hours left for that.

With Murphy, I didn’t trust myself. Far worse than the way I didn’t trust myself with Dwayne. Far, far worse…

I snagged a coiled cocktail shrimp drenched in melted butter from a passing tray. The waiter stopped, somewhat impatiently, giving me time to grab a second. Murphy shook his head at the waiter, then downed his champagne in one shot. He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth in a thoroughly sexy “I don’t give a damn what others think” sort of way. I chomped down both my shrimp, barely tasting them. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to throw him down on the ground and writhe on top of him. My thoughts shot down a thoroughly pornographic path that left me feeling breathless and vulnerable. I had to look away.

Inhaling unsteadily, I hazarded a sideways glance at him. He was tapping the edge of his empty glass with one finger, gazing around for another waiter. I should have been relieved that he couldn’t discern—or didn’t care about—my feelings, but the realization made me mildly hysterical. I wanted to laugh. I didn’t know
what
I wanted. I desperately glanced around for help. I was in big, big trouble. God knew what would happen if I were left alone with him for too long.

It was at that moment that Craig Cuddahy rediscovered me. “Hey,” he said, sounding put out. “Thought you were bringing me a drink.”

“I think we could all use another.” I marched away on that, heart beating painfully, glad for the escape.

I never went back. Call it an attack of the “junior-highs.” I couldn’t face Murphy and act as if everything was okay between us. I just couldn’t. And after a couple of more glasses of champagne which seemed to have no effect whatsoever, I decided I didn’t have to. Screw it. I didn’t need to play nice-nice. I could display bad behavior with the best of ’em.

But I couldn’t get Murph out of my mind, and my peripheral vision was on a constant search for his whereabouts. I saw him standing amid a group of young people, women mostly, though they were doing all the talking—and heavy flirting—while Murphy was quiet, distracted and apparently not the least bit interested. This did my jealous heart good.

“Welcome,” a gravelly male voice intoned. I looked over my right shoulder and there was Cotton Reynolds, a beefy hand outstretched in my direction, a smile on his rather large face. There were creases around his droopy brown eyes, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. Even so, his pallor beneath seemed pale. The tanning appeared to be a cover-up, which I guess it is for most of us. Tess had said he wasn’t well; maybe she was right. Against the tan, his white hair had a neon effect. I’d met him before but it had been a few years. Up close and personal I could see the way the flesh around his face had loosened. Cotton may have a new, young wife, but the march of years—or illness—was upon him.

He was holding a martini in his left hand, the glass sweating, fine ice crystals floating in the fluid, a fat green olive stuffed with pimento settled in the V of the glass as if embraced. He tossed back a healthy slurp. “Can’t stand champagne,” he said. “Give me gin anytime.” He held out his right hand.

I shook hands with him, uncertain whether to mention that we’d met before. He seemed to be regarding me quizzically, trying to place me. I wondered if he would. I’d only been Murphy’s girlfriend, nameless and easily forgotten. I had a feeling guys like Cotton thought all young, semi-attractive women looked the same. My Nikes might give him something to think about later, but maybe not. Lovely as this benefit was, there was a barbecue feel to the event this evening, whether the Hysterical Society had meant for it or not. If I’d shown up in red-checks and chaps I would have caused only mild interest, unless, of course, the chaps were all that stood between me and the outside air.

“I’m Jane Kelly,” I introduced.

“Glad to have you come. This is my wife, Heather.”

He practically plucked her from a conversation she was involved with directly behind him. She’d been talking with the two real estate agents, Paula and Brad. Paula shot me a venomous look when she realized it was I who’d stolen Heather and Cotton’s attention. I wanted to tell her that she had nothing to worry about, but I decided I didn’t care. I’m past the point of wanting people to like me. This may be a serious flaw, something that should go on my permanent record, but it’s made life a whole lot easier from my point of view.

“Hello,” I said, shaking hands with Heather.

“Hi there.” She smiled a question at me and I introduced myself again.

“I’m Heather,” she answered, enthusiastically pumping my hand.

Heather’s hair was a shade between blond and orange. If it had been short and spiked she would have been labeled “alternative” but since it was shoulder length and softly curled, she looked only mildly interesting. Her eyes were blue and large and she had a way of holding them open that suggested a wide-eyed, blinking innocence. As an affectation it distracted me. That, and the fact that she thrust her breasts forward as if they were the first line of attack. I had trouble keeping my mind on our conversation. Luckily, it wasn’t exactly snapping and popping.

“Isn’t it a beautiful night?” she said with a little lift of her shoulders.

Well, yeah, if you liked the idea of gathering storm clouds and the threat of serious rain.

Cotton dropped his empty glass on a passing tray, then slipped an arm around Heather’s shoulders, but I could feel him sizing me up. He hadn’t tumbled to my identity and I was reluctant to jump right in with it. I wasn’t sure exactly what Tess expected. Was I supposed to glean information about Bobby by mere conversation? Like, oh, sure…if I started grilling Cotton he wouldn’t catch on that I was the fox in the henhouse.

“You a part of the Historical Society?” he queried.

“I’m just here for the event.” I lifted my champagne glass to the surroundings.

“Didn’t think you looked blue-haired enough to belong to that crowd.” He grinned. I figured he might be right in there—age-wise—with a large section of the Historical Society’s members but I kept my mouth shut.

Heather glanced skywards. “The weatherman assured us the liquid sunshine wouldn’t ruin our party. It’s supposed to rain later.”

“So far, so good,” I said.

We all smiled at each other. I racked my brain for some pithy thing to add.

Cotton said suddenly, “We’ve met before. You’re…Murphy’s girl!”

“Murphy and I once dated. That’s all.”

“Murphy?” Heather’s blue eyes widened even further. I was afraid the skin might stretch far enough to allow a view inside her skull. She glanced past me. I automatically turned and we both watched as Murphy, standing under a branch of Douglas fir, shook his head to the waiter’s tray of further champagne.

Cotton insisted, “You were together, though. I saw you with him several times, with Bobby…my son…”

“That’s right.”

Cotton ran his tongue over his teeth. I felt he wanted to say something more. I struggled to come up with something to keep the conversation going. I could practically hear Tess screaming at me to find out everything I could about Bobby.

A waiter hurried over with another martini for him. He took it carefully, as if maybe he were feeling the effects. I suspected the martini he’d just finished wasn’t his first.

“I only met Bobby three times,” I said, feeling my heart start to pound. “I liked him.”

This wasn’t exactly the God’s honest truth. I’d been introduced to Bobby having already been colored by Murphy’s opinion that he was a great guy. I’d never really formed my own opinion one way or the other. Since Bobby was Murphy’s best friend I determined I would like him. This just made good dating sense. Like the boyfriend, like the boyfriend’s best friend. Otherwise one risked banishment from the clan.

Cotton stared at me. Then he gazed past me, upward toward the trees. We were both thinking about Bobby. He drank from his glass. I could practically feel his emotion.

“I’m sorry,” I said, meaning it.

Now he was staring toward the water. I followed his gaze, watching the sun-dappled water turn dark as a cloud scudded quickly overhead. He said with an effort, “It’s been hard.”

Now there was an understatement. I wanted to toss out all kinds of platitudes, but nothing came to mind. I had a sudden remembrance of Bobby. He’d been intense. He’d been nice to me, but I’d felt on guard. I’d put that feeling down to my own churning insecurity over Murphy, but in retrospect I realized it might have been because of him as well, his presence, his tautly coiled tension. Saying I liked him was definitely pushing it.

Heather appeared to be only half-listening. While we talked she fussed with the fabric flower on the bottom edge of her striped pink and yellow top. The flower was the color of Creamsicles, made out of a netting and seemed to be near her hem, and in a place that constantly struck her arm. Her goggly eyes were covered in eyeliner and mascara. She was young, but gave off the appearance of an older woman trying to appear young. Hip, she wasn’t. She was cute, not beautiful, and I suspected her bobbed nose might have been fixed. She was uncomfortable with the turn of our conversation and who could blame her.

Cotton released her and to my surprise he cupped the back of my elbow and led me a few steps away, near a white trellised archway nearly buckling under the weight of a deep, purple clematis, the blossoms so huge and loppy there was something vaguely sexual about them. Or maybe it was just Cotton’s touching me. I was feeling a tad grossed out for some reason but I put a look of interest on my face.

“Bobby…you met him…you know him.”

“Well, yes…” I was vague. As far as I was concerned nobody knew Bobby. If they had they might have had some inkling about what he’d been contemplating. But I was working for Tess and having Cotton think I was some long-lost bosom buddy might work for me.

“You know he wasn’t that way. What he was accused of doing…it wouldn’t happen.”

I deepened my look of interest. I just couldn’t make myself nod and agree. Cotton was searching for a friend, an ally, someone to bolster his view on Bobby. Still, it was damned hard to side with him when I knew Bobby had murdered his family in cold blood.

His hand tightened on my elbow. “I’m glad you’re here.” His voice had grown thick, from emotion or alcohol or a combination of both. “You and Murphy. It’s nice to see people who remember him the way he was instead of dwelling on all that terrible shit. It’s damn slander, if you ask me.”