Ultra Violet Part 8

T he following day was Sat.u.r.day and I slept in, The Binkster curled up beside me. It's okay when her back's facing me, but when she flips over she hits me with those doggy claws, pus.h.i.+ng off me as if she's heading for a springboard dive. Painful. I have to keep turning her around and adjusting her. It takes way too much energy for a bedmate. Sometimes I settle her back in her bed on the floor to which she gives me the dejected, unfurled tail. She can make me feel like a heel, but sleep is all important to me, so tough.

I'd had one of those nights where thoughts tumble and tumble around inside your skull, seemingly mega-important, yet fade away when true consciousness. .h.i.ts. What I recalled mostly was the impression that I needed to put Violet's feet to the fire about her relations.h.i.+p with Roland. Her "I didn't kill him" mantra was all fine and good, but wasn't exactly helping me move forward. I needed background. Details. If she wanted me to believe in her, I needed some insight into Roland and who else might have killed him.

Which reminded me...what about the Wedding Bandits? Where did they fit in? And how could I get the police to share more information on them? During their previous burglaries the bandits had apparently never encountered anyone. There had been no physical harm. Their m.o. was get in and get out fast. It didn't really jibe that they might stop and whack Roland with Violet's gift. More likely, they'd found him already dead or dying and had run from the scene, dropping some of their loot. One report had mentioned one of the gifts dropped in the yard-the candy dish within the box in smithereens.

What are smithereens? I asked myself as I brushed my teeth, staring at my image in the mirror. Straight wet hair, hazel eyes, my purple toothbrush stuck in my cheek. I pulled it out and looked at it. Maybe it was amethyst, I thought with an inward snort.

Binkster sat on the bath mat, staring up at me. "Doesn't that hurt your neck?" I asked her. She c.o.c.ked her head from side to side. She actually doesn't have much of a neck. Pretty much her head connects with her shoulders, and her collar disappears beneath a thick, furry roll.

She's on low-cal dog chow, but she can hang on to weight better than my aunt Ginger and that's saying something.

In the kitchen I opened the refrigerator door. Sometimes I surprise myself, forgetting that I've actually taken a trip to the store and purchased groceries. Today there was no surprise. All I discovered was a bag of Coffee Nook Black Satin blend, freebie little buckets of cream I'd helped myself to at Mook's, a local burger place that also serves breakfast, the heel of a loaf of wheat bread, carefully wrapped in its plastic packaging, a sprig of mint and a quart of lemonade from a powdered mix.

I could have a heel of bread, a cup of coffee with cream and a gla.s.s of pseudolemonade made pretty with mint leaves. Sounded like a feast, so I started up the coffeemaker. Binkster eyed me carefully, but when I didn't immediately scoop dog chow into her bowl she toddled outside to do a perimeter check and her morning ablutions.

"That grocery shopping thing," I said to her when she returned. "It's way hard."

Binkster looked in her bowl, then up at me. I filled up the bottom with kiblets. She inhaled them and licked the sides of the bowl with her tongue. Feeling guilty, I let her snuffle up the crumbs off the plate that had housed my piece of bread.

We finished breakfast, both slightly dissatisfied.

I decided to take Binkster over to Dwayne's and let them keep each other company for the day. On my way I gave Violet a call on my cell, but I was forced to leave a message on hers, asking that we meet later in the day. She might or might not get back to me right away. She's even worse than I am about answering cell calls in a timely manner. I'm normally pretty good, but if you're not immediately important to me, I'm not so good. I get p.i.s.sed off, however, when I'm treated the same way. Ergo, I was already a little p.i.s.sed at Violet.

It was raining when we left, pouring actually, and my wipers were having a h.e.l.l of a time keeping up. I'd thrown on my windbreaker and left the hood up, which was a little like wearing blinders. Plays h.e.l.l with the peripheral vision.

I pulled up next to Dwayne's truck. The cabana boasts a one-car garage and that's where Dwayne stores his nondescript tan sedan, the one he uses for surveillance jobs and any time he wants to travel incognito. The truck, his usual mode of transportation, was therefore relegated to the parking pad and today it was getting drenched in rain.

I let myself in and Binkster tore through the cabana to the opening in the sliding gla.s.s door and out to the dock. I hadn't expected Dwayne to be outside in the rain, but he'd pulled over the green canvas umbrella normally used for his four-person outdoor table and placed it over his chair. His cowboy boots were taking the brunt of the rain, but the rest of him was dry. And he had the binoculars pressed to his eyes.

"Hey," he said in greeting, dragging squiggling Binkster onto his lap.

One house over from Dwayne a medium-sized black and white dog with a long snout started barking. It was standing beneath the back door overhang. Called to arms, Binks looked over at it and started barking and growling back. I couldn't tell if they were saying "happy to meetcha" or "get the f.u.c.k outta here." Coulda been either.

The owner of the black and white dog stepped out and grabbed it by its collar, dragging it back inside and slamming the door. Binkster gave a few more barks, delighted that she'd scared it off, apparently. A few m.u.f.fled woofs sounded back. Binkster looked at Dwayne for approval and he petted her head. She then splayed herself across his stomach, about the only way she could balance herself on Dwayne and the chair. I stayed just inside the gap in Dwayne's slider door, my nose and face catching the brunt of the moisture.

"So, I made contact with your friends across the bay last night."

Dwayne lowered the binoculars and looked at me. "And?"

"I didn't learn if the girl from Rebel Yell is pregnant. Her name's Dawn Wilson, by the way. I didn't see any sister, but I think she might be the younger one. She was driving the red Taurus."

"What's she look like?"

I described Dawn as best I could: five-four, short, dark hair; serious expression.

"She's the younger one," Dwayne confirmed, frowning a bit. "Her older sister has longer hair. How'd she seem?"

"Like a high school kid." I shrugged. "I don't know."

"What about the guys?"

I made a face, then told him about my impressions and escapades of the night before. I tried not to completely give away my feelings about Keegan Lendenhal, but Dwayne picked up on them anyway.

"You think Lendenhal's a dealer?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "This kid's the quarterback and apparently a h.e.l.l of an athlete and it's hard to believe he'd risk all that, you know?"

"People do stupid things."

"It just didn't feel like drugs. I'm no expert but n.o.body seemed totally wasted. They were drinking beer. They were making out. It was more like I remember high school parties, but...I don't know. Something was off. I didn't like it. And I didn't like him."

"He's the man," Dwayne said, dropping the binoculars to give me a look.

"He's a pain in the a.s.s."

"You think he's s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the girls?"

"Yep."

"One girl...a girlfriend? Or many?"

"More than one," I said, although I didn't have evidence to that effect. "The guys get the beer and cigarettes, or whatever else he wants, and they all go to Do Not Enter after the games and they bow to the king."

"He's Lake Chinook High's quarterback?"

"Uh-huh."

"Think we should alert the cops?" Dwayne asked.

"Maybe. I don't know. Makes me feel like a rat." I stepped into the rain and let it pour onto the top of my hood. I'm not good at turning people in for what I consider minor crimes. Was there something more than teen partying going on at Do Not Enter? Or had that been a product of my overactive imagination, brought on by both Dwayne's description of the guys and a need to put an egotistical teen in his place?

I deliberately changed the subject. "I've called a number of the guests on Sean's list. Waiting for some callbacks. n.o.body seems to be able to pick up the phone. And Violet's holding out on us. She's not being entirely truthful about her relations.h.i.+p with Roland. Probably thinks we'll start thinking she's guilty."

Dwayne didn't respond. He was petting Binkster and staring into the middle distance.

"You're not listening," I accused.

"Yes, I am."

He was making me crazy. I ran my hands through my hair in an effort to buy time and keep myself sane, then said, "And what about the Wedding Bandits? We haven't heard anything in weeks. Nothing on the news. What do you think's going on?"

"There hasn't been a high-profile burglary since Roland Hatchmere."

"Not one? How do you know?"

"Larrabee."

"Larrabee just hands out this information to you?" I asked the back of Dwayne's cowboy hat. "What's the deal with you and him?"

"Let's go inside," Dwayne said. He set Binkster on the ground, then levered himself to his full height. I never know quite whether to offer help, unless the sky's raining hail. He didn't seem to need me, so I squeezed back through the gap and he and Binkster followed me inside. Binks jumped onto the couch and I scolded her for her wet, dirty feet, but Dwayne waved the issue aside. "I'll have the cleaning people take care of it."

"The cleaning people. Who are they? Slaves you keep in the attic?" I knew he didn't have "cleaning people."

"The lady next door, Mrs. Jansen, decided to sic her maid, Darlene, on me. Darlene needs more work. Something about her kids moving back home and bringing their kids with them. Sounded grim."

"This is altruism on your part?"

"I do what I can."

"Bulls.h.i.+t."

Dwayne smiled. It's a lazy smile, guaranteed to melt female hearts, but it's not just for show. It represents real amus.e.m.e.nt on his part. "The woman needs a job. She comes in every other week or so. Sometimes more. You looking for help?"

"Always. I just can't afford it."

Dwayne let that pa.s.s. "Speaking of the attic. What do you think about making it an office?"

"For midgets?"

Dwayne's attic is accessible only by an outside stairway, and as I've said before, it's not exactly adult-friendly. The few times I've been up there, shoving boxes around, looking for past data, I've been lucky I didn't concuss myself on the rafters.

"I'll bring the walls in, so there's some headroom. Make it smaller but more functional."

"You think about a lot of things when you're sitting on your dock."

"Not much else to do. When Ogilvy kicks you out, you can move upstairs for a while."

"No bathroom? I don't think so. Stop depressing me."

"Got a timeline on that?"

"No. I don't want to think about it."

"I know a mortgage broker-"

"No. What is this? I don't have the money. I'd have to rob a bank. Or maybe I'll join the Wedding Bandits and sell stolen toaster ovens, wine refrigerators and food processors. Make a fortune."

"Let's buy it together."

"I can't, Dwayne."

"Can't and won't have two different meanings," he said.

I clapped my hand to my forehead. "Wow. I was really confused until now. Thanks for explaining that. Can't isn't the same as won't..."

He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, faintly amused. It really torques me when he won't rise to the bait.

"Let's get back to Detective Larrabee. Bring me up to speed," I said.

"Larrabee's helped me out a time or two. I've done the same for him. He knows we've been hired by Violet, so he's been careful about the Hatchmere case. But we exchange information. Have for years."

"Huh..." I said.

Dwayne shrugged lightly. "Sometimes he needs something I can get for him."

"You mean something outside of the law. Not strictly legal."

"I'm a law-abiding citizen, Jane."

I snorted. Strictly speaking, Dwayne was. But neither one of us stood on ceremony if a more effective, quasi-unlawful means to further our ends presented itself.

"Larrabee's steered me in the right direction a time or two when I've needed it. And I've procured information for him."

"He's on the Hatchmere case, and that entails the Wedding Bandits?"

"Inside the Portland PD there aren't specific departments for crimes like burglary and robbery. Larrabee sometimes works cases besides homicide, anyway."

This I know, as Booth, my twin brother, works for the Portland police and has been trying to work his way up to detective. I hadn't heard from him in a few weeks and figured he was hard at it. That, and/or taking care of his fiancee: black, beautiful, high-powered, high-maintenance criminal defense attorney Sharona Williams.

"So, Larrabee told you there's been no bandit activity since Roland?" I asked.

"Says they're lying low. Probably scared s.h.i.+tless. They came into the place, scattered through the house, grabbing gifts, money, electronics. Then somebody stumbled over the body, sounded the alarm and they were outta there."

"No one believes they're responsible for Hatchmere's death?"

"Not so far as I can tell," Dwayne agreed.

"So we're back to Violet."

I half expected Dwayne to argue with me, but all he asked was, "Have you called her?"

"Left a message."

Dwayne was looking at me, so I phoned her again. This time she answered on the second ring, surprising me.

"Violet, it's Jane. Can we meet today? I stopped by Gigi's, well, Roland's, the other day for an interview. She gave me some background on the wedding day."

"Yeah? How was the sweet young thing?" Violet asked dryly.

"About what you'd expect."

"Sure. Let's meet for lunch. Where do you want to go?"

"Uh...Dottie's?" I suggested a local sandwich shop in Lake Chinook that was within my budget. Violet might be paying for my information specialist services, but if she didn't offer to buy lunch, I didn't quite see how I could put it on her tab. Dwayne might act like I had money to burn, but Dwayne spied on his neighbors with binoculars, so was I going to listen to him?