Ultra Violet Part 13

"Shut the d.a.m.n door!" Chuck growled.

I was trying to do just that but it took some effort. One of the other regulars helped me thrust back the wind, just as another customer blew in with the same wildly flinging door entrance.

"What a bunch of idiots," Chuck said, dolefully shaking his head. My interest in knowing him slid even further down the scale into negative numbers. He added the icing to the cake by asking me, "Do you always wear the same thing?"

"I try."

"Oh. Did I offend you? Sorry." He tried to look apologetic but it appeared more like a smirk.

There was a girl in my high school who allegedly, every month, mapped out what she would wear to school each day for that month, just so she wouldn't repeat herself on what was apparently a popularity-killing offense. I never saw the point of this and wore whatever the h.e.l.l I felt like. I consequently was not elected to any high school court, nor was I hugely popular with members of the male s.e.x, so maybe there was some validity to her obsession. My noteworthy high school achievement was burning the cinnamon rolls in Home Ec cla.s.s and setting the overhead sprinklers off from the boiling smoke that filled the room. So, okay, I thought they weren't getting done fast enough and I figured five hundred degrees was a better option. The sugar carmelized, blackened and turned the rolls into charred hockey pucks. Though I was willing to take the blame, my Home Ec partner, Michele, jumped in and said it was all her fault before I could fess up. At the time I was taken aback, but as I watched the events unfold I learned Michele loved to be the center of attention, either bad or good. She apologized contritely to the administration and teachers and said she would do whatever needed to be done to make it right, all the while slyly smiling at her friends when no one was looking, who in turn thought she was the coolest. Nothing ever bothered her. I helped her on the cleanup but she really didn't care. She thought the world was one big joke and enjoyed her own niche of back-a.s.swards popularity because of it. I think there's a lesson in there somewhere, but what I really came away with is that baking's a lot trickier than it looks.

Billy Leonard was seated on one of the Coffee Nook's stools, so I slid onto the one next to him. Billy is one of those guys who looks like he was meant for pickup trucks, rusted fishing trawlers and evenings spent with cheap cigars and long yarns. Surprisingly, he's a CPA. I find I learn a lot from Billy although he made an allusion to the fact that we were raising our kids as "hatchery fish," coddling them, not preparing them for the harsh realities of life, which had me worried about my own abilities a few months back. I've come to peace with that, pretty much, now that I'm working for Dwayne. I'm pretty sure now I'm not a hatchery fish.

Billy was drinking coffee and talking to some of the people across the way. He said in an aside to me, "Chuck's the fashion police now?"

We both looked over at Chuck's wrinkled slacks and gray pullover. There was a tiny moth hole near the underarm where we got a peek of his white undershirt. "Billy, if I asked you about one of your clients' net worth, would you tell me?"

"That wouldn't be ethical."

"So that's a no?"

"Who are you trying to find out about?"

I shrugged. "Roland Hatchmere, I guess."

"He's not my client. And I hear he's dead. What do you mean, you guess?"

"I was thinking about the Wedding Bandits. How they pick their targets. I mean, sure there are engagement and wedding announcements that list the venues and dates, so I guess it could be pretty easy to know where the ceremony's going to be, but how do you know who has the money? And how do you know where they live?"

I hadn't really realized I'd been thinking in these terms. Sometimes the mind is a strange and fabulous thing, working, sorting, plotting while we sleep, or watch TV, or play with our dogs. Seeing Billy, thinking about his job, had sent my mind down the financial path and I slammed into the Wedding Bandits without thinking.

"You know Dr. Hatchmere of Hatchmere Plastic Surgery has money because you just know," Billy said. "Read the paper."

"How do you know where he lives?"

Billy shrugged. "You follow him home from work one day."

I nodded. That was as good an answer as any.

The thought circled my mind as I jogged back to the cottage. I was still thinking it as I stripped off my wet clothes and headed for the shower. As soon as I was toweled off and in dry jeans, my brown boots and a black, ribbed V-neck sweater, I phoned Dwayne on his cell. "Hullo," he greeted me, sounding distracted.

"Does your buddy Larrabee know how the robbery victims are targeted?"

"He's not keeping me in that loop."

"Could it be that the bandits just follow the primary target home from work? Like Roland. It wouldn't be hard to figure out who he is."

"Sure."

I could tell I wasn't quite engaging him and it kind of p.i.s.sed me off. "Am I keeping you from your binoculars?"

"The d.a.m.n rain's keeping me from my binoculars," he groused. "You wanna meet Larrabee?"

That stopped me. "Yes."

"I'll give him a call. See if I can set something up. I wanna know what's going on with that investigation, too."

I could hear the frustration in his voice, which I thought was a good sign. Dwayne had seemed way too relaxed for far too long, so I inwardly cheered the dissatisfaction. "Great," I said.

I told him that I'd added to my written report and I mentioned my meeting with Melinda. Dwayne asked me if I had any apple bars left over. I visualized the two sitting on a plate in my refrigerator, silently mourned the loss, and generously told Dwayne I would bring them over to him.

"That hurt, didn't it?" he said, barely holding back a laugh.

"I get one and you get one."

"Get over here, then."

Something about his warm tone got to me. I a.s.sured him I would be there, then got off the phone and looked at The Binkster. She c.o.c.ked her head, ready for a deep discussion.

"Let's not go there now." I went to the refrigerator and pulled out the plate of apple bars. I felt slightly guilty that I hadn't mentioned Melinda's fabulous hors d'oeuvres at all. This was mainly because they never made it into my refrigerator. I pretty much took care of them on the ride home that day and their existence didn't make it into my report, either written or oral. But I'd h.o.a.rded the apple bars and sharing was the price I would pay.

Dwayne was standing in his kitchen when I arrived, and I did the proverbial double take. "You've got a new cast on." I set the plate on the counter and gave him the once-over. The full-length cast had been replaced by what looked like wrapped splints and Dwayne was in tattered denim cutoffs, revealing the tight, d.a.m.n near fused bandage holding the pieces in place around his right thigh and across his knee. His attire suggested a sunny day on the lake. Like in August.

"Violet drove me to the doctor," he said.

p.i.s.sed me off to no end. As many times as Violet called me on the phone, had she once mentioned this? Oh, sure. I "have mine." It certainly didn't look as if she was giving up on Dwayne completely any time soon.

Dwayne's way too aware of mood to let my silence go un-remarked. "Didn't want to disturb you," he said in his drawl. "You were meeting Roland's wife the time of my appointment. Violet stopped by so I asked her for the favor."

And she was happy to help. I didn't say it. I didn't say anything at all.

Dwayne chose to ignore further comment on the issue and eyed the two apple bars. "Should we nuke 'em?"

"Go ahead."

He put the plate in the microwave and we both watched the apple bars spin around for a minute as if we would be tested later on how they turned out. We ate them in silence and mine could have been sawdust for all the attention to flavor it presented, but Dwayne smacked his up. "G.o.d, those are good," he said with real admiration.

I shook myself out of my mood with an effort. This is exactly why I don't want to feel anything for Dwayne. I don't want to be driven crazy, and though nothing-nothing-has transpired between us of a serious nature, certainly of a s.e.xual nature, it's already affecting my sanity.

"Did you talk to Larrabee?" I asked.

"Left a message on his voice mail. He hasn't gotten back to me yet."

"It's an epidemic," I grumbled, explaining that I, too, had left messages all over the place that hadn't been returned yet.

"He'll get in touch with you," Dwayne a.s.sured me. "When he does, offer to buy him lunch. Or dinner."

Dwayne's suddenly careful tone caught my attention. "Something you're not telling me about Detective Larrabee?"

"Be careful of him," he said with a faint smile.

"Oh, great. Why?"

"I've known him a long time. He's-thorough."

"Meaning?"

He shook his head. "The guy has a lot of levels. You'll be fine. Women love him."

Like they love you? I turned away from him. Nope. I was not going to go there. "You lost your little red heart with the initials," I pointed out, gesturing to his cast.

"Darlene's eight-year-old'll probably be upset."

"Your cleaning lady's daughter?"

"Yeah. Why? Who'd you think drew it?"

I decided a change of subject was in order. "I'm going over to Do Not Enter tonight. Gotta meet Dawn."

"Darlin', don't go if you don't want to," Dwayne drawled. "It's rainin' buckets out there."

"Oh, don't give me that."

"What?"

"The 'aw, shucks, it's no big deal' act. You started this, Hal Jeffries. I'm just along for the ride."

He smiled. Then he picked up his cell phone and placed a call. "Call me," he said and clicked off. "Larrabee," he told me. "Might as well keep after him."

I nodded and glanced out to the darkening sky. Though I wanted to rail about it, I really felt the same way about Dawn and the kids at Do Not Enter. I wasn't sure what to do, but I figured I could make another appearance before ratting them out. "Any ideas how to make myself look younger tonight?"

"Show more skin."

I gazed at his tattered shorts. "It's November and the weather is c.r.a.p."

"Doesn't stop 'em. The girls wear skimpy tops under their jackets. Always showin' off a bare shoulder or a patch of skin at the waistline. They hook up and disappear with one of the guys, come back all bundled up again."

"I've got a V-neck on. That's as bare as it goes."

"You asked."

"And how am I getting compensated for this, again?"

"I'm paying your rates. Don't worry about it."

I shivered involuntarily. "Thanks, but I've got a sweatshirt that should do the trick."

Five hours later, I drove toward Beachlake Drive wearing Glen's Lake Chinook sweatshirt, which I'd washed and dried and shrunk some. The hem had crept up a little, but the sleeves still looked like they'd fit an orangutan and the shirt's width was wide enough to fit two of me. I'd brought my anorak but it was in the backseat. Rain or no, I wanted to show up in the sweatshirt.

I found a parking spot a bit farther away this time, closer to the dead end of the road, as there were quite a few more cars parked along the road's narrow shoulder. Apparently there was a bigger group tonight.

I gazed at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Tonight I'd snapped my hair into a ponytail, my usual jogging style, and I'd added more makeup than I can usually stomach. I'd really laid it on thick. Makeup's supposed to make you look older, but I tried to kind of dumb it down, like I really didn't know what I was doing, to make it appear that this whole makeup thing was new to me. This meant the eyeliner was a teensy bit crooked and the mascara was on both my upper and lower lashes and thick enough to be the great, greater, greatest! lashes of all time. I looked like a reject from a Maybelline commercial, eyelashes sprouting all around my hazel irises, giving me a surprised look. When coupled with a vacant stare, I was pretty pleased with the results. Still, high school would be a stretch to most anyone who saw me in the light of day. Do Not Enter's uncertain illumination was a definite plus.

I placed a last call to Dwayne. "I'm going in, Coach."

"Taking your cell phone?"

"Putting it on vibrate and keeping it close."

"Call me when you're leaving."

"If my parents come looking for me, tell them you haven't seen me. No matter what they do to you."

"I won't give you up," he said, the smile sounding in his voice. "The team's behind you."

"Later, dude."

"I'm right across the bay."

Somehow that was comforting. I clicked off and stuffed the phone in my pocket. Bending my head against the driving rain, I picked up another rock and stuffed it in the sweatshirt pocket, then picked my way through the mud and dirty water toward the construction site.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

T he kids who'd gone to the game-either playing or watching-hadn't arrived yet, but there were more than a few others hanging around. My buddy Brett was there and upon my arrival, grinned like a goof and came over to me, throwing an arm around me. This seemed to be the usual form of greeting, and I tried like h.e.l.l not to let on that I'm not a huge fan of the full body hug. There are only three reasons to connect so fully with another human body, in my opinion: s.e.xual foreplay, grief comfort and as a way to stave off death in freezing temperatures. I didn't think any of the three applied, but I smiled at Brett anyway, as if I'd been waiting all day just for this.

"Hey, sorry about last time. I didn't know you were still around. Tina just kinda came over."

"No problem," I said. "We're still friends."

"We could be more," he pointed out.

I smiled crookedly and let it pa.s.s. The way I saw it, when he and Tina hooked up, it had taken the onus off me being his exclusive find. I figured I could now do whatever the h.e.l.l I wanted with impunity. It would have been trickier had he somehow marked me as his and then I backed away. Hard feelings might have surfaced. These dating rituals are complicated and it's hard to skirt around them, but some of the rules are sacrosanct. Brett had thrown his arm around another girl while I was out meeting friends. I was a free agent.

He released me long enough to find us both a beer. I was chilled and thought beer wasn't exactly going to do much for me, but I dutifully accepted it, popping the top. He flung his arm over my shoulder and again the dead weight of it drove me nearly insane. I wanted to scream and fling it off.

Note to self: work on relationship skills.

One of the girls, shivering in a short furry coat over a miniskirt, puffed on a cigarette, sucking smoke in and spitting it out like it was a speed event. Though not a smoker myself, I felt she lacked a certain style, and isn't that what it's about at some level? Coolness? Sophistication? She could really use a remedial course. Another girl leaning against a post knew how to do it, inhaling slowly and deliberately, her eyes half closed, her throat arched, exhaling a soft cloud of smoke.

"Gonna take 'em a while to get here from Clackamas," Brett said by way of explanation. He lifted his beer and clinked it against mine. "Have to start without 'em."