Ultra Violet Part 16

Larrabee walked me outside. We stood under the roof overhang for a moment, adjusting our rain gear. I swept my hood over my head. He simply bent his head to the rain and we both race-walked to our respective vehicles, his being a black Crown Vic. As I climbed into my car, he said, "Good luck, Jane Kelly."

I watched him back out of the lot and drive into the pounding rain.

CHAPTER NINE.

T he rain was becoming an ent.i.ty.

I tried to count up how many days it had rained in a row and failed. We were living in a miasma of dreariness that just went on and on and on. This is a perception of Oregon weather that generally p.i.s.ses me off because it's not accurate. Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day, so I guess, the law of percentages being what it is, those who claim "Oregon equals rain" are bound to be right sometimes. Still, I was getting pretty annoyed by the weather people gleefully pointing out how right they were. Wasn't the weather just awful? Hadn't they said it was? Wasn't this what Oregon's reputation was all about?

It was Tuesday morning. I'd forgone my jog to the Nook because of the rain. Now, driving there for my morning coffee, The Binkster tucked into her fuzzy car bed in the pa.s.senger seat, her nose and face squished into the side, so wrinkled up she looked like a grub, I thought back to those hot nights the previous summer when I was drifting around the lake in either Dwayne's boat or my neighbors and bickering friends', Arista and Lyle Mooney.

My cold was basically gone. Well, apart from an occasional wracking cough that sounded like I was hawking up a lung.

Pulling out my cell phone, I dialed Deenie's number again and left yet another message. What is it with people? I'd clearly missed the window of opportunity she'd allotted me because she would not pick up her phone. I should have taken her call when I was on my way to meet Larrabee. I wasn't sure what Gigi's maid of honor could offer, but I wanted to cross her name off my list if for no other reason than to make my report complete.

At the Nook I poured myself black coffee from the help-yourself counter, glancing over the varying carafe choices of cream, two-percent and skim milk. Throwing caution to the wind, I tossed in some skim. Lactose, schmactose. My body's reaction to it is unpredictable. Sometimes milk products send me into a purge. Sometimes nothing much happens. Black coffee is a safe bet but I was feeling reckless.

I'd called Dwayne and told him about my meeting with Larrabee. He'd absorbed the information with a grunt. I don't know what I'd expected. Some major "Aha!" I guess, but he'd given me his usual "Put it in a report." I tried to get him to talk about his friendship with Larrabee some more, but Dwayne clammed right up. Learning anything more about either one of them was going to be like pulling teeth.

I didn't stick around the Nook long. Heading outside, I tossed my hood up and pulled Binks reluctantly from the dry warmth of the car. Clipping on her leash, we took a stroll around the parking lot and up some concrete stairs along a bark-dust-covered hill toward the residential district behind the shopping center. I had a baggie in my pocket and Binkster snuffled her way through the drizzle nose down. She started circling around, looking for the perfect place to off-load. I dutifully cleaned up after her. She watched me, making little jumping movements, as if she were about to charge into a race. It's a kind of "I feel so great now that I've p.o.o.ped" thing, but with the leash, rain and mud, I had no interest in indulging her. I tugged on the leash and she got all recalcitrant, the collar squishing her skin and fur up her neck so that I could scarcely see her eyes for the wrinkles.

"Come on," I urged.

Something about her att.i.tude set something loose in my brain. Some memory or recall or synapse that I tried to latch on to, but it was slippery and amorphous and my brain couldn't make the connection. I shook my head and tried to pick up my dog. She started leaping sideways and trying to run, but I held her fast. By the time I actually got her in my arms, her feet were covered in mud and her fur was soaking wet. Some of it flew off and stuck to my lips. I tried to spit it off but had to wait till I got her settled in her bed.

"The weather sucks," I told her with feeling.

We drove home. I toweled Binks off, though that became a game, too. We played tug-of-war with the end of the terry cloth towel and Binks growled like she was going to tear it in half. Fat chance.

I showered, changed into a clean pair of jeans and dark brown shirt, walked through the kitchen to the small adjunct that was my laundry room-basically a closet that was originally some kind of mudroom between the garage and kitchen but that has since been closed off and wired for a washer and dryer. Doing the laundry depressed me. Was I going to have to give this up, too? Find an apartment with community laundry facilities, if that?

d.a.m.n Ogilvy for making this place perfect for me, then deciding to sell!

The thought really put me in a black mood. If I'd had any food around I would have gone into one of those emotional eating binges I hear about from doctors on daytime talk shows. As it was, I knocked back the rest of my coffee, chewing angrily on the paper cup, and the tumblers in my mind suddenly slipped into place.

Binks's resistance while I'd pulled her leash was a metaphor for how I felt about Violet. About her lies, her obstinance, her prevarication. Sure, Violet doled out tidbits of information, but I was the one who had to come up with the right questions. Nothing was just offered up. It was all a fight.

And I was sick...of...it.

I grabbed the cell phone and punched in Violet's number, a little surprised by the wave of feeling that had overtaken me. I was really mad at her. Part of it had to do with Dwayne, sure, but a lot of it was that she'd been working me these past few weeks, crying about her innocence, begging for help, a.s.suring both Dwayne and me that she was a victim. And what had she given me? A tentative admission that she and Roland had been seeing each other. Like that was big news.

In the back of my mind I sensed that I might be using Violet as a target for my own frustration, but I didn't much care. She was the source. She was at Roland's house the day he died. She hit him, for G.o.d's sake. At least once.

She answered her cell with a cheery, "Hi there. I sure hope you're calling with good news."

"Yeah, that's right. I've cracked the case wide open. It was Ms. Violet in the solarium with the G.o.dd.a.m.n silver tray! That's who did it."

A weighty pause. "If you've got something to say, maybe you should just say it."

"Tell me about that day, Violet. The whole day. Every minute. Roland died from a blow to the head. What time was that?"

"He definitely died from a blow to the head?" Violet asked, which d.a.m.n near derailed me because she sounded so upset.

"Yes," I stressed. I wasn't going to give her more details, but it wasn't like this was exactly news. "What were you hoping for? A heart attack? Some kind of exotic poison? A gunshot wound that the pathologist missed when they autopsied his body?"

"I get it that you're mad," Violet said coolly. "I just don't know why."

"You're still withholding. You've been withholding from the get-go. If Dwayne were the investigator, if he were at the top of his game...you wouldn't have been able to bob and weave this long. He would have made you tell him every detail. He's good like that."

"Dwayne believes in me."

"Make me believe in you, too. Tell me about Roland."

"I'm going shopping," Violet said abruptly. "I'm not going to just drop everything so you can grill me. But if you join me, I promise I'll talk to you about Roland."

There might be a catch in there somewhere, but she sounded more irked than resigned, so maybe not. "Fine," I said. "I'll meet you. Tell me where."

Bridgetown is a new shopping center on the Tualatin/Tigard border, just outside the Lake Chinook limits, half a block from I-5. It's one of those "lifestyle malls" where all the stores face sidewalks and streets and have different facades as if Walt Disney had designed it. The problem is parking, and in Oregon, of course, the rain. The center actually has valet parkers, but using them comes with its own set of problems. I knew someone who tried to get them to park her car last year during the holidays and they acted like a parker wasn't around. Like what the h.e.l.l were the rest of them doing, standing around at the valet kiosk? Waiting for G.o.dot? My friend, having seen an empty spot designated for "valet only," offered to park her car there herself, which sent them into a Keystone Kops panic. One of them finally agreed to park her car, shooting his friends a "Can you believe this?" look. Sometimes I look at other employment opportunities and wonder why I'm not doing them because I could do a h.e.l.l of a lot better job. Of course, this could be simply my way of looking around because I feel I'm falling behind in the information specialist arena.

I ignored the valet parkers and drove myself to the three-story parking structure at the far end. It's full a lot of the time and I hope to G.o.d the city planners and developer made structural plans for adding a few more stories in the future. As it is, even when you get a spot you've generally got a long, long walk to your destination.

Violet apparently had a whole list of stores she needed to visit. I was to meet her at one that exclusively sold cosmetics, The Face. I beat her there and when one of the salesgirls asked me if I needed help, I asked her if it seemed right that The Face also sold products for The Body, as there were creams, rough-looking sponges that looked as if they'd been sc.r.a.ped from the ocean floor and various clippers and scissors and awl-like instruments that worried me and convinced me they were not to be used on The Face.

My salesgirl did not find me amusing. In fact, she didn't find me anything at all, I guess, because she just hovered silently nearby. At first I wondered if she thought I was planning to shoplift, and then I realized I was simply hers and she was staking her claim, warning the other salespeople to keep their distance, accomplishing this by staying about two arm's lengths away from me but no farther.

Violet breezed in, shaking rain from her umbrella. The sales team's heads collectively turned her way, their faces brightening. My girl tried to dump me in favor of Violet, but a faster one jumped right up with a husky "Welcome to The Face" that sounded like she were auditioning for a role in a p.o.r.n film.

My girl was crestfallen, but I could see her mentally taking notes. When Violet met my gaze and smiled, my girl perked right up. I might be slightly bedraggled in a soaked windbreaker, but I kept good company.

There was no way we could talk at The Face. Maybe Violet had counted on that, maybe not. Maybe this was her answer for "what's next?": Endless shopping. I tagged along behind her as she bought items for The Cheeks, The Mouth, The Eyes and one of those hard sponge-bricks that was one h.e.l.l of an exfoliate for The Skin, generally not for The Skin on The Face. I pointed this out as well, since it wasn't exactly truth in advertising. This earned me scathing glances from my girl, who sidled up to her compatriot with the p.o.r.n star voice, who in turn regarded me with tolerant benevolence as she had the buyer, Violet.

This is why I find shopping exhausting. The energy required is enormous, and though I sense I'm in the minority on the shopping issue, I believe there must be more women like me out there. Either that or I suffer from some deep-seated neuroses, which has to be just plain wrong, because I know I'm very well adjusted. Just ask my dog. She knows I'm perfect.

We left The Face loaded down with packages. I was amazed, based on how small the product sizes were, how full Violet's shopping bags were. I offered to carry a couple and though they weren't heavy, the bags b.u.mped my hips and shins all the way to store number two, which was a fancy-schmancy furniture store called Interiors Italianate. I sat down on a tufted lounge that was situated on a raised dais by the entry, Violet's bags flanking me. I had the presence of mind to remove my jacket first and hang it on the wrought-iron rack nearby. Other coats were already on the rack, so I figured I wasn't committing some major faux pas. In this, apparently, I was wrong as a wiry gentleman in wire-rim gla.s.ses, a white-cuffed and collared shirt and a taupe sweater looked ready to scream, stamp and phone the authorities if I did not get off the furniture.

Violet interceded with a smooth "She's with me." The salesman sent me a look that was full of pleading, as if he expected me to wipe my feet on their expensive material, but then let me be. I thought about lying down on the lounge, staring at the ceiling and singing "That's Amore" but decided to act like a grown-up and merely waited dolefully like the long-suffering pack mule I was.

We made a trip to the parking structure to off-load our bags, stopping at a lingerie shop on the way that Violet insisted on entering. I was so over shopping that I groaned aloud and refused to pa.s.s the threshold. She practically pushed me inside and then wouldn't leave until I tried on a push-up bra to go with my new dress. She wanted to buy it for me, but I put my foot down, though the price of that piece of lingerie nearly caused me a coronary. I put another foot down when she insisted I purchase some thong underwear. Puhh...leeze...like I would be caught dead with a piece of material dividing my b.u.t.t cheeks. I settled for some basic bikini underwear that was on sale and demure by comparison.

We left in a kind of annoyed huff with each other. I felt I'd been very patient throughout our shopping trip, and it must have shown on my face because once Violet slammed the trunk on her Mercedes, she turned to me and said, "Jesus, you're a pain in the a.s.s."

"Why do you keep trying to buy me things?" I demanded.

"G.o.d knows. I keep thinking we're friends, or something."

"We can't be friends."

"Why not? Because of Dwayne? Come on, Jane. We're way past that now, aren't we?"

I wasn't as convinced as she was, apparently. "It's not because of Dwayne," I retorted.

"Then what?" She leaned against the side of her car, arms crossed.

"I don't know."

"Jane..."

I held up my palms to get her to stop. I don't know what it is about her that drives me so insane. In some weird way I'd like to believe it is because of Dwayne. That at least would be uncomplicated, even understandable, maybe. But it's more about Violet herself. And me. I have this sense that something bad could happen to me if I hang around her too much.

"What do you want to know about me and Roland that I haven't already said?" she asked on a sigh.

"Tell me more about the fight."

"What's to tell?" She pressed her lips together. "He wanted out, okay? He said he wanted to stop, and we'd barely gotten back together. I mean, I could count the times we'd been together and I was so happy. I just-" She shook her head and took a moment. "Maybe I just wanted to be in love. Maybe I put all that on Roland too soon and he panicked. I don't know. But we went to bed that night okay with each other. It was the next morning-Gigi's wedding day-that things really went bad."

"What happened?"

A car drove slowly past us, looking for a spot. The driver gazed at us hopefully but we ignored him. Beyond the concrete edge of the lot the skies opened up and rain poured down, a deafening curtain. Both Violet and I paused, staring into the deluge as a mist of precipitation whisked in and dampened our faces.

"I don't really know. He'd come home from the rehearsal dinner in a foul mood. Really mad at Renee about bringing this guy who wasn't invited. He'd driven Renee up from Santa Monica, so I guess she figured he'd earned a spot. Dumb. It doesn't work that way."

"Gigi and Melinda both mentioned him."

"I just wanted him to stop thinking about the whole thing. I mean, who cared, really? In a matter of hours Gigi was going to be married. So Renee infuriated him. So what?"

"You argued about it?"

"I just wanted to get past it. Roland had a drink. I tried to talk him into bed. He said something about sleeping on the couch. We had a fight. I almost left, and then we eventually did go to bed together." She smiled fleetingly. "And it was really sweet. I wished I'd known then that it was our last night together. I would have tried harder to be...less selfish. I wanted to make plans and he wasn't interested. I think he was thinking of breaking up with me. I don't know." She ran her hands through her hair, holding the ends at her nape and closing her eyes.

"Did he say something, or do something, that gave you that idea?"

"Not really. Not that night. Everything seemed okay again, but then the next morning he was brusque. Distracted."

"Did something happen?"

She thought about it and shook her head. "No."

"Anything at all. Maybe something that didn't have anything to do with you. He came home upset with Renee, and you had a fight," I repeated.

"More like a spat. A couple of comments and that was it," she corrected.

"Then you went to bed together and you thought everything was all right."

She nodded.

"Then what happened?"

"He just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The phone started ringing. All that wedding stuff started. He didn't want to get in the tux. I actually laid it on the bed for him but he was so touchy. You know, being the supportive girlfriend behind the scenes isn't my forte," Violet remarked candidly. "But I was doing a h.e.l.l of a job."

"So, then...?"

"We got dressed and went downstairs. I was getting ready to go home and leave him to it, but Roland hadn't put his coat on. He was in the pants and shirt, and he was...oh, I don't know...a pain in the a.s.s, if you want to know the truth. He wouldn't talk. He wouldn't say what was wrong. I tried to be all fun and bubbly and act like I didn't notice. I joked that he could call me at the reception and maybe I could sneak in for a while, and he about bit my head off. I was getting fed up by this time."

"What time was it?"

Violet shrugged. "Ten-thirty? Eleven? I don't know. It was early. Roland was supposed to be at the Cahill Winery for pictures at two. He was going to leave around one. I told all this to the police."

"I'm just trying to get the timeline down for myself. So, what happened between you and him between eleven and one?"

"Nothing. We stopped talking. He'd made a toast to Gigi the night before, apparently, and he was planning to say something more at the reception. He said he wanted to go finish writing his speech, and he walked outside to the garden beyond the solarium. I stayed in the kitchen, but I kind of kept peeking at him. His back was to me. He was on the phone. There wasn't a lot of writing going on."

"You know who he was talking to?"

"No. But I heard him say something about Melinda. I was really trying to eavesdrop but he caught me, and that's when we really started fighting. I wanted to know what he'd said about Melinda. At first he wouldn't answer. Told me it was none of my business, to which I said, 'Oh no. I have a stake in this!' and I demanded to know what was going on with him and Melinda." She looked down at the ground and I saw color creep up her neck. Violet was usually in such perfect control that it sent a frisson down my spine. "We said some pretty terrible things to each other," she admitted. "Things I wish I could take back. Roland was absolutely furious. He grabbed my shoulders and pushed me up against the wall. I couldn't believe it! He told me to stay out of his business. Said he had things to work out with Melinda. Said he'd misjudged her. But he was roaring this at me! Shaking me." The memory brought tears to Violet's eyes, which she dashed away in fury. "The tray was right there. On that Asian buffet in the hallway. I grabbed it and slammed it against his head." She pressed her knuckles to her lips and said around them, "I hurt him, but it wasn't half as much as he hurt me. He grabbed his head and yelled at me to get the f.u.c.k out of his house. So I left."

Her narrative cut off abruptly. We stood quietly, listening to the rain. After a moment I stirred myself. "What time was that?"

"Noon, maybe?"

"How much of this did you tell the police?"

"As little as possible. I said I'd stopped by in the morning, that we had a fight about the fact I wasn't invited to the wedding." Her lips pulled into a bitter smile. "I can't believe we were breaking up over Melinda."

"But she knew about you and Roland."

"Suspected, not knew," Violet corrected.

"Maybe that's motive enough," I suggested.

"Who? Melinda? No way. Melinda would never kill Roland. He was her meal ticket."

"She doesn't act like it."

"She had a chance to come out okay in a divorce settlement, but death? Uh-uh. The estate went to Gigi and Sean, almost entirely. She signed a prenup. Roland said so. Besides, she was at the wedding when he died, wasn't she? As much as I'd love to blame this on Melinda, I don't see how she could be in two places at the same time."

I nodded. The same thoughts had occurred to me. Like Larrabee suggested, I kept trying to think up some other motive for Roland's death.

"Well, who else, then?" I asked Violet.

She shrugged. "Some disgruntled patient?"