Ultra Violet Part 19

Before I could answer, the door finally opened. Mom and I turned our heads and stared in astonishment. Catlike, they'd said? No s.h.i.t. Renee's eyes were pulled into a slant that tilted upward at the outside corners, and she'd darkened the brows in a way that accentuated the feline look. Her whole face appeared stretched back and her mouth had lengthened into a flat line that seemed to go halfway around her head. Her hair lopped forward over her forehead in a tawny mane, then swept to a sort of fashionable mullet down her neck. The scariest part of it was that it wasn't unattractive. It was kind of arty and interesting. And, well, weird.

She was slim and dressed in a pair of black capri stretch pants and a sleeveless black top. She looked as if she were about to do some kind of performance art whereby she would scratch, claw and hiss. If I'd had Binkster with me I think she would have started whining, which is what she does when she encounters a feline. She likes them, but they worry her. I understood the feeling.

"I'm Jane Kelly," I said, thrusting my hand toward her. "I called you earlier. I'm the private investigator looking into Roland Hatchmere's death."

She cautiously accepted the handshake. My mother followed suit, smiling beneficently. "Carole Kelly." Renee shook her hand, too. Her face showed no expression. I doubted there were enough muscles left for that.

"I don't know how I can help you," she said in a normal voice. I had so expected a purr. "You didn't come all the way here just to interview me, did you?"

"My mother lives here," I said easily.

"I've been trying to get Jane to visit for months. Finally the time was right," my mother put in, just as easily.

It took all I had not to give her the proverbial double take. Sometimes Mom surprises me. Actually, oftentimes Mom surprises me, it's just that sometimes the surprise isn't exactly a welcome one.

Renee clearly didn't know what to do with us. Grudgingly she stepped back from the door, then suggested we go back outside through the rear door and follow the gravel path to the backyard. We followed her across a scarred oak floor scattered with area rugs in varying jungle prints. The kitchen was tiny and hadn't been updated since the fifties, but it was clean and tidy.

We went down the four steps, past the Cadillac, to a tall wooden fence, a portion of which was a gate with a hook on top. Renee reached up and unlatched it, swinging the gate section inward, and we entered an area that was more patio than yard, but nicely done. Swept concrete was surrounded by potted plants: a lush jade, a red bottle brush plant, some kind of ground cover flowing over one pot that perfumed the air. A round, redwood table with semicircular benches sat under the shade of a coral tree, the branches of which curved and twisted, reminiscent of an ocean reef. Tucked along the gra.s.sy edges were metal posts with hooks, and from the hooks hung lanterns with fat, white candles.

"This is lovely," my mother said admiringly.

It went a long way in getting Renee to thaw. She smiled, and that, too, had a cat-who-ate-the-canary quality to it. "I spend most of my time out here. The house needs work but it's peaceful here." She grabbed a red flame lighter and touched it to the candles, sending out flickering illumination. Shadows were beginning to spread across the backyard and patio as it was after four o'clock.

"I own a four-unit in Venice," Mom added. "Amazing what the property values have risen to, isn't it? This place, when it was built, when you think about it..." She shook her head, marveling, looking around.

Renee nodded eagerly. I watched in amus.e.m.e.nt as she jumped into the game. People love, love, love to tell you how much they've made on their real estate investments, as if it's a ruler for their business ac.u.men and general smartness when in reality if you hold prime real estate long enough, and don't have an abyss of debt, you'll generally do fine and sometimes make out like a bandit. I was intrigued that my mother, whose age was probably close to Renee's, was deliberately getting Renee to warm to her, pulling down her barriers. It saved me a h.e.l.luva lot of effort.

They talked price and location and the market for a good ten minutes. I listened with a growing sense of unease I didn't initially identify. I did an inner search and discovered the source of this dread was my soon-to-be eviction. I would be losing my own piece of real estate unless I did something about it.

Like what? I asked myself.

Renee offered to serve us some lemonade and went to take care of it. I gave Mom a look.

"What?" she asked, but her little smile said she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"I might have to bring you on all my interviews."

"You might," she agreed.

Renee returned with a tray holding a pitcher of pink lemonade and three gla.s.ses filled with cubes of ice. There was also a stack of hors d'oeuvre plates, an array of crackers covered with dabs of cream cheese, a wedge of cold, sliced salmon and a little gla.s.s bowl of different varieties of olives. It was d.a.m.n good on short notice. Maybe not in Melinda's league, but better than I could ever hope to manage.

Mom selected a plate, filled it with salmon, crackers and a grouping of olives and accepted the gla.s.s of lemonade Renee poured for her. Leaning back in her chair, she eyed me expectantly.

Showtime.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

I mentally prepared myself for the interview, aware that I was slightly nervous.

Her odd looks just put me on edge.

Renee was gazing toward the back of her property. "Roland and I were madly in love once. The kind of thing that happens once in a lifetime, at least to me." She gave us a quick, wry look, which was a little disconcerting. Sort of like a cat with the power to be self-effacing. "He was an incredible surgeon. I've never been able to find anyone who could do work like he did."

"You've tried, then?" my mother asked politely.

Like, duh. How much surgery had this woman had?

Renee nodded, totally serious. "I've had some facial reconstruction since Roland retired. But it's never been the same."

"So, you've seen Roland-professionally-for years," I said.

"Absolutely. He used to try to talk me out of it, but after a while I think it was kind of peaceful for him. Familiar. We knew each other well." She waved a hand at me. "Violet hated it, when they were together. Wanted to get Roland away from me. That's why they left for Portland, you know. Oh, sure, Roland was expanding his business, starting those clinics, but Violet was all for it because it got him away from me. I did make a couple of trips to Portland for some touch-up, though, before Roland's problems got in the way."

"Naturally," Mom said.

Renee gave her a swift look, as if sensing something wasn't quite on the level but Mom gazed back, all innocence and interest.

"Violet and Roland lived here for a while before they left for Portland," I said, to put things back on track.

"A long while," Renee agreed.

"When they left, Gigi and Sean went with them."

"I suppose you think I'm a terrible mother," she said to me.

"Things happen for a lot of reasons," I responded vaguely.

Renee plucked an olive with her fingernails, which were long and bloodred. "Roland wanted Gigi and Sean and I fought him on that. I figured Violet would be a terrible influence. But...Gigi was such a daddy's girl, it became...problematic. And where Gigi went, Sean wanted to go, too. Believe me, it made everybody happier to have them all head to Portland together, except possibly Violet. Roland and I had a huge house in the valley with a swimming pool. We sold it and that's when I bought this bungalow."

"You drove to Gigi's wedding with a friend," I said, changing the subject. I wanted to get to Violet's background, but I sensed it wasn't time yet. Interviews typically have a life of their own and it's best to let them unfold on their own schedule. I've learned less by forcing questions than biding my time, even when I feel the clock ticking in my head, urging me to get going in all due haste.

"Ah, Aaron." She hesitated, seeming to have a debate with herself. In the end she shook her head and said, "He's from some of my cla.s.ses. I just couldn't bear to go alone and he thought it would be a kick to drive up in the Ferrari. Actually, it was horrible. Drive a thousand miles to Portland, and another back? My tush still hurts. Should have taken my Caddy." She gave a disparaging laugh. "We've scarcely spoken since we got back. Some bonding experience."

"What kind of cla.s.ses?"

"Pilates, spinning, low-impact aerobics."

"Are you an instructor?" Mom asked.

I kept myself from giving my mom a "look," but just barely. I'd begun to wonder how to ask Renee what she did careerwise, if anything, but Mom just popped up with a way to get the information.

"Oh, sure, I help out sometimes. But I'm not really good with a schedule. Mostly I just take the cla.s.ses to keep in shape."

I had this picture of Renee's life: one fitness cla.s.s after another. One plastic surgery after another. She'd as much as said she hadn't been interested in another man since Roland. She seemed to only care about her appearance, such as it was.

I asked her about Gigi's wedding, which events she'd attended, how many days she'd been there, when she learned of Roland's death.

"You probably know I was disinvited to the wedding," Renee said, her expression tightening with the first sign of annoyance I'd seen. Either that or her stretched face just couldn't handle any nuances of emotion. "You know I loved that man, but Roland could be such a prig. He hated it that I was there with Aaron. Just hated it." A tiny trill of triumph rang in her voice. "I called him that at the rehearsal dinner. A prig. I was kidding, really, but Roland never could take a joke. Well, he got all heated up. Before that he hadn't cared a whit that I'd brought Aaron to the dinner, but all of a sudden-holy mother of G.o.d, I've committed the faux pas of all faux pas! He starts yelling at me. And Melinda...she's so d.a.m.n stupid. She gets all fluttery and anxious and tries to make nice with everybody. I ignored her. I mean, give me a friggin' break. Aaron tried to talk reason to Roland and that didn't work. Then Gigi started that whining thing." She made a dismissive gesture and rolled her eyes. "I told them all they should change their diet. Less red meat, more whole grains and leafy green vegetables. It's not rocket science, now, is it? Turn on the Food Channel, for Pete's sake. Learn what a healthy diet is. h.e.l.lo! But there they were, forks loaded with b.l.o.o.d.y meat." She made a retching sound. "Gigi just freaked. Told me I was ruining everything. Oh, sure, she's my daughter and all, but there's no denying she's a little b.i.t.c.h. Really, I was glad to have a reason to leave." Lifting the lemonade pitcher, she looked at my mother. "A little more?"

"Hit me," Mom said.

Surrept.i.tiously, I glanced at my watch. "Was the rehearsal dinner your first event with the family?"

"First and only, except when they called looking for Roland. At first I thought it was funny that they'd lost him, the Father of the Bride. I was still pretty hot about the way they'd treated us the night before. But Gigi was just sobbing, so Aaron and I drove to Cahill Winery. Gigi threw herself in my arms. Kind of surprised me, to be honest. Then Emmett called with the news...." She pulled her lips back in what I took to be a rueful expression.

"Was there any indication that anyone thought Roland might be with Violet? That she was the reason for the delay?"

Renee thought back. "Not really. I mean, Gigi was just shattered. Her wedding was ruined. She wasn't thinking about what was keeping Roland. She just wanted him there." She selected another olive, capturing it with her nails and dropping it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "I don't think anybody really thought about Violet until Roland's body was discovered. Then, of course, it all made sense. It's the same thing that happened with Bart. She was the last one to see him alive, too."

"Bart...?"

"Treadway. Violet's first husband. You don't know about him?" Her tawny brows arched.

"Melinda mentioned something about it," I murmured.

Renee looked at me as if she was doubting my ability as an investigator. I could scarcely blame her. "You know it's amazing Roland ever hooked up with Violet in the first place. I mean, he is a prig. And she's so...ripe. Once upon a time, I guess I was like that, too. Good old Roland. He never changed much over the years." She touched a hand to her cheek, looking mildly embarra.s.sed. "We met at the same escort service, if you can believe that."

"You and Roland? The same one as...?"

"Roland and Violet. I actually knew Violet first. We were both part of Landon Escort Services. Landon Ladies, that's what we were called. Then that scandal stopped everything for a while, and they came back as something different. Something generic. Connections, I think it was called. Didn't have the same ring."

"When was this?" I asked.

"Violet joined Landon's right after Bart's death. I was already there and we struck up a friendship of sorts. She wasn't there very long because she met her second husband right away. I cannot remember his name for the life of me. This is about the time Roland and I started seeing each other, so I wasn't really paying much attention. He'd spent all that time in med school and it was like he'd never had time for a girlfriend. We met in January and were married by June. Sean and Gigi came along and I guess we were happy for a while, then things just sort of fell apart. You know how that goes."

"My husband left me for his secretary," my mother said.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Renee said.

"Jane's father," Mom reminded.

"You can't hurt me with that one," I a.s.sured Renee. "I haven't seen him in years."

My father took off when Booth and I were still toddlers. My mother helped support him through law school; then he left her for his secretary, whom he promptly married and started a new family with. I believe I have three half siblings; I probably have a lot more by now. To date that's all I know about Richard Booth Kelly. My brother is Richard Booth Kelly Jr.

The shadows had lengthened and I was done with the trip down my own personal memory lane. "So, you met Roland at Landon Ladies, where Violet met her second husband."

"That's right. Then Roland went back to it after it became Connections, or whatever it was, and that's where he and Violet found each other. Isn't that just lovely?"

"Violet worked for the same company twice," I confirmed. "The one that had the scandal?" At Renee's nod, I asked, "What was that about?"

"A couple of the Landon Ladies were selling more than their sparkling conversation. Lucrative, but it was illegal, of course, and well..." She shrugged. No judgment. "So Landon Services became Connections."

I hadn't realized Violet had worked for the escort service more than once. She'd told me that she'd quit the job upon realizing her dates had expected more than a handshake at the end of the evening. It was a surprise to learn she'd gone back for a second try. It was also a surprise to learn that's how she'd met Roland.

"How did Violet's first husband die?" I asked.

"Bart Treadway was a hiker. One of those outdoorsy guys everybody just loves. I never met the man, personally. He was dead before Violet showed up at Landon Ladies, but she talked about him quite a bit in the beginning. She was upset that his family blamed her for his death. They had money, but everything was in trust for him, and it didn't pa.s.s on to Violet. She got nothing, and I suppose that's how come she was never indicted for his death."

"She was suspected of killing him?" Mom posed.

"I got this from Bart's sister, Patsy Treadway," Renee revealed. "I was kind of crazy for a while, after Roland hooked up with Violet, and so I looked up Patsy and became friends with her. She was more than happy to rank on Violet, which I needed at the time. She told me Violet never went hiking with him. Never, never, never. That sounds just like Violet, right? She's not a hiker. Then one day she decides to go with him and they take off together. But later that day she comes off the mountain alone. Says she left Bart to do more hiking. That she got tired. Two days later they find his body at the bottom of a ravine. He 'fell' from the trail above."

"He didn't fall," I guessed.

"Well..." Renee spread her hands. "Everybody knew Bart and Violet were having problems. She was pretty young in those days. Probably thought she'd get the money, but oops. Didn't happen. Bart's family tried to get the D.A. to prosecute, but the case wasn't strong enough. No money, no motive, was the way they saw it. Violet said she'd gone hiking with him because he'd asked, and she wanted to try and save their marriage. But she got whiny and he grew tired of her, so she walked back to where they'd left their car. She hung around awhile but finally took herself home. She called Patsy and said Bart might need a ride back, which p.i.s.sed Patsy off but good. She went to collect him but he never came out."

"She still maintains that Bart's death was Violet's fault. What do you think?"

"I wouldn't put anything past Violet."

"And you told Melinda this."

Renee smiled fleetingly. "Oh, you know...Melinda's so easy to send over the edge."

It was interesting how Renee had stayed a part of Roland's life all these years, and not just through her children. In fact, she scarcely seemed connected to her children by anything more than happenstance. It was like she didn't know what to do with them.

"You can talk to Patsy," Renee encouraged. "I've got her address."

"What about Violet's second husband?"

"They divorced. That's all I know."

Mom and I left soon afterward. Renee pressed Patsy Treadway's number and address upon me. I put in a call to her as we headed for the car and was sent, as ever, directly to voice mail. The communication age. Like, oh, sure. Not that I was exactly panting to talk to the woman as I felt I'd pretty much gotten the gist of what had taken place from Renee, and I had a feeling I would hear a lot more theory than fact from Patsy.

Mom and I drove to our four-unit in Venice through heavy commuter traffic down Lincoln. It felt like we hit every light. Finally Mom eased onto Abbott-Kinney and then meandered through narrow beach streets until we turned on Baybridge. Venice is kind of a weird place. All this prime beachfront real estate yet everything has that musty, dank smell and peeling-paint appearance of an area gone to seed. There's a carnival, Coney Islandtype atmosphere about the place: surf shops; wind socks fluttering; roller skaters in shorts zigzagging along the sidewalk that cuts through the sand.

My mother and I co-own a tan-colored rectangular box. Its front faces the ocean and if it weren't for the buildings on the three blocks between it and the water, it would have an excellent view. As it is, it pretty much looks at walls, roofs and sprouting antennae, though the tiny balconies on both front units have teensy, peekaboo views if you hang over the rails. They were originally apartments; my mother was savvy enough to convert them into condominiums shortly after she managed to buy the building, yet she and I still maintain ownership of all four units. At the time of the purchase I was working at Sting Ray's, a beach bar, as one of their bartenders. By my mother's wheeling, dealing and stretching the boundaries of financial security, I became part owner in the project. My mother actually lives a couple of streets over in the little three-bedroom house Booth and I grew up in. Now, when it was clear she was heading directly toward the four-unit instead of her house, I made a sound of protest.

"We're not dropping off my bag first?"

"I've moved to one of the units," she said, causing my jaw to drop.

"When?"

"Mrs. Ca.s.sleway died and so the lower front unit was empty. I started redoing it. She had dogs. Big dogs, and cats. It reeked. And then someone wanted to buy my house."

"You sold the house?" I asked in horror.

"No way." Mom gave me a sideways look, silently chiding me. "But I started thinking about its value, and then I decided to rent it. It's got a garage, you know. And a driveway. They're paying me a small fortune."