Ultra Violet Part 23

I heard the now familiar ring that denoted an incoming text message as I emptied my overnight bag onto my red quilted bedspread and started separating the clean clothes from the dirty ones. My cell also lay on my double bed. I s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and read: meet us tonite dawn I made an impatient sound in my throat. Wouldn't you know? Now that Dwayne wasn't pressing as hard, Dawn was after me.

Did I want to go? Glancing out my bedroom window, I saw the rain still drizzling, but it was more like a mist. A definite improvement. I didn't know what I wanted to accomplish at Do Not Enter, but I couldn't completely back away. I texted Dawn back: okay will see you after game ronnie This took me some time to compose and send, and then she wrote right back: tonite!! d Hmmm...two exclamation points.

I walked into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror, turning my head from side to side, examining my face. A teenager I was not. I couldn't even text-message with alacrity.

Once more I scrounged around for my Lake Chinook sweatshirt, which I'd wadded into a ball and thrown in the back of my closet after my escapades with the canoe. Now I pulled it out, gave it a good, long sniff, coughed a little at the mildewy odor, then ran it through the washer.

Binkster watched me go through my laundry routine from her favorite spot on the couch. While I worked I looked over occasionally and made smoochy noises. She invariably curled up her tail and wagged at me, even if she didn't lift her head from the cushions. A few months back, right after she was foisted on me, I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy trying to get rid of her. Now it would kill me to lose her.

The cell phone rang as I was leaning on my refrigerator door, wondering if it was safe to eat the hamburger I'd purchased, now nearly a week past its pull date. Aren't those dates just a guide rather than a warning? Like it's okay, just not as fresh as it could be? The idea of tossing out the meat was an anathema. Yet...there was definitely some off-color there. I suspected if I pulled off the shrink-wrap there might be some off-odors as well.

Not that I was hungry. It had only been a couple of hours since Mook's. Well, okay, I was sorta hungry.

I glanced hopefully at caller ID. Not Violet. Cynthia. "What's up?" I greeted her, regretfully dropping the pack of hamburger into my trash bin. Why don't I know myself better? If it isn't frozen, microwavable and/or packed with preservatives, it's just not going to work.

Cynthia asked, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Nothing. Hopefully." Twice now I'd been quizzed on this. As I said, I'm not good with holidays. For reasons probably buried deep in my psyche, my first reaction to affairs with lots of people, many of them relatives, is a desire to plead sickness or insanity, whatever works, to keep myself from facing some excruciating mealtime where everyone makes small talk and wishes they were anywhere else.

"I want you to have Thanksgiving dinner with me," Cynthia said.

"No can do. I have my own tradition. I wear my sweats and eat Swanson turkey TV dinners, both for lunch and dinner. Sometimes I open a can of cranberries just in case you need more than the little square of dessert they give you."

"I'm making a turkey and all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs," she said smoothly, "and I'm inviting you, your brother and his fiancee to join me. You can ask Dwayne, too."

"Did the Pod People find you, suck out your inner self and leave behind a sh.e.l.l?"

"I'm not actually doing the cooking," she confessed. "A friend of mine, who's not a chef but should be, is preparing the meal. Free food, Jane. Really good food. And wine."

"This social event is still a couple of weeks away," I reminded her.

"I wanted to catch you early. Before you felt compelled to make up an excuse."

I thought about telling her about Booth and Sharona, just to get her off my back, but I didn't have the energy. I mumbled something about a spurious mental illness that runs in the Kelly family that's exacerbated by holiday gatherings, but I didn't think she was buying it.

"You can wear your sweats," she coerced.

I was compelled to tell her I would think about it. As I hung up, I began to wonder if I'd been wrong...maybe this "not calling back" epidemic wasn't such a bad thing.

Communication can be highly overrated.

Violet finally called me as I was getting ready for my teen fun at Do Not Enter.

"Ah, there you are," I said as I examined myself in my Lake Chinook sweatshirt one more time. This outfit was getting really old. I considered wearing something else, but Dwayne's comment about showing bare skin as an alternative was really off-putting.

"I talked to Dwayne," she revealed. "He said you went to Santa Monica to interview Renee."

"That would be true. I also met with Patsy Treadway, who insists you killed her brother, Bart. And Renee seems to think you did the escort service gig a few more times than you led me to believe."

She muttered a swear word or two. "I didn't kill Bart. I told him I'd go on one of his hikes. It was pure h.e.l.l. He kept pushing and pushing, climbing and climbing. It was hot and miserable and I finally just screamed that I couldn't go on. So I left him. Twisted my ankle on the way back and it took me hours to find my way out! I was crying and scared and it was d.a.m.n near night by the time I came across some other hikers who helped me find my way back. Patsy can't accept that Bart wouldn't lead me out. It couldn't be that he made a lot of mistakes, nearly getting us both killed in the process!"

"Patsy seemed to think-"

She cut me off. "You know, Jane, I don't give a d.a.m.n. Patsy had one of those hero-worship things going for her brother. He could do no wrong. No wrong. But the truth is, Bart wouldn't come back that day, when he should have. He slipped in the dark and fell to his death, trying to prove what a man he was, what an awesome climber. He just fell."

"She said you ended up with the inheritance." There was a faint trace of condemnation in my tone that I couldn't help.

"She's always said that!" Violet practically shouted at me. "What inheritance? Bart went through every dime we had. Every...dime. He was terrible with money. Just terrible! The man left me in serious debt. I came out better from my divorces, although it's not like I robbed them blind, either. Patsy will just never believe that. You should have told me you were going to meet her. I could have warned you."

I felt a slight headache coming on. Every time I think I have all the facts on Violet I'm proved wrong.

"Has she still got that Bohemian Granola thing going?" Violet demanded.

"Umm...yeah."

She made a disparaging sound. "Patsy wants to believe I'm responsible for Bart's death. She can't help herself. Bart was the only man in her life. Ever. She has to blame someone for taking him away from her."

I moved to the other issue. "But you did go back to the escort service. That part's true?"

"Okay, look. I had to. I had no money. Not every man who walked through the door expected s.e.x. A lot, yes, but some honestly wanted companionship. I tried other jobs and I was terrible at them."

"And the escort service is how you met your second husband?"

"And my third. Roland."

"What happened with your second husband?"

"Divorce. You'll love this. His name was John DeBussy. Because of the escort service thing, you know, the image that they're only a front for prost.i.tution, I called him my john. He had a great sense of humor. We enjoyed each other a lot for a while. Until he started an affair with a woman who looked just like me but was a few years younger. Twenty, I think," she said dryly.

It amazes me how often Violet stymies me. Just when I think I've got her. Just when she seems to be everything everyone accuses her of being...she slips away. And she does it with such aplomb.

"So, you met Bart, John and Roland through the escort service."

"Hon, when something works for you, stick with it. Roland's a case in point. He met Renee, me and Melinda the same way."

"He met Melinda through an escort service?" I asked in surprise.

"You bet. After he and I split up he 'went back to the well.' His exact words. It was that Millionaires' Club, oh, what's it called...?" She paused, thinking. "Columbia Millionaires' Club. CMC. The male members have to be millionaires, and all the women are young, beautiful and educated. A selective dating service."

"Melinda and Roland met on one of these dates?"

"Yes." On a note of discovery, she added, "Maybe the women don't have to be all that young."

I couldn't think of anything else to add, so after a few moments, we hung up. I thought back on the events that had led me to this point in the investigation and all the people who seemed so desperate for me to believe Violet was guilty. I kept vacillating on the issue myself. Up, down, up, down. As I finished getting ready I told myself to listen to my gut instincts. Dwayne said he always listened to them, that relying on his instincts had saved him more than once.

I stared at my Lake Chinook sweatshirted self for a moment, didn't like what I saw, ripped the sweatshirt off my body. I traded for a forest-green short-sleeved T-shirt and my black leather jacket. A thin slice of skin showed at my midriff. I could possibly freeze to death but I looked better than usual.

I called Melinda, deciding I was through p.u.s.s.yfooting around with anyone any longer. "Hi, it's Jane," I told her voice mail. "I understand you met Roland at the Columbia Millionaire's Club. Call me back and let's talk about it."

After that I threw the Lake Chinook sweatshirt in the back of the car, just in case. I carry a small bag with a couple of changes of clothes at all times and various sundry accessories I feel I may need to use as a disguise from time to time. From experience, I've learned that I may need to quickly change personas without time to go home and regroup.

I drove to Taco Bell for dinner. My talk with Dwayne had started a craving of sorts. I waited in line, boggled by the rapid-fire, heavily Spanish-accented sell-up coming from the drive-through speaker. I have no ear for languages. It's almost embarra.s.sing. "Um...how about numero ocho...three crunchy tacos and a diet cola?"

I think she agreed and gave me a price. I drove to the window and forked over a ten-dollar bill and was rewarded with my bounty and some change.

It was near 7:00 p.m. by then, but I had hours to kill before I was due at Do Not Enter. Since it wasn't raining cats and dogs any longer, I decided to attend the game, get a look at Keegan Lendenhal in action. But I didn't want any of the Do Not Enter crowd to recognize me, so I mentally searched through my bag of clothes while I chomped down my meal. Taco Bell's really hard to eat in the car without making a mess. McDonald's is easier. Everything kind of sticks together better.

A call buzzed through on my cell phone that went straight to voice mail. I was instantly annoyed. What's that all about? The d.a.m.n thing never even bothered to ring. The mysteries of wireless communication just keep getting bigger.

I punched in my code and listened to the message as I drove toward the Lake Chinook High stadium.

"h.e.l.lo," a man's voice greeted me. "This is Dr. Daniel Wu, returning your call. You said you wish to speak to me about Roland Hatchmere. If it is urgent, I will be at the East-more-land Clinic tomorrow." He then left his office number and hours.

I was thrilled and surprised. Yeah! A loose end I might be able to tie up.

Once again it was tricky to find a place to park. I circled around the surrounding neighborhoods, counting the signs that screamed against the stadium lights versus the ones that shrieked the benefits of all athletics. Looked like an even battle for the moment.

When I finally got the Volvo squeezed behind a Volkswagen bug, I opened my back hatch and scrounged through my bag. I didn't want any of the kids to see me in the company of other adults. My age might show through despite my efforts to look and seem younger. I grabbed a baseball cap, a pair of wire-rimmed gla.s.ses with prescriptionless lenses and a plaid, flannel scarf that I tossed around my neck. I put on the gla.s.ses and tucked my chin into the scarf. I shut the back, stuck my head inside the driver's side to get a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

I looked like I was about to go out on a fishing trawler in the North Sea.

Trudging to the gate, I paid for a ticket, deciding to stay on visiting Brookstone's side to steer clear of my teen buddies. Visitors don't rank covered seating, but there was no place left to sit anyway, so I hung at the end of the bleachers near a knot of middle-aged men who were deeply invested in the game. The score was 7-all at the end of the first quarter. I gazed across the field at the players whose uniforms were already smeared with mud and gra.s.s stains. Lake Chinook's light blue and white colors had really taken a beating. Brookstone's green and gold, reminiscent of Oregon Ducks' green and yellow, seemed to be faring better.

Brookstone had the ball and their quarterback threw a pa.s.s that fell short of the receiver's hands.

"d.a.m.n it, Ty," one of the men near me spat out.

"He's gotta do better than that," another man concurred.

"Jason doesn't have any idea where the ball's going," a third said. "Just runs like a G.o.dd.a.m.n horse heading for the barn."

I watched the team break from the huddle and go again. This time Ty connected with Jason and he went flying down the field. All was forgiven, apparently, by the now ecstatic shouting dads. It was all they could do to keep themselves from running onto the field.

Sheesh.

My cell phone rang. I only heard it because the din slowly died down. Whipping it out of my purse, I was surprised to see the call was Detective Larrabee. "h.e.l.lo?" I said loudly, covering my exposed ear with my hand. "Can you hear me?"

"Ms. Kelly?" His smooth voice registered.

"Yeah, it's Jane," I said, turning away from the game.

"Is this inconvenient?"

"No." I was practically yelling. I explained that I was at the Lake Chinook/Brookstone game but that I could leave with no regrets.

Surprisingly, he said, "I'll come to you," so I told him I was on the Brookstone side of the field, then asked, "Did something happen?" before he could hang up.

"Our surveillance paid off," he said with a smile in his voice.

I did a little dance of delight. So far it had been a good night. Then I had a worry about my appearance, which I tried to dismiss-I mean, the guy's attractive, sure, but it's not like that has anything to do with anything. Dwayne's joking about Larrabee and me on a date was just that, a joke. There was no reason to think about him in any regard but professional.

But did I have to look so c.r.a.ppy?

I whipped off the gla.s.ses and stuck them in my coat pocket.

I spent the next forty minutes trying to keep my mind on the game, which had lost all interest for me. Keegan Lendenhal proved he was an excellent quarterback, throwing pa.s.ses, reading the field, doing all that football stuff that I've never paid any attention to, but that I learned about play-by-play from the group of dads nearby, much to their disappointment and dismay. Ty just couldn't keep up with Keegan. He was good, yes, but Keegan was great. There was no denying it. A lot of college scouts had looked at Keegan already. The kid was bound to be All-State. He had a h.e.l.luva future ahead of him. A h.e.l.luva future.

I gazed across the field to the Lake Chinook side, wondering which knot of men over there included Keegan's father. What would happen if and when Mr. All-State's extracurricular activities came to light?

At halftime Lake Chinook was ahead 2110. There was a lot of discussion about the upcoming play-offs. I went in search of a hot dog and ended up fumbling to put my gla.s.ses back on when I recognized some of the kids from Do Not Enter. I didn't see Dawn, but her sister Dionne was there, scowling, her arms across her chest. The guy she was with seemed to be trying to cheer her up, but she practically snapped his head off. My hot dog in hand, I sidled a little closer, taking a bite and pretending to be with a couple of families who obviously had come to the game together.

"Look, she's not your problem," the guy said to Dionne.

"She's totally stupid!" Dionne volleyed back. "He's already dumped her and she keeps following him around. He sucks it up. And she's...just...stupid!"

"She'll get over it."

"No, she won't," she muttered angrily.

"You did."

That earned him a scathing glare. They moved away from me. I took a few steps after them, but then they abruptly turned my way, so I had to twist on my shoe and mosey a different direction. The guy kept trying to mollify her, but Dionne was having none of it. I suspected she was talking about Dawn. Was the boy who'd dumped her Keegan?

The rain let up completely during halftime and I cautiously pulled off my hoodie, but kept the baseball cap in place. When I got back to my spot beside the Brookestone dads I removed my gla.s.ses again.

The third quarter had started by the time Vince Larrabee made an appearance. I'd expected to see him in the overcoat, but he was wearing jeans and a jacket like me so I didn't recognize him at first. He found me despite my baseball cap, flashing me a smile as he approached that heated me up in a way I could scarcely credit. Was I so desperate for a date that Dwayne's joking insinuations had given me hope? Or was I simply trying anything to get my mind off him?

"Why did you want to come to the game?" I asked after we said h.e.l.lo. As soon as he reached me, he gestured for us to move away from the dads, closer to Brookstone's end zone.

When we were out of earshot, he revealed, "I went to Brookstone."

"You're kidding."

"'Fraid not."

"Really?"

He nodded, more amus.e.m.e.nt flickering in his dark gaze. My heart did a funny little pitter-pat. I warned myself not to be an idiot. I wasn't attracted to the man. I wasn't attracted to Dwayne, either. I just...wasn't.

"So, don't leave me hanging," I said. "Did you get the Wedding Bandits?"

"Two are in custody. Two more identified."

"Fabulous. What did they say?" I asked eagerly. "Have they talked about Roland? Do you know anything yet?"

"A few things," Larrabee admitted. "What does Durbin want with the calls to Hatchmere's cell phone the day of the homicide?"

Ah...I should have known. Quid pro quo. I searched around for an appropriate answer and in the end couldn't see any reason not to be completely honest. "Violet told us he received a phone call, or calls, maybe around eleven or eleven-thirty that morning, that-altered his mood. Upset him. She tried to find out what was wrong and that's when they started fighting. He shoved her against the wall and she hit him with the tray."