Ultraviolet. Nancy Bush
Outstanding praise for Nancy Bush and her Jane Kelly mysteries!
ULTRAVIOLET
“Fun to read”
—Pasadena Star News
ELECTRIC BLUE
“With her clever ability to handle the zaniest of life’s circumstances, Jane won’t disappoint readers.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Bush has a winner with this wacky, sexy second book featuring an insanely dysfunctional family and a zany wannabe P.I. with a gorgeous and intelligent partner.”
—Library Journal
CANDY APPLE RED
“Funny, sex scenes, good drinks, and a likable dog lift Bush’s first Jane Kelly mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Jane Kelly is a new and worthy addition to the private investigator scene. Unique and extremely likable, she has a quick wit.”
—Romantic Times
“As long as Bush sticks to writing compelling mysteries, she’ll have a franchise that could soon rise to the level of Sara Paretsky’s great V.I. Warshawski books.”
—Chicago Sun Times
“A fun, frantic, sexy murder mystery…I was hooked from the first page. Candy Apple Red is an intriguing mystery that kept me guessing all night!”
—Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author
Books by Nancy Bush
CANDY APPLE RED
ELECTRIC BLUE
ULTRAVIOLET
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
ULTRA VIOLET
NANCY BUSH
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
I had mere seconds to get out of the bedroom. There was no bolt for the door and escape back the way I’d entered. I stood frozen, my hands useless appendages in front of me, my frantic heartbeats a roaring surf in my ears.
Three strong strides and I was at the sliding glass door that led to the bedroom balcony. The door opened soundlessly to an itsy-bitsy, terra-cotta-tiled area wrapped by a wrought-iron rail. I looked down two floors. For a dizzying moment I considered jumping, but the patio below was cold, unforgiving stone.
I whirled back to stare across the room. Twelve feet of carpet led toward the bedroom door, the only other exit. My pursuer was not far behind. From my peripheral vision I caught sight of the maple tree. I glanced over. Too far from the balcony, but just outside the bathroom window.
I could hear his approaching footsteps from the exterior hall. Quickly, I scurried into the bathroom and threw open the window. One branch was close enough to reach. For an instant I considered climbing down as I was: gowned, bejeweled, wearing the most expensive sandals I ever planned to purchase.
Kicking off the shoes, I threw them out the window. I ripped the zipper of the dress downward, yanked the slinky lavender dress over my head, sent it flying after the sandals. As I pulled myself through the window, cursing the space that was scarcely large enough for me to wriggle my shoulders through, I heard the door open. A mewling sound entered my throat but I held it back. I reached for the branch, missed, reached again, arms shaking, fingers splayed.
I heard his breathing.
My fingers connected and I hauled myself out with adrenaline-laced strength. I swung my legs upward to catch the limb with my ankles and hung like a lemur. Then I shimmied toward the tree trunk and carefully eased myself down the bole. I lost swatches of skin. My pulse hammered in my ears. My face was wet with tears.
When my toe hit the ground I drew a breath and glanced upward. He was on the balcony looking down at me. In that strange, heightened moment between quarry and prey, I was very, very glad I stood where I was.
“Ms. Kellogg?”
The voice came from somewhere to my right, near the front of the house. I stooped to pick up the gown Violet Purcell had given me, shivering, glad Violet had talked me into the padded lacy bra, equally glad I’d held out for bikini underwear rather than a thong.
The newcomer was my other admirer, Martin.
I smiled at him as he approached, hoping my lips didn’t quiver. I could feel the gaze from the man on the balcony boring into the back of my head. I shook out the gown. Stepping into it, I said with forced nonchalance, “Would you mind helping me zip up?”
I thanked the Fates Martin liked me enough to obey without question.
Earlier
There’s a weirdo in every neighborhood.
The old lady with forty-nine cats. The man who’s formed art pieces out of painted car parts and littered them across his front yard. The couple who’ve carved mysterious symbols in the bark of a tree and hung a plaque on the limbs declaring themselves lovers of evergreens, while fir needles blanket their dilapidated roof and hang in a shroud of spider-webs from the sagging eaves.
I fear that Dwayne Durbin is becoming the latest neighborhood weirdo.
Ever since the accident that broke his leg and temporarily incapacitated him, he’s taken to spying on the properties across Lakewood Bay, his leg wrapped in a cast from ankle to thigh, his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. A strange chortling sound issues from his throat. He can tell you more about the Pilarmos’ dog and the Wilsons’ new alarm system than you should ever want to know.
I’ve sort of avoided him these last few weeks. He’s drawn me into watching the sexcapades of a nameless couple whose energetic and inventive forms of copulation both impress and shock me, which is saying a lot. Dwayne has named all the houses/families he spies on; these two he calls Tab A and Slot B. Their stamina and vitality while inserting said Tab A into Slot B makes me wonder about my own tepid sex life. Lately, a few random kisses are all I can measure in the plus column.
Which is the main reason I’ve been avoiding Dwayne: my newly refined awareness of him. Yes, he’s an attractive member of the male gender, but so what? Dwayne is still my boss/business partner and that is it. Thinking about him in any romantic context is just plain trouble.
I reminded myself of this as I parked my Volvo wagon next to his truck,