Candy Apple Red. Nancy Bush
on the roof of my car. There’s a vicious beast barking its head off—”
“I can hear.”
“—and until its owner decides to CALL IT OFF!” I yelled, “I’m stuck.”
“Fine. I’ll tell the client you can’t make it. That’s what you want, right?”
“As soon as I’m free, I’ll be there,” I said, growing irritated myself. “Trust me. I’d much rather be with you than here.”
“You need to be here on time, Jane.”
“Do you get that I’m in a bind?”
“Well, figure it out,” she ordered and hung up. I clicked off with a certain amount of righteous indignation, pushing a few extra buttons in the process. The phone beeped at me as if in distress before the deed was done. I sat cross-legged, debating what to do next. Should I call someone else? There was still some battery life left.
The only person who came to mind…the only friend I knew who would really drop everything and help me out…was Cynthia Beaumont. Cynthia worked in an art gallery in the Pearl District in northwest Portland. She was a sometime artist, specializing in watercolors of evil cats peeking through dense forests thick with red, blue, mustard yellow and violent purple flowers and fanglike hovering grass. I considered it a plus, given my current situation, that she seemed to understand the animal mind.
“Cynthia! It’s Jane. I need some help.”
“Jane?” Her voice came in stuttered cell phone static.
“Yes! It’s Jane! Can you hear me? I’m stuck on top of my car and I need you to come help me escape.”
“What?”
I repeated my words, debating on whether to mention the dog at this juncture. Despite her drawings Cynthia wasn’t exactly the model of heroism when it came to ferocious animals. Neither was I, come to that. Muzzles were invented for a reason and this slavering monster now lying in silent wait somewhere over the edge of my car sure needed one.
“I can’t hear you,” Cynthia said in fits and starts. I heard more static. There was a bit of whining in her tone so I had to get stern.
“I need your help!” I yelled directions into the phone, praying she’d hear them. “And don’t get out of the car. Just pull up beside me.”
“Okay…”
I sighed and turned off the phone. Woofers was challenging my paint job again. “Call off your dog!” I yelled to the front door but Gail The Tired seemed to have blended back into the house. Probably having one hell of a belly laugh at my expense. I could picture her doubled-over, struggling for breath, the stub of the cigarette dropping to the floor in her fit of hilarity.
Three-quarters of an hour later Cynthia’s battered Honda pulled into the rutted driveway and slowly bumped its way toward me. As soon as she stopped she opened her door and I screamed at her as the Pit Bull charged her car. She yanked her foot back inside and slammed the door. Woofers leapt upward, jaws snapping at Cynthia’s surprised white face behind the window.
I should have warned her about the dog.
Motioning her to edge her car next to mine so that they would be side by side, making it possible for me to jump from one to the other, I stood up on the top of my hood and glared at the closed front door. There was a twitch of ragged curtains at Gail’s front window.
Cynthia aligned her car with my Volvo. I leapt to her hood, trying not to make too much of a dent as I landed. Woofers also leapt and spun but could make no purchase against the Honda’s slick exterior…except for a few nicks that is. Actually, it was a couple of rather deep scratches. Luckily, her car was hardly the latest model. Luckier still, I’d managed to keep from dishing in her hood with my weight although my ribs felt bruised.
I turned over and lay spread-eagled on my back, staring upward into the dusty blue heavens. Why was I so determined to stay out of the information specialist business and keep up with process serving? Today hadn’t been exactly good for my health.
Cynthia rolled down her window. Her mouth was set. “Want me to back up?” she bit out.
“Hell, no. I want you to move forward. Right through her front door!”
Cynthia took me at my word, although mostly I was just railing at the sky. As the Honda jerked forward, Woofers trotted along beside us, barking so hard that I wondered if he might actually tear a lung or something. When Cynthia stopped just short of the porch Woofers gave up the call. His tongue lolled out and he glanced at the door of the house. He seemed lost in indecision. Apparently this was as far as his little pea brain could take him. Gail The Tired stepped outside—still with the cigarette between her lips—and made a shooing motion. Woofers suddenly scurried inside the house. I slid off the top of the car, found the 72-hour notice which was marked with a dog paw print and slapped it into her hand. She just looked at me and smoked.
I slammed into the passenger side of Cynthia’s car. She turned to me, her spiky short dark hair standing straight up, as if in surprise. As this was her normal hairstyle I couldn’t blame it on the events with Woofers. She said dryly, “You forgot to mention the dog?”
“I’m just sorry we didn’t get a good run at him.”
She snorted, knowing me too well. She wore a black suit coat over a black camisole and one of the shortest skirts on record. I have to admire a woman with that kind of moxie; I’d be showing the world things not meant to be seen in the light of day even if you gave me a couple of extra inches. She shot me a look that could curdle milk.
I would pay for my omission about Woofers.
We backed down the drive to where I’d parked my car. Climbing out of Cynthia’s Honda, I checked the paint job on mine, swore, then opened the driver’s door and slid inside. Examining my watch, I swore again, and then I saw the small tear in my right Nike and I swore a third time.
Cynthia gave me a look that warned the issue wasn’t finished as she drove away. I mouthed, “Thanks.” I would thank her more concretely later—with food and alcohol.
As soon as I was behind the wheel I drove straight to Marta’s office, punched the elevator number to her floor, then burned into her outer office. The receptionist raised an eyebrow at me, but I sailed by as if I owned the place. I realized belatedly that my black top and pants were covered with dust, so I steered myself to the bathroom for a quick once over. “Shit.” I looked as if I’d been treed by a wild animal, which wasn’t that far from the truth.
A few moments later I was knocking on Marta’s door. I heard her call for me to come in. When I entered she was sitting at her desk, hands behind her head. Though her expression was neutral, I could tell she was grinning to herself. Bobby Reynolds had single-handedly delivered Tess to her, no matter what his crimes, and Marta was counting greenbacks in her head. Marta, it now appeared, had become a full-service divorce lawyer. Need someone to chat up your husband in case he’s been secretly aiding and abetting your murderous son? Just ask Marta. She could find you an information specialist, or a facsimile thereof. And payment to Marta Cornell did not hinge on Jane Kelly—said information specialist’s—success. Marta simply delivered someone to help—and her clients paid her for her trouble.
I sat down in one of the two cream, faux-suede client seats on the opposite side of Marta’s Brazilian cherry desk; Tess Reynolds Bradbury sat in the other. I recognized the tight lips and blue eyes from her pictures in the paper and television interviews. I also recognized the pink scarf, now lying across her shoulders and down the front of her suit. She’d had it on this morning in the Coffee Nook. Wrapped around her blond hair. I hadn’t recognized her behind the Audrey Hepburn sunglasses.
The hairs on my arms lifted. Had she come to the Nook in search of me?
She pretended this was our first meeting, her smile of welcome brittle and tight.
She still possessed the hardness I’d first seen on TV, and she had a tense,