After a few minutes I dislodged the pug who heaved a disappointed sigh and pressed right against my leg as I reached for my laptop. I decided I might as well edit my notes. I’d made a timeline of the events that read:
FRIDAY
6:00 p.m.—Rehearsal dinner at Castellina, forty people invited, Roland was there. Everyone invited is in attendance except Sean (the bride’s brother), who has previous plans of unknown origin. Violet is not invited to any wedding event.
SATURDAY
10:00 a.m.—Gigi (the bride) and Melinda (the bride’s stepmother) at Castellina early for hair and makeup. Various bridesmaids arrive. Female bonding all around. Emmett Popparockskill stays at apartment he and Gigi shared before the wedding day. (Roland is apparently at his house. Never made it to the winery/ceremony.)
1:00 p.m.—Gigi and bridesmaids head by limo to Cahill Winery for pictures, wedding and reception.
2:00 p.m.—Pictures scheduled at Cahill Winery. Emmett drives himself to winery for pictures. His parents arrive, David and Goldy Popparockskill. Various groomsmen arrive. Concern grows when Roland neither shows nor answers his home or cell phone.
3:00 p.m.—More guests arrive. Wedding is slated for four, but by now the atmosphere’s tense with worry. People leave in search of Roland. Gigi stays, breaks down. Emmett heads to Roland’s house. The bridesmaids and groomsmen hit the bar early.
3:30 p.m.—Emmett discovers Roland’s body. There are items scattered around, wedding presents dropped in the front yard. Suspicion grows that the Wedding Bandits were interrupted by Roland and killed him. Violet’s prints are the only ones on the tray.
My timeline didn’t offer much more than a listing of the events as they occurred. I’d grilled Violet about her own timeline for that morning, and Violet was forthcoming about the fact that she and Roland had gotten in an argument and she’d hit him with the silver tray. But that information was documented fact from the police report, something she couldn’t deny. Obviously, there was a hell of a lot left unsaid. She’d been pretty cagey about her relationship with her third ex, acting as if they were just reunited friends, but we’re talking about Violet here. She’s not known for platonic relationships with men.
At the time of his death, Roland was still married to Melinda McCrae Hatchmere, though they were living apart. I believe Violet reconnected with Roland and they started a steamy affair. Let’s face it: some pretty powerful feelings caused Violet to hit him with the tray. Maybe the relationship had started to sour. Maybe he decided to stick with Melinda. Maybe Gigi got in the way of her father’s new romance. Whatever the case, I’d taken to calling him Rol-Ex, which I think is screamingly hilarious but other people seem to find lame. Violet sure does.
Sometimes I think I’m the last person left on the planet with a real sense of humor.
So, whether she cops to it or not, I believe Violet and Rol-Ex were hitting the sheets together. It’s almost a given. There’s just something ripe, luscious and ready to pick about Violet that can’t be missed. And she’s not the type of woman to spend time mourning the death of a previous relationship, such as the one she was working on with Dwayne. Nope. More likely, Violet would simply zero in on the next opportunity and head that direction. I admire her ability to get over bad stuff. She says there’s no time to dwell, regret, rue or wallow. She’s supercharged in a sultry, throbbing way that reminds me of Mae West or Marilyn Monroe.
And she’s nobody’s fool.
I come by my paranoia over Violet’s chances with Dwayne for good reason. I don’t care that she’s ten to fifteen years older. It didn’t stop Demi Moore, and it would never stop Violet.
And I’ve grown pretty sick of her evasions, to tell the truth. No “amethyst” gown is going to change my feelings. After I talk with Sean I plan to have a serious tête-à-tête with my client and hopefully an exchange of information. I’ll offer up what I learn from Sean, and she’d better come completely clean with a full account of what went on between her and Rol-Ex before she hit him with the platter.
I got ready for the evening early, more out of boredom than an urge to be ahead of the game. I opted for a pair of expensive brown pants—something my friend Cynthia had made me buy in a weak moment—a white, silky shell and a black leather jacket. The weather was unpredictable. Hail one minute, followed by surprisingly warm wintry sun the next, followed further by gale winds that shook the windows and rattled the branches. Whatever the case, Oregon nights in November require layering. It was going to be cold, cold, cold once that sun went down.
I threw a longing glance toward my sneakers; I like to be ready to move, if need be. The Binkster was curled up in her little bed in the corner of my bedroom watching me as I pulled items from the closet, tried them on, discarded them, then put them back. When I was finally dressed to my satisfaction I turned around and looked at her, splaying my palms up to ask for her opinion. Her little tail whipped into a curl, the only movement I could discern apart from her eyes. I’ve come to recognize this as “Hi, there.”
“So, what do you think?” Her tail jerked into a speedy wag. “I have to go out tonight, so you need to head outside and take care of business.” I moved to the kitchen door of my cottage, which leads to a back deck. Stairs descend to the backyard and a body of water known as West Bay. At the eastern end of the bay is a bridge, and once beneath the bridge you enter Lake Chinook itself.
Binks’s toenails clicked against my hardwood floor. I opened the back door, then followed her down the steps, waiting patiently while she nosed around the yard. She can let herself out through her doggy-door cut into the wall, but I wanted to get the job done and lock her inside for the rest of the night. She looked up at me once, her wrinkly black face comically quizzical. I motioned for her to get at it and she got right down to business. I cleaned up after her as I can’t stand dog doo-doo littering my yard and flushed the remains down the toilet.
Binkster looked at me expectantly. She seems to think everything she does requires a reward. Have I created this expectation? Undoubtedly. Do I regret it? Well, yeah, some. Did anyone tell me how to train a dog that was dumped on me unceremoniously? Hell no. I figure Binks is lucky to be alive, at this point.
I reached over and grabbed her face and leaned down and let her half jump up to lick my lips. These kisses used to gross me out. The idea of dog germs is a very real thing. But now I don’t know…I just sort of go with it, which is surprising because I have real Seinfeld-ish problems with that kind of thing.
My cell phone started singing. I dug in my purse for it. Why are those things so damn hard to find? When I finally corralled it and looked down at its brightly lit LCD and recognized the name and number, my brows lifted in surprise. It was my landlord, Mr. Ogilvy. This is not a man who calls me up. Our communication is by mail. I write him a rent check and send it to him. He responds by cashing the check.
“Hi,” I answered.
“Jane?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t waste time. “I’ve decided to sell