cabanas sitting side by side, two-bedroom homes built on stilts over the water, but most of the others have long since been purchased and redone. Now Dwayne’s looks like a stunted step-cousin surrounded by towering heirs to the throne. Its pebbled roof is faintly mossy; its gray paint blistering and peeling. Still, its waterfront location means it’s worth a mint. Dwayne’s neglect is more part of his style than a matter of his pocketbook, though you’d never know it by his cheapness.
Hurrying up the cracked concrete walk, I pounded loudly on his dark-stained front door which is weather-worn and splotchy.
Dwayne answered. He was wearing a pair of low-riding faded denim jeans, a straw cowboy hat and not much else. My eyes were level with an expanse of hard flesh. I could make out the muscles sliding beneath his taut skin as he threw open the door without giving me much notice. He was on his cell phone and he turned his back to me almost instantly, heading the way he’d come.
“Don’t bother,” he said to the caller. “It’ll work itself out.”
Dwayne has this slow way of talking that other women seem to find irresistible. Me, it just bugs. “It’ll work itself out” is “It all wook itsalf aut” rolling off Dwayne’s tongue. He sounds all western or Texan or just plain cowboy. I have this sneaking suspicion he’s from somewhere like Philadelphia or Columbus. One of these days I’m going to find out.
Tentatively, I followed after him into the condo. His long strides had already placed him at the far side of the room but I stepped inside more carefully. Instantly my sensitive nose picked up the faint scent of someone’s lilac, and decidedly feminine, perfume. A female visitor? I glanced over Dwayne’s chunky tan leather sofa and chair, his boxy coffee table, end tables and massive desk, currently masked under a mound of papers. Not a sign of any visitor.
My curiosity meter rose into the red. I’ve never known Dwayne to be with a member of my gender. Not that he isn’t interested; hell, no! I’ve seen his eyes wander over a lovely set of breasts, legs, etc. more than a time or two. But to date he’s been very, very circumspect about letting me inside his dating world. I’ve got to say I was hoping to run straight into her, whoever she was, so it was with a degree of impatience that I waited for someone to appear from the short hallway that led to Dwayne’s bedroom and bath—not that I dared head down that way myself, I mean, God knows what you’ll discover lurking inside a bachelor’s abode. Whatever it is, I just don’t want to know it about Dwayne, potential girlfriend or no.
Cradling the cell phone on his bare shoulder, he swept off his hat, raked his fingers through his hair, jammed the hat back on and said succinctly, “We’re done.” He clicked off and threw the phone on the leather chair. “Got my burger?” He gave me his full attention for the first time.
“Hello to you, too,” I said, tossing the sack at him. Dwayne’s jeans have to be decades old and he doesn’t give a damn. It kinda bothers me how good they look, low slung on his hips. No sign of undershorts. I wondered briefly if he went commando style.
“You owe me twenty-one fifty,” I said. “You bought mine, too.”
Dwayne grunted in disbelief. He still thinks a burger should cost $1.95 on all occasions. Muttering something about highway robbery, he jammed his hand inside the bag. “Where’s yours?” he demanded, pulling out one burger.
“Ate it on the way.”
He took a healthy bite, the kind that makes any woman marvel. It looked like he swept in a pound of ground beef, I swear. Like a chaw in his cheek, he moved it to one side and mumbled, “Need something to drink?”
“A little early for me.”
I was standing by the desk which was pressed up against the sliding glass door, making it possible only to open the door about twelve inches. Dwayne squeezes himself in and out of the door when necessary to stand on his deck/dock. Beyond lies the lake—dark green and gently restless. You can literally step off his dock and sink into the water.
I could see a .38 peeking out from the teetering stack of papers. I know he’s licensed, and given his profession he probably needs the handgun, but the sight of a firearm just lying around unsettles me. He swears he only loads it when he’s on a job, but it still gives me the willies.
“I mean a soda,” he said, digging into his pockets for money. The jeans dipped precariously lower. I watched in fascination, wondering if I was about to see more than I’d bargained for, but he managed to haul out twenty-five dollars. Dropping it into my palm, he said magnanimously, “Keep the change,” then turned and took one giant step into his tiny U-shaped kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator door in one fluid move. “Diet A&W?”
“Sure. I’ll take it for the road.”
Juggling the burger, he pulled out two cans of root beer. I took them from him and opened his—hey, I can be truly helpful when I want—then perched on one of the two suspect bar stools which crowd against a small, jutting counter that divides Dwayne’s kitchen and dining area. This dining area is now used as Dwayne’s den; the desk takes up the whole expanse. Dwayne hooked a leg over the other stool but continued to stand as he took another bite of his burger.
“Would love to stay, but I have miles to go before I sleep,” I said, twisting my unopened soda can on the counter, my thoughts on my upcoming meeting with Tess Bradbury.
Dwayne said around a mouthful of onions and beef, “Did you hear about Cotton Reynolds?”
I nearly fell off my stool but Dwayne was regarding the catsup running down the side of his hand and didn’t notice. I couldn’t think of any response. Dwayne seemed way ahead of me anyway.
He licked the catsup before it dripped to the floor. “There’s a benefit at his house this Saturday for the Historical Society. Saw it in the papers. First time he’s opened the house since it happened.”
It was Cotton’s son’s quadruple homicide, and now I understood how Marta had wangled me an invitation to Cotton’s party. She’d merely bought tickets to the benefit. I opened my mouth to inform Dwayne about my meeting with Tess when his cell phone rang loudly. He snatched it up, examined the caller ID and grunted, “Been waitin’ for this all day.”
As he barked a hello, I climbed off the stool. I wondered if the island’s latest tragedy, the Coma Kid, would affect all the “ladies who lunch” who would be at the benefit. Or, would the original horror be enough to absorb everyone’s mind? The property itself was incredible, but I had a feeling attending might be more like being witness to a car wreck than marveling over the width and breadth of the massive Douglas firs surrounding the property. The island and therefore Cotton were already infamous.
I glanced at Dwayne. Full disclosure would have to be later when I had his complete attention. Besides, I didn’t have time to waste. Dwayne crumpled his leftover wrapper into a ball with one hand, listening hard to whomever was on the other end of the line. I gave him a high-sign good-bye, popped open my soda and headed out. The answer to Dwayne’s mystery woman would have to wait.
Sucking down the ice-cold root beer, I whipped the Volvo up Taylor’s Ferry Road and curved through neighborhoods perched on hills. The house where I was to deliver the 72-hour notice was a seedy little ranch style with a cracked driveway near the I-5 freeway. I suspected the land value alone would soon make it worthwhile to initiate a complete demolition; the residence wasn’t much to write home about.
But my thoughts were on Bobby Reynolds as I pulled to a stop in the driveway, my wheels in ruts, the Volvo’s undercarriage tickled by a foot-high swatch of weeds and
