Page 145 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

It had been a lot sunnier the day Violet walked out on Dwayne’s dock and announced that she might have killed her ex-husband. I’d been so giddily happy that she and Dwayne seemed kaput that I’d let myself be talked into helping her.

She’d showed up in true Violet fashion: looking beautiful, and…well, lusty. Her hair is blond and shoulder- length, her eyes that crazy electric blue color most of the Purcells seem to share. My own hair is a little longer than shoulder length, light brown, straight and wouldn’t let itself be styled if I bought a truckload of Vidal Sassoon products. I don’t possess Violet’s curves, but my eyes are hazel and sane-looking. I’m thirty and Dwayne’s about thirty-five. I figure that evens the score.

But that day Violet hadn’t been thinking about Dwayne, not in any romantic capacity. She’d needed help.

She plopped down in one of the dock chairs and announced numbly, “My ex-husband’s dead.” I’d questioned which ex-husband, since she’d had a few, and learned it was Roland Hatchmere, ex number three, the only one who lived in the Portland area.

“He was killed yesterday,” she went on. “On his daughter’s wedding day. Roland was still at the house, and these robbers showed up thinking he was gone, I guess, and he wasn’t, and they killed him.”

“Wedding robbers?” I asked, looking at Dwayne, since he’d already been investigating the Wedding Bandits.

“What happened?” Dwayne asked her.

“I don’t know! The police came to see me today,” Violet said, her eyes huge. “God, I don’t believe this. They seem to think I did it.” We asked her why that was and after hemming and hawing, she finally admitted, “Because he was killed with a heavy metal platter that has my fingerprints on it.”

“Did you kill him?” Dwayne asked her.

“I don’t think so,” she responded in a small voice.

And that’s when Dwayne checked out completely, picked up his binoculars and returned to his perusal of his buddies across the bay. If I’d known then he was going to make a serious job out of it, I might have been more concerned, but instead after he told Violet I was the lead investigator, I started thinking about how much money I could make and I agreed to take the case.

Since then my job had been mostly about keeping Violet calm and focused. She lived in a certain amount of fear the authorities were going to swoop down and haul her criminal ass to justice. I soothed her with words about needing real evidence and motive and whatever else I could draw from the criminology classes I’d taken and my own vast repertoire of bullshit that I like to dress up as fact.

I’d managed to piece together the events of the wedding day from Violet’s disjointed recitation. Apparently Roland’s daughter Gigi had been slated to marry Emmett Popparockskill at the Cahill Winery in Dundee, Oregon, which is about an hour’s drive from Roland’s house in Portland’s West Hills District.

The wedding was scheduled to be outdoors with the requisite flowers, arches, ring bearer and flower girl—two additions I always cheer for since they pretty much rip focus away from the bride by screwing up somehow. I swear to God they are the best part of any wedding, beyond the champagne, alcohol and food.

Violet was not invited to the ceremony as she and Gigi were not on the best of terms, but she’d stopped by Roland’s house to drop off a gift for the bride and groom—the metal platter. While there, she and Roland got into some kind of fight, which culminated with Violet whacking him alongside the head with the platter and leaving in a huff.

Roland never showed for pictures and a search went out. He was found dead on the solarium floor from a blow to the head. Murder weapon, the tray.

Violet insists she didn’t kill him. “He was perfectly fine when I left him! He was moving. Breathing. Swearing at me! I didn’t kill him. Those robbers must have. After I left, they came in and killed him. I didn’t kill him!”

I’ve gotta say, she’s quite convincing. I would probably believe her, but…well, Roland Hatchmere died from head trauma. And Violet hit him in the head with the tray. And the police found only one set of fingerprints on the tray: Violet’s.

Now I heard the loud purr of a sports car and figured the woman

in question had arrived. She gave a perfunctory knock on Dwayne’s door, then pushed in, calling loudly, “I’m letting myself in!”

“Dwayne’s on the dock,” I greeted her.

She burst inside loaded with packages from several major department stores. A cloud of perfume wafted into the room, trailing in her wake. Catching my look, she held the bags higher. “I just couldn’t stop. Am I spending all my funds to fill a need? I’d bet on it, hon. I have too much money and not enough friends. Look, I bought you something.”

I tried hard not to react as Violet dug inside one of the bags. Scary, scary thought. I don’t want to owe Violet anything. Working for her is one thing, but friendship? Clothes buying…?

To my consternation she pulled out a dress. “Purple,” I said faintly. I didn’t want to be ungrateful but the thought of Violet buying me clothes…I just know it’s not going to work somehow.

“It’s my signature color,” she said unnecessarily. “It’s more amethyst, don’t you think? It’s like voile, really sheer in that sort of netty way? I just love it. I could just see you in it. Here, try it on.” She held it out to me.

I instantly turned back to my screen. “In a minute, I need to finish this.”

“Oh, come on, Jane.”

I finally really looked at Violet. I’d been spending so much time on the dress and dealing with my internal horror that I hadn’t given much thought to Violet herself. Now I saw clearly that this was important to her. Even worse. There was no polite way out.

“Sure,” I said, taking the proffered garment and heading toward Dwayne’s bathroom.

I stripped off my clothes and pulled it over my head. The dress, actually gown, hung to my ankles and hugged like a second skin. I’d been wearing jeans and boots and had left dark socks on. Taking them off, I gave myself a studied look, turning to capture a view of the side and back.

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