Free Candy Apple Red by Nancy Bush Page B

sphinx. “You’re talking Bobby Reynolds.”
    I nodded. “I was called into Marta’s office today. One of her divorce clients is Tess Bradbury, formerly Reynolds. Tess apparently asked for me. Wants me to interview Cotton.” I spoke softly, practically in Dwayne’s ear, bringing him swiftly up-to-date. “I made it clear I thought it was a waste of time.”
    “How much is she paying you?”
    “Five hundred dollars per interview.”
    “She expects more than one?” Dwayne asked, surprised.
    “Well, she’s hoping, I guess.”
    “Jesus.”
    “And FYI, Cotton Reynolds, his latest wife and a few friends are seated about four tables from the bar.”
    Dwayne tapped his fingers on the bar but never turned around to look. Tiny white lights wound around the tree in the center of the bar shimmered in the fading light and threw shadows across Dwayne’s face.
    He said, “Go for it. Take Tess for all she’s got.”
    “I don’t even know if I want to do it at all. What do I know? The only reason she asked for me was because of Murphy.”
    Dwayne gave me a long look. “You seen Murphy recently?”
    “How?” I demanded, annoyed. “He left the state, remember?” I was touchy on the subject.
    “He’s your connection to Bobby. I figure he’s in there somewhere.”
    “So Murphy’s the only reason Tess would call me?”
    “What do you think?”
    I tried not to let it bug me that Dwayne was right. Of course it was the only reason. Marta Cornell be damned. Tess went to her to make sure she connected with me because I once had a thing for Murphy and that put me inside Cotton’s circle.
    “You aren’t going to learn anything new, so you might as well take the money,” he pronounced.
    “You’re really full of encouragement.”
    He was unperturbed. “I don’t know what Tess thinks she’s doing. The F.B.I.’s been hunting Bobby like the vermin he is. If they can’t get him, nobody can. Personally, I think he’s dead.”
    His attitude pissed me off some more. Not that he wasn’t right; I suspected he was. I just wanted some encouragement. “So, Bobby Reynolds is vermin?”
    “He shot and killed his whole family and ran away. What do you call him?” At this Dwayne checked his watch, reached across the bar for a bowl of nuts and shot a sideways glance toward Cotton’s table.
    “Sick. Twisted. Desperate. He’s definitely not at the top of my Mr. Nice Guy list.”
    “You know what I think?” Dwayne dropped his voice to whisper level. “Bobby was mollycoddled. Treated like a prince by both Cotton and his mom. Never had to be responsible for anything. Entitlement. So, he marries this gal who’s all wrapped up in her religion. Her family moves away and Bobby goes with ’em. They all belong to this fundamentalist church. The money gets tight. And she keeps popping out the babies and he gets scared. Then Big Daddy Cotton cuts him off and he’s got money troubles. Suddenly has to do something about wifey and the screaming kids. So, he blows ’em away. That’s his solution.”
    “I met Bobby. He didn’t seem the type.”
    “What type is that? The type whose dreams never materialize? The type who suddenly looks around at the old ball-and-chain and the ankle-biters and says to himself, ‘If it weren’t for them I’d be fine’? Can’t you just see that idea taking hold, Jane? Eating away at him. Can’t you just see him in church, watching the plate being passed and wishing he could steal the cash?”
    “Lovely,” I observed.
    “Think I’m wrong? Bobby was born and raised in Lake Chinook, on a private island, the only private island on the lake. He had everything his shriveled little heart desired. During the investigation people had a way of calling him a red-blooded American boy. Shaking their heads, wringing their hands, asking, How could it have happened? How could it have happened?”
    “Murphy called him that, too,” I admitted.
    “Everybody did.”
    “Except you, obviously,” I pointed