Ultraviolet by Nancy Bush

my loyalty’s to the truth.”

    I heard the ring of conviction in my voice and was impressed with my skills of persuasion. I crossed my fingers that Gigi was impressed, too.

    “You would really turn on Violet even though she’s paying you?”

    “What do you care, as long as justice is served?”

    “I don’t, I guess…”

    “Who knows how long it will take the police to follow leads? I’m working on the case right now. I want to know what happened that day.”

    “Hunh,” she said, rolling that around. My quest for might and right seemed to have mollified her somewhat. “Where do you want to meet?”

    “I could come by the house?” I suggested. I was taking a chance, as my last trip there hadn’t ended well. But Gigi and Emmett had moved into her father’s house after Roland’s death, and, as it was the scene of the crime, I wanted to see it for myself.

    “I guess we could meet here,” she said reluctantly.

    “Terrific.” I pounced on it, afraid she might talk herself out of it.

    “Maybe the end of next week?”

    “Well, yes…that would work. But…any chance I could stop by today?” I pushed. “I’d like to get moving on this and I’m sure anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

    “I don’t know about that. Violet was the one who was here that day. I was at my wedding. Or, my almost wedding. When Daddy didn’t show I just couldn’t go through with it. Ohmygod, I still can’t believe it. I mean, isn’t your day supposed to be perfect? Isn’t this the one day of your life that’s perfect?”

    I thought about all the divorces that occur after that one day but decided to keep quiet on that, too.

    “And then Violet kills my father and he can’t come and everything’s ruined,” Gigi went on, sounding as if she was working herself up. “I was waiting and waiting and he just didn’t show.”

    “It sounds—traumatic.”

    “You don’t know the half of it.” She sniffed. “Can you be here around four?”

    “You bet.”

    “I really could use someone to talk to,” she said in a teensy, little girl voice.

    “It’s been a trying time,” I assured her as I hung up. I found myself already worrying that she might cry, hug me and need the kind of support I’m terrible at giving.

    I looked over at Binkster, who’d given up biting my pant leg and had retreated to her furry little bed, gazing at me with an injured expression. “Chicken strip?” I said, and she raced over to the cupboard where I keep her treats.

    My dog, I understand.

     

    I had to stop by Dwayne’s before heading to Gigi’s though I was reluctant to learn what he wanted me to do about his friends across the bay. I brought Binkster with me because I feel guilty leaving her alone in the house too many days in a row, and I had an inner hope that I could talk Dwayne into keeping her for a few hours and that the dog might divert him from his new obsession.

    Binkster loves Dwayne. Just loves him. It could seriously hurt my feelings except I’m a bigger person than that…most of the time. I watched her race up the sidewalk to his front door and dig one paw at the wood, scarcely able to contain herself. As soon as I opened the door she charged inside straight down the hall to the gap in the sliding glass door and out to the dock. I heard Dwayne exclaim as he saw her and I purposely took my time joining them, letting their bonding ritual run through its paces. By the time I stepped onto the dock, Binks was on Dwayne’s lap, giving his lips some doggy licks. He was laughing and I think she tried to French him ’cause he scooped her up and put her on the ground, his laughter even deeper while she wriggled beneath his chair and began barking, her tail wagging furiously, totally into the game.

    The game is simple. For Binkster it’s: I will squeeze myself beneath your chair, the bed, the couch, the bar stool or whatever and then bark my silly head off like I’m stuck. When you come to rescue me,