LITMIR.BIZ

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at him, if you want the truth,” Sean said sheepishly. “He just, like, blew a blood vessel. Really, really out of control.”

      I decided Sean might be stoned. His emotions seemed detached from his narrative. “So, were you and your dad having a problem when he died?”

      “We were always having a problem. I was his problem. Well, and Gigi, too. I always kinda thought he wanted other kids, y’know? Smarter kids. Better athletes. More motivated.” He shrugged. “Some parents are just like that. My friend Dillon? His dad’s a total fuck wad. Told Dillon that if he didn’t get a job, he wasn’t invited to Thanksgiving. That’s cold, man.”

      “How old is Dillon?”

      “Twenty-four.”

      Sometimes I worry about the state of America’s youth, but then I remember what I was like at his age, which although different—I wasn’t a drug user—was kind of the same. I hate to use the word slacker. It’s just got too many bad connotations. I prefer motivation-challenged. I didn’t know what the hell to do with my life, and I spent my time stumbling through some college courses that still have the power to cause me moments of intense puzzlement. I remember one class titled Strategic Achievement in Common Socioeconomic and Cultural Workplace Situations in Conjunction with, or without, Today’s Technological Advances. I dropped out after a week of obscure lectures. The only thing I remember is great bandying about of the term utopic model. My strategic achievement was getting the hell out.

      “So, you’re working for Violet, huh?” He sounded more curious than appalled. “Wow. I hear she inherited a ton a’ money. Maybe that’s what killed Dad.” He barked out a laugh. “He hated not being in control.”

      “He controlled with money?”

      “Oh, shit yeah. Totally. I don’t mean to, like, talk bad about him. I’m sorry he’s gone. He was…my dad.” Sean stopped short. It took him a couple of tries to get started again. Clearing his throat, he finally said, “But he really got upset when we didn’t follow the plan. ‘The blueprint,’ he called it. Y’know?”

      “The blueprint.” I was getting a bigger picture of Roland Hatchmere beyond Violet’s description of him as a good father and an excellent plastic surgeon. “Sean, have you thought about who might have killed him?”

      “Besides Violet…?” He looked away, staring into space for long moments. “Those robbers, maybe?”

      “Maybe.”

      “Nobody hated him, if that’s where you’re going. He didn’t make enemies. No botched surgeries, when he was practicing. And he didn’t screw anybody over in his business dealings. I mean, I don’t think he did. Y’know Gigi and I had our problems. Like all kids, right? But everybody else thought he was great. Just ask ’em.”

      “Can you give me some names?”

      “Like of his friends? Sure.”

      Quickly I pulled a small tablet and pen from my purse. Sean scribbled down a list of people. “Is there anyone else? Other relatives? Businesspeople?” I tried to jog his memory.

      “Oh yeah.” He added a few more scratch marks to the list.

      When he handed it back I felt jubilant. With Sean’s tacit endorsement, these people might actually talk to me. “Thanks.”

      “Who do you think did it?” he asked.

      “I’d have to get a lot more background before I could venture a guess.”

      “You don’t think Violet did it.”

      I shook my head.

      He grinned. “You don’t like her, do ya? What happened? She screw you over, too?”

      “Did she screw you over?”

      “Oh, sure. Tried to get Dad to change his will, leave it all to her. He balked and they fought, and he lost his license and she was gone. But then she was back. You should talk to Melinda.” He gestured at the list. “Dad’s wife. You know she had to be really crazy, thinking about Violet returning to Portland, probably worming her way back in. Violet’s like that. She just doesn’t give up.”

      “Mm.”

      “You should talk to my mom, too,” he added. “I put her name on the list.”

      I glanced down, pretending I didn’t know whom he meant, though I’d practically memorized the names of the main players. “Renee?”

      “Yeah. She doesn’t live around here. She came up for the wedding, but, well, you know how that turned out.”

      Actually, I didn’t. Violet had mentioned a minor brouhaha at the rehearsal dinner between Roland and his first wife, but she hadn’t been there and I hadn’t been able to gather any more information.

      “What happened with Renee?”

      But Sean, having realized I was fishing, decided to shut down. He shrugged and said, “She didn’t like Violet, either, I guess.”

      I thought of my timeline and said, “What time did she get to the wedding? Was she with Gigi at Castellina, getting ready?”

      “I don’t know…” He glanced over his shoulder. “You know, we’re gonna be playing some good stuff. You wanna get ready?”

      “I’ll stay for some of it,” I promised. He was clearly trying to get me off track and I wasn’t ready to give up.

      “No, I mean. Ya wanna get ready?” He inclined his head toward the rear of the building.

      I looked in that direction. “You mean, get high?”

      “Hey, alcohol’s way worse than weed,” he said, apparently hearing some condemnation in my tone I hadn’t meant to voice.

      “I’ve got my poison, thanks.” I hoisted my empty glass.

      “Well, okay…I guess we’re done, then.” He made a face and headed toward the back.

      I hesitated a moment, then returned to my seat. Apart from some leftover questions concerning Renee Hatchmere, I felt I’d gotten all I could from Sean. I managed to stay through the first set before heading for the door. Either I’m growing old or my tolerance is shrinking, but I couldn’t handle the pounding beat and roaring, amplified electric guitar. Everything inside my head was throbbing with the music. I slipped out into the icy night air and drew a deep breath. Outside, the din was muffled and almost okay.

      I walked quickly to my Volvo, climbed inside, switched on the key and shivered until I was almost home. Hurriedly, I ripped off my clothes and threw a T-shirt over my head. When Binkster gave me a blinking, hopeful look, staggering to her feet, I threw back the covers in an invitation and we both settled into bed with a sigh.

      I fell asleep with doggy toenails planted against my back.

      In the night I heard a peculiar ringing sound I didn’t associate with any noise I knew. I lifted my head reluctantly and saw it was after 3:00 a.m. Vaguely I discerned that the noise, now silenced, had come from my cell phone, which was lying on my nightstand, being charged. I grappled for it and knocked an empty plastic glass onto the floor. “Shit,” I muttered as Binky snorted loudly but refused to lift her head.

      I punched a button to light up the dial and saw that I had a text message. Aha! That was the undefinable ring. I pressed the button with the little envelope on it, and a message popped up:

      party at Do Not Enter broke up at one. Since then, lots of crying at Rebel Yell. Something’s definitely wrong. Need you to investigate.

      DAD

      I set the phone down and drifted back to sleep. Dwayne’s initials are DAD for Dwayne Austin Durbin. Now he wanted me to investigate what was happening across the bay?

      “He’s around the bend, Binks. Completely around the bend,” I mumbled.

      She

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