Read Online Ultraviolet by Nancy Bush - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nancy Bush
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Women Private Investigators, Pug, Plastic Surgeons, Kelly; Jane (Fictitious Character)
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was smiling, but he looked more relieved than pleased, which made me decide his motives were in the right place. “Okay, Jimmy Stewart. I’m sure I’m going to be sorry, but what the hell? I’ll try to meet them.”
“Hal Jeffries.”
“What?”
“The character Jimmy Stewart plays in Rear Window is Hal Jeffries.”
“It worries me that you know that,” I said, but I was committed all the same.
Roland Hatchmere’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a development where all the streets were named from the Tolkien fantasy novels: Elf Lane, Hobbit Drive, Aragon Avenue. His home was a tri-level on Rivendell Road; street level being the main floor with an upstairs over the garage and a basement at the sloping western end. There was a lot of glass, a lot of decks and a sweeping entrance lined with impatiens that had been beaten down under the torrential hail. The house itself had an early seventies look and feel, not my favorite architectural era, but the grounds and view up the Willamette River toward Portland’s city center were spectacular.
I parked my Volvo under the dripping branches of a large maple. As I climbed from the car, soggy yellow and red leaves floated onto the hood. A breeze shook through the limbs, sending a cascade of water onto me as I hurried for the front door.
Ringing the bell, I huddled under a narrow overhang, which, I learned, served more for looks than function, then tried to push myself inside when the door opened. It hadn’t worked last time. It didn’t work this time.
Gigi Hatchmere stood in the way with her patented scowl. “You’re dripping,” she said.
“Sorry.”
My boots were soaked and leaving little wet puddles. I slipped them off and, though reluctant, she finally allowed me entry, across a mahogany-lined foyer to a living room with wide windows and no discernible walls. The view was amazing, a wide screen of sky over the roofs of houses down the hill. Portland lay spread across both sides of the river. I could almost count all the bridges and in the far, far distance was the mesalike crown of Mount Saint Helens, which had blown its top in 1980.
Gigi was about my height, five foot seven, and she was slim and serious. Her hair was dark brown as were her eyes, and she wore it straight and parted down the middle like a child of the sixties. She might have been pretty if there were any joy in her expression, but mostly she just looked pissed off.
“So, you’re working for that woman,” Gigi said again, as if telling herself enough times would finally hold the information in her memory. She stood in the center of the living room, which seemed to have acres of cream carpeting. I wiggled my toes into its warmth, admiring the room in spite of myself. Maybe I was just growing envious of other people’s homes because I felt like I soon might be without one. I wanted to practically drop down and roll in the carpet. I would have, too, except I needed to massage Gigi Hatchmere’s bruised feelings if I hoped to learn anything from her that might help Violet.
She stared down at my socks, which were slightly damp. I wondered if she worried they would leave dark stains in the carpet. I wondered, too, if it would be polite or rude to offer to take them off.
“Would you like something?” she said grudgingly. “I was going to open a bottle of wine.”
“Anything’s fine,” I said affably.
“Well, come on in.” She turned around a partition that left a twelve-inch gap at the ceiling into a kitchen decked out in dark brown granite and darker brown cabinetry. The appliances were trimmed with matching wood veneer panels. Gigi gestured to a solarium that ran along the south side of the house and opened into a garden. The room was basically a walkway with a sloped, windowed ceiling and glass walls that looked onto an inner atrium. Wet leaves lay limply against the overhead glass and I looked up at them as I walked along the solarium. An
“Hal Jeffries.”
“What?”
“The character Jimmy Stewart plays in Rear Window is Hal Jeffries.”
“It worries me that you know that,” I said, but I was committed all the same.
Roland Hatchmere’s house was at the end of a cul-de-sac in a development where all the streets were named from the Tolkien fantasy novels: Elf Lane, Hobbit Drive, Aragon Avenue. His home was a tri-level on Rivendell Road; street level being the main floor with an upstairs over the garage and a basement at the sloping western end. There was a lot of glass, a lot of decks and a sweeping entrance lined with impatiens that had been beaten down under the torrential hail. The house itself had an early seventies look and feel, not my favorite architectural era, but the grounds and view up the Willamette River toward Portland’s city center were spectacular.
I parked my Volvo under the dripping branches of a large maple. As I climbed from the car, soggy yellow and red leaves floated onto the hood. A breeze shook through the limbs, sending a cascade of water onto me as I hurried for the front door.
Ringing the bell, I huddled under a narrow overhang, which, I learned, served more for looks than function, then tried to push myself inside when the door opened. It hadn’t worked last time. It didn’t work this time.
Gigi Hatchmere stood in the way with her patented scowl. “You’re dripping,” she said.
“Sorry.”
My boots were soaked and leaving little wet puddles. I slipped them off and, though reluctant, she finally allowed me entry, across a mahogany-lined foyer to a living room with wide windows and no discernible walls. The view was amazing, a wide screen of sky over the roofs of houses down the hill. Portland lay spread across both sides of the river. I could almost count all the bridges and in the far, far distance was the mesalike crown of Mount Saint Helens, which had blown its top in 1980.
Gigi was about my height, five foot seven, and she was slim and serious. Her hair was dark brown as were her eyes, and she wore it straight and parted down the middle like a child of the sixties. She might have been pretty if there were any joy in her expression, but mostly she just looked pissed off.
“So, you’re working for that woman,” Gigi said again, as if telling herself enough times would finally hold the information in her memory. She stood in the center of the living room, which seemed to have acres of cream carpeting. I wiggled my toes into its warmth, admiring the room in spite of myself. Maybe I was just growing envious of other people’s homes because I felt like I soon might be without one. I wanted to practically drop down and roll in the carpet. I would have, too, except I needed to massage Gigi Hatchmere’s bruised feelings if I hoped to learn anything from her that might help Violet.
She stared down at my socks, which were slightly damp. I wondered if she worried they would leave dark stains in the carpet. I wondered, too, if it would be polite or rude to offer to take them off.
“Would you like something?” she said grudgingly. “I was going to open a bottle of wine.”
“Anything’s fine,” I said affably.
“Well, come on in.” She turned around a partition that left a twelve-inch gap at the ceiling into a kitchen decked out in dark brown granite and darker brown cabinetry. The appliances were trimmed with matching wood veneer panels. Gigi gestured to a solarium that ran along the south side of the house and opened into a garden. The room was basically a walkway with a sloped, windowed ceiling and glass walls that looked onto an inner atrium. Wet leaves lay limply against the overhead glass and I looked up at them as I walked along the solarium. An
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