Читать книгу Electric Blue - Nancy Bush - Страница 6

“So, how’d it go?” Dwayne drawled.

I’d stopped by his cabana to pick up my cell phone, which I’d left charging merrily away on one of his end tables. I’d really hoped to avoid a tête-à-tête with him because I wanted to absorb and process my meeting with Jazz. But Dwayne stood in his living room, an unbuttoned white shirt over his tanned chest, hands on his hips, in jeans and bare feet. He looked solid and interested. Fobbing him off wasn’t going to be easy.

“Have you met Jazz Purcell?” I asked.

“Seen him. Haven’t spoken to him.”

I hesitated. “I know you’re a guy and all, and this’ll be hard for you, but did you think he was…really attractive?”

Dwayne heaved a sigh. “They’re all crazy, Jane. No matter how good they look. You got it right the first time.” He gestured toward the printer table where my Purcell history document lay in an untidy heap. I snatched it up along with my cell phone and charger. My laptop was already in the Volvo. “Mentally unstable, to a one.”

“Can you change my cell phone to vibrate? It’s got this whiny ring I can’t stand.”

“You won’t hear it on vibrate.”

“I plan to carry it in my pocket.”

Dwayne took my phone and made some lightning adjustments. It was easier than reading the manual or trying to fight my way through the phone menus.

“Is Camellia as gorgeous as Jazz?” I persisted as he finished, handing the phone back to me.

Dwayne’s smile was knowing, sliding across his face to a wide grin.

“What?”

“He got to you, didn’t he?”

“I’m just asking,” I said, slightly annoyed.

“You like him.”

“Not that way.”

“Yeah, you do.”

I detest it when Dwayne—or any man, for that matter—attempts to tell me what I feel. “The man’s physically attractive. You can’t miss it.”

“Woke you up?”

I gritted my teeth. He was loving this, I could tell. And Dwayne knows better than anyone that I’m emotionally rocky on the whole man/woman thing right now. I’d made the mistake of trying to rekindle a past relationship and it ended badly. I’m still feeling raw about it all and whenever my mind touches on memories—which it does a lot—a sense of sorrow fills me that I can’t rationally shake myself out of. “What does Cammie look like?”

He had the sense to let it go. “Not as good looking by half. But I’d say those looks come from the Purcell side. Some of ’em are knockouts; even the ones in their fifties. For what that’s worth,” he added with a snort. “They’re scary-nutty, Jane.”

“Jazz seemed okay.”

“Watch him. They’re smart.” He shook himself all over as if he had the heebie-jeebies. “They give a new spin to weird.”

“You’re talking about Cammie, specifically? Clue me in. What did she do?”

“Darlin’…give me a week.”

“Come on, Dwayne.”

He ran a hand through his light brown, sun-streaked hair. “The woman’s unstable as nitroglycerin. Flashpoint anger. Comes out of nowhere. When I showed her pictures of her cheatin’ husband’s other family, she goes all white. Her lips just turn gray. I thought she was going to faint for a minute, so I moved closer, in case I needed to catch her. Suddenly she grabs me. I mean claws my arm. Jesus. I had to peel her off.”

“The picture of the flower kids—Jasmine and Blossom?”

“You got it. Cammie just went into this zone. Closed her eyes. I swear the woman did not breathe. And I mean a long time passed. Minutes. Then she opens her eyes, gazes at me with that really crazy look…you know the one. Something about it’s just not right. And she says, ‘Okay, thanks. That’s all I need.’” His gaze flicked to the report I held. “Keep that. Good to know what that family history is. Especially since you’re planning to get involved.”

“Overall, it doesn’t sound that crazy. All families have something.” I’d met Dwayne’s sister and niece and their relationship was dysfunctional enough to make me give them a wide berth. “The Purcells might have a little more strangeness than some. Money’ll do that.”

“I got a bad feeling about all of them.”

“You want me to make decisions based on your feelings?”

“Damn straight. Trusting my own instincts is what’s saved me a time or two. Pay attention to your own instincts, Jane. What are they telling you about this Jazz Purcell?”

“I just said I’d meet his grandmother.”

“That ain’t all, darlin’. Don’t believe it.”

“Dwayne Durbin, thy middle name is ‘paranoia.’”

“This grandmother hold the purse strings?” I nodded and he grimaced. “Tricky stuff, family inheritances. All kinds of strange things emerge when there’s big money involved.”

“It’s a question of sanity, apparently. Some of the family members think she’s losing it. Others aren’t so sure.”

“They’re the last group I’d ask for a recommendation on mental capacity.”

“One meeting…what can it hurt?”

Dwayne’s phone rang. As he turned to answer it, he said over his shoulder, “Read over your own report, Jane. And FYI: you counted up the current middle-agers wrong.”

“What?”

“Orchid Purcell had four children, not five.”

Fifteen minutes later I pulled into the driveway of my cottage at the west end of Lake Chinook. I parked in front of the shed-cum-garage as there’s no room inside it for my car. My landlord, Mr. Ogilvy, keeps god-knows-what within its faintly leaning, shingled walls. When it rains, I curse him. Today was so beautiful, a warm, glowing Indian summer afternoon, that I almost opened my arms and embraced it.

As soon as I entered my front door my pug, The Binkster, trotted toward me, her body wriggling like a contortionist. Her black mashed faced and bulbous eyes looked up at me expectantly and we exchanged kissy-face “hellos.” I’m getting really weird about my dog. She’d been thrust on me by the grace of my mother, who’d honored some shirt-tail relative’s request to find the little beast a home. I’d resisted for all I’m worth, but I must not be worth much because here she is. The Binkster, sometimes called Binky—which is enough to start the gag reflex, in my opinion—is a sweet-tempered, constantly shedding, stubby overeater with a serious bug-eye problem. However, I’ve grown way, way too attached to her. Whereas before I was looking out for Number One and holding my own, barely, now I was looking out for her as well. At night, this extra responsibility creeps into my conscious and my subconscious, too. I’ve woken more than a few times yelling at the top of my lungs at some imagined threat to my dog. This gets Binks going as well. Growling low in her throat from her little bed in the corner, she then jumps to her feet. She seems to sense my weakness in those moments and she makes a beeline for my bed, practically jumping into my arms and snuffling her way beneath the covers. I make faint objections which we both ignore.

Walking into the kitchen, I gave my refrigerator the obligatory check and was surprised and delighted to relearn that I’d purchased some groceries a few days back. Yes, yes. I’d been in a buying mood. I actually had sourdough bread and margarine and romaine lettuce. Almost a meal. There was a small carton of milk which I’d purchased for reasons that escape me now. I’m slightly lactose intolerant so I generally restrict my dairy to cheese. I drink my coffee black.

I slathered the bread with margarine, added the romaine, slapped another margarined slice of bread and bit in. I pretended I was eating roast beef. It’s not that I’m so poor I can’t afford it. I just can’t make myself pay the highway-robbery prices very often. I coulda used some cheese, though.

Binks set her chin on my leg and gazed up at me. This is a ploy. An effective ploy, actually. I gave her a smidgeon of my crust because I was too lazy to get up and find one of her doggy treats. Besides, I like to ration them out, and not just because of the price. Binkster’s supposed to be on a diet as she’s about as wide as she is long. Okay, that’s an exaggeration…but not by much.

While we both munched, my eye fell to my report on the Purcells. With Dwayne’s admonitions still rolling through my mind, I decided to remind myself what I was getting into. Tucking a last bite of sandwich into my mouth, I read:

Jane Kelly, Durbin Investigations

Purcell Family History

Mental illness runs in the Purcell family. Their history bears this out. When James “Percy” Purcell arrived in Oregon in the early-to-mid-1800s he came with dreams of building a giant city at the juncture of the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. Other men joined in his vision and Portland was born, though Percy still managed to put his individualistic stamp on a lot of the city’s architecture. To this day more than a few buildings have scrolled “P’s” embedded into their stones and bricks.

Percy appears to have been sane enough (if you count marrying six times as sanity). Wives one and two died from unspecified diseases. Wife three ran off when she learned Percy was determined to leave Boston for Oregon. Wife four signed on in St. Louis as Percy was making his way west, then fell overboard to her death when the Purcell’s Conestoga half-slipped off its raft as it swiftly floated down the Columbia River. Percy himself, and apparently most of his belongings, made it safely to the new and frantically growing city of Portland, Oregon, in one piece. He spent the next several decades building up what has since become a huge fortune by buying up every scrap of real estate he could get his greedy hands on. During these years he remained determinedly single; some felt he was past marrying. But at the youthful age of seventy-two he took Wife #5 who promptly bore him two sons: Garrett and James Purcell Jr., his first and only children. As soon as Junior came squalling into the world, Wife #5 began hemorrhaging violently. She slipped into a coma and into the next world. Percy Junior was handed off to a wet-nurse whom Percy hurriedly married. Wife #6 tended to both Garrett and Junior.

I finished off the rest of my sandwich and set the plate on the floor for Binks. She inhaled the scattered, teensy pieces of leftover bread as I reflected on how much different life was now. A wet-nurse? No thank you.

By all accounts Wife #6 was thin, wiry, ill-tempered and nothing much to look at. Whether Percy loved his sons or not is unclear. He did not love Wife #6, however, and took to whoring around the riverfront bars. He died in the arms of a lusty Madam who went after his fortune tooth and nail. Percy, however, had the foresight to leave everything to his sons. Wife #6 jealously took control of the two boys and sought a share of the estate, but she could never quite get the money for herself. She was still immersed in a legal battle she couldn’t win when she was thrown from a horse, cracked her head on a stone and died at the age of thirty-nine.

By this time Garrett and Junior were in their teens. Always quiet and artistic, Garrett made it to his twenty-first birthday as a near recluse. But on that noteworthy day of his birth he walked to the center of the Steel Bridge, stood for a moment with his arms in the air and his face toward the heavens, then stepped into the Willamette River—some hundred feet down. Upon his death twenty-year-old James Purcell Jr. inherited everything. James waited ten more years before finding the woman of his dreams, Willamina Kersey. Willamina bore James a son and a daughter: James “Percy” Purcell the Third and Lilac Grace.

I surmised this, then, was the beginning of the whole flower thing.

Lilac was slow to develop and saw visions. James Junior and Willamina died in their midsixties, about six months apart from each other. Heart trouble in James’s case; a loss of interest in life in Willamina’s now that her beloved James was gone. Lilac Grace Purcell, unmarried and odd, moved into the family home where she spent the remainder of her life resting on a chaise longue, writing stories in a language of her own. She was in her forties when she died, eyes wide open, still on her chaise. The last words that she wrote—at least anything anyone could read—were prophetic: The End.

Weird, weird and weirder, I thought. Not a lot of happiness floating through the years.

Percy III inherited the entire Purcell estate. He also inherited his grandfather’s interest and savvy in real estate. Throughout his adult life, even while his parents were still living and Lilac was growing older and odder, he steadily increased the family fortunes. He married Orchid Candlestone who bore him five children: Garrett (again), James Purcell IV, Dahlia and Lily, who was sent to a sanitarium as a young woman and died there several years later.

Orchid, currently in her eighties, is the surviving matriarch of the Purcell family. Her husband, Percy III, suffered from heart trouble. He died in his late fifties when, after driving home one night from his downtown Portland office, he climbed from his car and collapsed onto the ground outside the Purcell mansion. Orchid discovered him the next morning while she was getting ready to drive her daughter to school. She never remarried.

Orchid has several grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. James IV, a painter, has never married and seems to be a bit of a recluse. (Like Lilac Grace and Garrett I? Let’s hope not.)

Daughter Dahlia married Roderick and gave birth to two children, Benjamin and Rhoda (could this be short for rhododendron? The mind boggles) who died from SIDS as a baby. Benjamin is alive and well, in his early thirties, unmarried and still lives with his parents. He has no discernible employment and/or income.

Garrett and his wife Satin (as if all the flowers weren’t bad enough) have one daughter, Camellia—or Cammie Purcell Denton, Dwayne’s client. Cammie has a daughter Rosalie with soon-to-be-ex-husband Chris, who, working on being a bigamist, also has Blossom and Jasmine from his “other” marriage.

Lily Purcell gave birth to Jasper Purcell while she was institutionalized at the tender age of sixteen. Jasper and his wife Jennifer—who died this past December in an automobile accident—have Logan, who is currently about twelve years old.

I hadn’t known Jasper called himself Jazz when I’d written the history. Now I tacked on that information as a footnote, intending to put it into my laptop later on. I also counted up the middle-agers and realized Dwayne was right: there were four, not five. I corrected my report and set it aside.

The rest of the day I debated on calling Jazz, but every time I picked up my cell phone I hesitated. I’d told him I would meet with his grandmother. All I needed to do was set a time. But talking to Dwayne had set me back a bit. He’d emphasized the fact that the Purcells weren’t exactly the poster family for mental stability. Still, I couldn’t see how meeting Jazz’s grandmother could be such a problem. What were my exact duties, anyway? Check to see if she was crazy or not? By my own standards? Maybe try to talk her into seeing a doctor for a professional opinion?

It wasn’t like this was a pass/fail assignment.

So thinking, I picked up my cell phone and dialed Jazz’s cell number, chastising myself for my ambivalence. This was easy money.

He answered on the third ring. “This is Jazz.”

“Hi, it’s Jane Kelly.”

“Oh, hi, Jane,” he said warmly.

It was more than enough to bolster my confidence. “We never set an exact time for me to meet your grandmother.”

“Well, when can you do it?”

“Pretty much any time,” I admitted. My calendar wasn’t exactly overextended.

“Tomorrow evening?”

“Sure.”

“You have the directions I gave you? Why don’t you meet me at the house around five? Might as well get this show on the road, right?”

“Right.” If my voice lacked a certain amount of enthusiasm it was because I’d gotten used to having my evenings to myself and was in the habit of curling up on the couch to watch TV with the dog. Binkster had a tendency to lay her chin on my leg and pretend an interest in whatever comes on the television. She never fights me for the remote.

I realized I could be in a serious rut.

“Tomorrow night at five,” I told him.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I jogged to the Coffee Nook the next morning. The air was cooler, as if autumn had suddenly lifted its head, looked around, and decided it was time to come to the party. The air felt heavier, not quite foggy, but full of moisture. I’d left Binkster at home, still curled in her bed. She’s not the earliest riser.

Out of breath, I sank onto one of my usual stools. Julie, The Coffee Nook’s owner, asked me if I wanted a latte but I went for my usual black coffee. I looked around for Billy Leonard who generally shows up about the same time, but I was alone this morning. My only fellow coffee fiends were strangers. They sat on the end of the bar, a man and a woman dressed for the office. There was something going on with their hands beneath the bar that had her laughing and playfully slapping at him. He just had a grin on his face and wasn’t giving up.

I can’t say why, but it sort of pissed me off. Get a room.

Julie set their drinks in front of them and they headed out the door. He slipped one hand in the back pocket of her jeans. I could see him squeezing her butt all the way to their separate convertible Mercedeses. Both had their tops down and neither bothered to put them up as they shot out of the parking lot with rather more speed than necessary.

“That’s Spence and Janice,” Julie said, aware that I was watching them. “They’re always like that. Usually come in a little earlier.”

“Are they married?”

“To other people.”

“Ahhh….”

“They work together in downtown Portland. They’re both hotshot lawyers at some law firm. Their spouses come in sometimes, but they’re always alone.”

“Think they know?”

Julie shrugged. “‘Spence and Janice aren’t exactly keeping it a secret.”

“Do you know the Purcells?”

Julie didn’t find my change of subject odd. I have a sneaking suspicion she expects strange behavior from me. “I know of them.”

“I’m meeting Orchid Purcell today. The family matriarch.”

“Are you working for her?”

“For her grandson. Jasper Purcell.”

Julie shook her head. Clearly she’d never had contact with the family. As she turned to serve some newcomers I slid off my stool and jogged back home.

Binks was awake and hungry. I gave her some kiblets, then stepped into the shower. She can let herself out my new dog door to the backyard for bathroom purposes.

Forty-five minutes later I was dressed in tan capris, flip-flops and a black T-shirt. I grabbed a bottle of water and walked onto the back deck. Binks was in the fenced yard, rooting through a few fallen leaves. With the help of a handyman friend, Dwayne had cut the doggy door into my back wall. Mr. Ogilvy, my landlord, had been duly informed of the renovation and had okayed the change, though he’d come by several times to suspiciously eye the work. I’d paid for the improvement myself, but Ogilvy’s always looking for a way to charge more. I wouldn’t be surprised if he called it “added value” to the property and upped the rent. The term “skinflint” doesn’t even come close to describing him.

Once The Binkster was back inside and had begged a couple of extra kiblets from me, I was ready to go to work. There were still hours before my meeting at Chez Purcell, so I took the time to go over my finances. Fifteen minutes into the task I had a blinding headache. There was no way I could see how I was going to make it to the end of the month. I keep a certain amount in savings—enough to eke out a six-month stretch if work drops off—and I refuse to dip into it unless I absolutely have to. This had only happened once so far and I like to keep it that way. What it meant for today was that I needed extra cash.

I drank a glass of water for my headache, which subsided to a dull throb. I could take aspirin, but hey, you actually have to have some on hand. I decided to see how far I could go without drugs. Snagging the keys to the Volvo, I headed to Greg Hayden’s office.

I was halfway there when it occurred to me that I should call in advance. Greg answered his cell on the fourth ring. He’s even more electronically challenged than I am, so I half-expected to be cut off before we made contact.

“Hello,” Greg greeted me.

“It’s Jane. Got any notices to post?”

“Nah. Everyone’s paying on time.”

I stared out the windshield. Just my luck that the deadbeats weren’t out in force. How was I supposed to make a living? “Nothing?”

“Are you anywhere near here? I’ve got a twenty. Get a couple of Standish’s burgers and keep the change.”

“It’ll take a thirty.”

“All right.”

Well, okay, free food was worth it. Especially since I’d already eaten up the gas for this trip. I stopped in at Standish’s, which is a Portland institution known for their plate-sized burgers, and placed the order. Greg’s always concerned about calories and nutrition so I didn’t order the mammoth-size burgers. We each got a normal-size one.

Twenty minutes later I was at Hayden’s office, transferring his burger to him. He gave me thirty dollars and I congratulated myself that I’d cleared over ten. The food and cash took care of the headache and I was good to go.

I took a slow drive back to my cottage. Coming up my drive, I was surprised to see a familiar, slightly battered Honda parked in my usual spot. Cynthia, my arty friend who is the new owner of the Black Swan Gallery, was still seated inside the car. I parked to one side of her and came around to peer through her windshield at her. She had one hand in a death grip on the steering wheel, the other clenched around her cell phone. I signaled her that I was heading inside and she gave me a curt nod. I was pretty sure the curtness was for the caller.

Binks was thrilled to see me. She did her little happy dance and ran to her bowl. She seems to feel that any homecoming requires food. I hated to break her gluttonous little heart, but I have to be firm. Instead of food I opted for one of her stuffies, a pink elephant with drunken looking eyes. It was the only dog toy that called to me the last time I was at PetSmart. Or, Pets R Us. Or, Petco. I can’t be required to remember the names of these stores, can I? Pet ownership should not be so taxing.

Binks and I were playing a game of tug-of-war when Cynthia entered in a rush of air that seemed to vibrate with her own internal outrage. Binkster’s ears lifted and she eyed Cynthia with interest but her jaw remained clamped on the elephant.

“Everyone who works for me is either a moron, a backstabber or a fucker.”

“What constitutes a fucker?”

“They need to get the fuck out of my life.” She threw herself onto the sofa. I didn’t have time to warn her about the dog fur. She wore a black knit skirt and matching jacket with a silky chartreuse blouse underneath. “God, I hate being management. What was I thinking?”

“You wanted your own gallery.”

She ran tense fingers through her spiky, dark brown hair and made a growling sound. Binkster dropped the elephant and stared at her. “I started sleeping with Ernst.”

I ran the names of Cynthia’s friends through my mind and drew a blank. “Ernst?”

“He works for me. A painter…sort of.” She snorted. “He’s like forty, going on six. He’s a moron. And a fucker,” she decided as an afterthought. “I’m an idiot.”

“I take it you’re not sleeping with Ernst anymore.”

“Not for a good six hours.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know what that piece of shit said to me? He said I was too old for him.”

Cynthia is around my age, thirtyish. “He’s forty? Does he want to be killed where he stands?”

“He meant my soul, or so he says. I’m an old soul. Which I have to say, I thought was a good thing until I heard him say it. Then it just sounded wrong.”

“He must believe he’s a young soul.”

“He’s a larva. No…he’s an egg. A louse egg.”

“A nit,” I supplied.

“Is that what a louse egg is?” She was momentarily diverted.

“Yep.”

“That pretty well says it all. Now I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to fire him but he’ll probably sue me for sexual harassment or something. I can just smell it.”

“Then you must put up with him.”

“Oh, puh-leeze. Like that’s gonna work. If I could only sleep with him but not have to work with him. This is like some terrible marriage. I can’t explain how I feel. And what’s worse, I think he feels the same way. He can’t stand me, except in bed. What does that say about us?”

I shrugged. Nothing good. Cynthia isn’t one to have tons of relationships. If she was involved with this guy it had to be for some reason that she wasn’t revealing. She’s a tough cookie, but once in a while I sense her vulnerability. I’m always at a loss at those times. Should I be this great huggy friend? It’s not my style. And Cynthia’s pretty prickly most times. Besides Dwayne, she’s my closest friend, but it’s a fine balance. Friendship can be so tricky.

She clammed up about further information on the mysterious new lover/employee and I let it go. She hung around the rest of the afternoon, making phone calls and generally wasting time. Fine with me. I had nothing to do but wait.

By the time she got up to leave it was after three. At the door, she said, “Thanks, Jane.”

“For what?”

She just waved at me and left. I watched the Honda back down the drive. Because of an incident earlier in the summer the Honda bore a few more scratches. The incident was my fault and I suspected Cynthia might hold a bit of a grudge. Maybe not. It’s all long over now, but I felt better thinking I may have helped her in some way this afternoon. She was enough of a loner for it to be a rare thing for me, or anyone, to be there for her.

My good feelings lasted until I had to fret over my wardrobe. I’m not that great at “outfits”. But…I was meeting with the Purcells and this required some thought. I dug through my closet, even though I know I’ve only got a couple of dresses I save for funerals and weddings. Eventually I settled on a dark brown knit dress with a large silver belt. The belt was a gift from Cynthia, as were the slightly worn, brown boots which I pulled out from behind my cheapie flip-flops and strappy sandals. I examined the boots critically, then shrugged and pulled them on. Cynthia deplores my lack of fashion sense and has taken to dropping off items of clothing now and again that she swears she doesn’t want or use any longer. I could take offense to her charity but that requires more energy than I care to exert. Besides, the boots looked damn good. They could easily turn into my new favorite thing.

I had no fears of being too warm this evening, even though the sun had been fierce all day. Fall nights cool down rapidly in the northwest, and as I walked to my car a brisk breeze was blowing leaves across my drive, planting them against my tires. More leaves and branches rustled overhead.

It was still hot in the Volvo, however—greenhouse effect—so I rolled down a window and started the engine. As I headed out of Lake Chinook I noticed pumpkins on people’s porches. None carved yet. Halloween was still a few weeks ahead, but fall was fast taking over. You gotta look out for November 1st in Oregon. September and October can be really nice. Warm. Sometimes really warm. But come November it’s like crossing a line. Wind, rain and generally gray nastiness hunch down on you. Darkness in the morning, darkness at noon, darkness at night. In my opinion, the reason hibernation was invented.

I drove up Macadam Avenue toward Military Road and one of the main turnoffs into Dunthorpe. I headed uphill for a mile or two, switchbacking and curving around to a headland. Perched on the eastern edge were the view houses.

Jazz had given me the address but I’m not all that familiar with the winding roads that sometimes are barely wide enough for one car, let alone two. I took a couple of wrong turns, passed by the same lady walking her Pomeranian twice, and finally found myself on a dead-end street named Chrysanthemum Drive. Well, of course. Flowers. It was the Purcell theme. I could see a small metal plaque with the P logo tucked into the shrubbery at tire height, so I turned in.

The Purcell mansion stood at the end of a narrow, winding, tree-lined drive, oak and maple limbs creating a canopy above my Volvo that very nearly scratched my roof. This place would be hell on SUVs, but then I guess James Purcell hadn’t really planned for the automobile when the place was built at the turn of the century.

I drove into a clearing. The lane curved in front of the house, which had a slate floor portico that extended outward to cover space for two cars. There were several more uncovered parking spots beyond.

I realized that this was actually the back of the house; the front faced the Willamette River. I gazed up at the second-story windows. The house was built in what’s locally termed “Old Portland” style with shingles and pane windows, rounded pillars and rock facing the entire first floor. A slate path curved off from the portico, presumably toward the front door. On the rear side were two doors, one entering into a funny apse on the left; one on the right that appeared to head into the kitchen. It amazes me that people ever build homes where visitors have to search for their correct entry, but there’s more than a few of them in Dunthorpe and Portland’s West Hills.

I pulled in front of the portico and slotted into a spot beside two low-slung sports cars. Made sense, considering the tree/drive situation. There was also an ancient vanilla-colored Cadillac, possibly “Nana” Purcell’s mode of transportation. I’d neglected to learn what Jazz drove. The idea of entering this family manor without him daunted me.

Stepping out of my car, I slowly locked the doors, taking my time. In the gilding afternoon sun I could see the towering Douglas firs had dropped a carpet of needles atop the house’s slate roof. It looked as if the gutters hadn’t been cleaned in this millennium. Two L-shaped wings jutted from each side. I tried to estimate the rambling mansion’s square footage and failed. Big. Really big. But in a state of long-term neglect that had left its once awesome grace moldering into disrepair.

I swear there was a faint odor of something dying or dead.

Shadows formed where the lowering sun could not reach. I shivered though it wasn’t cold.

After a few minutes I followed the path to the front of the house where sweeping grounds rolled toward the edge of the cliff. In the name of safety a wrought-iron fence had been erected along the perimeter, but spokes and curlicues were broken out in places and briers had climbed inside, tendrils reaching through like thorny fingers.

The lawn was freshly mowed, however, and the path I followed was swept clean. Dead ahead was the front door beneath another, smaller portico. The slate path swooped up into several stairs which were missing pieces of rock. I climbed the steps and stood for a moment looking at twin wrought-iron rings hanging on massive wooden doors. Not exactly in keeping with the architecture. Definitely monastic. I lifted one and let it fall. Its boom sounded like a wrecking ball.

Out of my peripheral view I noticed a side building. I turned to look at it and saw that it was a playhouse. Child’s size. Its front door was bright red and freshly painted. The rest of it looked scary and decrepit. Worse than the house, even.

The door in front of me swung slowly inward revealing a gloomy interior. I had a mad desire to sing cheerily, “Avon calling!” but managed to hold myself back.

A figure moved into view. A slight, middle-aged man, his skin wrinkled in that used-up kind of way, blinked at me in the quickly fading light. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Jane Kelly. Jasper—Jazz—invited me to meet him here?” I couldn’t help making it sound like a question. I was hoping somehow this skinny guy would help me out.

His expression grew faintly anxious. “Here?”

I wasn’t sure whether to go into the whole thing about Orchid and her mental condition. I thought about trotting out a lie but sensed that might get in my way in the long run. I opted for a nod and a bright smile.

“Jazz doesn’t live here.” He glanced behind him, as if he were afraid of imparting a huge family secret.

“He said his grandmother lived here. Should I wait outside?”

This really threw him off. He clearly didn’t know what to do with me. After a hesitation that lasted long enough to embarrass us both, he finally stepped from the gloom onto the porch. “I’m not sure if I should have you come in. The family’s here.” He tossed another glance to the still open door.

I got my first good look at him. He definitely carried the Purcell gene for attractiveness, even with his dried-up appearance and mannerisms. His eyes were gray-blue and his hair was thick and lustrous, only shot sparsely with gray. If he’d given any thought to physical fitness, which by his stooped posture and generally soft appearance didn’t seem possible, he would be one good-looking man. I pegged him somewhere in his late fifties but it was hard to tell. He could have been much younger. He just seemed old.

His worry about “the family” was starting to amuse me. Or, maybe it was just relief that I didn’t have to go inside without Jazz. I leaned forward and whispered, “Should I wait in my car, then?”

“Yes…yes…maybe…”

“James!” a female voice called from the gloomy bowels.

James started as if he’d been goosed. “That’s Dahlia,” he murmured.

So, I was looking at James Purcell the fourth and waiting for his sister Dahlia to appear. I did a quick recap in my head. James was a bachelor. Dahlia was married to…Roderick…that was it. She had given birth to two children. A son and a daughter. I couldn’t recall the son’s name but the daughter was christened Rhoda before she died in infancy from SIDS.

Dahlia clomped onto the porch. Where her brother was slight, Dahlia was large. Everything was—her body and her features. She had huge eyes and lips and there was a wave to her ash blond hair that kept it about a half-inch off her skull, all over. Where James resembled a handsome professor gone to seed, Dahlia was a stevedore whose only real physical attribute was a set of even, white teeth.

She fixed her gaze on me through eyes that were a pale blue like a sky filled with white clouds. I almost felt sorry for her. She’d so clearly missed out on the family’s good looks.

“Who the hell are you?” she asked in a melodious voice that surprised me enough to leave me momentarily speechless.

“Jane Kelly.” I held out my hand.

She shook it firmly. “Yes? And what do you want?”

“She’s here to meet Jazz,” James put in. He’d taken several steps away and was gazing toward the edge of the property.

“What for?”

I suddenly didn’t want to say. Dahlia narrowed her eyes at me, but before I had to confess my reasons, there was a commotion deep inside the house and the sound of voices greeting a newcomer. Dahlia whipped around and headed back the way she’d come without another word. James cast me a worried look and followed. I didn’t wait for an invitation and just took up the rear, hoping to high heaven that Jazz had arrived.

He had. And he had a boy with him. His son, no doubt. Logan, I remembered.

“You have a guest,” Dahlia said in a tight voice.

Jazz saw me and broke into another brilliant smile. It was enough to make me catch my breath.

“You went around to the front door,” he said, coming toward me. “Hey, Logan wait…”

Logan, who’d been making a beeline for the stairs, reluctantly slowed, turning on one designer basketball shoe signed by an NBA player outside of my limited knowledge of the sport. “Yeah?”

“This is Jane Kelly. Jane, my son Logan. Jane’s here to see Nana, so why don’t you wait downstairs with Aunt Dahl—”

“She’s here to see Mother?” Dahlia demanded. “Why?”

We were standing in the entry hall, which rose two stories. A gallery ran overhead between the two wings. Exclamations of surprise or disgust, or both, shot from the open doors to the main salon. Jazz glanced to his left, his expression carefully neutral. I stepped forward and looked inside the salon. A group of people were headed my way. The middle-agers. And, I guessed, Cammie.

They collected in the doorway to the entry hall and gazed at me with varying degrees of alarm. It wasn’t what I would call a warm welcome.

I turned to Jazz expectantly. Instead of explaining my presence to them, he seemed flummoxed by the question. He shot me a “rescue me” look. My heart suddenly went into overdrive. What was this?

“Jazz asked me to meet Orchid,” I said slowly.

“Who are you?” a male middle-ager demanded. I pegged him as Garrett Purcell. He, too, possessed the extraordinary good looks, but he’d let himself go and now was paunchy and soft. An overriding belligerence, which seemed to be a part of his makeup, also took away from his appearance. A few more years and his attractiveness wouldn’t even be an issue. He would just be an older man with an attitude problem.

“I’m a private investigator.”

The man actually reared back. He glared at Jazz. “What the hell are you doing, man?”

“Jane is here to see about Nana’s sanity.”

At least he’d come back to the point, but now all the Purcell gang regarded me with flat-out suspicion. “So, when do private investigators determine someone’s sanity?” another man asked in a really snarky tone. I figured he must be Roderick, Dahlia’s husband.

“I guess when Jazz asks them to,” Dahlia answered, equally snarky.

“Why don’t we all go in and sit down?” Jazz gestured toward the room they’d just exited, and we all trundled back inside.

The salon was furnished in fern green and gold. The Purcell clan took their seats as if they’d been choreographed, apparently reclaiming the ones they’d just vacated. I stayed standing alongside Jazz. Logan flanked him on the left, but it was clear he didn’t want to be anywhere near any of us. I sympathized.

“I know we’ve all been worried about Nana,” Jazz said as an opening salvo.

“You’ve been worried,” the bullish man corrected. He had a barrel chest, a pugnacious chin and salt-and-pepper hair. “The rest of us know what’s wrong with her. Dementia.” The woman seated beside him on the green and gold striped divan—his wife, I was sure—stiffened at the word. Her head was bent and she seemed intent on her fingernails. I watched her play with them. Her hair was coiffed in that flippy style so beloved by Ann Landers, if you could still believe the picture. It was dyed an unnatural black, the scary kind that seems to absorb all light.

“I’m Garrett,” he added, rising again to extend his hand. Steely blue eyes searched my face. “That’s my wife, Satin. Jazz said that you’re…?”

“Jane Kelly.” We shook hands. His grip was one of those crushers. He squeezed my fingers and kept his gaze on my face, watching. I managed to keep my eyes level with his and luckily didn’t tear up from the pain. Abruptly, he released his grip and turned away.

Geez, Louise.

“I’m Roderick,” the other man said with a nod. He was lean with hair an even brown tone that spoke of coloring as well. I smiled at him in acknowledgment, all the time wondering when I could get the hell out of Dodge.

“And this is Benjamin,” Roderick said, gazing at a young man who sat apart from the group, flipping through a magazine. Benjamin’s head stayed bowed. There was something about his slouched posture and desire to be alone in a crowd that made me think he was a teenager, but when he deigned to look at me I was surprised to see he was closer to my age. He alone of the Purcells possessed brown eyes, a light shade, close to my hazel color, a gift from his father.

“Benjamin, say hello,” Dahlia muttered automatically. She must have done it a million times before.

“Huh-low.” Benjamin flicked a sideways glance my way. I got the feeling he wasn’t trying to be rude, he just had no interest in me or anything else going on among us.

Cammie Purcell shifted position in a fawn wingback chair. I assumed it was Cammie because she was the only woman in her thirties in the room and her hair was an icy blond. Dwayne had described her as perennially unhappy. The downward bow of her lips spoke volumes. “So, what’s this all about, Jazz?” she asked. Her gaze briefly touched mine. There was something going on in her eyes. Something manipulative and determined. Dwayne’s admonitions reverberated through my brain.

Jazz seemed a little bemused by his family’s suspicions. “I just wanted another opinion.”

“She’s not a doctor,” Garrett pointed out. His attention appeared to be on Satin, whose gaze was fixed on the middle-distance. The smile on her lips looked permanently carved.

Cammie said flatly, “You work with Dwayne Durbin.”

“Yes.”

“We don’t need a private investigator,” Roderick said to Jazz. “What’s got into you?”

“Nana won’t see a doctor. We’re all trying to figure out how to help. Nana relates better to women; we all know that. Let’s just see what happens.” A defensive note crept into his tone.

James Purcell IV entered the room, moving like a wraith. He didn’t say anything, but hovered near the curtains, his attention outdoors to the darkening sky.

I wanted to back out. I wanted to leave. But there was the promise of payment and I’d said I would meet with Orchid.

And I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Dwayne, saying, “You were right. I should have listened to you. They’re all crazy!”

“Come on,” Jazz said to me as he turned to the door. His cheeks were flushed. Maybe he’d expected them to greet me with open arms.

“You can give us a report when you return,” Garrett called as Jazz hurried me into the hallway. His tone was supercilious and edged with something mean. He was the oldest sibling and he wore his need to control like a cloak. Though he possessed the Purcell good looks, he pushed all my buttons. I was glad to get away from the lot of them.

Jazz walked ahead of me up the stairs. Logan had slipped from the room a few moments before us and was nowhere in sight. I followed behind Jazz, counting the steps. It was one of those stairways that turns at a landing, then turns again another half flight up. The rail was dark walnut, ornately carved but scarred and nicked by time. I could imagine what it had looked like once upon a time. The whole place was imposing, rich, deep. But now it smelled of neglect and the passage of time. I could feel them all waiting for Orchid to die. To collect the inheritance.

I shivered involuntarily.

“Are you cold?” Jazz asked. “Here…” He clasped my hand and held onto it all the way up the stairs in a way that made me feel slightly light-headed. Phew. I’m normally less affected by the male sex, especially overly attractive men, but I was aware of Jazz in a way that defied description.

Maybe I was still suffering the leftover malaise and loneliness of a love affair gone sour. It hadn’t been that long since I’d suffered my loss. In any case, I was inordinately aware of Jazz’s hand holding mine, the heat and good feelings their joining sent through me. Maybe I was ready to date again. Or, was it just the opposite? Was I still so raw and unhappy that I was reeling out of control emotionally?

Jazz stopped at the top of the stairs and turned toward the north wing. At the end of a hallway covered in nearly threadbare cabbage roses carpet stood a pair of massive, dark walnut doors that looked as if they might not shut properly, and probably stuck if they did. I had a mental picture of someone old and bent over with witchy long nails and rheumy eyes waiting behind them.

I put a hand on Jazz’s forearm. “I gotta be honest. I’m here because you asked me, and because I’m trying to be a private investigator—working toward it—but really, this isn’t a job for me. They’re right.” I inclined my head toward the open stairway. “You need a doctor. An estate lawyer. A professional.”

“I want you,” he insisted.

I tend to melt at that kind of cheerleading. Who wouldn’t? But I was determined to get a few things straight. “I’m not the person for this job.”

“Who is, then? She won’t talk to professionals. She won’t talk to anyone but Logan and me. She distrusts the whole family.”

“I just think this might be a mistake.”

“Jane, I need help. Please.”

I gazed at him. I am such a sucker sometimes. This was a fool’s errand but I was already in too deep. Drawing a breath, I acquiesced with a shrug, following Jazz down the hall to meet “Nana.”