Electric Blue Page 5

  “We’ll see you downstairs,” Jazz said. “Come on, Logan.”

  “Not yet. I’m almost to the end guy.”

  “Put it on pause and let’s go.”

  “Uh-uh. I wanna stay here.”

  Jazz looked a little nonplussed. He rubbed a spot just above his temple and closed his eyes, as if he were in pain. “Don’t argue…please?”

  “Fine!” Logan switched off the device and threw it onto the chair next to me. It bounced on the cushion once and slid to the floor, hitting the hardwood with a crack.

  Jazz looked pained. If Logan felt chagrined he hid it behind a sneer as he stomped from the room. Jazz followed him, closing the door softly behind them. I could hear Logan’s angry clomping on the stairway until he reached the first floor and it faded away.

  I was left with Nana.

  She said, “I shouldn’t feel this way, but Logan’s my favorite.”

  Her face shone with love.

  Maybe she was crazy.

  An hour and a half later I was back at my cottage and desperately in need of a drink. I didn’t care whether it had alcohol in it or not. Water would be fine. I just wanted to pour something down my throat and close my eyes.

  I called Dwayne and listened to his drawl on the answering machine. He might be home, he might not. He feels no compulsion to answer his phone while I can never hear a ringing phone without dashing to pick it up. Many times I’ve had to hold myself back. Sometimes you just know it’s a telemarketer.

  “Dwayne, come get me,” I said after the beep. “By boat or car, I don’t care. I need to talk to you about the Purcells.”

  I was in the process of hanging up when he clicked on. “I got my boat docked in front of the house.”

  “Well, bring it on over.”

  His compliance was a grunt.

  Dwayne’s cabana does have a boathouse and a lift, the latter being rusted and scary, kind of like huge metal teeth floating just below the water’s surface, so it’s not really usable. Consequently, he docks his boat at one of the easements around the lake. It’s not too far from his place, so it doesn’t delay him much, but having it currently parked right out in front shaved off at least twenty minutes.

  When he thrummed the thing into my boat slip—one of the benefits of renting from that skinflint Ogilvy—Binks tore down the steps before I could hoist my bag onto my shoulder. She danced and paced on the shore outside, waiting for a leg up, so to speak.

  “Well, get in,” Dwayne told her. The whining started full force. Dwayne pointed to the back of the boat, which was wide and flat, upholstered in tuck and roll. Finally Binks jumped aboard, unable to get a better offer, and scratched at Dwayne’s leg. He settled the dog in his lap.

  They were happily greeting each other when I stepped into the boat, rocking it gently with my weight. Dwayne loves my dog. He pretends that he just likes her, but he’s a worse sucker than I am. He just won’t cop to it. I sometimes don’t know how to feel about it. I’m both pleased and anxious. Like I’m worried they’ll like each other better than either one of them will like me? This is so pathetic I can scarcely let my mind touch on it.

  “So, ya went out there, huh?” Dwayne said, reversing and guiding the boat toward the entrance from West Bay to the main lake. A narrow bridge defines West Bay on the east end. Though it’s high enough to allow boaters to stand as you pass beneath it, I always have the sensation of ducking my head and pulling my arms in.

  “Yep.” I was seated in the passenger chair. Binks kept one eye on me, glancing at the floor of the boat and up again. She was measuring the distance, wondering if she should be on my lap instead. I ignored her, a bit miffed at the joy with which she received Dwayne. If she wanted to be on my lap, great, but I wasn’t going to beg for her attention.

  “They’re crazy.”

  I was tired of this pronouncement. Okay, they had their strange points, but I know a lot of people I would give wide berth to, if I could. Doesn’t mean they’re totally nuts.

  But I wanted to talk everything over with Dwayne, roll around the whole interview with “Nana,” which had been well, strange. So, magnanimously, I decided not to pick a fight with him.

  “Orchid Purcell asked me to call her Nana, so I did. With difficulty.”

  “I just never have gotten that,” Dwayne said as he pushed on the accelerator and sent the boat flying across the main lake. The water was dark green and slightly choppy from a stiff breeze. The sun shone weakly, sinking through a screen of clouds. I hunched down and Binks tucked herself under the dash by Dwayne’s feet. No fool she; Binkster knew she was going to get bounced around. “I’ve got a granny, and a daddy, and a stepmama, and a sister. I don’t need to add other people to the list, and call ’em grandma, or anything else. They’re strangers. Not blood.”

  “A stepmama isn’t blood, either,” I pointed out, intrigued. This was more information than I’d ever gotten about Dwayne’s family. I had met his sister, who was a piece of work. Her daughter, Dwayne’s niece, wasn’t much better. Luckily they lived in Seattle. Far enough away from Lake Chinook to keep them there most of the time.

  “My stepmama tried that when I was little. Wanted me to call her Mama. Make like she was gonna be my new mom.” Dwayne shot me a knowing sideways look. “Didn’t work out that way.”

  “How’d you talk her out of it?”

  “She showed up when I was about four. I ignored her till I was six. She’s just one of those kinda women.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind that pinches you on the back of the arm in public while she’s smiling and acting like she cares about you. I refused to call her Mama, but my sister just jumped right in. I never called her nothin’ till I was fifteen. Then I called her some things I probably shouldn’t have.”

  “Such as?”

  He shrugged. “Nothin’ good. She’s still with my daddy.”

  “Where are you from again?”

  “South. East. Not from here.”

  This is a source of curiosity to me. Dwayne acts like he’s from somewhere in the south most of the time; his speech would lead you to believe as much. But he can turn it off so fast I sometimes wonder what’s real and what isn’t.

  “What happened to your real mother?”

  “Vamoosed.”

  I could tell he was shutting down on me. I didn’t want the conversation to end, so I decided to sweeten the pot by throwing in my own dirty laundry. “My dad married his secretary. I have a passel of half brothers and sisters. I lost count at three. And I don’t know their names.”

  “And you don’t wanna.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So why did you agree to call this woman ‘Nana’?”

  “I’m on a case. I’m playing a part.”

  “Bullshit. You just didn’t have the cojones to tell her no.”

  “She’s old and a bit confused.”

  “Crazy,” Dwayne stressed.

  “You’re pissing me off.”

  “Like that’s something new.”

  We lapsed into silence. Dwayne acts like he knows me so well, and yes…okay…he does…but there’s something so annoying about it that sometimes I just want to launch myself at him in full fight mode.

  I pondered these simmering feelings as we pulled up to his place. Across Lakewood Bay I could see the lights of Foster’s On The Lake twinkling in strands around the trees. It was just starting to get dark. I didn’t want to be mad at Dwayne, but I wanted…something.

  He tied up the boat and sat back down. We swayed in the soft lavender evening light, neither of us climbing out to his dock. With a deep, uncomfortable awakening I realized I wanted to be kissed. By Dwayne? No. Proximity doesn’t make things work. So he was right here. So what? I’m not an idiot…usually. Dwayne was off limits.

  I had a raging internal argument with myself on the issue. Recognizing my feelings is not helpful. It makes me feel vulnerable and I just hate that. With an effort I pulled my eyes away from his chest. He was
wearing some beat-up blue shirt that looked as if it had been laundered way too many times. The top button had given up the ghost and I could see the smooth, tan muscles of his chest. His jeans were even worse; typical Dwayne. He wore leather sandals that were a little out of character: Dwayne’s strictly a sneakers or boot man. But he had nice feet.

  For some reason it was all a seductive combination.

  “Are we going to Foster’s?” I asked.

  “You hungry?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Jump out and we’ll fire up the truck. Forget Foster’s. I feel like a chili dog.”

  I did as he suggested, more because I didn’t care than because I was eager to leave the lake. I climbed into the passenger side of Dwayne’s battered pickup. I hadn’t been inside it in a while but it hadn’t improved much over the last month. There’d been an incident where Dwayne had to pick me up at the hospital. He’d helped me inside but as a luxury ride it left a lot to be desired. I’d made it home and collapsed on my couch. Still, Dwayne had been there for me.

  We drove to Lou’s, across the river in Milwaukie. It’s one of those institutions that’s been around since the dawn of time—a prefab building shaped like a trailer. It’s more about basic product than palate, more concerned with delivering up the same foot-long-chili-dog meal than worrying about an ultra-high rating from the health department. Not that they’re slouches. Their focus is just different.

  Dwayne really knows how to eat this sort of food. We settled onto one of their indoor painted picnic tables, seated across from each other on long narrow benches. I watched him bite into the foot-long dog, stuffing enough into his mouth to make me marvel. And he can do this without looking like a pig or a slob. I, myself, do not share this talent. I bit into mine and immediately had to wipe excess chili sauce from my mouth.

  “So, okay,” Dwayne said, chewing. “Tell me about ’em.”

  “Jazz left me alone with Orchid.”

  “Nana.”

  “Yes, Nana.”

  “And?”

  “She was really nice. Kinda dotty. Some of the time, anyway. Other times she was really sharp.”

  “That’s typical of dementia, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Although she was pretty clear on current issues. Well…” I made a face. “And then she’d kinda go off track. But she knows the family wants control of the money. She’s bound and determined to keep their hands off it.”

  “Because she wants control, or because she doesn’t trust them?”

  “Maybe a little of both. I told her she needed an estate attorney.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “Oh, at first she acted like she didn’t hear me. She kind of rambled about her husband, where they went on vacation, how they met. She wouldn’t stay on the subject. She lives in this suite of rooms, no phone, no intercom that I could tell. But the door isn’t locked, so it’s not like they’re keeping her prisoner.” I lifted my shoulders. “I don’t know what to tell Jazz about her. His son, Logan, is her favorite grandchild.”

  I thought I was keeping my recitation objective, but Dwayne must have heard something in my voice, because he asked, “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Logan? Nothing.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “He’s twelve. What’s to like?”

  Dwayne swallowed his last bite, looking like he could eat five more. “Lots of twelve-year-olds are likable.”

  “Name one.”

  “My brother’s son. Del.”

  “You have a brother? How come he didn’t get mentioned when you listed your family?”

  “I don’t like him much. He’s a stepbrother. Del’s okay, though.”

  “Any other family members you haven’t mentioned?” I said dryly.

  “Scores. We talkin’ about me, or the Purcells?”

  “Both, maybe.”

  “So, what’s wrong with Logan besides his being twelve?”

  Dwayne clearly wasn’t going to get sidetracked onto his family. I gave up and went back to the Purcells. “He’s rude. Miserably rude. Jazz seems overwhelmed by him.”

  “Doesn’t know how to be a daddy?” Dwayne guessed.

  “Logan’s a handful. Jazz seems worn down. Orchid did get kind of chatty about Logan. She talked about Jennifer—Logan’s mom and Jazz’s wife—who died last Christmas in an auto accident. It was a hit-and-run. Logan and Jazz were in the car. Jazz ended up in the hospital for a bit, but Logan was unhurt.”

  “You want to feel sorry for the kid but you don’t like him, so it’s hard.”

  That about summed it up, all right. “The kid probably has lots of issues.” I was trying to be fair but Dwayne can read me like a book.

  “Doesn’t mean you have to like him.”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, so back to Nana. Give me more about that meeting.”

  I took a bite and closed my eyes, partly because I wanted to put my interview with Orchid in order, partly because the chili was hot and spicy and better than it had any damn right to be. I wanted to hurry through one bite so I could get to the next. I envied the way Dwayne could eat a third of the foot-longer in a bite. I had ordered a regular size dog and now was wishing I hadn’t been such a girl about it. Give me fat and nitrates and lots of ’em.

  I started talking. Dwayne, for all his faults, can be a good listener. He waited while I told my story.

  In Orchid’s presence, I’d felt a bit like a parent or a jailer. She’d talked on and on about Logan, like a girl with her first crush. Any attempt I made to change the subject was met with resistance. I swear she invented ways to bring him back into the conversation. I couldn’t shake her from talking about him, so in the end I just let her go on for the better part of an hour. I learned that Logan was genius smart, that he was handsome enough to be a model, or maybe an actor, and that he was patient as a saint as he’d taught Orchid how to operate Game Boy—and oh, goodness, she’d gotten so good at it! Those little buttons were so small, but dearest Logan had showed her the menu screen. She just loved that it was called a menu.

  At this point she’d actually clapped her hands and chortled. Honestly, all the praise for dearest Logan was gaggy enough to make me want to puke. I kept an interested look on my face by sheer willpower.

  Finally, as she ran down, I said to her, “Jazz is worried that no one’s looking out for your best interests.”

  “Come on, girl. Tell the truth. They’re all worried about the money.”

  “Jazz just wants to make sure you get what you want, not what they want.”

  “You make it sound like a war.”

  “I don’t know what it is,” I told her. “But I think everyone would agree that you should meet with an estate lawyer.”

  “Like Mr. Neusmeyer?” She smoothed her skirt.

  I instantly felt my insides contract. Of all the lawyers in the state of Oregon—and believe me, they’re thick on the ground—she had to contact Neusmeyer? I’d had a run-in with the man a few months prior. In a bid to gain information, I’d pretended to be someone else—someone other than an investigator—someone with even less scruples than I possessed myself. Jerome Neusmeyer was known for casting an eye toward younger women, so I’d assumed a fake name and approached him, making clear that I was interested in being an estate beneficiary and that I could be bought. Neusmeyer had jumped on the idea—and jumped on me. Extricating myself from the situation had been tricky. I could still feel the imprint where he’d squeezed my breast. The idea that he was involved with the Purcells left me searching for an exit tout de suite.

  I would have run from the room right then and there, but Orchid had turned away to glance out the window and stare up at the sky. The gnarled oak that reached toward the house was losing its leaves. She said, as if in conversation with it, “I don’t remember what happened to her.”

  I’d been lost in thought at that point, wondering if Dahlia might not be right and that this dementia-thing was an act. She knew
who Neusmeyer was, all right. Now, I keyed into what she was saying. “What happened to who?” I asked.

  “I think it was my Percy’s fault. But he was a good man,” she added instantly, as if afraid she might be overheard maligning her late husband. “He didn’t mean to drive her away.”

  “Are you talking about your…daughter?” I moved closer to her, craning my neck to look up at the sky, too. What was this? Some kind of confession?

  “Sometimes I think she’d still be here if we’d just listened a little more. That’s the way it is with children, don’t you know. You have to listen to what they’re not saying more than what they’re saying.”

  “Yes.” I agreed with her. She seemed entirely sane. Thoughtful, even.

  Then she suddenly glanced around furtively and whispered, “I just don’t want anything bad to happen.”

  “Nobody does,” I answered automatically. She looked unsure, so I added, “Nothing bad’s going to happen.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t, I guess.”

  “I want her back.” Orchid’s face tightened, and she suddenly looked as stubborn as a two-year-old. Then her expression cleared. “But I have Logan. And Jazz!” as if she’d just remembered.

  “Yes,” I agreed, and that was pretty much the end of our discussion. It definitely left me feeling undecided about her mental state, not exactly the news Jazz would want to hear. Now, I said to Dwayne, “She needs to be looked at by a professional.”

  Dwayne, who’d been listening intently to my story, asked, “You think she meant Jazz and Logan’s mother?”

  “Lily’s the one that’s gone.”

  “She died in the sanitarium?” I nodded and Dwayne added drily, “Doesn’t speak well for how she feels about the rest of her family.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “What about them?” Dwayne asked. “You think they’re tryin’ to steal her money?”

  I chewed thoughtfully and mentally ran through my impressions of the Purcells.

  “Hard to say. I think they pretty much keep her isolated and confined to her room. There’s no phone, and I didn’t get the feeling she has lots of visitors. Maybe she likes it that way. Maybe it’s a protection for her. She could be easy prey for anyone trying to get a chunk of Purcell money. Beyond that, Orchid’s got some deep fear. Or, maybe that comes from starting to lose your mind. She needs a doctor and a lawyer.”