Electric Blue

by Nancy Bush

  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 in
to 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.