Electric Blue

by Nancy Bush

  “Sure.”

  I got up hurriedly and extended my hand. I hoped I hadn’t overplayed my part.

  Cal shook my hand, looking like he wanted to linger, but I headed out of the administration offices and back toward the party, my eyes peeled for stairways leading downward. I was nearly to the open doors to the backyard and Geraldine’s big event when I found the stairs. There was no second story on the building, so these had to head to the basement.

  I actually stepped outside for a moment, letting everyone think I was just another party member. The birthday party itself was winding down. Junior had frosting smeared across his sweater-vest. He was chasing another little boy and shooting at him with his thumb and forefinger. The other little boy was shrieking with laughter and “firing” back at him. A sugar high. With weapons.

  Heading back inside, I was just starting for the stairs when a woman jumped in front of me, surprising me. I stopped short. She wore a pair of brown polyester pants that covered a round belly, and a loose top smeared with pink frosting and white cake. Her gray hair was crumpled on one side, as if she’d just gotten up from a nap. Her mouth was open and her tongue lay on her bottom lip. Her eyes were rolling around in her head like marbles. In one hand she clasped the NINETY-NINE YEARS YOUNG! Mylar balloon; in the other the serving knife.

  With growing dread, I reheard my discussion with Cal Bergin about schizophrenia. Maybe that wasn’t what it was, but something was definitely not okay with her.

  I saw again the Alzheimer’s patient at the door. She went out there…she went out there…she went out there…

  And Junior shouting at the top of his lungs: 1, 2, 3, 4. That’s the code for the door!

  Despite the smeared icing, this was no party guest. And the way she held the knife, her fist wrapped around it tightly, did not convince me her intentions were benign.

  “Excuse me,” I said, my eyes on the knife.

  For an answer she jabbed it at me. I backed away quickly. My brain sizzled. What? What? I sensed she was simply reacting. She had no particular animosity toward me. That made it even scarier. No logic. No way to convince her to stop.

  She lunged again. I danced to one side, my shoulder hitting the wall. She came charging again and I jumped the other way. There was no finesse. No art. She came at me, bullish and direct. Noises were issuing from my throat. Feral noises, full of fear. She hauled back and lifted the blade high. Whoosh! I twisted, but she caught a bit of my ponytail. My breath came out in gasps. I jumped away, but she charged. I stepped to one side and she slammed into me with her shoulder, sending me reeling. Pushing off the wall, I faced her, desperately dancing out of her murderous path. I wanted back outside but she caught my intention and leaped at me again. I slammed myself toward the opposite wall and she was on me. I kicked and she sliced, this time catching the side of my ear.

  That hurt!

  I was suddenly furious at the fates. Furious at myself. Furious at Dwayne! Damn you, Dwayne, I thought. Damn you for talking me into this! I knew better than to ever think I could be an information specialist!

  “You—get—out—of—here!” she shrieked.

  In the distance I heard running footsteps. “Gina!” someone yelled. “Gina, where are you?”

  “Say a word and I’ll kill you!” she whispered harshly. Her eyes wouldn’t stay focused.

  For an answer I screamed as loud as I could, a shrieking siren of a wail. Green-suited employees ran our way, pounding down the corridors. Gina glanced around and I shoved her for all I was worth. She stumbled forward, hand clutching the knife, slicing wildly at the arriving employees. Everybody backed off.

  Outside, there was pandemonium at the party. My scream had sent them into panic mode. One quick glance out of the side of my eye and I saw the guests were scattering across the lawn.

  In a moment all hell would break loose. Questions, recriminations, God knew what else. I didn’t want any part of it. Without consciously planning it, I simply slipped down the stairs and left Gina, now growling like a beast, in the somewhat capable hands of the frightened River Shores staff.

  Sometimes I surprise myself. I really do. I wouldn’t call myself a cool head in times of trouble. I’m certainly not overly emotional and reactive, but I don’t think of myself as someone who can make calm choices in times of extreme upset.

  However, it was as if I’d choreographed the whole thing. Swallowing back my anger at Dwayne, I hurried down the steps to the basement and simply strode toward the doors at the end of the hall. My heartbeat was light and fast; more adrenaline. A brief search led me to the records room. I fully expected the door to be locked and it was, but it was one of those winky, rattly door locks that says nobody gives a rat’s ass whether it stays shut or not. I opened it with one hard kick.

  No one was about. The whole basement smelled forgotten. If there’d been anyone on this level, the commotion upstairs had undoubtedly brought them to the surface. I strolled in, switched on the fluorescent lights, and took a look around.

  The room was a large rectangle with several thick concrete posts holding it up in the center. Metal shelving ran from ceiling to floor around the perimeter, and there were more shelves lined up in the center of the room as well. It was like a poor man’s library, cold, vacant and bare. Manila files, some in protective plastic sleeves, some not, took up every bit of available space. Nearby were stacks of computer disks. Everything was dated, so it was easy to pluck whatever information was needed without a lot of searching.

  I had a pretty good idea when Lily Purcell had been a patient here, so I scanned the dates covering that five-year period around her incarceration. Within each year the files were listed alphabetically. The gods of fortune must have been smiling upon me because I came across Lily’s file within five minutes.

  In the back of my mind was the idea of simply lifting it. I’d given Dr. Bergin a hell of a lot of information about whom I was looking for, and he might be able to finger me should something backfire, but he didn’t know my name, and honestly, I was in a strange state of exhilaration where I didn’t much care anyway.

  I scanned the file. It was filled with copious writings about Lily’s day-to-day pharmaceutical and nutritional intake. I considered that she might have been heavily drugged, but that didn’t appear to be the case.

  The doctors’ notes were strange. I could swear they seemed stilted, careful, as if they were overly concerned about who would view them. Maybe families just don’t want to know how unhinged one of their members might be. Maybe that’s what all the euphemisms were about, such as “low-spirited”—read depression for that—or “not engaged”—sounds like antisocial to me—or—“passive and quiet”—could be catatonia.

  But then I read a passage that made me silently say, “What?” to the empty room. I read it again, then heard approaching footsteps. Quickly I slipped the file behind my back and pressed myself to the wall, heart thumping.

  Someone entered the room. I closed my eyes and prayed it wasn’t Dr. Bergin. I was pretty much tapped out of explanations, and I was just too tired to come up with something new.

  When my hiding place wasn’t immediately discovered, I carefully peeked through the racks. It was a young, green-suited woman, and she was gazing down at the pile of CDs. After a moment, she hauled up quite a stack of them, staggering under the weight. She tried to slam the door shut behind her but it was impossible with what she was carrying. If she noticed the splintered wood beside the lock, she didn’t react.

  Quick as a flash, I shoved the file into my purse, then scurried out of the room, choosing a different exit to the first floor from the one I’d used coming down. As I ascended, tiptoeing, I heard footsteps descending on the route I’d taken down. Hurry, hurry, I urged myself, all the while moving quietly forward. At the top of the stairs I peeked through the door. I was just inside the door that led from the waiting area to the inner sanctum. Through a panel of glass, the crotchety receptionist eyed me narrowly.

  “What were you d
oing downstairs?”

  “I damn near got myself killed by one of your crazy inmates!” I declared furiously, slamming the stairway door behind me. I stomped through the inner sanctum door to outside reception and glared at her through the front glass. “See this?” I pointed to my clipped ear.

  Her lips parted in dismay. I hoped to hell there was a lot of blood showing. I hadn’t had the time nor inclination to look, but head injuries are so gushy. I wondered if I should feign like I was about to faint.

  Hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. The inner door opened again and both the receptionist and I turned. It was Jim Paine. “There you are,” he said. “Oh, my God. You’re—you’re bleeding.”

  The door flew open behind him. A crowd was pouring through to the front of the building, like lemmings to the sea. Dr. Cal Bergin was one of them. When he saw me, his eyes widened. He started to push past the crowd of birthday well-wishers currently clogging up the hallway.

  “Jane, maybe you should sit down,” Jim said, reaching for my arm to guide me to one of the boxy chairs.

  All I wanted was to escape. “No, I’m fine. Really.” Dr. Cal squeezed through some of the crowd. The group was loudly worrying about that “crazy woman who tried to kill someone.”

  Shit.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said, but Jim hung onto me like a burr.

  “Jane, I really think you should have that looked at. That woman attacked you? What happened?”

  My teeth clenched. If he called me by my name one more time I was going to smack him. At that moment Dr. Cal made it through the door. “Ms. Kellogg, I am so sorry. We’ve got Mrs. Rowalski sedated. She’s never done anything like this before.”

  I heard an echo of dog owners everywhere: But, he’s never bitten anyone before! Like it was the victim’s—my—fault, somehow.

  “No problem. Really.”

  “This is so unfortunate. Please be assured your sister would be well looked after. Gina…Mrs. Rowalski…has episodes, but she’s really quite docile.”

  Jim Paine, my new defender, looked down his nose at Dr. Cal. “That’s not saying much for your institution, Dr. Bergin. I came here for my great-grandmother’s birthday, but I’m going to recommend moving her. You can’t have paranoid schizophrenics wandering the halls.”

  “Mrs. Rowalski is not a paranoid schizophrenic, I assure you.”

  I was edging away. Nothing good could come of this. Jim looked around for me, but Dr. Cal was doing his best to convince him that this was just an unfortunate incident. I figured I’d overstayed my welcome at the place, and was making tracks fast.

  “Jane! Wait!” Jim called.

  I sailed through the front door. I’d just known he was going to be a problem.

  I took my time going home, stopping for a much-needed jolt of caffeine at a fast-food restaurant before heading back to Lake Chinook. I cruised over to Dwayne’s cabana but he wasn’t there. I have a key, but I really didn’t want to hang around by myself and wait for him. Glancing at my watch, I swore softly. It was after seven, and I’d promised Cynthia I would be home. However I really wanted to talk to someone about the Purcells. Phoning Dwayne’s cell netted me nothing but his voice mail. He was probably on the job and therefore under the radar.

  But I didn’t feel like leaving yet either.

  I thought about Jazz. I felt the tug of wanting to be with him, but he was a Purcell, and I kinda suspected he wouldn’t be all that crazy about my sudden desire to investigate his family’s background. That wasn’t why he’d hired me. It was bound to be perceived as snoopy and suspect. And what would he say if I brought up James IV and his knife obsession? Or, the fact that Orchid was haunted by the playhouse?

  They’re all crazy.

  I’d gotten tired of Dwayne’s assessment, but there was no denying it held more than an element of truth.

  “Damn it, Dwayne.” I punched out his number again and when his voice mail answered, I ordered, “Call me. I need to talk to you.”

  Using my key, I unlocked Dwayne’s side gate and walked around to his dock. There was still some faint daylight, but it was growing darker by the minute. I sank into one of his deck chairs and sighed deeply. What—a—day.

  Feeling tired all over, I called Jazz’s cell. “Hey, there,” he answered right away, sounding happy to hear from me. “Have I thanked you enough for finding Nana? I don’t think so. Thank you. Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” It was such a relief to hear uncomplicated gratitude. I lay my head back and threw an arm over my eyes. I closed my mind to the mess of Cynthia and Ernst, refusing to think about the ramifications of starting a relationship. Because that’s where I was headed. If I saw Jazz, spent time with him, made plans with him, eventually we would end up kissing. And kissing led to more kissing. More kissing led to other things, explorative things, and well, once sex was in the picture, you were through the looking glass. Nothing was ever the same.

  But was that so bad? Isn’t it what I wanted, needed, craved?

  “Jazz?” I heard the worry in my voice even when I just mentioned his name.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m glad your grandmother’s home. I hope that you can all work it out now, keeping the finances in order, keeping Orchid safe. I’m just…glad,” I said again. Taking a breath, I plunged in further. “I just want you to know that I’ve been doing some background checking, kind of as a means to get a clearer picture.” This sounded lame, even to my own ears. I hurried on, “So, I went to River Shores and asked them about your mother.”

  “You did?”

  “Orchid—Nana—just seemed bothered by everything so much. I found out some things.”

  “What?” He sounded more curious than upset, so I doggedly drove on.

  “You told me that Lily died from being restrained.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed quickly. “But you also told me she was known for her meekness, and that’s not what it looks like. She was restrained quite a few times before that final time. She was considered a problem to the other patients.”

  “A danger?”

  “In a way.” I plunged ahead with the information I’d found in her file. “There are references to her extreme sexuality. Apparently she was locked in her room to keep her away from the male patients. She even tried to seduce the staff.”

  Silence. I held my breath, aware that I may have seriously blown it.

  “Well, that’s just not true.”

  “Jazz, it was in her records. Do you think Orchid knows?”

  “No…that doesn’t make any sense.” At least he wasn’t slamming down the phone on me.

  “I’m going to ask you this. If you think it’s too personal, or you just don’t want to speculate, just tell me and I’ll shut up.” I hesitated, then asked, “Do you know who your father is? Or, have any idea?”

  “Not a clue,” he admitted. “I’ve often wondered, but nobody really knows. Or, if they do, they’re not telling.”

  I’d read Lily’s file. Quickly, to be sure, but I’d seen enough to recognize several names and dates of people who worked for Haven of Rest. Someone named Zach Montrose had signed and initialed many pages of data. An employee of Haven of Rest, although what his job was wasn’t clear. I’d gleaned information about her pregnancy, but I hoped a closer perusal would offer more insights.

  Then Jazz asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  I heard a forlorn, little boy quality to his voice, as if I’d really let him down. For reasons I couldn’t explain it put a lump in my throat. I felt terrible. “I just want to help,” I said, but it sounded feeble to my own ears.

  “Helping who? Me?”

  That sense of nausea—or was it revulsion?—that I’d felt after lunch returned. “I’m sorry. I wanted some answers. Orchid seems distressed and I thought if I had more information about Lily it might make her feel better.”

  He didn’t immediately respond. “Did you learn anything else?” he finally asked. I hea
rd a certain amount of trepidation in his voice.

  “Not really. I’m not a member of the family. You may not want to, but if you’d like more information, you could ask them yourself.”

  “I think I’m okay.”

  I nodded, though no one saw me but an osprey gliding above Lakewood Bay, searching for a meal in the last glimmers of twilight. We didn’t have much more to say to each other, and after we hung up I kicked myself for ever starting this. I felt bad. I’d let him down and perversely, now that it felt like it might be over, I wished I’d tried harder to kick start something with him.

  Glancing at my watch, I made a sound of distress, then took a quick trip to the local Safeway. Cynthia was bound to be on her way. Grabbing more wine, both white and red, I raced through the deli, tossing cheese, crackers, olives and, my big splurge, a small, shrink-wrapped package of smoked salmon. Personally, I wasn’t in the mood to eat; the food was for Cynthia. All I wanted to do was drink wine and lots of it.

  I ended up juggling a couple of large grocery sacks, paper not plastic. The leftover sacks make good luggage—a multipurpose unit that can be a briefcase or an overnight bag or whatever you want.

  By the time I got home it was completely dark. My headlights flashed across my driveway as I pulled the Volvo into its spot in front of Ogilvy’s garage and to the east side of the house. Throwing the strap of my purse over one shoulder, I gathered up the bags, balancing them as I attempted to lock my car doors with my key. I don’t have a remote lock. That’s a luxury that didn’t come standard with the ’94 wagons, apparently. One of these days I might have to step up.

  I could hear the traffic on West Bay Road as I headed to my front door. Not a ton; the street’s narrow. But enough to make walking on it hazardous. There are no sidewalks and no shoulder. It’s pretty much asphalt and private property. Lots of my neighbors have those little low fences that can put a crease in your door in seconds flat if you get too close to them. Sometimes I simply drive down the center of the road.