Electric Blue

by Nancy Bush

  “How can I help you, Mr. Purcell?”

  “Sorry.” He leaned across the table and shook my hand. The heat of his fingers ran right up my arm. I was dazzled by that incredible face so close to mine. “Call me Jazz.”

  “Jazz?”

  “Short for Jasper. My cousin Cammie could never pronounce it.”

  Nowhere in my research had anything been said about this man’s extraordinary good looks. Was Cammie as beautiful as Jasper—Jazz—was handsome? I made a mental note to ask Dwayne.

  Instinctively, I knew I should stay out of whatever he had in store for me. But I really wanted to help him. Really, really wanted to help him. Call it temporary insanity. But every cell in my body seemed to be magnetically attracted to him.

  Jazz looked down at the table, then across the patio toward the lake. Light refracted off the water’s green depths, glittering in soft squares of illumination across his cheek and jaw. I lifted my glass and nearly missed my mouth. My gaze was riveted on his face.

  “Do you know anything about my grandmother?”

  “I know she’s a philanthropist, active on all kinds of boards.”

  “Was. Her health’s been failing her. It could be anything from simple forgetfulness to Alzheimer’s to another form of dementia, to—according to my aunt—a nasty trick she’s playing on all of us.” He gave me a look. “Between you and me, that’s just not possible. My grandmother isn’t made that way.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “She’s definitely not as sharp as she once was. She doesn’t drive anymore. We have someone taking care of her during the day who Nana likes, but it’s tricky.”

  I thought carefully and said, “I’m not sure what you’d like me to do. I’m certainly no expert on that kind of thing.”

  Missy, Foster’s most generously endowed waitress, hovered nearby. Jazz smiled, but shook his head at her. She cast a lingering look over her shoulder as she swayed off. “I’d just like someone else’s opinion.”

  “How about a doctor’s?”

  He smiled, briefly and bitterly. “If you can figure out how to get Nana to see a doctor, that would be fantastic. She’s afraid we’re trying to railroad her. Wrest the family fortune out of her hands.”

  I could hear the beginnings of a very loud inheritance squabble revving up. “Is it what you’re trying to do?”

  “Not unless it comes to that,” Jazz said grimly. He lightly drummed his fingers on the table, frowning. “I just want you to meet her. Someone outside the family who has no ax to grind. A woman. My mother doesn’t really trust strange men.”

  “You mean your grandmother.”

  His head snapped up. “Yes, grandmother. What did I say?”

  “Mother.”

  I swear his skin paled a bit. “How Freudian,” he murmured. “My mother’s dead. Died not long after I was born. Nana gave me Purcell as a last name, and she raised me.” He sighed. “Guess I’m throwing all the skeletons out of the closet. Feels easier than holding back, although other members of my family wouldn’t agree.”

  “What caused—your mother’s death?” In my research, I’d learned that Lily Purcell had died in a sanitarium when she was still in her teens. She’d had Jazz at a very tender age indeed.

  Jazz’s eyes met mine again. I felt slightly breathless under their solemn regard. He said, “She died in a mental hospital of complications that arose when the staff tried to restrain her. The whole thing was hushed up.”

  Not sure how to respond, I took a sip from my Sparkling Cyanide. The color of my martini was very close to the shade of Jazz’s eyes.

  “There have been all kinds of rumors over the years. My grandmother even thinks my mother was deliberately murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Disbelief rang in my voice. “At the sanitarium?”

  “So, Nana believes. She says my mother was one of the meekest women on earth. Not a resistant bone in her body. Having to restrain her doesn’t fit.”

  “Drugs can make people act like maniacs, sometimes.”

  Jazz inclined his head. “Nana believes there’s more to that story, though frankly, I’m not so sure. But that’s all past history. What matters now is Nana. Will you meet her? Just get an overall impression? That’s all I’m looking for,” he said, his gaze turning toward the lake. A sleek, black-and-white Master Craft pulled up to the dock outside Foster’s patio.

  I didn’t talk about the cost. I didn’t mention that I was barely an apprentice. I didn’t say anything to jeopardize the moment. Under Jasper Purcell’s spell I could only give one answer: “Yes.”

  That brought a brilliant smile to his lips. He gave me his full attention again and clasped my hands between his own. My knuckles tingled. “Thank you,” he said, his gaze so warm my internal temperature shot skyward. Whew. I was going to have to order another drink…and pour it over my head to cool off.

  Marry in haste, repent in leisure. One of my mother’s favorite axioms slipped across my mind. So, okay, I wasn’t marrying the guy. It wasn’t like he was even interested. But I sure ended up with a lot of time wishing I hadn’t been so hasty.

  Every time I say “yes” it gets me in a shitload of trouble.

  Chapter Two

  “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. “The
y 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 thei
r 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.