Electric Blue

by Nancy Bush

  “Your buddy. Neusmeyer.” A smile played around Dwayne’s lips. He knows all about my “relationship” with the estate lawyer. “So, what did you tell Jazz?”

  “I haven’t really told him anything yet. He wants to meet tomorrow. He asked me a couple of questions and then we just sort of left it.”

  Actually, I’d walked downstairs after the meeting with Orchid and breathed a sigh of relief to see that most of her children had dispersed. The main salon was empty except for Jazz, Logan and Benjamin. Logan was thumbing through a book and perfecting his bored look. Benjamin was standing at the window, looking up at the sky, much as Orchid had. Jazz was lost in thought, his brows drawn together, his expression sort of grim.

  When I entered the room Jazz jumped to his feet. His smile nearly distracted me. “What do you think of her?” he asked eagerly. “Isn’t she great?”

  I wasn’t sure what I thought of her, in point of fact. She’d seemed kind of spooky, and sometimes cagey, sometimes clear. She’d lamented her husband’s treatment of Lily, but then seemed oddly scared to talk about it.

  “I don’t think she’s ready to give up control.”

  “But should she? Is it dangerous, do you think?”

  I shrugged. “Call an estate lawyer. Or, maybe the family doctor. Maybe they can figure out if she’s compos mentis.”

  “What’s that?” Logan asked, eyeing me darkly.

  “If Grandmother’s in her right mind,” Benjamin said, his voice sounding dreamy and distracted.

  We all looked at him. My thought was: Now, why doesn’t he call her Nana?

  “I hate doing that,” Jazz said. “It feels like such a betrayal. I really think she just needs someone with her.”

  “She’s got Eileen,” Benjamin said.

  Logan made a choking sound. “Her? She’s a thief! She stole those jewels.”

  “We don’t know that,” Jazz reminded.

  “Yes, we do. We just don’t want to do anything about it, ’cause no one wants to take care of Nana.”

  Logan sounded fairly knowledgeable about the situation, especially for a twelve-year-old.

  “I take it Eileen’s the caretaker?” I put in.

  Benjamin nodded.

  “You ready to go?” Jazz asked me. I got the feeling he wanted out of there even worse than I did.

  “Sure.”

  We headed through the back door to the portico and our vehicles. Jazz drove a silvery BMW convertible. The other two sports cars were gone. The vanilla Caddy still sat parked, looking for all the world that it had been there an eternity and would be there for another one. Bits of moss had taken up residence around the wipers, and the cream body was streaked with dirt.

  I glanced at the entrance drive, which curved into the portico and exited out again, angling down another long, leaf-canopied lane, then at Jazz. He was in profile, looking at the house. He could have been posing for a J. Crew print ad. He looked wonderfully clean and beautiful against the decaying property. Briefly, I wondered what he did for a living. Did he even have a job? Or, was he on the dole with Nana’s money? He seemed so…untouched…that it was difficult to believe he’d ever toiled at anything.

  A stiff breeze had kicked up and leaves swirled over his convertible BMW and my Volvo wagon. They settled onto his upholstery but Jazz didn’t appear to notice.

  “Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” I said. My job was done, and I was kind of wondering when Jazz planned to break out the checkbook.

  I don’t know what I expected to come next, but he suddenly shook my hand, then impulsively hugged me. I could smell his scent, that same citrus cologne, and I felt the first stirrings of sexual interest. The man was just so attractive. He released me before things could become uncomfortable, which was probably a good thing.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “No problemo,” I said lightly, turning toward my car. My stomach growled, and I realized it was dinnertime. My thoughts ran ahead to food and a debriefing with Dwayne. I was about to ask Jazz where to send the bill when he reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of cash, then ripped off six one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to me.

  I was dazzled by the money.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and we can talk about Nana in depth,” he said, climbing into his car. “Oh, and I didn’t say it in front of Logan and Ben—but Eileen’s been let go.”

  “The caretaker? You really think she stole?”

  “I don’t know. The family decided she had too much influence on Nana.”

  I got into my car slowly, carefully tucking the money into a safe little pocket of my wallet before starting the engine. I had no idea whether I was still employed or not. Meeting Jazz the next day held definite possibilities, but there was a niggling doubt associated with his family and their accusations concerning Eileen that followed me all the rest of the evening and through dinner with Dwayne.

  Dwayne and I left Lou’s in companionable silence. It wasn’t until we pulled into my drive that we brought up the Purcells again, and it was Dwayne who broached the subject. “So, they want you to be the caretaker.”

  “No. That’s not what I said. Where do you get that?” But I knew. Somewhere in the back of my mind the same thought had been circling.

  Dwayne’s mouth uttered the thought perched on the tip of my tongue: “Why else were you there? Sounds like Jazz told you Eileen was out for a reason.”

  “I’m not a caretaker. I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t want to do it, whatever it is. And besides, they’d have to pay me far more than what the job’s worth.”

  “Good.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Even better.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “I want you to do something for me,” Dwayne said, adroitly jumping to the next item on his mental to-do list. “And I don’t want the Purcells to get in the way.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You any good at shadowing?”

  I gave him a look. He knew darn good and well that I suck at following people. I have no gift for subterfuge. “No.”

  “I need someone to follow someone for me. A woman. And this woman spends a lotta time at the spas: massage, mud packs, painting the toes and fingers, facials. I don’t know what all. It’s boggling. I need someone to follow her there and see who she’s meeting.”

  “To a spa?” He nodded. There was a hint of amusement around his eyes. He knows that I’m not the spa type. But I could tell he was serious about the assignment. “Okay. What do you want me to do and when?”

  “Tomorrow. Follow her into Complete Me. It’s on Hawthorne. Fancy. Order up whatever’s she’s getting. Her next appointment’s at one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Her husband’s the client. Thinks his lovely spouse is cheating on him. Thinks Complete Me gives a whole new meaning to hot rock therapy.”

  “Who’s paying for my spa experience?”

  “The client.” Dwayne smiled. “It’s a freebie, Jane.”

  Free and be. When hooked together, two of my favorite words. “And after Complete Me, follow her to her next destination?”

  “And wherever else,” Dwayne agreed.

  “I can do that.”

  “What if Jazz Purcell calls and wants you to take over as Nana’s jailer?”

  “Dwayne, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

  “I mean it.”

  His answer was a smile that said he knew better.

  Chapter Four

  I made my nearly three-mile run to the Coffee Nook the next morning. I was still out of shape from a couple of months of recuperation after surviving a nasty fall in August. Consequently, by the time I arrived at the Nook, I ended up hanging on one of the door handles, struggling to catch my breath, dripping sweat. I’d thought about bringing The Binkster with me, but she’s really not in love with jogging. Even long walks cause her to try and sit down halfway through. A circle or two around
the backyard makes her happy. Sometimes I force her to come with me, and afterward she acts like she needs to sleep for a week. So much for the myth that dogs have more energy than humans. Maybe terriers—or chihuahuas.

  Billy Leonard was inside, seated on one of the stools. “Hey,” I greeted him, glad to see a friend.

  Billy’s a CPA but you’d never know it. His appearance is not what I’d call buttoned-down. Today he looked like he’d just stepped out of the tumble dryer. “What are you working on, Jane?”

  “A job.”

  “Process serving?”

  “No…do you know the Purcells?”

  “The Purcells? Don’t know ’em personally. Know a few stories. Your job involve them?”

  “Jazz Purcell…Jasper…asked me to meet his grandmother and see if I thought she was still mentally capable of controlling the finances. The family’s worried she’ll give away the farm, the jewels, whatever isn’t nailed down in a trust.”

  “Orchid Purcell?”

  “That’s right.”

  Billy thought a moment, running his hand quickly through his hair several times. It had been pretty well combed before this ravaging. Now he looked wild. “What about the daughter? The one that went to the mental asylum?”

  “Lily was Jazz’s mother. She died at the asylum.”

  “Big investigation, right? Lawsuit…sanitarium responsible?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “Something went on there. The old man die right afterward?”

  “James ‘Percy’ Purcell the…third, I believe? Orchid’s husband? I don’t think so. I thought he lived quite a while.”

  Billy snapped his fingers. “He was never the same. Kinda took his mind, I think. Killed his will to live. He was always a big mover and shaker, then bam. No more. What’s the son’s name? The older one?”

  “Garrett?”

  “Yeah, yeah. He’s the only one I’ve met. Saw him at Jake’s Grill one night. Really not a friendly guy. He was pushing and talking and telling everybody what he knew.” Billy laughed. “It wasn’t much, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” I could just picture Garrett thrusting his opinions on anyone within hearing range.

  “He was with his wife, I think. I thought she was drunk. She looked kinda glassy-eyed.”

  “That’s just how she looks. I just met her yesterday. Garrett might be worried Orchid isn’t capable of handling the money, but he wasn’t thrilled that Jazz brought me to meet her.”

  “Families…They don’t wear gloves in battle. Look out you don’t get your head knocked off.”

  Julie handed me a cup of black coffee. Usually I fill it up myself but sometimes Julie anticipates my wishes. I gave her a grateful smile. It makes me feel special when someone does something unasked for. Sometimes I worry that I expect too little. Maybe I need to raise the bar when it comes to acts of niceness.

  Billy left and I sipped my coffee. I debated on running back to my cottage or heading downtown. Dwayne’s cabana is just on the other side of Lakewood Bay. I could be there in twenty minutes to a half hour.

  I started out in that direction, then switched back to my original plan to run straight home. I needed the exercise and time to think. By the time I walked through my front door my cell phone was vibrating. I’d left it on the kitchen counter and it damn near walked off the edge. I just managed to snatch it up before it thrummed itself into a death dive.

  “Where ya been?” Dwayne demanded. “Miriam’s going to be at the spa at one.”

  “I know. I’m running through the shower now.”

  “The husband tried to meet her for lunch but she told him she was getting a massage. I need you to follow her today.”

  “I’m on it, Dwayne.” Sheesh. “I just ran six miles,” I added for good measure.

  “You walked a lot of it.” I made a strangled sound and would have argued with him just for the sake of it—even though he was right—but Dwayne swept on, “You got a two-hundred-dollar allowance to get yourself buffed and puffed as well.”

  I was impressed and worried. I wasn’t sure what kind of treatment that would buy me, but I knew it wouldn’t be anything I wanted. “How am I going to know Miriam?”

  “You can’t miss her. She’s a redhead, and the collagen lips will enter the door before she does.”

  “Okay…”

  “Try to enjoy yourself.” He hung up.

  I gazed in consternation out my back kitchen window. I heard Binks, who’d been sleeping in her bed in the corner, stagger toward me. Her doggy toenails clicked on the hardwood floor, heralding her arrival. She touched the back of my leg with a paw. Normally I pet her, but I was only half-conscious that she was even there. I was thinking about massages and mud packs and hot stones and steam. Sorry. I know a lot of people think this is the end-all/be-all in pampering but I find it slightly worrisome. So help me, I imagine foot fungi in communal dipping pools. I could get a skin rash from some so-called lotion that’s good for my body. And maybe I’ve seen too many horror movies, but there’s something about a mud pack slathered over my cheeks and nose that makes me fear I could lose a breathing passage.

  I wasn’t even sure what to wear. Knowing I was over-thinking the whole thing, I showered and washed my hair. Then I put on fresh sweats—the horrible baby blue ones my brother and his fiancée had given me after my fall and trip to the hospital. I’d thanked them and stuffed them in a drawer. Not that they weren’t pretty. But sometimes “pretty” makes me look like I’m playing dress up. When I’d donned them the first time, I’d had an instant vision of Barbie getting ready for an exercise date with Ken. Now I steadfastly zipped up the stretchy-tight jacket and slipped into my Rite-Aid flip-flops. Would a little eyeliner be too much, or maybe a prerequisite? How about some chandelier earrings?

  Binkster came over and sniffed my ankle suspiciously. “Don’t even go there,” I muttered.

  By the time I was ready, I still had an hour to kill before one o’clock. In the interest of surviving another day I stopped at the grocery store and picked up wheat bread and Havarti cheese. The young male clerk gave me a bright smile. “Cute workout gear.”

  “I’m going to a funeral.”

  The smile didn’t waver. “Wow. Cool.”

  This depressed me. I hate it when I mean to be screamingly funny and above-it-all and someone takes me at face value.

  I drove into Portland down I-5 and took the Hawthorne Bridge to the east side of the river. Hawthorne’s this cool street with fun little coffee shops, restaurants and music stores. It’s become chic in a mostly affordable way. Not too gentrified as yet, which suited me just fine.

  I had a small bit of difficulty parking. The side streets are narrow with cars choking the roadway on either side. A great many of the houses were built at the turn of the century with Victorian or Craftsman style influence. Try to turn around in one of those skinny drives and you could pop a tire. A garage is a rare event.

  A guy in a black Mercedes scowled at me as he cruised by. He’d wanted the spot but I’d muscled in first and he’d been unable to play chicken with his newer car against my older one. He mouthed something at me as I climbed out of my car. Something fairly rude, I was sure.

  I cupped my ear with my hand, pretending to struggle to catch his meaning, then dashed through the door to Complete Me.

  The place was a far cry from the historic older homes and quaint shops. It was glass and chrome and the anteroom soared several stories. Young women with hair gelled and curled and makeup expertly smoothed on about a quarter-inch thick greeted me with blinding smiles. One asked me if I had an appointment. I said no, I was waiting for someone. More smiling. Could they get me herbal tea? A scented, warmed neck pillow?

  I wavered on the tea, though I often struggle with something that smells like weeds and is a strangely yellow-green color I just know isn’t from this world. Before I could even reply I was handed a small cup without a handle. The cup was dark gray so I couldn’t quite tell the hue of
the concoction. I sipped it carefully. It wasn’t terrible. I waved off the neck pillow.

  “Love your outfit,” one of the girls told me with a smile. “Blue’s your color.”

  Bullshit. I’m better in pink. But I’ll be damned if I tell anyone that. “Thanks.”

  I’d brought my cell phone with me and had a sudden urge to call Cynthia. I should have asked her to join me. She’s better at navigating this stuff. She likes massages and rubs and I’ve heard her actually purr at the thought of turning her body over to experts.

  But this was a job. I needed all my concentration, because by God I wasn’t going to go through this twice.

  The reception girls saw me with my phone and lines of consternation etched between their shaped brows. One pointed to a sign that very nicely said that, as a courtesy to their other customers, cell calls were to be made outside. I reluctantly put my phone back in my pocket.

  I was debating on whether to ask for another cup of herbal tea. I could see where this stuff might be addictive. It made me worry about just what kind of herbs might be used in the brewing. I was actually heading toward the counter when I saw a redheaded woman approach the glass doors. Her frosted pink lips entered the spa a half-second before the rest of her. Ducking my head away from her, I put my cup on the counter, pulled a sad face and said to Girl Number Two, “I got a text message from my friend. She’s not going to be able to meet me after all. Maybe I could get a massage…or something…and this trip can be salvaged?”

  Girl Number Two made clucking sounds, checking her appointment book. “I just hate it when my girlfriend plans get ruined.”

  “Amen.”

  “Miriam Westerly,” my quarry introduced herself to Girl #1 in an abrupt, breathless voice. “I’ve got an appointment with Trevin.”

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Westerly.” She flashed her pearly whites. “Someone will guide you to the relaxation room in just a moment. I’ll let Trevin know you’re here.”