by Nancy Bush
“He doesn’t sound like the type to forget she had an affair.”
“He isn’t,” Dwayne assured me.
I started considering the actual dollars and cents of the job. “I get a percentage of that, right?”
“Of course you do, darlin’.”
Sometimes I love Dwayne.
It was my turn to talk, so I told him about my run-in with the First Addition vandal. “You actually attacked this guy?” Dwayne sounded both impressed and a bit horrified.
“More like I ran at him and tripped, but once I was in the fight there wasn’t much else I could do but kick and punch.”
“Feeling the effects today?” His voice sounded casual but I suspected he really wanted to know.
“I’m okay.” This was essentially the truth, although even the scrape of a comb against my tender scalp had me squinching up my face in pain. “I’m going to call Lorraine and give her his name. She can decide what action to take.”
“Charge her four hundred.”
“Really?” I find it difficult to bill friends for anything, even if they beg me for the figure. I’m cheap, yes. I love to wangle a free drink out of Jeff Foster at Foster’s On The Lake, but when it comes to financial negotiation for my services, I feel strangely sheepish and embarrassed. Maybe it’s an inferiority complex, like I believe I’m underqualified in everything I do. But then again, I wouldn’t have any trouble demanding cash from Spence.
“You gotta make it worth your while,” Dwayne said. “Sounds like you deserve hazard pay. You didn’t get any payment up front?”
“I’m still learning.”
He grunted. “Glad you’re okay. You’re tough, Jane. You were made for this stuff.”
“Hah. You know I’m a chicken through and through.”
“You can rise to the occasion.”
“Do you want something from me?” I asked. “I get the feeling I’m being set up here. I mean, I’m not that good.”
He laughed. “I trust you to troubleshoot your way through anything.”
We were about to hang up, when I said, “Oh, one more thing—I put this in my report, the one I’m working on, haven’t given you yet—when I was in James’ room, I found some paintings that were—unsettling.”
“What were they?”
“Knives. All of them.”
I described a few of them to Dwayne, who thought that over for a while. “Sounds like the guy needs a serious head-shrinking.”
“Yeah, it struck me that way, too. And…” I hadn’t put this into words—I hadn’t really had time to let the thought coalesce—but visualizing those images again, I added, “The paintings were phallic, sexual.”
“A lot of art is,” Dwayne said.
“They creeped me out.”
“You think they have some special meaning?” he asked.
“All I know is, James doesn’t leave the house much. The rest of them have other lives. Other homes. They have families outside of Orchid. But James is like this recluse.” I shook off another attack of the willies. “Well, anyway, Orchid’s back now, so I guess it doesn’t matter how weird James is.”
Dwayne snorted. “Goes with the Purcell territory.”
After we hung up I called Lorraine and told her what I knew about Bonnie Chisholm’s son. She decided to talk to her friend about how to proceed. When she asked me how much she owed me, I took a deep breath and said, “Four hundred dollars.” She didn’t even hesitate, just said she would drop a check in the mail. I gave her Dwayne Durbin Investigations’ post office box address, and she told me it would be taken care of that afternoon. Afterward, I felt surprisingly energized. I mouthed to myself, “You’re a private investigator, Jane Kelly,” and decided things were pretty good.
It was going on eleven by that time, and I debated on whether to make today the day to go to River Shores. Should I even bother, now? So there were secrets floating through the Purcell family. Did I really care? Orchid was home, safe and sound. Jazz had initially hired me to evaluate her mental condition, to find out if she was capable of handling the family fortune, and that issue was resolved with Orchid’s signature on the Power of Attorney.
And what would Jazz think of me if and when he learned I’d gone fishing for information on his family outside of what he’d requested? How would I explain myself? Still…I wanted to go. I was going to go. It defied reasoning, but I didn’t care. In the end I thought “to hell with it” and changed into my loosely flowing tan skirt, brown sleeveless top and Cynthia’s boots.
Before I left I attempted to cover my bruised cheek with makeup, but it wasn’t much use. Binkster cocked her head in concern at my, “Ouch, ouch, goddamn it, ouch!” as I combed my hair, pulling it into a ponytail, with a little more finesse than my usual snap-it-up-and-forget-it job. As I headed out, the dog toddled after me and looked forlorn. “Next time,” I told her. Even though I planned to be gone awhile, I didn’t want to take her with me. I’d seen on the news where a woman in Milwaukie had lost her two black pugs when they were stolen out of her car. I’ve been slightly paranoid about leaving Binkster in the car ever since, especially if I’m not at someone’s home.
Remembering I’d promised Cynthia I’d stop by her gallery, I drove into Portland first. The Black Swan is located in the Pearl District, which is in the northwest section of the city. What was once an area of warehouses and industrial buildings has become one of the chi-chi-est areas of town to live. Sort of like SoHo-Portland. Cynthia’s gallery, a recent purchase for her, was located on a corner. I’d been there before, but not since she’d taken possession. Pulling into her tiny parking lot around the back, I muttered about the Chevrolet Tahoe crowding my space. Since when are those things a “compact”?
Cynthia’s an artist herself, a watercolor painter whose favorite subjects seem to be wild animals of the fierce variety: jungle cats, fanged snakes, rhinos, unnamed creatures of the deep, etc. She puts a spot of humor in their poses as they peek out from behind some arty camouflage. I find them all mildly disturbing, and as I stepped through the front door and a little overhead bell dinged my arrival, my eyes searched the varying pieces of displayed art. Straight ahead was some kind of bear peering at me from behind bamboo. It was black and white, but it didn’t look anything like a big, cuddly panda. There was something smug and treacherous in its gaze.
I thought about James’s knives again and wondered about the artistic mind. Maybe it’s just as well I’m so right-brained. Half the time I just don’t get it.
I didn’t immediately see Cynthia, so I strolled through the gallery. The Black Swan represents artists who use a variety of mediums. Someone named Kayla fashions glass into stemmed flowers and also paints glass pictures. A couple of months earlier Cynthia had given me a dozen red glass roses and they currently sit in a blue vase in a place of honor on my mantle. Now, I admired a glass picture of birds in a tree, keeping one eye on the bear. Looking at him from the corner of my eye, I swear he started grinning. I had to shake myself out of the heebie-jeebies.
There was a row of dark paintings lining the back wall depicting faintly human shapes engaged in varying positions of copulation. Tiny spotlights shone on these renditions, making them seem almost animated. I examined one closely, wondering if there were four bodies or five torqued around each other, their mouths either sucked onto another body’s anatomical protrusion or open in an “O” of ecstasy. Oh, yeah. This would be just what I wanted in my living room with Mom on her way. Nothing says welcome to my home like ravening mouths, stiff penises and rock-hard nipples.
“I see you are engaged with Eventide. Does it speak to you?” a deep male voice inquired.
I turned around to see the newcomer. I would bet my money this was Ernst, the employee and artist who’d found his way into Cynthia’s bed, much to her dismay. He was thin and dark and sneery with long fingers and even longer hair, greased or sprayed enough to be held back from his face like a mane. His nose was a beak; his eyes, dark brown, almost black. Was this what the
y call ugly-sexy? Because surprisingly, there was something compelling and male and predatory about him. Not that he appealed to me, but I did feel a faint pull at some baser female level.
“Ernst?” I asked.
“You could read my signature?” He was surprised.
“Actually, I’m a friend of Cynthia’s. Jane Kelly.” I stuck out my hand, which he stared at for a moment of heavy thought, then shook weakly. If I had a stereotypical “serious painter” mold inside my head, he would fit.
“Cynthia will be back soon.” He waved vaguely toward the windows and the greater outdoors.
I now understood her great reluctance to admit that they were involved. Ernst wasn’t exactly regular boyfriend material. His being an employee was only part of the problem. I would bet nothing good could come out of this, certainly nothing long term. But then, I suppose it’s whatever you’re looking for at any given time that matters. Honestly, I would find going to bed with him repellent, like cuddling up with a reptile.
My gaze slid toward the nasty bear painting. But then Cynthia’s tastes ran a different path than my own.
We made some small talk. Very small, as we had absolutely nothing in common. I told him I liked to drink cheap wine and deliver eviction notices to deadbeat lessees; he said he liked sex.
When I heard the door open and saw Cynthia enter, I turned to her in relief. She took one look at Ernst and something flickered across her face. I swear to God it looked like anxiety. Cynthia? Who’s always in such control?
“So, you got a chance to meet,” she said.
“Sure did.” I sounded bright and fake, as if I were hiding some big secret, but I couldn’t help myself. Ernst made me feel dirty and sneaky.
Cynthia’s gaze slid from me to Ernst. She was wearing a dark chestnut colored pantsuit that showed off her slim body. Her hair is short, dark and spiky and she always looks feminine-tough. I sometimes yearn to be more like her, but today Ernst was putting the kibosh on that big time.
“You have a lovely face,” Ernst suddenly said to me. “So natural. And your body is athletic. Very firm and supple.” His dark gaze rippled over me. “You would make a good subject, but you should really be more careful with your skin.”
He reached a hand toward me and I pulled back automatically. “Oh. My cheek. Yeah, I bruised it.”
“No, this.” He touched the side of my neck. “What have you been doing?”
Damn curling iron. At least my burn apparently didn’t look like a hickey any longer. “It’s the beautification ritual I engage in each morning. Sometimes it’s hazardous.”
“Don’t you think she would make a good subject, Cyn?” he asked.
We both looked to her for her opinion. Now, I was the one feeling anxious. Ernst was wormy and icky. I could sense that he could ruin my friendship with “Cyn” without even trying.
“Oh, leave her alone.” Cynthia went behind the massive, baroque, carved oak desk and picked up some receipts. My anxiety level diminished a bit. She was on to his ways. “I’m glad you’re here, Jane. I’m dying for lunch. Let’s grab something around the corner. Have you got time?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ernst, Mrs. Clooner’s picking up the Suji painting. She said she’d be here at one.”
“The Suji’s amateurish,” he sneered.
“Don’t piss her off. We’ll be at Zen and Now,” she added. Cynthia grabbed my arm and steered me out the door and down the street to a pan-Asian restaurant known for its sushi. I was so relieved Cynthia seemed to realize I had no interest in Ernst that I let myself be dragged to the restaurant without protest. Sushi and I aren’t on the best of terms. It’s something I’m learning to like, but apart from California rolls, I’m highly suspect of the ingredients.
“What’s the deal with Ernst?” I asked as Cynthia and I were guided to a wooden booth at the end of a row of such booths. Above our heads red sailcloth partitions divided us from the customers dining on either side of us.
“I’m losing my mind. Why do I like him? Why do I do it? I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“So, things aren’t going any better than before?” A waitress passed by carrying a fish with head and tail still attached. The fish gazed balefully at me though dull, puckered eyes.
“I don’t have an explanation,” Cynthia went on, snapping open her menu.
“Maybe you like him.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Maybe he’s fine for now.”
“Jane, he’s never fine.”
I shrugged. “All right, I’m out of options.” I was also a little horrified by the prices. If I’m going to pay that much for food it better be damn good.
“I’m going to have to let him go. I can’t work with him. It’s not fair, I know, but it can’t go on this way. He makes me crazy.” The waitress came by and looked at us expectantly. I chose the California rolls and Cynthia ordered eel and a rainbow roll, which was beautiful when it arrived—red, watermelon, green, white—but I could tell it was layers of raw fish and avocado. “Here, have some,” she said, dropping a pale white section of fish wrapped around rice on my plate. She was distracted, lost in her own personal dating hell, so she didn’t notice my lack of enthusiasm. I smothered the thing in as much wasabi as I dared, soaked it in soy sauce, then chewed carefully. I gotta say, it was okay.
Cynthia nibbled on dark red raw tuna. I retreated to my California rolls—rice, crab, a little avocado. Safe. “I’m going to break it off soon,” she decided at the end of the meal. “This week.” I was digging in my purse for some change, but she threw down her credit card, and said, “On me. Thanks for listening.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m just glad you’re here, offering support.”
I didn’t see that I’d said anything that could qualify as supportive. “This was pretty good,” I admitted, pointing to the empty plates.
“Better than good. Great.” She gazed at me seriously. “What do you think of him? Honestly. I know he’s not the usual, but I could never go for a Barbeque Dad. It’s not my style.” It was uncomfortable to see how much my answer mattered to her. Momentarily, I seesawed, wishing I could duck the question. Though at times I’m an accomplished liar, I just can’t do it with my friends.
Still, there’s no reason to be harsh, so I said with a light shrug, “He doesn’t do it for me, but what do I know?”
“Has it just been too long for me? I’ve always been sure of what I was getting into, but now this. I’m really struggling to give him up. I know I have to. It’s really not good for either of us.”
“Maybe you’re pushing too hard. Let it run its course.”
“I wish I could. Boy, do I wish I could. But sometimes things get toxic.” She shook her head. “When we first started I was reluctant. Careful. I told myself I’d be sorry right from the get-go.” She gazed off into the middle distance. “There was this other guy a couple of years ago. I didn’t give him enough of what he needed. I should have, but I didn’t. I really wasn’t sure what I wanted. I was so focused on my career, I just quit paying attention to him, us, everything. He slowly stopped calling, and I never picked up the phone and tried to resurrect anything. I’ve always been sorry.”
“What about now? Is he still reachable?”
“He’s married.” She signed her name to the bill. “Lives in suburbia. Probably owns a riding lawn mower. I’m sure she’s either pregnant or will be soon. A Barbeque Dad.”
We got up to leave. There wasn’t much else to say, as I knew better than to try and tell her what kind of man to choose. Her dilemma made me consider my own dating situation. I felt if I pushed Jazz a little that he would eagerly turn us into a “couple.” Sometimes you just know.
“You do look great, by the way,” Cynthia said, gesturing to my outfit. “What’s all this for? I’m glad to see you out of those jeans and black shirt for once. And the boots are working for you.”
“I’ve got a mission this afternoon.”
“Yep. Can I ask you something, as an artist?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think of knives as a subject?”
“Knives?” She gave it some serious thought.
“Sexual, right? Phallic…plunging…whatever…”
“It’s also a symbol of power,” she said. “Dominance.” She must have seen something on my face, because she asked, “What?”
“It’s just that the guy who painted all the knife paintings isn’t domineering in the least.”
“Maybe someone dominated him.”
As I thought that over, she asked, “Can I come by the cottage later tonight? I’m going to break it off with Ernst this afternoon, and I may need support.”
“Sure.”
“Do you have wine?”
“Not anything you’d drink.”
A smile broke across her face. “If I get through this afternoon, I’ll be happy to drink axle grease, if that’s what you’ve got. I just don’t want to dread my life anymore.
“See you tonight.”
“Thanks, Jane.”
“De nada.”
Chapter Eleven
An hour later I was on I-5, heading south to River Shores Sanitarium, feeling slightly nauseous. Probably psychosomatic, but I couldn’t get that fish’s eye out of my mind.
The day was chillier, no rain but not much sun, either. Gray clouds filled the sky reminding everyone that October was autumn, folks. No more fooling ourselves it was late summer. The fields alongside the freeway were full of tan stalks, dried grasses, stiff and hollow. There was a damp, smokey smell hovering in the air, the remnants of field burning somewhere out of my range of vision.
I probably should have asked Dwayne if he needed help on his robbery job. All he’d said was that the client didn’t want to report it to the police for reasons that were unclear. But if Dwayne had really wanted me, I reasoned, he would have said so. The fact that he hadn’t meant I was faced with free time, and in the interests of putting some questions of my own to bed, I was on my way.
