by Nancy Bush
Cynthia text-messaged me, asking how The Binkster was. I’ve tried text-messaging back but it’s not the same as typing on a keyboard and I suck at it. I called her back, got her voice mail, gave her a thumb’s up response, adding that Mom had arrived for her visit.
I tried calling Jazz. We hadn’t talked today, as was becoming our habit, more his than mine, but there it was. I was beginning to get used to having him in my life. But I got Jazz’s voice mail, too. I swear it’s a plot. You either make calls and get everyone you want, or you make calls and no one’s around. I next phoned Dwayne and this time I was glad for that robotic woman telling me to leave a message. I gave him the news about Mom’s arrival, too, trying to sound normal and unaffected, but I think I might have been a bit stilted.
In the end I couldn’t get out of dinner, but the good news was Jazz called back and accepted my invitation to join on. This was a bold move on my part, having my whole family meet him, but I thought maybe they could all talk to each other and leave me out of it.
As it turned out Jazz brought Logan along, too. Oh, happy day. “Logan wanted to see The Binkster,” Jazz said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I lied. I was originally faintly suspicious of him wanting to be around my dog, but Logan seemed really concerned about Binkster’s injury, showing more humanity than I’d seen so far. So, maybe he really was Jazz’s son and not the devil’s spawn. Time would tell.
Logan also opted out of dinner, which relieved everyone, I’m sure. It certainly didn’t break Booth’s heart as he settled Mom in the front seat of his Jeep and Sharona graciously took the back. Jazz and I followed in his convertible, the top up, as the weather hadn’t known what it wanted to do for days. Sometimes sunny, sometimes rainy, other times blustery, and once in a while a shooting cold wind that made me wish for a down jacket.
Jeff Foster had opened a couple of tables on the patio, but the wind was flapping the umbrellas, sneaking beneath their canopies and threatening to emancipate them. One had actually rocketed its way from its restraints and into the lake. We chose to eat by the inside gas fireplace.
I was right about not having to talk; my family squeezed Jazz like he was auditioning for a game show. I ordered a hamburger—Foster’s does them up right—and let the conversation float around me. Mom clearly thought Jazz was a keeper, and she asked lots of questions about his family. She was horrified to learn about his grandmother’s recent death, and when Jazz attempted to explain how I fit into the equation—how he’d hired me to both check her mental acuity and be her temporary caretaker, and then she’d died—my mother gazed at me in that blank way that makes me think she wonders if I was switched at birth.
Booth regarded Jazz with suspicion, but then he’s that way with everyone. Sharona was simply taken with his good looks, as were most of Foster’s other female patrons. I thought back to my first meeting with Jazz, how bowled over I’d been, and assessed my feelings now. I’d really gotten over that initial hit, hadn’t I? Even when he’d kissed me, I hadn’t really sparked to life.
It was Dwayne’s fault, I thought sourly. He’d ruined me for anything I could have had with Jazz.
Foster came by and was more than nice to my family. I took the opportunity to excuse myself and head to the ladies’ room. Foster followed me. “So, the guy that looks like you is your brother, and you both look like your mother, so that explains that, but the black chick and Mr. GQ?”
“The black chick’s a criminal defense attorney and my brother’s fiancée. Mr. GQ is my date.”
“Really.” He turned to take another look at Jazz.
“He’s Jasper Purcell.”
Foster whipped around and stared at me as if I’d suddenly morphed into something beyond this world. “Jasper Purcell?”
“You got it.”
I left him thinking that over. I was kind of pissed off later when we were finishing dinner and Foster sent over a crème brûlée and five forks, on the house. You have to be important to get any freebies. Sheesh. What a rotten world. I’d like to think bringing Jazz had lifted Foster’s opinion of me, but that was bound to be a pipe dream. He knows me too well.
Anyway, the evening was fairly uneventful and maybe I’ve become an adrenaline junkie or something because I was definitely let down by the time we left for home.
At the house, Jazz looked like he wanted to kiss me, but it was all just too awkward. I walked him out to his car, Logan lagging behind. He regarded us in that freaked out “my parents can’t have a love/sex life” way, so I just said we’d talk the next day.
“We’re going to the lawyer’s office tomorrow. Going over the will,” Jazz said.
“Oh.”
“Garrett’s got the police involved. The medical examiner’s checking Nana’s body.” He sounded repelled.
“Garrett really believes it was foul play?”
“I think he was just blustering, but…” He shrugged.
“There’s no motive to kill her. Everyone in your family seemed to love her, and you already had the POA, so the money was safe.”
“I just feel awful,” Jazz said on a sigh.
“Dad?” Logan called from inside the car. He didn’t like us talking together.
Jazz gave me a quick, hard hug. “Next time we’re together, let’s get that alone time we haven’t found yet.”
They backed out of the drive and I returned to my cottage. Binks had taken up residence on the couch next to Sharona who was giving her all kinds of attention. “When does the cone come off?” she asked.
“Next week. Stitches out. Cone off.”
Booth said, “Are you going to tell us about that guy, or what?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said firmly.
“He really seems to like Jane,” Mom said proudly.
I’d only had one glass of wine with dinner, as it hadn’t seemed like the drink to team with my hamburger. Now, I found my opened Sauvignon blanc, poured myself a glass and offered it all around. Booth chose to uncork a bottle of red and he and Mom indulged. After a while I walked out on my back deck, then down the stairs and across the flagstones to my empty boat slip. I stood looking over the black water of the bay. Across the way, my neighbor to the north’s lights left wiggling lines of illumination across its restless surface.
I heard the back door open and close. I could tell by the approaching footsteps on the wooden steps—sharp, feminine footfalls—that Sharona was joining me. She stood to my right. I gave her a look and noticed she’d chosen some of my leftover white wine.
“There might be a bottle around that hasn’t been sitting in the door of the refrigerator.”
“This is fine,” she said.
Sharona and I are still feeling our way as soon-to-be in-laws. We don’t really talk to each other unless Booth is around. The fact that she’d sought me out, alone, made me wonder what was up.
“Jasper Purcell is awfully good-looking.”
“Yes, he is.”
“He’s not doing it for you, though, is he?”
“I guess not,” I admitted.
“You want to talk about Murphy?” she asked.
I made a face. My second try with my ex-boyfriend hadn’t been that long ago, but it felt like eons had passed. “Murphy isn’t the reason I’m not into Jazz,” I said.
“It’s just not there?”
I shrugged. I didn’t tell her I was having visions of Dwayne’s muscular back. My fingers had felt that flesh and they wanted another chance at him. Not that I was going to let it happen.
“Well, I’m glad,” she said. “I came down here to talk you out of him, if I had to, but it looks like I don’t.”
I looked at her in surprise. “Talk me out of Jazz?”
“He’s beautiful, but there’s not much going on there, is there? I noticed he rubbed his head a few times, as if he’s constantly fighting a headache.”
“He does that. He was in an accident. And he has some short-term memory loss.”
“Oh
.”
We fell silent. I hated to admit it, but I kind of understood what she meant, all the same. There was something slightly unformed about Jazz. It was a minor thing, though. Jazz was nice, and he liked me, a lot, and he was gorgeous and wealthy.
My mind swept back to our first meeting again. I’d enjoyed the other women’s eyes on him. I’d enjoyed being the one with the handsome man.
Hardly enough to base a whole relationship on.
We walked back toward the steps to the deck. I said, “I’ll be right up. I’ve got to make a phone call.”
I watched her join the others, then I whipped my cell from my pocket. I felt slightly furtive, like I wasn’t being completely honest with Sharona as I placed a call to Dwayne. I was preparing my message when he suddenly answered.
“Hey, there,” he said.
I didn’t bother with preliminaries. I told him the M.E. was closely examining Orchid’s body, checking for signs of foul play, and I finished with, “Jazz thinks Garrett was just making noise and didn’t really want an investigation. He’s probably right. I can’t think of any reason someone would want to kill Orchid. They had the POA.”
“And the POA was legit?”
“I never heard differently.”
“What are the terms of her will?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then the family should have wanted to keep her alive, otherwise they’re at the mercy of the will. Grandma might have some favorites.”
“Funny you should say that. Logan said Orchid promised that he would get everything.”
“She told him that?”
“Apparently.”
“Hmmm…nasty business, family inheritances. So, what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to talk it over.”
There was a pause, and then Dwayne’s drawl came over the line, raising the little hairs along my arms, “I think you miss me a little.”
“Dwayne, don’t go there.”
“C’mon, Jane. Be honest.”
“Are you trying to be a pain in the ass? ’Cause I gotta say, you’re doing a hell of a job.”
“You want to have sex with me.”
I could scarcely find my voice. I was sputtering so much I sounded like Donald Duck. “First of all, this conversation is unreal. You and I are business partners and that’s it, and that’s all it’ll ever be. And second…just so you know? I could never have sex with someone named Dwayne.”
“You can hardly wait.”
“Nope. It’s in my rule book: No Dwaynes.”
“I’m going to have to see that rule book sometime.”
“Never,” I said and hung up on his laughter.
Chapter Fifteen
The next day I put a call into directory assistance for a Zach Montrose in the city of Salem or the surrounding vicinity of Brooks/Keizer. There was one Z. Montrose. It was ten o’clock in the morning and Mom was in the backyard with Binks, and I was sitting around with time on my hands. My decision to follow up on River Shores and Lily was more an act of desperation than a real need for information: Mom was driving me crazy.
After my conversation with Dwayne I’d gone back inside the cottage to say my good-byes to everyone. As soon as Booth and Sharona were out the door, Mom took her turn grilling me about Jazz. I’d been forced to parry and thrust: every time Mom asked me about Jazz, I brought up Sharona. Yes, Mom thought Sharona was great. She was black, beautiful, successful and totally into Booth. And Booth was just as enamored of her. No, Mom had no problems with their relationship, but she had a ton of advice about mine.
I ignored her, begged exhaustion and flopped myself on the couch. This morning I pretended I had business to attend to, ergo the search for Zach Montrose. This, at least, got her attention diverted from me and back to the upcoming wedding, where it should be. I was just thrilled to be out of her cross hairs.
I dialed Montrose’s number, expecting an answering machine or voice mail in the middle of the day, but a woman answered. Her “Hello?” sounded distinctly cranky.
“I’m looking for Zach Montrose,” I said, using my sunny, “not a darn thing to worry about” voice.
She made a disparaging sound. “Aren’t we all? Why don’t you try the gym? You got an appointment with him, talk to them. I’m not his secretary.” She slammed down the receiver.
Hmmm…. I went online and found the name of six fitness centers around the area. On the fourth one I was informed that Zach didn’t have anyone till noon. Would I like to be scheduled before or after? After, I told them, but I would call back. It sounded like Zach was some kind of personal trainer.
Debating on whether I really wanted to shoot down to Salem on what might be a fool’s errand, I put another call into Greg Hayden. Wonder of wonders, he finally had a seventy-two hour for me to post. He’d saved it for me, he said. Gleefully I drove to his office, gleefully I picked up the notice, and gleefully I drove to the address. He needed to evict a group of apartment-dwelling druggies who played their music too loud, took over more than their share of parking spots and intimidated everyone over the age of thirty with their tattoos, sneers and body odor.
Greg was almost glad they were late on the rent. “Reason to move them out,” he said.
So, I went to the apartment complex with my notice in hand. Mostly these kind of people really intimidate me, too. The more tattoos, the more cautious I become. Sure, they’re cool now, but I sense something more than just “body art” going on there. An attitude seems to come with the territory. I’ve only met one guy with major tats who seemed like a sweetie. I learned later he was on some major tranquilizer to help him with his aggression problem.
But…it’s a job, as they say. I pulled into the parking lot, my senses on high alert as I’ve had issues delivering seventy-two-hour notices. Dogs are a continual problem. But today I was feeling ornery. I had this sort of “bring it on” attitude that I sensed could backfire on me, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it.
The complex was two stories, an L-shape wrapped around a parking lot in need of new asphalt. I knocked on the door to 215 and waited about half a minute. No answer. Fine. I taped the notice to the door. I normally like to put the paper in the hands of the occupant because then I know they’ve got it. No lying about it later. But if they weren’t home, it was their problem.
The door opened just after I’d taped the notice up. I stared at a guy about my same height who appeared tattoo-less and wearing a sport coat and tie. “Well,” I said in some surprise.
He took a look at the notice, snatched it off and crumpled it, then turned to me in that cold way that warns of serious psychological problems. “Fucking bitch,” he sneered, smiling coldly at me.
Now, 999,999 times out of a million I would just turn and run. The notice was posted. I’d seen him grab it. The issue was resolved. Game over. But I was dealing with some psychological issues of my own: Dwayne, Binkster’s injuries, the screwed-up Purcell family and my mother’s visit. And I was dying to kick some butt.
I said in a steely voice, “Say that again, fucker.”
“What?” His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Say that again and I will mace you and tell everyone you attacked me.” I slipped my hand inside my purse, keeping the lie alive. “And believe me, you’ll be arrested for assault.”
“You can’t do that!” he sputtered.
“Watch me. Go ahead. Say it again.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t screw around with you. I’ve got a fucking job interview!”
“Then you’d better start learning how to address a lady, if you want that job.”
I turned on my heel and marched down the stairs to my car. He slammed the door closed. I silently went through my litany of swear words, just to make myself feel better. A soccer mom with a couple of kids eyed me as I headed to my car. “What are you looking at?” I snarled. She emitted a scared squeak and herded the kids quickly inside her apartment.
I looked in the rearview m
irror and admired the greenish bruises and scrapes on my face. No makeup today had been an inspired choice.
I felt a whole lot better about life.
Mom and I had lunch together. I took her to The Pisces Pub, where she admired the scarred wooden furniture and curly fries. I asked about the four-plex unit in Venice that we own together. Mom manages the four-plex, and she also owns a small house about two blocks closer to the beach. All the while Booth and I were growing up in southern California, Mom worked as an office manager for various companies. She bought the house she was renting from an older couple who wanted to move back home to Nebraska. Go figure. Then Mom got to know the owner of the apartment complex (I sometimes suspect she and he might have been lovers, but Mom won’t cop to that) and he sold her the four-unit for a song. At the time of the apartment sale I was working as a bartender at a local bar, Sting Ray’s. I lived with Mom—yes, this living arrangement lasted way past its pull date—and had saved a fair amount of money. Not that I was paid tons at my bar job, but I can live on next to nothing if need be; it’s become kind of a habit. So, Mom let me buy in and now whenever I worry about my finances I just think about that piece of property, sitting in Venice, escalating in value at ridiculous rates. Better than therapy.
“I’ve got a problem with one of the tenants,” Mom admitted now. “I might have to evict him.”
Okay, nope. This was not what I wanted to hear. I get anxious about evictions when it concerns my own property. I’ve seen what angry tenants can do to a place. I almost asked, “What’s wrong?” but stopped myself. I didn’t want to know. I said instead, “What do you think Sharona’s parents are like?” which sent my mother back down the wedding track like a fast-moving train.
I hustled her out of The Pisces as soon as I could, deposited her back at the cottage with Binkster, pled an afternoon’s work ahead of me, then turned the Volvo south toward Salem. As long as I was pretending I was on a job, I might as well act like I was on a job. I might even learn something.
Zach Montrose worked at a place called The Body Shop. By virtue of its name alone, I might have expected to take my car in for a buff and puff if the woman on the phone hadn’t said he was at the gym.
