Electric Blue. Nancy Bush
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. “They 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