Electric Blue. Nancy Bush
Then it just sounded wrong.”
“He must believe he’s a young soul.”
“He’s a larva. No…he’s an egg. A louse egg.”
“A nit,” I supplied.
“Is that what a louse egg is?” She was momentarily diverted.
“Yep.”
“That pretty well says it all. Now I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to fire him but he’ll probably sue me for sexual harassment or something. I can just smell it.”
“Then you must put up with him.”
“Oh, puh-leeze. Like that’s gonna work. If I could only sleep with him but not have to work with him. This is like some terrible marriage. I can’t explain how I feel. And what’s worse, I think he feels the same way. He can’t stand me, except in bed. What does that say about us?”
I shrugged. Nothing good. Cynthia isn’t one to have tons of relationships. If she was involved with this guy it had to be for some reason that she wasn’t revealing. She’s a tough cookie, but once in a while I sense her vulnerability. I’m always at a loss at those times. Should I be this great huggy friend? It’s not my style. And Cynthia’s pretty prickly most times. Besides Dwayne, she’s my closest friend, but it’s a fine balance. Friendship can be so tricky.
She clammed up about further information on the mysterious new lover/employee and I let it go. She hung around the rest of the afternoon, making phone calls and generally wasting time. Fine with me. I had nothing to do but wait.
By the time she got up to leave it was after three. At the door, she said, “Thanks, Jane.”
“For what?”
She just waved at me and left. I watched the Honda back down the drive. Because of an incident earlier in the summer the Honda bore a few more scratches. The incident was my fault and I suspected Cynthia might hold a bit of a grudge. Maybe not. It’s all long over now, but I felt better thinking I may have helped her in some way this afternoon. She was enough of a loner for it to be a rare thing for me, or anyone, to be there for her.
My good feelings lasted until I had to fret over my wardrobe. I’m not that great at “outfits”. But…I was meeting with the Purcells and this required some thought. I dug through my closet, even though I know I’ve only got a couple of dresses I save for funerals and weddings. Eventually I settled on a dark brown knit dress with a large silver belt. The belt was a gift from Cynthia, as were the slightly worn, brown boots which I pulled out from behind my cheapie flip-flops and strappy sandals. I examined the boots critically, then shrugged and pulled them on. Cynthia deplores my lack of fashion sense and has taken to dropping off items of clothing now and again that she swears she doesn’t want or use any longer. I could take offense to her charity but that requires more energy than I care to exert. Besides, the boots looked damn good. They could easily turn into my new favorite thing.
I had no fears of being too warm this evening, even though the sun had been fierce all day. Fall nights cool down rapidly in the northwest, and as I walked to my car a brisk breeze was blowing leaves across my drive, planting them against my tires. More leaves and branches rustled overhead.
It was still hot in the Volvo, however—greenhouse effect—so I rolled down a window and started the engine. As I headed out of Lake Chinook I noticed pumpkins on people’s porches. None carved yet. Halloween was still a few weeks ahead, but fall was fast taking over. You gotta look out for November 1st in Oregon. September and October can be really nice. Warm. Sometimes really warm. But come November it’s like crossing a line. Wind, rain and generally gray nastiness hunch down on you. Darkness in the morning, darkness at noon, darkness at night. In my opinion, the reason hibernation was invented.
I drove up Macadam Avenue toward Military Road and one of the main turnoffs into Dunthorpe. I headed uphill for a mile or two, switchbacking and curving around to a headland. Perched on the eastern edge were the view houses.
Jazz had given me the address but I’m not all that familiar with the winding roads that sometimes are barely wide enough for one car, let alone two. I took a couple of wrong turns, passed by the same lady walking her Pomeranian twice, and finally found myself on a dead-end street named Chrysanthemum Drive. Well, of course. Flowers. It was the Purcell theme. I could see a small metal plaque with the P logo tucked into the shrubbery at tire height, so I turned in.
The Purcell mansion stood at the end of a narrow, winding, tree-lined drive, oak and maple limbs creating a canopy above my Volvo that very nearly scratched my roof. This place would be hell on SUVs, but then I guess James Purcell hadn’t really planned for the automobile when the place was built at the turn of the century.
I drove into a clearing. The lane curved in front of the house, which had a slate floor portico that extended outward to cover space for two cars. There were several more uncovered parking spots beyond.
I realized that this was actually the back of the house; the front faced the Willamette River. I gazed up at the second-story windows. The house was built in what’s locally termed “Old Portland” style with shingles and pane windows, rounded pillars and rock facing the entire first floor. A slate path curved off from the portico, presumably toward the front door. On the rear side were two doors, one entering into a funny apse on the left; one on the right that appeared to head into the kitchen. It amazes me that people ever build homes where visitors have to search for their correct entry, but there’s more than a few of them in Dunthorpe and Portland’s West Hills.
I pulled in front of the portico and slotted into a spot beside two low-slung sports cars. Made sense, considering the tree/drive situation. There was also an ancient vanilla-colored Cadillac, possibly “Nana” Purcell’s mode of transportation. I’d neglected to learn what Jazz drove. The idea of entering this family manor without him daunted me.
Stepping out of my car, I slowly locked the doors, taking my time. In the gilding afternoon sun I could see the towering Douglas firs had dropped a carpet of needles atop the house’s slate roof. It looked as if the gutters hadn’t been cleaned in this millennium. Two L-shaped wings jutted from each side. I tried to estimate the rambling mansion’s square footage and failed. Big. Really big. But in a state of long-term neglect that had left its once awesome grace moldering into disrepair.
I swear there was a faint odor of something dying or dead.
Shadows formed where the lowering sun could not reach. I shivered though it wasn’t cold.
After a few minutes I followed the path to the front of the house where sweeping grounds rolled toward the edge of the cliff. In the name of safety a wrought-iron fence had been erected along the perimeter, but spokes and curlicues were broken out in places and briers had climbed inside, tendrils reaching through like thorny fingers.
The lawn was freshly mowed, however, and the path I followed was swept clean. Dead ahead was the front door beneath another, smaller portico. The slate path swooped up into several stairs which were missing pieces of rock. I climbed the steps and stood for a moment looking at twin wrought-iron rings hanging on massive wooden doors. Not exactly in keeping with the architecture. Definitely monastic. I lifted one and let it fall. Its boom sounded like a wrecking ball.
Out of my peripheral view I noticed a side building. I turned to look at it and saw that it was a playhouse. Child’s size. Its front door was bright red and freshly painted. The rest of it looked scary and decrepit. Worse than the house, even.
The door in front of me swung slowly inward revealing a gloomy interior. I had a mad desire to sing cheerily, “Avon calling!” but managed to hold myself back.
A figure moved into view. A slight, middle-aged man, his skin wrinkled in that used-up kind of way, blinked at me in the quickly fading light. “Yes?”
“Hi, I’m Jane Kelly. Jasper—Jazz—invited me to meet him here?” I couldn’t help making it sound like a question. I was hoping somehow this skinny guy would help me out.
His expression grew faintly anxious. “Here?”
I