that Dwayne Durbin is becoming the latest neighborhood weirdo.
Ever since the accident that broke his leg and temporarily incapacitated him, he’s taken to spying on the properties across Lakewood Bay, his leg wrapped in a cast from ankle to thigh, his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. A strange chortling sound issues from his throat. He can tell you more about the Pilarmos’ dog and the Wilsons’ new alarm system than you should ever want to know.
I’ve sort of avoided him these last few weeks. He’s drawn me into watching the sexcapades of a nameless couple whose energetic and inventive forms of copulation both impress and shock me, which is saying a lot. Dwayne has named all the houses/families he spies on; these two he calls Tab A and Slot B. Their stamina and vitality while inserting said Tab A into Slot B makes me wonder about my own tepid sex life. Lately, a few random kisses are all I can measure in the plus column.
Which is the main reason I’ve been avoiding Dwayne: my newly refined awareness of him. Yes, he’s an attractive member of the male gender, but so what? Dwayne is still my boss/business partner and that is it. Thinking about him in any romantic context is just plain trouble.
I reminded myself of this as I parked my Volvo wagon next to his truck, which sat on the concrete pad outside his cabana. I’d told him I would bring lunch and so I had. The white bag containing a stack of plastic containers lay on the passenger seat.
Before I climbed out of the car I took a deep breath. I’d been using the excuse that, as temporary lead investigator for Dwayne Durbin Investigations (of which only Dwayne and I count as company employees), I was too busy digging into the death of one Roland Hatchmere, the third and most beloved ex-husband of our client, Violet Purcell, to hang around much. I’d gone so far as to call from my cell phone near heavy freeway interchanges and scream over the roar of the traffic that I would report in when I was closer to Lake Chinook, the town in which we both reside. It’s a testament to Dwayne’s interest in his friends across the bay that he hasn’t been calling me on my bullshit. He knows me too well to seriously believe me. Honestly, I don’t think he notices that I’m having such a hard time with the current form of our relationship, which should piss me off but worries me more than anything else.
When Dwayne asked me to bring him a burger from Standish’s I finally broke down and agreed. What can I say? I want to see him. Still, I couldn’t make myself be Little Miss Fetch-all so, in a moment of pure orneriness, I drove to a nearby deli neither of us had tried before and bought an array of items in little clear boxes that looked great but might be more healthy than either of us can stand. Why did I do this? I don’t want to even speculate.
As I let myself inside his cabana I put my feelings for Dwayne aside as best I could and instead scolded myself for not being further along on the Violet Purcell matter. The problem for me is Violet herself. Before Dwayne’s accident, she’d made a strong play for him and they looked to be heading into that “you woman, me man” thing with the speed of a locomotive.
I hadn’t liked it one bit. And so I was having trouble treating Violet as a paying client who needed rescuing. To be fair, Violet is currently so distracted by her own problems that she appears to have no interest in Dwayne whatsoever. I’m not going to be fooled, however, because these things have a habit of resurfacing just when you’re sure it’s safe to go back in the water.
Not that Dwayne’s for me. I’m just saying…
I was juggling my laptop in its smart, gray wool case, a cup of black coffee from the Coffee Nook, the white bag containing our lunch and a copy of the Lake Chinook Review, and I dropped everything in a heap on Dwayne’s kitchen counter. Dwayne, as ever, was on his back dock. He heard me arrive and from where he was stretched out on his lounge, he half turned his head in greeting. I could see his profile in front of the green waters of Lakewood Bay. It arrested me for a moment, as the sky had darkened in that eerie way that foretells of a thunderstorm, something that rarely happens in Oregon. I looked through the window at that gray-green backdrop just as a shot of lightning sizzled across it, leaving a bright afterimage against my retina. Dwayne picked up his binoculars and scanned the heavens. It was nearly November and unseasonably warm. As I off-loaded my items, thunder rumbled and then a horrendous blast of rain poured down. Loud rain. I looked up sharply. Hail, actually.
I squeezed through the twelve-inch opening that leads to Dwayne’s dock—which is all the sliding glass door allows as Dwayne’s desk is shoved up against it—and rushed outside. Dwayne was struggling up from his chair. I grabbed his arm and together we managed to knock over his small side table as we bumbled around, then squeezed back through the door to safety. In those few seconds we both got soaked to the skin. After that we stood just inside and stared at the blackening sky and silvery, bouncing hail.
I felt the warmth of Dwayne’s skin through the damp. I could smell him. Something faintly citrusy today that spoke of last summer. I’ve never been one of those women who wants to “drink in a man” but I felt that desire now so strongly I could scarcely think. It took serious willpower to move away from him.
Abruptly the hail stopped.
“Cool,” Dwayne said thoughtfully, brushing at his shoulders. Bright drops of water melted into the light blue denim before my eyes.
I said, “Lunch is on the counter.”
“Standish’s?”
“This is from that new gourmet catering shop on B Street.”
Hope died in his face. “Tell me there’s nothing with raisins.”
“There’s nothing with raisins.”
Beets, though. I knew better than to mention them as I opened the white bags and pulled out clear, plastic containers of dishes that had made my mouth water as I stood in front of the counter. Dwayne eyed the Szechuan noodles suspiciously and actually sniffed the container of chicken, arugula, corn and rice. The purple red beets swimming in their own juice he studiously avoided. I didn’t blame him. I’d thrown them in mainly for the shock value. I don’t mind a beet, but their tendency to dye clothing with one ill-placed drop kind of puts me off.
“I suffered a moment of worry about my health.”
Dwayne grunted as he swept some plates and silverware from his drawers. He moved with surprising grace on his crutches, dishing up heaping helpings onto two plates. He stuck a serving spoon in the beets but didn’t partake. I felt duty-bound to have some and left a spray of magenta juice in a semicircle on Dwayne’s counter. I found a paper towel and swiped it up. I didn’t tell him about the drops that landed on his dish towel. I was pretty sure no amount of washing was going to get those suckers out. He gestured at me to ask if I wanted something to drink, but I lifted my Coffee Nook cup in response.
I sank onto his couch, which doubles as my workstation, and Dwayne perched on one of his kitchen stools. He’s transformed his jeans to accommodate his cast, in effect making one pant leg only about twelve inches long. His cast takes over from there and it has various writings on it. I wondered about the sweet little red heart with initials.
“Anything new?” he asked, scooping up the Szechuan noodles and eyeing me.
“Roland Hatchmere’s family doesn’t think much of Violet. They’d like to see her go down for this.”
“She didn’t kill him.”
“So you say. And so says Violet. But somebody hit him with the tray she gave as a wedding gift.” I forked in some rice and pea mixture that had a hint of saffron.
Dwayne swept an arm toward my laptop
