Let’s just see what happens.” A defensive note crept into his tone.
James Purcell IV entered the room, moving like a wraith. He didn’t say anything, but hovered near the curtains, his attention outdoors to the darkening sky.
I wanted to back out. I wanted to leave. But there was the promise of payment and I’d said I would meet with Orchid.
And I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to Dwayne, saying, “You were right. I should have listened to you. They’re all crazy!”
“Come on,” Jazz said to me as he turned to the door. His cheeks were flushed. Maybe he’d expected them to greet me with open arms.
“You can give us a report when you return,” Garrett called as Jazz hurried me into the hallway. His tone was supercilious and edged with something mean. He was the oldest sibling and he wore his need to control like a cloak. Though he possessed the Purcell good looks, he pushed all my buttons. I was glad to get away from the lot of them.
Jazz walked ahead of me up the stairs. Logan had slipped from the room a few moments before us and was nowhere in sight. I followed behind Jazz, counting the steps. It was one of those stairways that turns at a landing, then turns again another half flight up. The rail was dark walnut, ornately carved but scarred and nicked by time. I could imagine what it had looked like once upon a time. The whole place was imposing, rich, deep. But now it smelled of neglect and the passage of time. I could feel them all waiting for Orchid to die. To collect the inheritance.
I shivered involuntarily.
“Are you cold?” Jazz asked. “Here…” He clasped my hand and held onto it all the way up the stairs in a way that made me feel slightly light-headed. Phew. I’m normally less affected by the male sex, especially overly attractive men, but I was aware of Jazz in a way that defied description.
Maybe I was still suffering the leftover malaise and loneliness of a love affair gone sour. It hadn’t been that long since I’d suffered my loss. In any case, I was inordinately aware of Jazz’s hand holding mine, the heat and good feelings their joining sent through me. Maybe I was ready to date again. Or, was it just the opposite? Was I still so raw and unhappy that I was reeling out of control emotionally?
Jazz stopped at the top of the stairs and turned toward the north wing. At the end of a hallway covered in nearly threadbare cabbage roses carpet stood a pair of massive, dark walnut doors that looked as if they might not shut properly, and probably stuck if they did. I had a mental picture of someone old and bent over with witchy long nails and rheumy eyes waiting behind them.
I put a hand on Jazz’s forearm. “I gotta be honest. I’m here because you asked me, and because I’m trying to be a private investigator—working toward it—but really, this isn’t a job for me. They’re right.” I inclined my head toward the open stairway. “You need a doctor. An estate lawyer. A professional.”
“I want you,” he insisted.
I tend to melt at that kind of cheerleading. Who wouldn’t? But I was determined to get a few things straight. “I’m not the person for this job.”
“Who is, then? She won’t talk to professionals. She won’t talk to anyone but Logan and me. She distrusts the whole family.”
“I just think this might be a mistake.”
“Jane, I need help. Please.”
I gazed at him. I am such a sucker sometimes. This was a fool’s errand but I was already in too deep. Drawing a breath, I acquiesced with a shrug, following Jazz down the hall to meet “Nana.”
Chapter Three
I was prepared for anything, given the buildup I’d received. A woman anywhere between Medusa and Mother Teresa. Okay, maybe that was stretching it a bit, but I figured she could be a grim, hard-bitten monster with a whip hand, or a dotty old lamb in search of love and assurance.
In actuality Orchid Candlestone Purcell was, well, a disappointment. She was so middle-of-the-road that after my initial meeting, I was hard pressed to remember much about her appearance beyond the basics: hair, eye color, body size. Her behavior was more memorable, but that was only because she reminded me of my grandmother.
Her hair was iron gray turning to white. It still had a fullness to it; no cottony fluff. It was clear she went to a hairdresser steeped in the art of spray till it hurts. The concoction moved with her head in a way that reminded me of a jockey’s cap. It stuck out in the front a little, too, as if it had a bill. Give her some silks and she’d be away to the races.
Her eyes were Jazz’s electric blue. A little bit starey. Her skin was soft, powdery and wrinkled, like bread dough. Her mouth seemed to be in a perpetual half-smile. The Mona Lisa had nothing on Orchid.
She was sitting in a chair and I had the impression of a body folded in upon itself like an accordion. She was wearing some kind of blue suit with a short jacket and a gray, blue and black scarf artfully tossed around her neck and over a shoulder—the kind of thing that would drive me to distraction. Her feet were clad in black leather slip-ons that looked sturdier and far more sensible than the outfit.
Jazz stood aside to let me enter first, and I walked in and moved to the center of the room, feeling ill-at-ease, wondering once again what my role was.
Logan sat on a stool, deep into Game Boy. He’d turned the sound down low but I could hear little whistles and blurps and tinny voices. He didn’t bother to look up at our arrival.
“Nana, how are you?” Jazz asked, heading toward her with enthusiasm, reaching for her hands.
She seemed to expect this because she held them out. “I’m fine. Help me up.”
He pulled her to her feet, sliding a supportive arm around her back as she struggled with the effort. I saw that the accordion effect had been correct. Once she straightened out she was far leaner than I’d expected. The suit seemed to fit her better, too. The hem of the skirt hit her just below the knees.
“Who’s this?” she asked, peering at me. One hand dug in the folds of her skirt and she pulled out a pair of blue-framed glasses. She put them on and turned her blue eyes into owlish orbs which looked me up and down.
“Jane Kelly,” Jazz said. “She’s the private investigator I told you about.”
“Private investigator?” She sounded mildly alarmed.
“I’m actually more like an apprentice,” I murmured.
“I wanted her to meet you, Nana. You know. Like we talked about? You said you would prefer a woman?”
She frowned, trying to recollect. “Is this about the money?” She gave me a studied examination then. “They all want my money. It was my husband’s but now it’s mine.”
I couldn’t really think of a comment for that one.
“A private eye,” she repeated, sounding skeptical.
“Have a chair,” Jazz said to me. He touched my elbow and gestured to a small sofa. A white crocheted antimacassar lay across its back, which was pretty strange since the sofa was that bright sky blue so popular in the 1950s—satellite blue—and its frame and design were contemporary to the extreme. It was the
