bore him five children: Garrett (again), James Purcell IV, Dahlia and Lily, who was sent to a sanitarium as a young woman and died there several years later.
Orchid, currently in her eighties, is the surviving matriarch of the Purcell family. Her husband, Percy III, suffered from heart trouble. He died in his late fifties when, after driving home one night from his downtown Portland office, he climbed from his car and collapsed onto the ground outside the Purcell mansion. Orchid discovered him the next morning while she was getting ready to drive her daughter to school. She never remarried.
Orchid has several grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. James IV, a painter, has never married and seems to be a bit of a recluse. (Like Lilac Grace and Garrett I? Let’s hope not.)
Daughter Dahlia married Roderick and gave birth to two children, Benjamin and Rhoda (could this be short for rhododendron? The mind boggles) who died from SIDS as a baby. Benjamin is alive and well, in his early thirties, unmarried and still lives with his parents. He has no discernible employment and/or income.
Garrett and his wife Satin (as if all the flowers weren’t bad enough) have one daughter, Camellia—or Cammie Purcell Denton, Dwayne’s client. Cammie has a daughter Rosalie with soon-to-be-ex-husband Chris, who, working on being a bigamist, also has Blossom and Jasmine from his “other” marriage.
Lily Purcell gave birth to Jasper Purcell while she was institutionalized at the tender age of sixteen. Jasper and his wife Jennifer—who died this past December in an automobile accident—have Logan, who is currently about twelve years old.
I hadn’t known Jasper called himself Jazz when I’d written the history. Now I tacked on that information as a footnote, intending to put it into my laptop later on. I also counted up the middle-agers and realized Dwayne was right: there were four, not five. I corrected my report and set it aside.
The rest of the day I debated on calling Jazz, but every time I picked up my cell phone I hesitated. I’d told him I would meet with his grandmother. All I needed to do was set a time. But talking to Dwayne had set me back a bit. He’d emphasized the fact that the Purcells weren’t exactly the poster family for mental stability. Still, I couldn’t see how meeting Jazz’s grandmother could be such a problem. What were my exact duties, anyway? Check to see if she was crazy or not? By my own standards? Maybe try to talk her into seeing a doctor for a professional opinion?
It wasn’t like this was a pass/fail assignment.
So thinking, I picked up my cell phone and dialed Jazz’s cell number, chastising myself for my ambivalence. This was easy money.
He answered on the third ring. “This is Jazz.”
“Hi, it’s Jane Kelly.”
“Oh, hi, Jane,” he said warmly.
It was more than enough to bolster my confidence. “We never set an exact time for me to meet your grandmother.”
“Well, when can you do it?”
“Pretty much any time,” I admitted. My calendar wasn’t exactly overextended.
“Tomorrow evening?”
“Sure.”
“You have the directions I gave you? Why don’t you meet me at the house around five? Might as well get this show on the road, right?”
“Right.” If my voice lacked a certain amount of enthusiasm it was because I’d gotten used to having my evenings to myself and was in the habit of curling up on the couch to watch TV with the dog. Binkster had a tendency to lay her chin on my leg and pretend an interest in whatever comes on the television. She never fights me for the remote.
I realized I could be in a serious rut.
“Tomorrow night at five,” I told him.
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I jogged to the Coffee Nook the next morning. The air was cooler, as if autumn had suddenly lifted its head, looked around, and decided it was time to come to the party. The air felt heavier, not quite foggy, but full of moisture. I’d left Binkster at home, still curled in her bed. She’s not the earliest riser.
Out of breath, I sank onto one of my usual stools. Julie, The Coffee Nook’s owner, asked me if I wanted a latte but I went for my usual black coffee. I looked around for Billy Leonard who generally shows up about the same time, but I was alone this morning. My only fellow coffee fiends were strangers. They sat on the end of the bar, a man and a woman dressed for the office. There was something going on with their hands beneath the bar that had her laughing and playfully slapping at him. He just had a grin on his face and wasn’t giving up.
I can’t say why, but it sort of pissed me off. Get a room.
Julie set their drinks in front of them and they headed out the door. He slipped one hand in the back pocket of her jeans. I could see him squeezing her butt all the way to their separate convertible Mercedeses. Both had their tops down and neither bothered to put them up as they shot out of the parking lot with rather more speed than necessary.
“That’s Spence and Janice,” Julie said, aware that I was watching them. “They’re always like that. Usually come in a little earlier.”
“Are they married?”
“To other people.”
“Ahhh….”
“They work together in downtown Portland. They’re both hotshot lawyers at some law firm. Their spouses come in sometimes, but they’re always alone.”
“Think they know?”
Julie shrugged. “‘Spence and Janice aren’t exactly keeping it a secret.”
“Do you know the Purcells?”
Julie didn’t find my change of subject odd. I have a sneaking suspicion she expects strange behavior from me. “I know of them.”
“I’m meeting Orchid Purcell today. The family matriarch.”
“Are you working for her?”
“For her grandson. Jasper Purcell.”
Julie shook her head. Clearly she’d never had contact with the family. As she turned to serve some newcomers I slid off my stool and jogged back home.
Binks was awake and hungry. I gave her some kiblets, then stepped into the shower. She can let herself out my new dog door to the backyard for bathroom purposes.
Forty-five minutes later I was dressed in tan capris, flip-flops and a black T-shirt. I grabbed a bottle of water and walked onto the back deck. Binks was in the fenced yard, rooting through a few fallen leaves. With the help of a handyman friend, Dwayne had cut the doggy door into my back wall. Mr. Ogilvy, my landlord, had been duly informed of the renovation and had okayed the change, though he’d come by several times to suspiciously eye the work. I’d paid for the improvement myself, but Ogilvy’s always looking for a way to charge more. I wouldn’t be surprised if he called it “added value” to the property and upped the rent. The term “skinflint” doesn’t even come close to describing him.
Once The Binkster was back
