(I have no idea what this means but it was a favorite taunt from my brother Booth who was always crowing it when we were kids, gloating and laughing and skipping away, delighted that he’d somehow “got” me. Which, when I think about it, still has the power to piss me off.)
The new laptop untethered me from my old computer’s roosting spot on the desk in my bedroom. Now, I’m mobile. I bring my work over to Dwayne’s, which he highly encourages. I’m fairly certain Dwayne hopes I’ll suddenly whirl into a female frenzy of cleaning and make his place spotlessly clean. Like, oh, sure, that’s going to happen.
Still, I enjoy my newfound freedom and so Dwayne’s cabana has become a sort of office for me. I claimed my spot on his well-used but extremely comfortable one-time blue, now dusty gray, sofa early. Being more of a phone guy, Dwayne spends his time on his back deck/dock and conducts business outdoors as long as it isn’t raining or hailing and sometimes even if it is.
Feeling absurdly content (always a bad sign for me, one I choose to ignore) I checked my e-mail. Nothing besides a note from someone named Trixie which I instantly deleted. One day I made the mistake of opening one of those spam e-mails about super hot sex and ever since I’ve been blessed with a barrage of Viagra, Cialis and penis enlargement ads and/or promises. If I didn’t have penis envy before, I sure as hell do now. Eighteen inches? Where would you park that thing on a daily basis? There are a lot of hours when it’s not in use…unless you count the fact that it functions as some guys’ brains. I have met these sorts, but I try not to date them. Makes for uncomfortable dinners out where I talk and they just stare at my breasts. If I had serious cleavage I could almost understand, but my fear is that it simply means my conversation is really boring.
My cell phone rang with a whiny, persistent ring. I am going to have to figure out how to change it. A James Bond theme would be nice. I snatched it up without looking at Caller ID. An error. Marta Cornell, one of Portland’s most voracious divorce lawyers, was on the line.
“Jane!” Marta’s voice shouted into my ear. Her voice lies at sonic-boom level. I feared this time she may have shot one of my inner ear bones—the hammer, the anvil or the stirrup—into the center of my brain. Who names those things, anyway?
“You know Dwayne was working for Cammie Purcell,” Marta charged ahead without waiting for my response. “Jane? Are you there?”
“Yes.” I was cautious. Marta was Cammie’s divorce lawyer and Dwayne had been following Cammie’s husband Chris around for several weeks, intent on obtaining proof that he possessed a second family. Said family was apparently sucking up some Purcell money. Chris Denton wasn’t exactly a bigamist. He’d never actually married his other “wife.” But he had children with her and he divided his time between them and Cammie. Stunted as he was maturity-wise, I was impressed he could juggle two relationships. Sometimes I find it difficult just taking care of my dog.
“That job’s pretty much finished, isn’t it?” Marta asked.
“I think so.” Actually, I wasn’t completely sure. Cases like Cammie’s seemed to undulate: sometimes the work lasted days on end; other times it nearly died. When Dwayne had first discovered the dirt on Chris, he’d disclosed it to Cammie and Marta. With divorce in the offing, Marta must have seen greenbacks floating around her head, but weirdly, Cammie’s only remark had been a question: “What are the childrens’ names?”
Later I’d learned this query had some merit after all: Chris’s two girls—with his almost wife—were Jasmine and Blossom. When Dwayne told Cammie their names her face crumpled as if she were going to cry. But then she fought off the tears and went into a quiet rage instead.
“Her eyes looked like they were going to bug out of her head,” Dwayne told me later. “I took a step backward. Her hands were clenching and unclenching. She wanted to kill me for telling her. A part of my brain was searching the room for a weapon. But then she kinda pulled herself together.” Dwayne gave me a long look. “I don’t ever want to be in a room alone with her again. No wonder the bastard left her.”
Camellia’s strange behavior was explained when it surfaced that many of the female members of the Purcell family were named after flowers. Apparently Chris’s non-Purcell “wife” had fallen for this weird obsession as well, and since it was a decidedly Purcell quirk, Cammie appeared ready to kill over it.
This was about the time I decided to indulge in some Purcell family history. Hence, my report.
“Jasper Purcell would like to meet with you,” Marta said, bringing me back to the present with a bang. “He needs a P.I.”
“You mean, meet with Dwayne?” I asked, puzzled. I was the research person, not the A-list investigator.
“Nope.” Her voice sounded as if she were trying to tamp down her excitement. Must be more money involved. “He called this morning and asked me for the name of a private investigator. It’s something of a personal nature, to do with his family.”
“This is Dwayne’s case,” I reminded her. I didn’t add that Dwayne wanted to wash his hands of the whole thing.
“Jasper wants someone else to tackle this one. Says it’s sensitive.”
I glanced through the sliding glass door to where Dwayne, who’d removed his shirt in the unseasonably hot, early October sunshine, was standing on the dock. His back was hard, tan and smooth. Someone who knew him drove by in a speedboat and shouted good-natured obscenities. Dwayne turned his head, grinned and gave the guy the finger.
“How sensitive?” I asked.
“He said he wants a woman.”
I wasn’t sure what I thought of that. Just how many private investigators did the Purcell family need? “I’ll have to make sure this is okay with Dwayne.”
“I talked to Dwayne this morning,” Marta revealed. “He said he’s had his fill of the Purcells but if you wanted to step in, he was all for it.”
Nice of Marta to keep that tidbit of information back while she felt me out on the subject. I didn’t like being manipulated, and I was pretty sure that was what she was doing.
Also, I knew Dwayne’s feelings about Cammie, but this sounded suspicious. Dwayne likes to cherry-pick assignments. That’s why I’d been relegated to grinding research and drudge work. I narrowed my eyes at his back until he glanced around. His brows lifted at my dark look and he stuck his head inside the gap in the sliding glass door. “What?”
“I’m talking to Marta Cornell about the Purcells.”
“They pay well, darlin’, and that’s the only goddamn good thing about ’em.” He went back to the sunshine, turning his face skyward like a sybarite.
Marta persisted, “Our client wants you to meet him at Foster’s around four. Get a table. He’ll buy dinner.”
Free food. I’m a sucker for it and Marta knows my weakness.
And Foster’s On The Lake is just about my favorite restaurant in the whole world. I seesawed, thinking I might be getting into something I really shouldn’t. In the end, I agreed to go. How bad could the Purcells be?
Two hours later I found a parking spot about a block from Foster’s On The Lake—no small feat—then walked through the restaurant to the back patio, snagging a table beneath one of the plastic, faux-grass umbrellas that sported a commanding view of Lake Chinook.
