Electric Blue (20 page)

When I got home Binkster didn’t even have the courtesy to get up and greet me. She was tucked into her little bed in my bedroom. She did switch her tail back and forth a couple of times, and when I crooked my finger she staggered toward me for a chance to climb into my bed. I picked her up and lifted the covers, which she nuzzled underneath, and she headed for the foot of the bed.

When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror I saw what Benjamin had been talking about. A streak of dirt ran across my right cheekbone, and my skin was hot pink in patches, as if it had been scraped hard.

I took off my shirt and saw I had a bleeding strawberry on my elbow. I was bound to feel the effects of rolling around on the ground. Bruises would surface. Still, there was satisfaction in catching Chisholm in the act.

I cleaned myself up and joined Binks in bed.

In the morning I pulled one eye open. Groaning, I rolled out of bed, crying out from pain at the trophies I’d received from tackling and wrestling with Chisholm. Gritting my teeth, I forced a stretch, then threw on my running gear and jogged my usual route to the Coffee Nook. It hurt like hell, pain in every jarring movement. Once again I wondered about Dwayne’s belief in me as an information specialist/ private investigator. I’m not really great at the whole pain and torture thing, and unfortunately catching bad guys had a certain amount of that built right into the equation.

It was Saturday, so teenagers were manning the store instead of Julie and Jenny. Several girls’ soccer teams seemed to have taken over the chairs and the order of the day was hot chocolate with plenty of whipped cream. I got my usual black coffee, belted it down, then walked the nearly three miles back to my cottage. While I chomped down cold pizza, Binkster ate her kiblets, then went outside to relieve herself.

I called Dwayne and gave him the news about Orchid. He was relieved for me and also in a mood to talk, so I didn’t have a chance immediately to tell him of the rest of my night’s exploits. He was working on some new case that involved robbery, but I wanted to know how it went with Spence.

“We had a small argument over money,” Dwayne replied to my query. “He wanted some of his retainer back, and I said no. Sometimes it happens that way. He started to become unreasonable, so we had to have an attitude adjustment talk.”

“How’d that go?”

“About what you’d expect from a lawyer who’s cheating on his wife. There were veiled threats on his side. Out and out ones on mine. I should’ve charged him more for the aggravation.” Dwayne sounded as if it were all in a day’s work.

“Which reminds me: what are our rates?” I asked. “The question came up, and I didn’t have an answer.”

“Darlin’, I don’t have rates. You can, if you want,” he added magnanimously.

“Well, how does it work, then? I mean, if we’re going to be in business together, I need to know these things.”

“Here’s how I look at it. Each job is its own entity. Each client has his or her own problems. Now, you can give ’em an hourly rate if you want, but they start bitching and moaning almost instantly, watching every minute that goes by. When I meet with a potential client, I assess them and tell them straight up what the job’ll cost. If they don’t like it, they leave. Otherwise, they pay me up front. If the job turns out to be easier than I thought, I may renegotiate and refund some money. If it’s harder, I just take it in the shorts.”

“How often does that happen?”

“Never.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Make it worth your while at the outset. And be clear that you get paid whether there are results or not, and whatever those results are. Some people get pissed if things don’t turn out the way they wanted them to. Spence is a case in point.”

“What happened?”

“He didn’t really believe honey-bunch would look for some other guy when he wasn’t coming home at night. Some guys just don’t get it. What was good for the gander, apparently wasn’t good for the goose, in his opinion. Spence never dreamed she’d start sniffing around.”

“But he was the one who had the affair first,” I said.

“Yep. But you forget the male ego. It’s easily bruised.”

“He was so blatant about it!”

“Doesn’t matter. Spence is burned now. He broke it off with his lover. Now, everybody’s mad.”

“I wonder how Miriam’s doing,” I said, remembering how heartbroken she was upon learning what a schmuck Trev was. “I hope she got some of her money back.”

Dwayne said, “Their problems are just beginning. Spence cut his losses with Janice but now, if he had a lick of sense, he should beg for forgiveness from his wife. But hell, I don’t get paid to offer advice. It’s all about reality. That’s what he paid me for.”

“He doesn’t sound like the type to forget she had an affair.”

“He isn’t,” Dwayne assured me.

I started considering the actual dollars and cents of the job. “I get a percentage of that, right?”

“Of course you do, darlin’.”

Sometimes I love Dwayne.

It was my turn to talk, so I told him about my run-in with the First Addition vandal. “You actually attacked this guy?” Dwayne sounded both impressed and a bit horrified.

“More like I ran at him and tripped, but once I was in the fight there wasn’t much else I could do but kick and punch.”

“Feeling the effects today?” His voice sounded casual but I suspected he really wanted to know.

“I’m okay.” This was essentially the truth, although even the scrape of a comb against my tender scalp had me squinching up my face in pain. “I’m going to call Lorraine and give her his name. She can decide what action to take.”

“Charge her four hundred.”

“Really?” I find it difficult to bill friends for anything, even if they beg me for the figure. I’m cheap, yes. I love to wangle a free drink out of Jeff Foster at Foster’s On The Lake, but when it comes to financial negotiation for my services, I feel strangely sheepish and embarrassed. Maybe it’s an inferiority complex, like I believe I’m underqualified in everything I do. But then again, I wouldn’t have any trouble demanding cash from Spence.

“You gotta make it worth your while,” Dwayne said. “Sounds like you deserve hazard pay. You didn’t get any payment up front?”

“I’m still learning.”

He grunted. “Glad you’re okay. You’re tough, Jane. You were made for this stuff.”

“Hah. You know I’m a chicken through and through.”

“You can rise to the occasion.”

“Do you want something from me?” I asked. “I get the feeling I’m being set up here. I mean, I’m not that good.”

He laughed. “I trust you to troubleshoot your way through anything.”

We were about to hang up, when I said, “Oh, one more thing—I put this in my report, the one I’m working on, haven’t given you yet—when I was in James’ room, I found some paintings that were—unsettling.”

“What were they?”

“Knives. All of them.”

I described a few of them to Dwayne, who thought that over for a while. “Sounds like the guy needs a serious head-shrinking.”

“Yeah, it struck me that way, too. And…” I hadn’t put this into words—I hadn’t really had time to let the thought coalesce—but visualizing those images again, I added, “The paintings were phallic, sexual.”

“A lot of art is,” Dwayne said.

“They creeped me out.”

“You think they have some special meaning?” he asked.

“All I know is, James doesn’t leave the house much. The rest of them have other lives. Other homes. They have families outside of Orchid. But James is like this recluse.” I shook off another attack of the willies. “Well, anyway, Orchid’s back now, so I guess it doesn’t matter how weird James is.”

Dwayne snorted. “Goes with the Purcell territory.”

After we hung up I called Lorraine and told her what I knew about Bonnie Chisholm’s son. She decided to talk to her friend about how to proceed. When she asked me how much she owed me, I took a deep breath and said, “Four hundred dollars.” She didn’t even hesitate, just said she would drop a check in the mail. I gave her Dwayne Durbin Investigations’ post office box address, and she told me it would be taken care of that afternoon. Afterward, I felt surprisingly energized. I mouthed to myself, “You’re a private investigator, Jane Kelly,” and decided things were pretty good.

It was going on eleven by that time, and I debated on whether to make today the day to go to River Shores. Should I even bother, now? So there were secrets floating through the Purcell family. Did I really care? Orchid was home, safe and sound. Jazz had initially hired me to evaluate her mental condition, to find out if she was capable of handling the family fortune, and that issue was resolved with Orchid’s signature on the Power of Attorney.

And what would Jazz think of me if and when he learned I’d gone fishing for information on his family outside of what he’d requested? How would I explain myself? Still…I wanted to go. I was going to go. It defied reasoning, but I didn’t care. In the end I thought “to hell with it” and changed into my loosely flowing tan skirt, brown sleeveless top and Cynthia’s boots.

Before I left I attempted to cover my bruised cheek with makeup, but it wasn’t much use. Binkster cocked her head in concern at my, “Ouch, ouch, goddamn it,
ouch!
” as I combed my hair, pulling it into a ponytail, with a little more finesse than my usual snap-it-up-and-forget-it job. As I headed out, the dog toddled after me and looked forlorn. “Next time,” I told her. Even though I planned to be gone awhile, I didn’t want to take her with me. I’d seen on the news where a woman in Milwaukie had lost her two black pugs when they were stolen out of her car. I’ve been slightly paranoid about leaving Binkster in the car ever since, especially if I’m not at someone’s home.

Remembering I’d promised Cynthia I’d stop by her gallery, I drove into Portland first. The Black Swan is located in the Pearl District, which is in the northwest section of the city. What was once an area of warehouses and industrial buildings has become one of the chi-chi-est areas of town to live. Sort of like SoHo-Portland. Cynthia’s gallery, a recent purchase for her, was located on a corner. I’d been there before, but not since she’d taken possession. Pulling into her tiny parking lot around the back, I muttered about the Chevrolet Tahoe crowding my space. Since when are those things a “compact”?

Cynthia’s an artist herself, a watercolor painter whose favorite subjects seem to be wild animals of the fierce variety: jungle cats, fanged snakes, rhinos, unnamed creatures of the deep, etc. She puts a spot of humor in their poses as they peek out from behind some arty camouflage. I find them all mildly disturbing, and as I stepped through the front door and a little overhead bell
dinged
my arrival, my eyes searched the varying pieces of displayed art. Straight ahead was some kind of bear peering at me from behind bamboo. It was black and white, but it didn’t look anything like a big, cuddly panda. There was something smug and treacherous in its gaze.

I thought about James’s knives again and wondered about the artistic mind. Maybe it’s just as well I’m so right-brained. Half the time I just don’t get it.

I didn’t immediately see Cynthia, so I strolled through the gallery. The Black Swan represents artists who use a variety of mediums. Someone named Kayla fashions glass into stemmed flowers and also paints glass pictures. A couple of months earlier Cynthia had given me a dozen red glass roses and they currently sit in a blue vase in a place of honor on my mantle. Now, I admired a glass picture of birds in a tree, keeping one eye on the bear. Looking at him from the corner of my eye, I swear he started grinning. I had to shake myself out of the heebie-jeebies.

There was a row of dark paintings lining the back wall depicting faintly human shapes engaged in varying positions of copulation. Tiny spotlights shone on these renditions, making them seem almost animated. I examined one closely, wondering if there were four bodies or five torqued around each other, their mouths either sucked onto another body’s anatomical protrusion or open in an “O” of ecstasy. Oh, yeah. This would be just what I wanted in my living room with Mom on her way. Nothing says welcome to my home like ravening mouths, stiff penises and rock-hard nipples.

“I see you are engaged with
Eventide
. Does it speak to you?” a deep male voice inquired.

I turned around to see the newcomer. I would bet my money this was Ernst, the employee and artist who’d found his way into Cynthia’s bed, much to her dismay. He was thin and dark and sneery with long fingers and even longer hair, greased or sprayed enough to be held back from his face like a mane. His nose was a beak; his eyes, dark brown, almost black. Was this what they call ugly-sexy? Because surprisingly, there was something compelling and male and predatory about him. Not that he appealed to me, but I did feel a faint pull at some baser female level.

“Ernst?” I asked.

“You could read my signature?” He was surprised.

“Actually, I’m a friend of Cynthia’s. Jane Kelly.” I stuck out my hand, which he stared at for a moment of heavy thought, then shook weakly. If I had a stereotypical “serious painter” mold inside my head, he would fit.

“Cynthia will be back soon.” He waved vaguely toward the windows and the greater outdoors.