Ginny Blue's Boyfriends (35 page)

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Authors: Nancy Kelly

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“He knows Murphy. That’s all that matters.”
I didn’t like it. It was sneaky and wrong. Oh, sure, I can be a snoop, but this tragedy was epic. I felt small and mean even talking about it with Marta. “What kind of information does she expect?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Whether she’s right or wrong, she thinks Cotton’s been in touch with Bobby. I know the police and F.B.I. have wrung him dry, and he’s been more than cooperative. I’m just telling you what she wants. And she’s willing to pay well.”
“I’m not a private investigator.”
Or information services specialist.
“As good as,” Marta dismissed, but then she was always saying things like that when she wanted something.
“How much is she willing to pay?” I asked cautiously, lured in spite of myself. I inwardly shuddered. It was like dipping a toe in cold, cold water.
“An initial five hundred dollars and then whatever you work out. She wants you to develop some kind of relationship, Jane,” Marta went on. “She says Cotton always admired you when you were there with Murphy. She thinks you could ... have some sway.”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you saying you won’t do it?”
I didn’t know what I was saying. I was out of my depth and I knew it. I’m not all that hot at self-delusion. If I were really thinking about taking the jump to information specialist, I’d sure as hell like to start with something smaller. Like grand larceny. Or ... corporate tax fraud. Or that Erin Brockovich deadly chemical thing. I did not want to be personally involved in the investigation, no matter how distantly, as I was in this one.
“Cotton remembers you,” Marta insisted. “Bobby told Tess how his dad liked you.”
“Bobby told his mother that his dad liked me? That’s just great. When was that, Marta? I was only here for a few months before it happened.”
Marta sighed at my obstinance. “Are you going to do it, or not?”
“All signs point to
not
.” I paused, belatedly hearing some innuendo between the lines. Why did Tess want me to get close to Cotton? My thoughts took a turn toward the salacious. “I’m not going to sleep with him.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jane. Tess just wants you to suck up to him a little, show some interest in the guy. He’s been living like a hermit with his young wife ever since Bobby slaughtered his family and ran.” I cringed at her words. “Tess thinks this is the perfect time to lend a sympathetic ear.”
“I won’t get any results the police haven’t.”
“Five hundred dollars plus, whether you learn anything or not,” Marta coerced.
Five hundred dollars plus. My brain started calculating, taking a trip of its own, as I wondered how many “sessions” I could squeeze out of the deal. It’s hard to turn down pure, cold cash. Dwayne would be proud of my way of thinking.
“Cotton’s having a party next Saturday night.” Marta sweetened the pot. “I can get you an invitation.”
“How?”
“Well ... Murphy’s been invited. He’s coming into town this week.”
I swore beneath my breath, loud enough for Marta to hear.
Murphy?
“What a setup. I’m not interested, Marta. Not one little bit.”
“He knows you might be there. He wants to see you.”
“Not a chance.” Marta knows what she’s doing at all times. She’s an operator, someone who sees what she wants and goes after it, no matter how many souls she grinds into the pavement along the way. I almost admired her.
“Murphy still talks to Tess,” Marta went on. “He mentioned you the other day. That’s what got Tess thinking.”
“Murphy and I don’t talk.”
“Jane, Tess is going to be in my office at three today. She’d really like to meet you.”
“You’re railroading me. I can hear the train whistle.”
“I thought you might want to see him.”
“Bullshit. You thought of a new way to squeeze money out of a client. How much is Tess paying you for this setup?”
“Plenty,” was her equable answer. “Tess is a grateful client.”
I almost laughed. I could imagine how well Marta had put the squeeze on Cotton as Tess’s representative in the divorce. Her unabashed greed appealed to me, maybe because deep inside I’m a kindred spirit. Okay, maybe it’s just that I’m not that deep inside.
She seemed to sense my lessening fury. “Is that a yes?”
Distantly, I heard the sound of a buzzing boat’s engine. I walked toward the rear windows for my peek-a-boo view of the water. It was a beautiful, 75-ish afternoon in late July. The weatherman had said the temperatures were going to rise through the weekend, peaking at about 88 degrees late afternoon Saturday. The night of Cotton’s party. Great boating weather.
I had an instant memory of a hot midnight on Murphy’s boat, illegally docked in the shelter of Phantom’s Cove, two hundred feet beneath the houses perched on the bluff above, hidden by the canopies of oaks and firs which kept the cove under shadow most of the time. I remembered fevered bodies wrapped tightly together, sweat and silent laughter that remained caught in the back of my throat. And pleasure.
An ache filled me inside. I’d fallen in love once in college, but Murphy was the next, and last, man who’d ever filled my senses so completely. I half-believed now that it would never happen to me again. Maybe it would, but right now it felt impossible.
The thought that he might actually be at this party was enough to send me into the kind of female panic I loathed seeing in others. I couldn’t go. Even if I met with Cotton, I couldn’t go to this party if Murphy was going to be there.
I said as much to Marta. At least I think did. But she responded with a quick overview of how much income this could provide me. I turned her down over and over again, I swear. Yes, dollar signs danced in front of my eyes, but the thought of clapping eyes on Tim Murphy again was something my system couldn’t take. I told myself I would rather live in destitution for a thousand lifetimes than go another round with Murphy.
“... we’ll see you at three, then,” Marta said happily and hung up.
I was left staring into space, my jaw hanging open. Slowly, I brought my lips together again and clicked off my cell phone. There was no memory in my mind of an agreement to meet with Tess, but somehow I’d managed to say yes.
Some days are just weird city.
Take today, Jane Kelly, thirtysomething ex-bartender, current process server, and owner of The Binkster, a pug, is dutifully putting in slave-labor hours working for Dwayne Durbin, local “information specialist” (i.e., private investigator), and on the road to becoming a P.I. herself. Next thing she knows she’s socializing with the Purcells, an eccentric rich family with a penchant for going crazy and/or dying in spectacularly mysterious ways.
 
From what Jane can tell, the Purcells all want Orchid Purcell’s money. And when Orchid turns up in a pool of blood, the free-for-all has just begun. Then when Jane finds a second body, it seems weird city is about to get even weirder ... and a lot more deadly ...
 
In her second smash outing, Nancy Bush’s wickedly funny heroine, Jane Kelly, proves herself a worthy successor to Stephanie Plum, but with a wit, style, and dog that are definitely all her own.
 
 
“Smart, sexy, and sassy. I loved ELECTRIC BLUE!”
—Lisa Jackson,
New York Times
bestselling author
 
“With her clever ability to handle the zaniest of life’s circumstances, Jane won’t disappoint readers.”
—
Publishers Weekly
 
 
 
Please turn the page for a
sneak peek at Nancy Bush’s
ELECTRIC BLUE
coming next month in paperback
wherever mysteries are sold!
Chapter
1
M
ental illness runs in the Purcell family
.
I’d diligently typed this conclusion at the top of the report written on my word-processing program. I’d been so full of myself, so pleased with my thorough research and keen detecting skills that I’d smiled a Cheshire Cat smile for weeks on end. That smug grin hung around just like the cat’s. It was on my face when I woke in the morning and it was there on my lips as I closed my eyes at night.
I spent hours in self-congratulation:
Oh, Jane Kelly, private investigator
extraordinaire
. How easy it is for you to be a detective. How good you are at your job. How exceptional you are in your field!
However ...
I wasn’t smiling now.
Directly in front of me was a knife-wielding, delusional, growling, schizophrenic—the situation a direct result of my investigation into the Purcells. In disbelief I danced left and right, frantic to avoid serious injury. I looked into the rolling eyes of my attacker and felt doomed. Doomed and downright
FURIOUS
at Dwayne Durbin. It was his fault I was here! It was his ridiculous belief in my abilities that had put me in harm’s way! Hadn’t I told him I’m no good at confrontation? Hadn’t I made it clear that I’m damn near a chicken-heart? Doesn’t he
ever
listen to me?
His fervent belief in me was going to get me killed!
Gritting my teeth, I thought:
I hope I live long enough to kill Dwayne first... .
 
I was deep into the grunt work necessary to earn my license as a private investigator. Dwayne Durbin, my mentor, had finally convinced me I would be good at the job. His cheerleading on my behalf was not entirely altruistic: he wanted me to come and work for him.
I’d resisted for a while but circumstances had arisen over the summer that had persuaded me Dwayne just might be right. So, in September I became Dwayne Durbin’s apprentice—and then I became his slave, spending my time putting in the hours, digging through records, doing all his dog work—which really irritates me, more at myself than him, because I’d
known
this was going to happen.
And though I resented all the crap-work thrown my way, Dwayne wasn’t really around enough for me to work up a head of steam and vent my feelings. He was embroiled in a messy divorce case for Camellia “Cammie” Purcell Denton. His association with the Purcell family was why I’d delved into the Purcell family history in the first place. I admit this was more for my own edification than any true need on Dwayne’s part, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.
That particular September afternoon—the afternoon I wrote my conclusion on the report—was sunny and warm and lazy. It was a pleasure to sit on Dwayne’s couch, a piece of furniture I’d angled toward his sliding glass door for a view of the shining waters of Lake Chinook. I could look over the top of my laptop as I wirelessly searched databases and historical archives and catch a glimpse of sunlight bouncing like diamonds against green water.
Resentment faded. Contentment returned. After all, it’s difficult to hold a grudge when, apart from some tedium, life was pretty darn good. My rent was paid, my mother’s impending visit had yet to materialize, my brother was too involved with his fiancée to pay me much attention, and I had a dog who thought I was ... well ... the cat’s meow.
I finished the report and typed my name on the first page, mentally patting myself on the back for a job well done. Reluctantly, I climbed to my feet and went to check out Dwayne’s refrigerator. If he possessed anything more than beer and a suspect jar of half-eaten, orange-colored chili con queso dip, life would pass from pretty darn good to sublime. My gaze settled on a lone can of diet A&W root beer. Not bad. Popping the top, I returned to the couch and my laptop.
Intending to concentrate, my eyes kept wandering to the scene outside the sliding glass door. Dwayne, who’d been lounging in a deck chair, was now making desultory calls on his cell phone. He stepped in and out of my line of vision as I hit the print button, wirelessly sending information to Dwayne’s printer. Nirvana. I’m technologically challenged, but Dwayne has a knack for keeping things running smoothly and efficiently despite my best efforts. Since I’d acquired my newest laptop—a gift from an ex-boyfriend—I’d slowly weaned myself from my old grinder of a desktop. This new, eager slimmed-down version had leapfrogged me into a new era of computers. It fired up and slammed me onto the Internet faster than you can say, “Olly olly Oxenfree.” (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. Most of the umbrellas are green canvas, but sometimes Jeff Foster, owner and manager of Foster’s On The Lake, adds a bit of fun to the mix, hence the plastic-party-ones. He didn’t notice my arrival or he would have steered me toward a less well-placed table. He knows how cheap I am and tries to give the paying customers the best seats. I was all ready to explain that I was being treated by one of the Purcells but a member of the wait staff I didn’t know let me choose my table. Maybe it was because I’d taken a little extra care with my appearance. I’d unsnapped my ponytail, brushed and briefly hot-curled my hair, tossed on a tan, loosely flowing skirt and black tank top. I’d even done the mascara/eyeliner bit, topping the whole look off with some frosted lip gloss.
The Binkster, my pug, had cocked her head at me and slowly wagged her tail. I took this to mean I looked hot.
I’d forgotten to ask Marta what Jasper looked like. He was a Purcell and the Purcells were wealthy and notorious, so apparently that was supposed to be enough. From my research I knew he was in his mid-thirties. I settled back and ordered a Sparkling Cyanide, my new favorite drink, a bright blue martini that draws envious eyes from the people who’ve ordered your basic rum and Cokes.
I was sipping away when a man in the right age bracket strode onto the patio. He stopped short to look around. I nearly dropped my cocktail. I say nearly, because I’d paid a whopping eight bucks for it and I wasn’t going to lose one drop unless Mt. St. Helen’s erupted again and spewed ash and lava to rain down on Foster’s patio, sending us all diving for cover. Even then I might be able to balance it.

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