Authors: Nancy Bush
As soon as the door was open Binkster trotted up to us, wriggling in delight at meeting my mother. Mom gazed down into the dog’s little black face. “Who’s this?” she asked. “And what’s with the lampshade?”
“Mom.” My voice took that tone I despise in others, that one where you’re holding onto yourself with everything you’ve got because you just might
snap
. “This is the dog you foisted on me. The one from ‘Aunt Eugenie’? The friend of yours you promised to take care of her dog when she died.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I remember.”
Did she? I wasn’t sure.
“He’s cute, isn’t he?”
“She. She’s cute. She was in an accident earlier this week and the neck cone is to keep her from licking the wound.”
“Poor little thing,” Mom said.
Was there condemnation in that phrase? It sounded like a Mom thing to say, but I was so tender on the subject I was looking for blame in every syllable.
“I don’t really want to leave her alone tonight,” I said. “Maybe you all should go to Foster’s without me.”
“Nonsense. We won’t be gone long. The dog’ll be fine.” She peered at me. “Honestly, Jane, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What?”
“You’re pretty attached to him.”
I said, succinctly, “Her.”
My mother smiled, her point made. At fifty-five she’s a shorter, plumper and more scattered version of myself: same straight light brown hair, same hazel eyes, same belief that everyone else is slightly off and we’re the only sane people left in the world. I would never tell her that I think she might have gone over to the other side. Conversations with Mom can be tricky.
I took her bag into the bedroom over her protests, making it clear that I’m perfectly happy sleeping on my couch. I brought Binkster’s bed into the living room, so she could sleep by me. She snuffled the cushions hard, making sure it was still hers, I guess, then promptly sat upon it like a throne.
“She’s so cute,” Mom said.
“You think she’s too fat?”
“Well…” Mom trailed off, so I guess I had my answer.
I was itching to do something, but I couldn’t rightly just take off. I’d called Greg Hayden and there were a couple of seventy-two hour notices to deliver, but he’d planned on giving them to someone else as he knew I was into the private investigation thing. I complained loudly. No, I wasn’t through with process serving. I couldn’t be. After all, I very well could have blown the whole gig with Dwayne.
Cynthia text-messaged me, asking how The Binkster was. I’ve tried text-messaging back but it’s not the same as typing on a keyboard and I suck at it. I called her back, got her voice mail, gave her a thumb’s up response, adding that Mom had arrived for her visit.
I tried calling Jazz. We hadn’t talked today, as was becoming our habit, more his than mine, but there it was. I was beginning to get used to having him in my life. But I got Jazz’s voice mail, too. I swear it’s a plot. You either make calls and get everyone you want, or you make calls and no one’s around. I next phoned Dwayne and this time I was glad for that robotic woman telling me to leave a message. I gave him the news about Mom’s arrival, too, trying to sound normal and unaffected, but I think I might have been a bit stilted.
In the end I couldn’t get out of dinner, but the good news was Jazz called back and accepted my invitation to join on. This was a bold move on my part, having my whole family meet him, but I thought maybe they could all talk to each other and leave me out of it.
As it turned out Jazz brought Logan along, too. Oh, happy day. “Logan wanted to see The Binkster,” Jazz said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” I lied. I was originally faintly suspicious of him wanting to be around my dog, but Logan seemed really concerned about Binkster’s injury, showing more humanity than I’d seen so far. So, maybe he really was Jazz’s son and not the devil’s spawn. Time would tell.
Logan also opted out of dinner, which relieved everyone, I’m sure. It certainly didn’t break Booth’s heart as he settled Mom in the front seat of his Jeep and Sharona graciously took the back. Jazz and I followed in his convertible, the top up, as the weather hadn’t known what it wanted to do for days. Sometimes sunny, sometimes rainy, other times blustery, and once in a while a shooting cold wind that made me wish for a down jacket.
Jeff Foster had opened a couple of tables on the patio, but the wind was flapping the umbrellas, sneaking beneath their canopies and threatening to emancipate them. One had actually rocketed its way from its restraints and into the lake. We chose to eat by the inside gas fireplace.
I was right about not having to talk; my family squeezed Jazz like he was auditioning for a game show. I ordered a hamburger—Foster’s does them up right—and let the conversation float around me. Mom clearly thought Jazz was a keeper, and she asked lots of questions about his family. She was horrified to learn about his grandmother’s recent death, and when Jazz attempted to explain how I fit into the equation—how he’d hired me to both check her mental acuity and be her temporary caretaker, and then she’d died—my mother gazed at me in that blank way that makes me think she wonders if I was switched at birth.
Booth regarded Jazz with suspicion, but then he’s that way with everyone. Sharona was simply taken with his good looks, as were most of Foster’s other female patrons. I thought back to my first meeting with Jazz, how bowled over I’d been, and assessed my feelings now. I’d really gotten over that initial hit, hadn’t I? Even when he’d kissed me, I hadn’t really sparked to life.
It was Dwayne’s fault, I thought sourly. He’d ruined me for anything I could have had with Jazz.
Foster came by and was more than nice to my family. I took the opportunity to excuse myself and head to the ladies’ room. Foster followed me. “So, the guy that looks like you is your brother, and you both look like your mother, so that explains that, but the black chick and Mr. GQ?”
“The black chick’s a criminal defense attorney and my brother’s fiancée. Mr. GQ is my date.”
“Really.” He turned to take another look at Jazz.
“He’s Jasper Purcell.”
Foster whipped around and stared at me as if I’d suddenly morphed into something beyond this world. “Jasper
Purcell?”
“You got it.”
I left him thinking that over. I was kind of pissed off later when we were finishing dinner and Foster sent over a crème brûlée and five forks, on the house. You have to be important to get any freebies. Sheesh. What a rotten world. I’d like to think bringing Jazz had lifted Foster’s opinion of me, but that was bound to be a pipe dream. He knows me too well.
Anyway, the evening was fairly uneventful and maybe I’ve become an adrenaline junkie or something because I was definitely let down by the time we left for home.
At the house, Jazz looked like he wanted to kiss me, but it was all just too awkward. I walked him out to his car, Logan lagging behind. He regarded us in that freaked out “my parents can’t have a love/sex life” way, so I just said we’d talk the next day.
“We’re going to the lawyer’s office tomorrow. Going over the will,” Jazz said.
“Oh.”
“Garrett’s got the police involved. The medical examiner’s checking Nana’s body.” He sounded repelled.
“Garrett really believes it was foul play?”
“I think he was just blustering, but…” He shrugged.
“There’s no motive to kill her. Everyone in your family seemed to love her, and you already had the POA, so the money was safe.”
“I just feel awful,” Jazz said on a sigh.
“Dad?” Logan called from inside the car. He didn’t like us talking together.
Jazz gave me a quick, hard hug. “Next time we’re together, let’s get that alone time we haven’t found yet.”
They backed out of the drive and I returned to my cottage. Binks had taken up residence on the couch next to Sharona who was giving her all kinds of attention. “When does the cone come off?” she asked.
“Next week. Stitches out. Cone off.”
Booth said, “Are you going to tell us about that guy, or what?”
“He’s just a friend,” I said firmly.
“He really seems to like Jane,” Mom said proudly.
I’d only had one glass of wine with dinner, as it hadn’t seemed like the drink to team with my hamburger. Now, I found my opened Sauvignon blanc, poured myself a glass and offered it all around. Booth chose to uncork a bottle of red and he and Mom indulged. After a while I walked out on my back deck, then down the stairs and across the flagstones to my empty boat slip. I stood looking over the black water of the bay. Across the way, my neighbor to the north’s lights left wiggling lines of illumination across its restless surface.
I heard the back door open and close. I could tell by the approaching footsteps on the wooden steps—sharp, feminine footfalls—that Sharona was joining me. She stood to my right. I gave her a look and noticed she’d chosen some of my leftover white wine.
“There might be a bottle around that hasn’t been sitting in the door of the refrigerator.”
“This is fine,” she said.
Sharona and I are still feeling our way as soon-to-be in-laws. We don’t really talk to each other unless Booth is around. The fact that she’d sought me out, alone, made me wonder what was up.
“Jasper Purcell is awfully good-looking.”
“Yes, he is.”
“He’s not doing it for you, though, is he?”
“I guess not,” I admitted.
“You want to talk about Murphy?” she asked.
I made a face. My second try with my ex-boyfriend hadn’t been that long ago, but it felt like eons had passed. “Murphy isn’t the reason I’m not into Jazz,” I said.
“It’s just not there?”
I shrugged. I didn’t tell her I was having visions of Dwayne’s muscular back. My fingers had felt that flesh and they wanted another chance at him. Not that I was going to let it happen.
“Well, I’m glad,” she said. “I came down here to talk you out of him, if I had to, but it looks like I don’t.”
I looked at her in surprise. “Talk me out of Jazz?”
“He’s beautiful, but there’s not much going on there, is there? I noticed he rubbed his head a few times, as if he’s constantly fighting a headache.”
“He does that. He was in an accident. And he has some short-term memory loss.”
“Oh.”
We fell silent. I hated to admit it, but I kind of understood what she meant, all the same. There was something slightly unformed about Jazz. It was a minor thing, though. Jazz was nice, and he liked me, a lot, and he was gorgeous and wealthy.
My mind swept back to our first meeting again. I’d enjoyed the other women’s eyes on him. I’d enjoyed being the one with the handsome man.
Hardly enough to base a whole relationship on.
We walked back toward the steps to the deck. I said, “I’ll be right up. I’ve got to make a phone call.”
I watched her join the others, then I whipped my cell from my pocket. I felt slightly furtive, like I wasn’t being completely honest with Sharona as I placed a call to Dwayne. I was preparing my message when he suddenly answered.
“Hey, there,” he said.
I didn’t bother with preliminaries. I told him the M.E. was closely examining Orchid’s body, checking for signs of foul play, and I finished with, “Jazz thinks Garrett was just making noise and didn’t really want an investigation. He’s probably right. I can’t think of any reason someone would want to kill Orchid. They had the POA.”
“And the POA was legit?”
“I never heard differently.”
“What are the terms of her will?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then the family should have wanted to keep her alive, otherwise they’re at the mercy of the will. Grandma might have some favorites.”
“Funny you should say that. Logan said Orchid promised that he would get everything.”
“She told him that?”
“Apparently.”
“Hmmm…nasty business, family inheritances. So, what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to talk it over.”
There was a pause, and then Dwayne’s drawl came over the line, raising the little hairs along my arms, “I think you miss me a little.”
“Dwayne, don’t go there.”
“C’mon, Jane. Be honest.”
“Are you trying to be a pain in the ass? ’Cause I gotta say, you’re doing a hell of a job.”
“You want to have sex with me.”
I could scarcely find my voice. I was sputtering so much I sounded like Donald Duck. “First of all, this conversation is unreal. You and I are business partners and that’s it, and that’s all it’ll ever be. And second…just so you know? I could never have sex with someone named Dwayne.”
“You can hardly wait.”
“Nope. It’s in my rule book: No Dwaynes.”
“I’m going to have to see that rule book sometime.”
“Never,” I said and hung up on his laughter.
T
he next day I put a call into directory assistance for a Zach Montrose in the city of Salem or the surrounding vicinity of Brooks/Keizer. There was one Z. Montrose. It was ten o’clock in the morning and Mom was in the backyard with Binks, and I was sitting around with time on my hands. My decision to follow up on River Shores and Lily was more an act of desperation than a real need for information: Mom was driving me crazy.
After my conversation with Dwayne I’d gone back inside the cottage to say my good-byes to everyone. As soon as Booth and Sharona were out the door, Mom took her turn grilling me about Jazz. I’d been forced to parry and thrust: every time Mom asked me about Jazz, I brought up Sharona. Yes, Mom thought Sharona was great. She was black, beautiful, successful and totally into Booth. And Booth was just as enamored of her. No, Mom had no problems with their relationship, but she had a ton of advice about mine.
I ignored her, begged exhaustion and flopped myself on the couch. This morning I pretended I had business to attend to, ergo the search for Zach Montrose. This, at least, got her attention diverted from me and back to the upcoming wedding, where it should be. I was just thrilled to be out of her cross hairs.
I dialed Montrose’s number, expecting an answering machine or voice mail in the middle of the day, but a woman answered. Her “Hello?” sounded distinctly cranky.
“I’m looking for Zach Montrose,” I said, using my sunny, “not a darn thing to worry about” voice.
She made a disparaging sound. “Aren’t we all? Why don’t you try the gym? You got an appointment with him, talk to them. I’m not his secretary.” She slammed down the receiver.
Hmmm…. I went online and found the name of six fitness centers around the area. On the fourth one I was informed that Zach didn’t have anyone till noon. Would I like to be scheduled before or after? After, I told them, but I would call back. It sounded like Zach was some kind of personal trainer.
Debating on whether I really wanted to shoot down to Salem on what might be a fool’s errand, I put another call into Greg Hayden. Wonder of wonders, he finally had a seventy-two hour for me to post. He’d saved it for me, he said. Gleefully I drove to his office, gleefully I picked up the notice, and gleefully I drove to the address. He needed to evict a group of apartment-dwelling druggies who played their music too loud, took over more than their share of parking spots and intimidated everyone over the age of thirty with their tattoos, sneers and body odor.
Greg was almost glad they were late on the rent. “Reason to move them out,” he said.
So, I went to the apartment complex with my notice in hand. Mostly these kind of people really intimidate me, too. The more tattoos, the more cautious I become. Sure, they’re cool now, but I sense something more than just “body art” going on there. An attitude seems to come with the territory. I’ve only met one guy with major tats who seemed like a sweetie. I learned later he was on some major tranquilizer to help him with his aggression problem.
But…it’s a job, as they say. I pulled into the parking lot, my senses on high alert as I’ve had issues delivering seventy-two-hour notices. Dogs are a continual problem. But today I was feeling ornery. I had this sort of “bring it on” attitude that I sensed could backfire on me, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it.
The complex was two stories, an L-shape wrapped around a parking lot in need of new asphalt. I knocked on the door to 215 and waited about half a minute. No answer. Fine. I taped the notice to the door. I normally like to put the paper in the hands of the occupant because then I know they’ve got it. No lying about it later. But if they weren’t home, it was their problem.
The door opened just after I’d taped the notice up. I stared at a guy about my same height who appeared tattoo-less and wearing a sport coat and tie. “Well,” I said in some surprise.
He took a look at the notice, snatched it off and crumpled it, then turned to me in that cold way that warns of serious psychological problems. “Fucking bitch,” he sneered, smiling coldly at me.
Now, 999,999 times out of a million I would just turn and run. The notice was posted. I’d seen him grab it. The issue was resolved. Game over. But I was dealing with some psychological issues of my own: Dwayne, Binkster’s injuries, the screwed-up Purcell family and my mother’s visit. And I was dying to kick some butt.
I said in a steely voice, “Say that again, fucker.”
“What?” His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Say that again and I will mace you and tell everyone you attacked me.” I slipped my hand inside my purse, keeping the lie alive. “And believe me, you’ll be arrested for assault.”
“You can’t do that!” he sputtered.
“Watch me. Go ahead. Say it again.”
“Are you crazy? I can’t screw around with you. I’ve got a fucking job interview!”
“Then you’d better start learning how to address a lady, if you want that job.”
I turned on my heel and marched down the stairs to my car. He slammed the door closed. I silently went through my litany of swear words, just to make myself feel better. A soccer mom with a couple of kids eyed me as I headed to my car. “What are you looking at?” I snarled. She emitted a scared squeak and herded the kids quickly inside her apartment.
I looked in the rearview mirror and admired the greenish bruises and scrapes on my face. No makeup today had been an inspired choice.
I felt a whole lot better about life.
Mom and I had lunch together. I took her to The Pisces Pub, where she admired the scarred wooden furniture and curly fries. I asked about the four-plex unit in Venice that we own together. Mom manages the four-plex, and she also owns a small house about two blocks closer to the beach. All the while Booth and I were growing up in southern California, Mom worked as an office manager for various companies. She bought the house she was renting from an older couple who wanted to move back home to Nebraska. Go figure. Then Mom got to know the owner of the apartment complex (I sometimes suspect she and he might have been lovers, but Mom won’t cop to that) and he sold her the four-unit for a song. At the time of the apartment sale I was working as a bartender at a local bar, Sting Ray’s. I lived with Mom—yes, this living arrangement lasted way past its pull date—and had saved a fair amount of money. Not that I was paid tons at my bar job, but I can live on next to nothing if need be; it’s become kind of a habit. So, Mom let me buy in and now whenever I worry about my finances I just think about that piece of property, sitting in Venice, escalating in value at ridiculous rates. Better than therapy.
“I’ve got a problem with one of the tenants,” Mom admitted now. “I might have to evict him.”
Okay, nope. This was not what I wanted to hear. I get anxious about evictions when it concerns my own property. I’ve seen what angry tenants can do to a place. I almost asked, “What’s wrong?” but stopped myself. I didn’t want to know. I said instead, “What do you think Sharona’s parents are like?” which sent my mother back down the wedding track like a fast-moving train.
I hustled her out of The Pisces as soon as I could, deposited her back at the cottage with Binkster, pled an afternoon’s work ahead of me, then turned the Volvo south toward Salem. As long as I was pretending I was on a job, I might as well act like I was on a job. I might even learn something.
Zach Montrose worked at a place called The Body Shop. By virtue of its name alone, I might have expected to take my car in for a buff and puff if the woman on the phone hadn’t said he was at the gym.
I drove into its front lot and up to a brick building with floor to ceiling windows along one wall. Inside, people were sweating on a variety of killer-looking machines. I figured this was one of those membership types of places and I was going to have to do a song and dance to see Zach. I sighed to myself. Sometimes the series of hoops it takes to get through a day makes me bone weary.
Wishing I could dig up some of the earlier aggression I’d felt when I’d delivered the seventy-two-hour notice, I walked up to the reception desk, searching for some kind of story to get me what I wanted. There were two young, buff males behind the counter wearing Crest Ultra smiles. I took it as a good sign; at least I wasn’t facing another battle-ax receptionist.
“Hi, I’m Veronica. Ronnie,” I said with a smile. “I’m looking for Zach Montrose.” To my right was a glass wall. I could see a full gym to the left and the body-torquing machines to the right. The gym was half a floor down and a three-foot-high wall topped by a rail looked into it from the torture chamber.
“Zach’s busy with someone right now.” He glanced through the glass. I followed his gaze and saw a gray-haired man with an incredibly hard body helping some gal as she sat on one of the machines, lifting leg weights. I could see her strain from here.
I put Zach somewhere in his mid-forties. He could be older, but he was in great shape. At any rate, he was within the right age range to be the Zach Montrose who’d worked at Haven of Rest.
“Do you have a membership with us?” one of the buff boys asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“I’m just trying it out. Zach’s been telling me what a great facility you have here.”
“He has?” They exchanged looks. “Weird. I don’t mean to be a jerk, but Zach hates everything and everybody. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say anything nice about anything.” They both kind of laughed.
“I guess there’s always a first time.”
“I guess,” he said dubiously.
Note to self:
Be more careful on this lying thing
.
I settled myself in a chair and waited for Zach’s session to end. There appeared to be some flirty stuff going on between Zach and his client. I saw the two guys exchange another look, and I suspected Zach might be an older version of Complete Me’s Trevin. I swear to God, how do these women fall for these guys? What is it about them that I simply miss?
Twenty minutes later Zach’s sweating client headed for the showers. “You can catch him now. Go on in,” the talkative one of the two directed. “And if for some reason you find Zach’s not the trainer for you, don’t hold it against us. The Body Shop’s got a lot of trainers. Younger…nicer…”
“Duly noted.”
I headed inside. Zach had grabbed a mammoth-size water bottle and was pouring the liquid down his throat. He saw me coming and put the bottle down, wiping his mouth with the back of a very hairy forearm. I wondered about little hairs catching in his teeth, but his smile of greeting seemed fur-free. “Hullo,” he said. “Looking for me?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“You look in pretty good shape,” he assessed. “Could use some upper arm development. What happened? Someone attack you?”
“No…”
He examined my face. “You look a little beat up.”
Well, that was a bitch. Before lunch with Mom I’d applied makeup, done my darnedest to make myself look attractive, but my bruises apparently showed through. I couldn’t wait for them to disappear. “You got a minute?” I asked. “I’m really interested in talking more than joining the club.”
“Yeah? You want to interview me?” He was clearly puzzled.
We walked over to a stairway that led to an upper loft and a café. I snagged a menu, saw way too much healthy stuff, and was glad I’d had lunch with Mom. Zach ordered some kind of protein shake from a gal at the front counter. It came out looking like lavender goop.
“Hit me,” he said, throwing away the straw and plastic top as we settled onto a bar-height table, the kind that make my feet dangle. He drank the shake like the water, lustily, with more energy than finesse. Again he wiped his mouth with his arm but this time a smear of protein goo caught in the hairs.
“Are you the same Zach Montrose who worked at Haven of Rest, now River Shores?”
He froze, his dark eyes boring holes into mine. “About a lifetime ago.”
“Do you remember Lily Purcell?”
“Who are you? What do you want? I’m not talking to you.” He got up abruptly and started striding downstairs.
“Wait. Wait a minute.” I doggedly raced after him.
“Get lost,” he told me, heading for the front doors. The guys behind the desk looked at me, eyebrows raised, as I charged after Zach into the late afternoon chill. “I’m not talking to you or anyone else about that. I’m done, okay? It’s way over. It wasn’t my fault then, it’s not my fault now.”
“Her death?”
“That, too. Jesus. You’re not talking about the baby?”
“Well…I don’t know.”
To my shock he suddenly wrapped his hand around my neck and shoved me against the outside brick wall. To my right was the row of windows but no one could see us at this angle.
“I’m not the kid’s father. Sure, we screwed around, but she screwed around with everybody. She was like stink, y’know? You couldn’t get her off you. I was
seventeen
. What did I know? I just went for it. So sue me! I’m sick of having it ruin my life!”
His fingers tightened. I wondered briefly if he used steroids and was ’roiding out on me. I hadn’t realized Lily was going to be such a hot button. We stayed that way for a moment or two. I counted my heartbeats and remained silent.
“And it wasn’t my fault she died,” he added a bit more calmly. “You wanna know about that? You talk to her sister. Got another flower name. I don’t remember. But she’s the one got her so upset that we had to hold her down. I said this at the time but that family of hers wasn’t interested in the truth. You working for them?”