Electric Blue (23 page)

Quick as a flash, I shoved the file into my purse, then scurried out of the room, choosing a different exit to the first floor from the one I’d used coming down. As I ascended, tiptoeing, I heard footsteps descending on the route I’d taken down.
Hurry, hurry
, I urged myself, all the while moving quietly forward. At the top of the stairs I peeked through the door. I was just inside the door that led from the waiting area to the inner sanctum. Through a panel of glass, the crotchety receptionist eyed me narrowly.

“What were you doing downstairs?”

“I damn near got myself killed by one of your crazy inmates!” I declared furiously, slamming the stairway door behind me. I stomped through the inner sanctum door to outside reception and glared at her through the front glass. “See this?” I pointed to my clipped ear.

Her lips parted in dismay. I hoped to hell there was a lot of blood showing. I hadn’t had the time nor inclination to look, but head injuries are so gushy. I wondered if I should feign like I was about to faint.

Hurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. The inner door opened again and both the receptionist and I turned. It was Jim Paine. “There you are,” he said. “Oh, my God. You’re—you’re
bleeding
.”

The door flew open behind him. A crowd was pouring through to the front of the building, like lemmings to the sea. Dr. Cal Bergin was one of them. When he saw me, his eyes widened. He started to push past the crowd of birthday well-wishers currently clogging up the hallway.

“Jane, maybe you should sit down,” Jim said, reaching for my arm to guide me to one of the boxy chairs.

All I wanted was to escape. “No, I’m fine. Really.” Dr. Cal squeezed through some of the crowd. The group was loudly worrying about that “crazy woman who tried to kill someone.”

Shit.

“I’ve gotta go,” I said, but Jim hung onto me like a burr.

“Jane, I really think you should have that looked at. That woman attacked you? What happened?”

My teeth clenched. If he called me by my name one more time I was going to smack him. At that moment Dr. Cal made it through the door. “Ms. Kellogg, I am so sorry. We’ve got Mrs. Rowalski sedated. She’s never done anything like this before.”

I heard an echo of dog owners everywhere:
But, he’s never bitten anyone before!
Like it was the victim’s—
my
—fault, somehow.

“No problem. Really.”

“This is so unfortunate. Please be assured your sister would be well looked after. Gina…Mrs. Rowalski…has episodes, but she’s really quite docile.”

Jim Paine, my new defender, looked down his nose at Dr. Cal. “That’s not saying much for your institution, Dr. Bergin. I came here for my great-grandmother’s birthday, but I’m going to recommend moving her. You can’t have paranoid schizophrenics wandering the halls.”

“Mrs. Rowalski is not a paranoid schizophrenic, I assure you.”

I was edging away. Nothing good could come of this. Jim looked around for me, but Dr. Cal was doing his best to convince him that this was just an unfortunate incident. I figured I’d overstayed my welcome at the place, and was making tracks fast.

“Jane! Wait!” Jim called.

I sailed through the front door. I’d just known he was going to be a problem.

I took my time going home, stopping for a much-needed jolt of caffeine at a fast-food restaurant before heading back to Lake Chinook. I cruised over to Dwayne’s cabana but he wasn’t there. I have a key, but I really didn’t want to hang around by myself and wait for him. Glancing at my watch, I swore softly. It was after seven, and I’d promised Cynthia I would be home. However I really wanted to talk to someone about the Purcells. Phoning Dwayne’s cell netted me nothing but his voice mail. He was probably on the job and therefore under the radar.

But I didn’t feel like leaving yet either.

I thought about Jazz. I felt the tug of wanting to be with him, but he was a Purcell, and I kinda suspected he wouldn’t be all that crazy about my sudden desire to investigate his family’s background. That wasn’t why he’d hired me. It was bound to be perceived as snoopy and suspect. And what would he say if I brought up James IV and his knife obsession? Or, the fact that Orchid was haunted by the playhouse?

They’re all crazy.

I’d gotten tired of Dwayne’s assessment, but there was no denying it held more than an element of truth.

“Damn it, Dwayne.” I punched out his number again and when his voice mail answered, I ordered, “Call me. I need to talk to you.”

Using my key, I unlocked Dwayne’s side gate and walked around to his dock. There was still some faint daylight, but it was growing darker by the minute. I sank into one of his deck chairs and sighed deeply. What—a—day.

Feeling tired all over, I called Jazz’s cell. “Hey, there,” he answered right away, sounding happy to hear from me. “Have I thanked you enough for finding Nana? I don’t think so. Thank you.
Thank you!
”

“You’re welcome.” It was such a relief to hear uncomplicated gratitude. I lay my head back and threw an arm over my eyes. I closed my mind to the mess of Cynthia and Ernst, refusing to think about the ramifications of starting a relationship. Because that’s where I was headed. If I saw Jazz, spent time with him, made plans with him, eventually we would end up kissing. And kissing led to more kissing. More kissing led to other things, explorative things, and well, once sex was in the picture, you were through the looking glass. Nothing was ever the same.

But was that so bad? Isn’t it what I wanted, needed,
craved?

“Jazz?” I heard the worry in my voice even when I just mentioned his name.

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad your grandmother’s home. I hope that you can all work it out now, keeping the finances in order, keeping Orchid safe. I’m just…glad,” I said again. Taking a breath, I plunged in further. “I just want you to know that I’ve been doing some background checking, kind of as a means to get a clearer picture.” This sounded lame, even to my own ears. I hurried on, “So, I went to River Shores and asked them about your mother.”

“You did?”

“Orchid—Nana—just seemed bothered by everything so much. I found out some things.”

“What?” He sounded more curious than upset, so I doggedly drove on.

“You told me that Lily died from being restrained.”

“That’s true.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed quickly. “But you also told me she was known for her meekness, and that’s not what it looks like. She was restrained quite a few times before that final time. She was considered a problem to the other patients.”

“A danger?”

“In a way.” I plunged ahead with the information I’d found in her file. “There are references to her extreme sexuality. Apparently she was locked in her room to keep her away from the male patients. She even tried to seduce the staff.”

Silence. I held my breath, aware that I may have seriously blown it.

“Well, that’s just not true.”

“Jazz, it was in her records. Do you think Orchid knows?”

“No…that doesn’t make any sense.” At least he wasn’t slamming down the phone on me.

“I’m going to ask you this. If you think it’s too personal, or you just don’t want to speculate, just tell me and I’ll shut up.” I hesitated, then asked, “Do you know who your father is? Or, have any idea?”

“Not a clue,” he admitted. “I’ve often wondered, but nobody really knows. Or, if they do, they’re not telling.”

I’d read Lily’s file. Quickly, to be sure, but I’d seen enough to recognize several names and dates of people who worked for Haven of Rest. Someone named Zach Montrose had signed and initialed many pages of data. An employee of Haven of Rest, although what his job was wasn’t clear. I’d gleaned information about her pregnancy, but I hoped a closer perusal would offer more insights.

Then Jazz asked, “Why are you doing this?”

I heard a forlorn, little boy quality to his voice, as if I’d really let him down. For reasons I couldn’t explain it put a lump in my throat. I felt terrible. “I just want to help,” I said, but it sounded feeble to my own ears.

“Helping who? Me?”

That sense of nausea—or was it revulsion?—that I’d felt after lunch returned. “I’m sorry. I wanted some answers. Orchid seems distressed and I thought if I had more information about Lily it might make her feel better.”

He didn’t immediately respond. “Did you learn anything else?” he finally asked. I heard a certain amount of trepidation in his voice.

“Not really. I’m not a member of the family. You may not want to, but if you’d like more information, you could ask them yourself.”

“I think I’m okay.”

I nodded, though no one saw me but an osprey gliding above Lakewood Bay, searching for a meal in the last glimmers of twilight. We didn’t have much more to say to each other, and after we hung up I kicked myself for ever starting this. I felt bad. I’d let him down and perversely, now that it felt like it might be over, I wished I’d tried harder to kick start something with him.

Glancing at my watch, I made a sound of distress, then took a quick trip to the local Safeway. Cynthia was bound to be on her way. Grabbing more wine, both white and red, I raced through the deli, tossing cheese, crackers, olives and, my big splurge, a small, shrink-wrapped package of smoked salmon. Personally, I wasn’t in the mood to eat; the food was for Cynthia. All I wanted to do was drink wine and lots of it.

I ended up juggling a couple of large grocery sacks, paper not plastic. The leftover sacks make good luggage—a multipurpose unit that can be a briefcase or an overnight bag or whatever you want.

By the time I got home it was completely dark. My headlights flashed across my driveway as I pulled the Volvo into its spot in front of Ogilvy’s garage and to the east side of the house. Throwing the strap of my purse over one shoulder, I gathered up the bags, balancing them as I attempted to lock my car doors with my key. I don’t have a remote lock. That’s a luxury that didn’t come standard with the ’94 wagons, apparently. One of these days I might have to step up.

I could hear the traffic on West Bay Road as I headed to my front door. Not a ton; the street’s narrow. But enough to make walking on it hazardous. There are no sidewalks and no shoulder. It’s pretty much asphalt and private property. Lots of my neighbors have those little low fences that can put a crease in your door in seconds flat if you get too close to them. Sometimes I simply drive down the center of the road.

With the bags in my arms, I was fingering my keys to find the one for the front door. It had a little key hat on it. “Eureka,” I muttered as I finally felt it, but threading it into the lock was a trick. I finally managed, but as soon as I was inside I tripped over something. “Shit!” I cursed, struggling to hang onto the bags. I bobbed and weaved, practically dropping them onto the coffee table with only minimal damage. The salmon flew out of the top and hit the floor. Binkster came over and sniffed it, but it was sealed, so then she wiggled around my legs, tapping me with her paw.

It was then I saw what she’d done to my strappy sandals. My one good pair. They were in pieces.

I think I screeched first. Then I yelled,
“Binkster!
Look at that! Look what you did!”

She stared at me in confusion. I was furious and hurt.
How could she?
I grabbed up one of the sandals and shook it at her. “You see?” I yelled. “You see?” She’d chewed through one of the straps. “They’re
ruined!”

Her tail went down and she cowered. I was too angry to make nice just yet. I tossed the shoe in the corner and it slammed against the wall with a crack.

That’s when Binkster ran out the front door.

“Binks!” I yelled again, this time in fear. She doesn’t go out front. She doesn’t understand about the street.

And that’s when I heard the car turn into the drive.

I yelled in pure fear. I ran out after my dog. Cynthia’s headlights picked her up the split second before Binkster ran in front of her tire.

I heard a doggy shriek. I screamed.

Cynthia slammed on her brakes and my terror-stricken gaze fixed on the crumpled body of my little pug.

I
ran to Binkster. She was lying still in the headlights. I was soul sick. Frightened and cold to my core. Cynthia cut her engine and stepped out.

Teeth chattering, I bent over my dog. Her shriek still reverberated in my ears.

My mind bloomed in a picture of bloody gore. I’d stop screaming but I was still screaming inside. So overtaken by fear that my eyes rained tears. I was totally at fault. I called myself names:
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
I’d even been warned by the gal who dropped Binks into my care that dogs just don’t get it about cars. Especially little dogs, for some reason.

We were caught in the headlights’ glare. Cynthia muttered over and over again, “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God…” Her face was a mask of shock. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know…she…I don’t know…”

I was kneeling down beside her. Binks tried to sit in her little sidesaddle position but it must have hurt too much so she lay on the ground, panting, staring up at me with trusting eyes. I was useless. A hateful person. I shouldn’t be allowed to have a dog. Any pet. I’d been thinking of myself. Only of myself.

“I—I—I need a blanket,” I said dully.

“I’ll get it.”

Cynthia strode into my house. My tears fell onto Binkster’s head. She blinked a bit and kept panting.

Cynthia returned with my TV watching quilt. Gently we lifted the dog onto the blanket. I carried her to Cynthia’s car, and Cynthia got behind the wheel. I realized my front door was wide open so I called Dwayne, told him what happened, asked him in an ultra-calm voice to please come over and shut the door.

I knew where the veterinary hospital was. Not that I was responsible enough to have been looking for it. I’d just happened on it one day and thought, “Oh, look. There’s a pet hospital. Good to know.”

I directed Cynthia to Tualatin, which is the city just southwest of Lake Chinook. The dog hospital is inside one of the buildings of a quasi-industrial/quasi-commercial center on the edge of city center. We drove in silence except for Binks’s panting. I couldn’t stop crying. It was soundless. The torment was inside me. I have never hated myself so much, been so utterly helpless or so frightened.

We entered the front doors to a small waiting area. We weren’t the only ones there. Someone actually had a black crow. “It flew into the window,” the man holding the box with the crow told us.

I started feeling competitive about who should see the vet first. It was a good sign, as it brought me out of my stupor.

I held the dog and stood at the desk. Immediately a girl came to help and said, “Ohhh,” in a soft, mothering voice to Binks. That started the waterworks again. I’d gotten myself under control but now I was just…gone.

Cynthia stepped up and gave the particulars. There was a tremor in her voice. Neither of us had ever had any experience in this mothering, care-taking, loving someone more than yourself thing.

It was
awful.

They carefully took Binkster away. We sat back down as the guy with the crow was admitted to a back room. That left us with a woman with an obese orange tabby, and a family fighting over who got to hold the whining puppy with the piddling problem. Mom and Dad had opted out, but the kids kept pulling it back and forth. Little droplets of pee were all over them and the floor. One of the staff came out and took the dog, which sent the kids into a whining match that neither could win. Both of them wanted to go through the door to be with the dog. Mom and Dad ignored them.

I, too, wanted to be with my dog. I had a little bit of blood on my suede skirt. It wasn’t till the next day I realized it was my own. Then I was sort of pissed that my skirt was ruined by the knife wielder. But that night, while I thought it was Binky’s, it drew my gaze like a magnet. I’d stopped crying but I felt drained and horrible, my eyes dry and scratchy.

“The dog’s going to be all right,” Cynthia said.

“I know.”

Eventually we were called back to the desk. The Binkster was being anesthetized and then they would stitch her back up. She got nailed by the front bumper, but somehow managed to avoid the tire. She got a nasty slice up her thigh—which they would shave and stitch. The cut was deep and had sliced through muscle, but nothing else. She would be very sore, but in time she would be good as new. I was told not to worry; she was a brave little soldier.

That did me in again. My eyes teared and I hated myself some more.

They suggested we leave her overnight and pick her up in the
A
.
M
. They would call when she was ready to go home.

I shivered, as if stricken with malaria all the way home. Dwayne’s truck was parked beside my Volvo, which brightened my spirits a little. I begged Cynthia to come inside and have a glass of wine. She dutifully walked through the door but said she couldn’t force down a drink. She said she’d ended things with Ernst and would tell me about it later. Once she saw me inside, she left.

When I walked in Dwayne was seated on my couch, his expression grim. He stood up as soon as I entered. “How’s Binks?” he asked.

“Back leg injury. She’s going to be fine.” And the tears just burst from my eyes. The sobs I’d held in check until that moment racked my body. “I’m an idiot,” I said. “And I can’t stop crying.”

I went into the kitchen and found a chilled bottle of Sauvignon blanc. Uncorking it, I poured two glasses, one for me, one for Dwayne.

He said, “You sure you want a depressant?” as I sat down beside him on the couch. When he put a hand on my shoulder, though I appreciated the contact, I wanted to fall into his arms.

For an answer I gulped down half my glass. “I was feeling sorry for myself. And Binks ripped up my shoe…and I threw it against the wall…”

“She’s going to be fine.”

“I yelled at her…and…she ran out…”

“Shhh.”

“It was horrible to watch,” I choked.

“I can imagine.” He was sober.

“It’s scary to care so much about something.” I shook my head, fighting for control. Giving up, I tossed back the rest of my glass, climbed off the couch, headed to the kitchen, poured myself another. “I think I’m going to get drunk,” I said.

“I might join you,” he said. “All right if I stay over?”

“Please do.”

And we proceeded to work our way through two bottles. We might have uncorked a third. Things got pretty fuzzy in there somewhere but I was glad the world was dull. I found myself longing for Jazz. I was suffering from some serious self-loathing and I needed a cheerleader. I think Dwayne tried to help. I don’t really recall. I vaguely remember trying to explain something to Dwayne—something about love, truth and the secrets to world peace, but I don’t think he took me seriously.

Somewhere in there I found my way to bed. I’d never felt so low, so miserable, so weary. I’d drunk way too much wine and don’t remember quitting. In the morning I woke with a low level sense of dread. I peeked through one eye and groaned. Sunlight was trying to creep between the slats of my bedroom blinds. I was on my side, so I reached behind me for Binkster before I remembered she was at the hospital. My heart sank just as my hand encountered a human leg.

My eyes flew open. And my head screamed with pain. And my throat cried, “Water!”

My guest heard me and got out of the bed, apparently heeding my request. The movement and the faint squeak of the springs caused my head to pound. Damn, but I hurt all over. I would have whimpered and stayed in bed all day, but I’d begged for this punishment, so I was going to take it like a man.

That lasted about two minutes as Dwayne came back into the bedroom carrying a glass of water. He’d been naked, I’m pretty sure, while in bed with me, but he’d had the decency to throw on his jeans in the meantime. I looked at his expanse of bare, broad chest, threw my arm over my eyes and groaned again.

“Did we have sex?” I asked. I feared if I dug through my memory too hard that’s what I would discover.

“No.”

“No?” I lifted my arm and looked at him. There was something way too satisfied about his appearance. “Oh, God, are you trying to spare my feelings? Don’t bother. I can take it.”

“You sure, darlin’?”

His drawl was in full force. It sounded like “Ya, shore, dahlin?” with a few extra syllables thrown in for good measure.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said tiredly.

“We did not have sex.”

I heard the ring of truth this time, and I tested my feelings. I was glad we hadn’t done something foolish, glad I didn’t have to deal with a new aspect to our relationship, glad I could focus on Jazz as a possible date/boyfriend/ something in the romance department.

“Thank God,” I said fervently.

Dwayne continued to stare down at me and I started to get a funny feeling. Something wasn’t right. “We did not have sex,” I repeated. “That’s what you said.”

He nodded.

“Did
not.
”

“That’s right. We did not…have sex.”

I heard an unspoken “but” in there and I grimaced, afraid to ask. I waited until the suspense stretched to intolerable lengths. Staring back at Dwayne with dread, I said, “We did not have sex, but…?

“…we had soul-searing lovemaking,” he said with a straight face. “The kind that makes the planets realign, the kind that explodes the myth that men don’t feel as much emotion as women. I was transported to another world. I have never felt these
feelings
before.” He looked toward the ceiling, placed a hand on his chest, and quoted earnestly, “‘I’ve known love, but never have I known ecstasy and beauty in—”

I threw a pillow. He deflected it easily.

“—the light of true honor and worthiness and—”

“You’re making that up.”

“—and…damn. You’ve broken my concentration.”

“Drop dead.”

I realized belatedly that I was stark naked. I’d been too wrapped up in my pain and angst to sense that there was nothing covering my lower parts. A stab of panic. Maybe we had made love. Maybe he was trying to spare my feelings. I asked, hating the little note of anxiety in my voice, “Are you going to tell me the truth?”

“Now, that hurts, Jane. You can’t even remember.”

“I say nothing happened.”

“Maybe it’ll come back to you.”

I lifted my head and guzzled the water. Pain shot from the top of my head and settled behind my eyes. Yep. I’d really done it to myself. “Is it time to get Binkster yet?”

“Not for a couple of hours. Want me to make breakfast?”

“Yes,” I said in surprise. Something loaded with grease and carbs. True hangover food.

“Got anything to make?”

“You’ll have to go to the store.”

“Hmm.”

He left the room and presumably put on his shirt, socks and shoes. I heard him leave my house, locking the door behind him. Dwayne has a key to my place as I have one to his. We’d exchanged them in the spirit of becoming new business partners. Now I wondered about the repercussions. Had I slept with him? No. He would never be so cavalier…would he?

Growling under my breath, I stepped from the bed. My stomach rolled over. I saw the baleful fish eye again. With a hand clapped over my mouth I sprinted to the bathroom. I threw up lustily until I was spent.

Thank God, I’m alone, I thought, curled up naked around the bottom of the toilet. I stayed that way long after Dwayne returned and began frying bacon and making toast. My mouth watered, more from leftover misery than hunger. I really wanted to make it back to bed but I couldn’t.

Dwayne strode by the open bathroom door on his way to the bedroom, caught sight of me and stopped short. I’d curled myself in a ball so I didn’t feel so exposed. I decided I was going to live because I started worrying about how big this position made my thighs and butt look.

Dwayne looked excruciatingly put together in his totally Dwayne way. I said, “I must have had more to drink than you did.”

“Y’think?”

“Shut up. I’m paying the price.”

Dwayne asked, “You want breakfast in there, or do you think you’ll make it to the kitchen?”

I gave him the finger and he grinned.

My heart fluttered in a strange way, and I knew I was in big, big trouble.

Picking up Binkster was beyond stressful. I had Dwayne drive me. I’d ignored him throughout breakfast, what I could eat of it, and ignored him some more afterward. I had a new awareness of him that I did not want to acknowledge. Lucky for me, Dwayne didn’t seem to notice. In fact, everything was so damn normal it was enough to make me want to scream. Not that I would, given my raging headache. I’d carefully taken some aspirin and water before we bumped in his truck back to the hospital. Dwayne was humming some country western song. He was really pissing me off. Cynthia had called and offered to be part of the pickup team, but I told her I wanted to go on my own. But then with Dwayne cleaning up the dishes and me feeling a bit lost, I didn’t argue when he offered to take me.

They brought Binks out. She was glassy-eyed and her back leg was shaved, stitched and smeared with some kind of yellow/orange iodine thing. She looked like something out of a horror flick. There was this neck cone thing around her neck which I was told she should wear until I was told otherwise; they wanted to prevent her from trying to lick the wound. I pointed out that I thought “licking a wound” was supposed to be a good thing. They merely smiled politely.