Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [179]
“Is he still working for her?”
“I think it’s finished,” I answered, though 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 children’s 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 was seemingly 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.”
Jasper Purcell?
“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, late-September 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.”
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. How bad could the Purcells be?
Two hours later I parked my Volvo wagon and walked into Foster’s-on-the-Lake, snagging a patio table beneath one of the clear-plastic, faux-grass umbrellas, which sported a commanding view of Lake Chinook. Most of the umbrellas