I didn’t have to ask Wayne’s secret—I already knew it. He’d failed to protect the man who’d hired him as a bodyguard. Or at least that’s the way he perceived his boss’s death, a boss who had become his friend. And Wayne had never gotten over that perceived failure.
We were almost home when I realized I hadn’t asked what Steve Summers’ worst secret was.
“Wayne,” I started. “What about—”
“Kate, stop,” Wayne ordered.
“Huh?” I spit out, startled. “I thought you were willing to talk to me.”
“I am. I meant stop the car,” he explained sheepishly. “We have to get groceries.”
And then I realized we’d never had lunch. That was why my insides were gurgling and growling for attention. Though neither of us had an appetite, Wayne would see it as his duty to feed me.
By the time I’d stopped the Toyota, we’d already passed the local health food supermarket, so I drove around the block and eased my tired car into a parking space, dropping my keys back into my purse, lost in thought.
Wayne and I shopped mostly in silence. Under his instruction, I stalked the aisles for basil, eggplant, and three kinds of marinated tofu as we each thought about Steve. Steve might have been dead, but the market was alive. A man in a business suit and a ponytail raced his cart past me while a mother cooed to her screaming child, “Serena, please be quiet.” Bad choice of a name, I thought and found the jasmine rice. Wayne didn’t seem to see or hear anyone. He shopped mechanically, dropping healthy groceries into the basket and occasionally asking me to find something for him.
The woman at the checkout counter wished us a “harmonious day” once she’d been paid. Too late, I thought, and we headed back out to the car.
Unlike Wayne’s Jaguar, my Toyota hadn’t moved without us. That was a relief. But there was another car in the parking lot that I hadn’t expected to see: Carl Russo’s Lincoln Mercury. I caught a glimpse of Mike Russo’s face behind the wheel and then the car was gone, backing up and racing out of the lot like it was on fire.
I turned to Wayne.
“Is Mike old enough to drive?” I asked, trying to figure out the logistics. Had Carl driven home and handed his car off to Mike, or had Mike driven Carl to the library? If he had, he hadn’t come in with his father for the police interrogation.
“Apparently, he’s old enough,” Wayne muttered.
We climbed back in the Toyota, but I didn’t start it up right away. I was tired of talking to my windshield. I wanted to see Wayne’s face.
“What about Steve?” I began again.
Now that I was seeing Wayne’s face, I saw that it didn’t look good. Or happy. Sweat was beaded on his pitted forehead, and the lower half of his eyes, visible under his brows, looked bleary. And then there was the color of his skin, a mottled red and white combination that would have looked nice on a rose but was a little scary on a human being.
“Honey, are you all—” I began.
“Steve said he didn’t write a story he should have,” Wayne gruffly interrupted my attempt at consolation. “Said the story would have helped others.”
“That’s it?” I objected. “Some worst secret.”
“You know Steve,” Wayne growled, turning his head away from me. I might as well have been looking at the windshield. “Everything was black and white, right and wrong to him.”
“And he always did right,” I agreed. “But what was the story?”
Wayne turned back to me, the muscles in his face tightening.
“Steve wouldn’t talk about the unwritten story to the whole group. That’s what he told me today on the way out of the library—that later he wanted to get together with me, alone, and explain.”
My brain began to tingle along with my body. Now I really wanted to know about the story.
“Was it about someone in the group?”
“I don’t know.” Wayne shook his head. “I hate to think so. But the ‘worst secret’ discussion seemed to upset him. And he was quiet today, even more than usual.”
“It could have been any of them,” I said under my breath. But what was there to interest a journalist of Steve Summers’ caliber? I’d heard the worst secrets, and none of them was bad enough to write home about. Certainly, none of them was interesting enough for an article.
“Where was everyone?” Wayne asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Does it matter?” I questioned. “Anyone could have done it and been at work or at home by the time Wooster’s people got there.”
Wayne’s shoulders slumped. This wasn’t going to be easy. We sat in silence for a few minutes.
“It could have been any of them,” I repeated and retrieved the bunch of keys from my purse.
“Or none of them, Kate,” Wayne argued. “It could have been a total stranger. It could have been the checker in the store. It could have been—”
“But why your car?” I pushed him. “Was someone mad at both of you?”
Wayne didn’t answer me. His skin just grew more mottled. It was hot in the car. Maybe we should have just gone home to eat. But somehow, I wasn’t ready.
“Or it might have been someone’s significant other,” I added. “Everyone but you probably went right home and spilled the beans.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Wayne,” I explained, keeping an incipient whine out of my voice by pure will. “You’re the only one who takes this confidentiality stuff seriously. Don’t you think that Isaac told Helen, and Garrett told Jerry, and Ted—” I stopped myself. “Well, maybe not Ted.”
“Kate,” Wayne muttered, so low I could barely make his words out. Was there a sob in his voice? “Steve took confidentiality seriously.”
It was a sob. Wayne’s face was more mottled than ever. I saw tears running out of his closed eyes.
Of course. How could I have forgotten so soon? Wayne had seen Steve Summers’ body up close. And he’d cared for the man.
“Wayne, I…I…” I turned awkwardly in my seat and wrapped my arms around my husband.
He seemed to sink into me then.
“He was a good man, Kate. He helped me with my writing. He never minded looking at it…” Wayne’s voice faltered as he began to cry in earnest.
“I’m sure he didn’t,” I soothed.
“And…” He faltered again, then spoke through his tears. “And I failed him.”
Of course Wayne thought he failed Steve. Wayne felt guilty over unrest in foreign countries, over the fate of the spotted owl, over poverty, over the spiritual condition of the human race. Steve Summers’ death had to be his fault. Just like his boss’s had been.
“Wayne, it wasn’t your fault,” I said quietly.
“But—”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said more firmly.
“I should have—”
“No should-haves,” I insisted. “All we can do now is move on from here.”
Wayne straightened up out of my arms. I got back to business, hoping to distract him, to derail his guilt.
“Do any of these secrets add up to a murder motive for one of the group members?” I stopped and thought back for a moment. “Or,” I added, lowering my voice, “for their significant others?”
The derailment plan worked.
“Kate, no. How could they?”
“How about Janet’s reaction to Ted’s affair?” I put in.
“Janet would have killed Ted, not Steve,” Wayne responded.
“All right, all right,” I conceded. “But how about Helen?”
“The same thing,” he insisted. “Helen should have been angry with Isaac, not Steve. And Jerry cares for Garrett. And Laura cared for Steve. And why would Mike Russo be angry with Steve? And Van has too many girlfriends to count anyone as significant. None of it makes any sense.”
I lifted the keys in my hand. And I felt them again. They were too light. They jangled differently.
And suddenly I knew why. My spare key for Wayne’s car was gon
e.
“The potluck,” I whispered, remembering in that instant when the weight and jangle of my key ring had changed.
Wayne and I looked at each other.
“My key for the Jaguar is gone,” I told him.
“But what…” He stopped speaking as quickly as he had started, his face settling into plain white now, plain sheet white.
“If the key was taken at the potluck…” I began.
- Four -
Then someone who was at the potluck killed Steve,” Wayne finished for me. “Had to be.”
“And whoever it was planned it ahead of time,” I added, feeling cold despite the heat inside the car. This was one time I wished I hadn’t been right. It would have been a lot better if Wayne had been right, and the murderer had been our harmonious grocery checker.
“Kate, are you sure about the time the Jaguar key was taken?” Wayne asked.
I nodded and stuck my Toyota key in the ignition quickly, as if to keep it from disappearing, too. Now it was my turn for a question.
“Wayne, shouldn’t we tell the police about the key?”
“Captain Wooster?” he replied incredulously.
“Well, yeah—”
“Don’t want to throw suspicion on the group members till we’re sure,” he stated. And that was that.
We drove the rest of the way home in silence.
As I pulled into the driveway, I realized that Wayne was going to have to do without his Jaguar for the time being. How long could he exist without his car? I turned off the Toyota, feeling protective. I had a feeling it was going to have another driver pretty often now. I just hoped Wayne would be gentle.
If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in Wayne, Steve, and the fate of my car, I might have recognized the vintage ‘57 Chevy parked so obviously across the street. But as it was, we were halfway up the front stairs, a bag of groceries each in our arms, before either of us noticed the car’s owner, Felix Byrne, at our door—Felix Byrne, a man who was both my friend Barbara’s sweetie and, more importantly, a pit bull of a reporter. Wayne and I halted in the same instant, my muscles cramping, bringing back a kinesthetic memory of my long run after the Jaguar. Felix was a pest, a man who would extract a story with pliers if you didn’t stop him. But how had he found out about Steve Summers’ death so quickly?
Wayne shot out a palm in Felix’s direction, still gripping his bag of groceries with his other hand. “Not now,” he growled.
Felix looked at Wayne, his small and slender body vibrating with hurt all the way up to his luxurious mustache, innocence shining in his dark, soulful eyes.
“Come on, Felix, give us a break,” I chimed in. I’d seen the innocent act before.
But Felix stood his ground, a momentary look of confusion on his face.
“I’ve found Brother Ingenio, Kate,” he said, and then his dark eyes went out of focus.
“Brother Ingenio?” I repeated, trying to remember if there was a Brother Ingenio involved in the Heartlink Group. Unfortunately, my brain lines were down.
“I think he’s my spiritual master,” Felix announced, his voice low and resonant.
Spiritual master? I tried to remember if Felix had ever uttered a spiritual word in my presence besides “Jeez Louise” or “Holy Socks.” Wayne continued up the stairs. I hastily joined him in his earthly ascent.
“I’ve been searching for the real whiz-bang all this time, you know,” Felix went on. “And I think I’ve found it. I went to interview this geek for the Marin Mind, and I was thinking ‘jeez, what a loser,’ but then I met him. He’s so big it’s like he’s in a different time zone, man.” Felix paused as Wayne and I reached the door.
I looked at my sweetie. Was it safe to let Felix in? Wayne shrugged. It was my call.
“Did you really come to see us about Brother Ingenio?” I asked, wishing I had a truth serum on me.
Felix’s soulful eyes narrowed for a moment.
“Why?” he shot back, his voice as suspicious as my own. “Is there another friggin’ reason I oughta be here? You find another stiff or something?”
Damn. He really didn’t know. Yet.
“All right,” I sighed and opened the front door, balancing my bag of food on my hip. “Tell me about your spiritual whiz-bang.”
Felix followed us into the house, babbling while Wayne and I dropped off the groceries in the kitchen. He was still at it when he finally sat on the wood-and-denim couch, and Wayne and I plopped into the swinging chair for two that hung from the rafters.
“…see, this guru guy is the friggin’ real thing. He knows all this cool, hot stuff, about finding joy and divine light…”
I reached over for Wayne’s hand. I couldn’t believe this was Felix speaking. I felt like I was in a different time zone—maybe the Twilight Zone. Wayne’s hand brought me back to the present. But it didn’t erase Felix. Or shut him up.
“…and Brother Ingenio channels all these super-cool people from the other side, man—”
“You mean dead people?” I interrupted.
Felix squirmed a little.
“Well, they’re dead, but they’re super-cool dead people.”
I looked over at Wayne quickly. Dead people was not a good topic right now.
“Why are you telling me, Felix?” I demanded.
“‘Cause you’re a friggin’ part of it, Kate,” Felix breathed, bending forward, vibrating with excitement now. “See, Brother Ingenio says to trust your dreams, and I dreamt about you. In the dream, you said that life was a great mystery. That you had to ask for the truth. But you didn’t say who to ask. You always sleuth the truth, Kate. You know, don’t you? You know—”
The phone rang. I thanked the caller internally for interrupting Felix before I disappointed him because I didn’t know anything at that moment except how much my legs were hurting and my mind was spinning.
It spun a little more after I picked up the phone. Jade, the head warehousewoman for my gag-gift company, Jest Gifts, was on the phone. And Jade never called with good news. I knew it was her even before I heard her angry voice. Wayne had bought me a new phone for my birthday, a phone that could, among other things, identify the phone number of the caller (Jest Gifts, in this case), block incoming calls from certain numbers (I’d been planning on programming in Felix’s number once I figured out how the system worked), and even tell you whether someone else had picked up another extension on the same line (I was sure this feature was for teenage parent-alert).
“You won’t believe it,” Jade greeted me.
I stiffened. I probably wouldn’t believe it. “Tell me,” I ordered.
“You know all the terra-cotta planter mugs for the gardeners?”
“The ones that were just shipped,” I confirmed as calmly as possible. They were probably just broken, I told myself. I could live with that. I drew in a big breath. “The ones for the national gardening convention this weekend?”
“Yeah, those!” Jade squawked indignantly. “Jean stacked all the boxes on the top shelves—the top shelves!”
Then Jade was silent.
Suddenly, I saw it all in my mind: Jean stacking the boxes on the top shelves, then climbing down the ladder, the boxes tumbling down, crushing her on the cold concrete floor.
“Is she still alive?” I whispered.
“Kate?” Jade replied.
“Is she in the hospital?”
“Who?” Jade asked.
“Jean,” I answered impatiently. “How badly is she hurt?”
“She isn’t hurt at all,” Jade told me. “I just wanted you to yell at her for doing something so stupid.”
I sat down in the comfy chair at the end of my desk and began crying. I didn’t want to yell at anyone. I was just glad that my two warehousewomen were alive and well. I wished I could have said the same for Steve Summers. As the tears ran from my eyes, I realized that Wayne wasn’t the only one in shock about Steve Summers’ death. I had simply managed to numb myself with speculation about his murderer.
> “Kate?” I heard Wayne’s voice from the living room. He sounded worried.
I blew my nose and yelled back, “It’s nothing, just some problems at Jest Gifts.”
“Kate, what’s your problem?” Jade demanded.
“Nothing,” I lied again. “Just tell Jean to stack them on the lower shelves. The top shelves are only for soft, light things.”
“I know that!” Jade shouted.
“Good,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later, then.”
“Wait a sec,” Jade stopped me. “I gotta tell you about the acupuncture earrings. They’re all bent. They were shipped that way.”
“I’ll call the manufacturer tomorrow—”
“And the new hollow-tooth computer mousse…”
Business reality, no matter how mundane, has a way of bringing you back to, well, business reality. By the time I hung up the phone, my head had stopped spinning.
I was writing myself notes when Wayne’s business phone rang. I just hoped that a minor crisis at Wayne’s restaurant cum gallery, La Fête à L’Oie, would bring him back to earth, too. A curdled béarnaise sauce, wilted escarole, limp rotini—anything but Steve Summers.
I had actually forgotten Felix until he yelled out from the living room, “Sheesh, Lucy, if no one’s gonna friggin’ listen to me, I’m outta here.”
I kept quiet, but I didn’t hear a door slam.
I made my way back into the living room cautiously. Felix was sitting cross-legged on the couch with his eyes closed.
“Felix?” I tried.
“Shush!” he hissed. “Can’t you see I’m friggin’ meditating?”
I drew myself up to my full height. It wasn’t much, but it was all my short, A-line body had to offer.
“Spirit is everywhere, Felix,” I pronounced. “Go find it in your own apartment.”
He opened one eye.
“Really, Kate?” he asked softly.
“Really,” I assured him, belatedly realizing he was actually taking me seriously. I hoped I was telling the truth. He was asking an agnostic, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 4
