“He was a writer of stature,” Wayne summed up. “We know that, Felix.”
“Maybe he had stature, but just ‘cause everyone thought he was a friggin’ big deal, just because he was soooo full of himself. Mr. Perfect with a pen.”
I resolved to read Steve Summers’ work. He must have been good to stir up this much jealousy.
“How about his wife, Laura?” I asked Felix. “Was she cool?”
“Oh, now Laura Summers is the big banana, all right. All her constituents think she walks on water. She votes the right way, she talks the right way, maybe she even thinks the right way. No one but Oz knows, man.”
“Any questions of propriety?” I pushed Felix. I already knew about Laura’s public persona. I wanted to hear some good gossip.
“Laura Summers?” He laughed. “You gotta be kidding. “We’ve all been trying to find one stinkin’ flaw in that woman for years. Not a friggin’ thing. No smoking a little pot, no leetle affairs, no nothing. She’s bigger than the Pope, man. When she makes a promise, she carries through. And she doesn’t need money. Her parents had mucho buckaroos, ya know what I mean? The woman’s loaded—what she doesn’t give to charity. Mr. and Ms. Perfect, those two.”
Felix leaned forward. “So how about your little pals at Heartlink?” he asked Wayne.
Wayne exercised more self-restraint than Felix had. I could see it in the way he held his hands at his sides, sweat darkening the armpits of his blue T-shirt.
“We keep our boo-hooeys to ourselves,” Wayne informed Felix.
Felix’s face fell.
“Hey, wait a friggin’ second,” he objected. “I gave you what I know. Now it’s payback time.”
“If I come up with a murder motive, you’ll be the third to know,” Wayne promised and moved toward Felix.
Felix jumped off the couch.
“I’ll be back,” he told us.
“Thanks for the warning,” I chirped as he sped out the door and down the front steps. “Have a nice day.”
Once we were sure Felix was gone, Wayne and I got ready for the emergency Heartlink group meeting. Wayne made muffins with shredded coconut and chunks of pineapple and banana while I did my part, worrying. Felix had talked sense somewhere in his screed. One of Wayne’s buddies was probably a murderer, and we were about to go visit them.
The phone rang just as Wayne tastefully arranged his tropical muffins on a china plate and carefully covered them with a linen napkin.
I don’t know why I picked up the receiver. Stimulus-response conditioning is my only excuse. My brother Kevin was on the line when I did.
“Hey, Katie,” he greeted me. I almost hung up then. But he was my little brother, so I couldn’t hang up, no matter how many times I’d told him not to call me “Katie.”
“Xanthe got a flash, and I thought you’d want to hear.” I gritted my teeth. Xanthe was Kevin’s sweetie, a woman who could curse you one day and hug you the next. “So do you wanna know what she said?”
I kept my sigh internal. “Make it short, Kevin. We’re on our way to a meeting.”
“Oh, wow, cool!” he replied. Everything was cool to Kevin. Kevin could be enthusiastic about dust settling. “You’re targeting your energies, I’ll bet. You always do.” I smacked the side of my head. Kevin’s compliments always short-circuited me. He went on. “You know how Xanthe’s in the psychic flow?”
“Right,” I agreed, moving things along.
“Well, she was sitting here working on our latest project, solar-powered kelp. It’s really cool, Katie—”
“And?”
“Oh, yeah, and she flashed that Mom’s planning some kind of sneak attack on you for a formal wedding.”
“Thanks, Kevin,” I said sincerely. “But I already know. It’s Aunt Dorothy.”
“Oh, wow, Katie,” he whispered sympathetically. You couldn’t grow up in our family and not know Aunt Dorothy. Then his voice came back up to normal volume. “Maybe you need some solar-powered kelp. See, the solar power activates the kelp’s healing potential. It’s amazing—”
“Thanks, Kevin,” I said again, not so sincerely. “And thank Xanthe for me.” And then I hung up the phone.
I groaned after I hung up. I was sure I’d hear more about solar kelp soon. And I could almost smell the patchouli oil Kevin and Xanthe habitually wore. I considered figuring out my new phone system and putting Kevin’s phone number on permanent block.
And then I remembered what day it was: Thursday. I’d almost forgotten that Aunt Dorothy was coming in today. But it was too late to stop her, anyway. Aunt Dorothy, AKA the wedding warhead, had already been launched.
Wayne and I finally got out the door, muffins and minds intact. Well, at least the muffins were. Wayne scanned our driveway as we left the house. And then he dropped his eyes. Had he forgotten that his Jaguar had been impounded?
“Toyota,” he muttered, misery in his voice. He had forgotten about the Jaguar.
But my old Toyota ran. In fact, it ran all the way to the Kimmochis’ house in the hills of San Ricardo without a hiccup. I guess it had something to prove.
The Kimmochis’ two-story hillside house was perfect. At least the living room was. Perfect, that is, if you liked their decorator’s use of light and color. Willow green, apricot, and lemon yellow furnishings were softly lit in the living room’s perfect balance, as were the quirky but expensive sconces, pendants, and fixtures. Stone lions, candle groupings, faux baroque mirrors, and paintings that might have been quilted with tiny squares in the same colors as the furnishings made the room visually playful—but only visually. Though the Kimmochis had two daughters, Niki and Zora (eight and thirteen, respectively), there were no children’s toys in the room, no scrawled pictures beloved only by parents. This was a cerebral room. The only thing out of balance was the buffet table filled with potluck goodies and dishes that was centered in front of the faux fireplace.
“Mo-om, it’s Kate and Wayne!” Zora called out as we entered the Kimmochis’ perfect kingdom.
Zora was a beautiful young woman, and was just beginning to realize it. She had her father’s dark symmetrical eyes and jet black hair, and a scattering of her mother’s freckles over her perfect little nose. Niki peeked out from behind Zora, clutching her older sister’s blue-jeaned leg. Niki looked like a princess. A heart-shaped face, long dark eyelashes, and a Laura Ashley frock helped the look.
“Mo-om!” Niki imitated her older sister, shattering the princess illusion.
Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi rushed up then, her red hair the only part of her that was mussed. And even that looked professionally mussed. She was wearing a lemon-yellow dress that looked a lot like her youngest daughter’s. I guess she didn’t get much opportunity to wear ruffles and lace in her role as a financial advisor.
“We don’t yell in this house,” she instructed her girls loudly.
The girls’ eyes widened as they looked at their mother, but they said nothing. I had a feeling that Janet did a lot of yelling in her house. But today, she was a hostess.
“Kate, Wayne,” she greeted us, her voice softening. Then she pecked us each on the cheek, smelling of an expensive scent I couldn’t identify. “So good to see you.”
Somehow the greeting seemed wrong for a group that was minus a murder victim. Still, I smiled and returned a polite hello.
Wayne mumbled something incomprehensible, but probably friendly. Even I couldn’t make out his words. All I could tell was that he was uncomfortable. I looked up into his face, searching for an answer, but Ted Kimmochi had made his way through the room to greet us before I had a chance to find it.
“Such a sad day,” Ted murmured. At least I could understand Ted. “Such a tragedy. Unbearable.”
I nodded. Unlike his wife, Ted recognized the mood of the occasion. Then again, Ted could find a tragedy any time, anywhere, and usually did. Blanche Dubois could have taken lessons from the man.
“Oh, Ted,” Janet admonished. “Don’t be so negative. Did Ted tell you
about the beautification project we’ve started at the San Ricardo Library?”
I shook my head. Ted rarely spoke of anything but himself.
“Well.” Janet took a breath and put her hands on her hips. “That library is a disgrace. Dark and musty. So I offered to help design a new look. Light is the key. When we get the donations, we’ll put in skylights. And pick colors. The community is the important thing…”
Behind her, Carl’s son, Mike, had his hands on his hips and was bobbing his head in an enthusiastic mime of Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi. I shouldn’t have looked because it caused Zora and Niki to look.
“Mo-om, Mike’s—” Zora began.
“—being really, really bad,” her sister Niki finished for her.
Janet turned around as the girls flew at Mike, pummeling him with tiny but hard fists.
“Ow, ow!” he yelped and leapt over an apricot ottoman to relative safety next to his father.
“Mike, what the hell did you do now?” Carl demanded, wriggling his broad shoulders in his suit.
Mike wriggled his own shoulders and imitated his father’s glare. He didn’t have his father’s fleshy features yet, but he still could have played Carl in the movies—with a little padding.
The girls giggled. Carl didn’t.
“Mike—” his father began again.
Garrett Peterson stepped between father and son, a smile on his gentle, wide-featured face.
“Mike’s quite a comedian, isn’t he?” he asked, his deep voice a soothing vibration.
A smile crept across Carl’s face slowly. Mike must have been hard to stay mad at for long.
“But he made fun of Mom,” Niki complained.
“Oh, dear,” Garrett murmured and squatted down to look into Niki’s face. “Is your mom all right?”
“Uh-huh,” Niki said, nodding her little head. Then she kissed the tip of Garrett’s nose and ran across the room, squealing in delight.
Maybe Garrett could get the murderer to confess after all, I decided. Wayne and I walked all the way into the room. It was then that I noticed the gang was all together—everyone but Steve. Wayne and I had been the last to arrive. Isaac Herrick stood with his soon-to-be-ex-wife, Helen, in the corner. Laura Summers was talking to Jerry Urban. And Van Eisner was filling a glass with wine at the buffet table. Wayne made tracks to get to that table and lay his muffins out just as Garrett stood up and said something I couldn’t hear to Carl. Then things got serious.
Garrett extended his arms and brought them together again, clasping his hands in front of his chest. He looked ecclesiastical in his white dress shirt and chinos. Each of us moved to the center of the Kimmochis’ living room as if Garrett’s arms had pulled us there. We were all standing, even the children, congealed into one small group by Garrett’s motion.
Garrett’s large eyes narrowed.
“We have gathered together today for a reason,” he began.
I wriggled my own shoulders now, squirming in place.
“We’re here to find Steve Summers’ killer,” he went on. He looked at each of us adults in turn. “Some of you may have wondered if the murderer might be in this room, since all of us knew when the group was breaking up, and all of us knew approximately when Steve would walk out onto the street—”
“Garrett,” Laura cut in softly. “You don’t have to—”
“It’s all right, Laura,” he told her. “I do have to do this. For you. And for Steve.”
Could he, though? Our group was certainly mesmerized. Mike Russo’s eyes were so round they looked like they’d fall from his head like loose marbles. And I was having trouble controlling the urge to mention the key that was taken from me at the potluck. Something about Garrett’s presence made me want to confess. Was the murderer also controlling the urge to confess?
“We must consider the possibility that the murder has to do with us, with the Heartlink group. If one of you did it, you must come forward now. I can tell you that you won’t be able to live with yourself afterward unless you do.”
And then someone did step forward: Jerry Urban, Garrett’s lover. There was no smile on his round, genial face. For a moment I thought he had stepped forward to say he was the murderer; Garrett’s words had been that powerful. But then I realized that Jerry was just moving closer to Garrett in order to protect him, physically and emotionally.
“Well?” Garrett finished, eyeing us each in turn.
“Hey!” yapped Van Eisner. “Are you accusing one of us? What is with you? I don’t get it. We’re a support group. We don’t accuse each other. We don’t spread each other’s secrets.” He advanced on Garrett, his fist raised. As he passed me, I could smell the wine seeping from his pores. “For God’s sake, what is your problem?”
Van’s fist was at least a yard from Garrett’s actual body, but that was too close for Jerry Urban.
Jerry stepped between the two men.
“Stop that!” Jerry ordered. I had never heard such seriousness in his tone before. “You have no right to speak to Garrett that way.”
Van dropped his fist. “Listen,” he tried. “This is all screwed up. We’re supposed to help each other—”
Jerry went on as if Van hadn’t spoken.
“And don’t you ever threaten Garrett again. I would protect Garrett with my life. You want to fight? Your fight is with me.”
A silence followed Jerry’s words.
I knew that Jerry was speaking with absolute sincerity—I felt the same about Wayne as he did about Garrett. And then the hair on my arms stood up. Could there have been a reason to kill Steve Summers that had to do with protecting Garrett? One that Garrett wasn’t even aware of? One that Jerry had acted upon?
I had to break the silence before I jumped out of my skin and into the faux fireplace.
“Has anyone here talked to the police about the content of the group meetings?” I asked.
“Oh, you mean ‘our worst secrets’?” Isaac responded with a smirk on his elderly, alcohol-weathered face.
I wasn’t sure whether everyone in the room knew what he was talking about, but I did, and I wasn’t letting his crack go by.
“What did you say to them?” I demanded.
Isaac laughed, baring discolored teeth, but he answered willingly enough.
“I just played a little with Captain Wooster,” he told us. “What a horse’s ass that man is. I told the captain he ought to ask everyone their worst secrets.”
“Did you tell him the secrets yourself?” I prodded.
“Just a few harmless ones,” he answered. “Hey, what the hell?”
Van Eisner paled, and Ted Kimmochi closed his eyes. Was he praying? Or meditating?
“What?” Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi demanded impatiently. “What are you talking about?”
Isaac didn’t answer her. He just went on, “I told about Wayne’s feeling guilty when his boss died. No crime in that. It’s a matter of public record.” I wanted to reach out and squeeze Isaac’s stringy neck, but I didn’t. “I told about Ted’s…meditations.” Isaac winked at Ted. Ted looked behind himself, as if for escape. ‘Thinking about chocolate, ha, ha. And I told him about Van’s amazing success with women—”
“Anything else about me?” Van whispered.
Isaac shook his head. “You know me, Mr. Sensitivity.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t say anything that would really get someone in trouble.” He eyed Carl Russo now. Carl’s fleshy features reddened.
“How about claiming authorship of things you don’t really write?” Carl put in, obviously angry.
Isaac just laughed again. His laugh had a braying quality that wasn’t fun. Or funny.
“That can’t be proved in court, unlike some of our secrets,” Isaac stated, and there was a warning in his voice.
Carl turned his head away, the muscles in his arms and back bunching up under his coat.
“Enough, Isaac,” Helen Herrick snapped. She slapped her husband on his shoulder, and it wasn’t a light slap. “You think you’re just
teasing, but these are people’s lives you’re playing with. And a man’s been killed.”
“Okay, my sweet,” Isaac answered, apparently unfazed by either his wife’s tone or slap. No wonder she was divorcing him. Then he bent over and kissed Helen on her cheek and, amazingly, she smiled back at him. They really loved each other, I realized with a jolt.
“Okay, my sweet,” Mike Russo imitated.
Niki and Zora giggled, and I wondered if the children should be in the room at all. This was too heavy. Carl turned on Mike and shook his finger.
“Stop it, Mike,” he growled. “Stop it now.”
Mike stopped it. And Garrett started up again.
“Listen, we need to talk about these issues seriously,” he put in. “Maybe even share our secrets with everyone.”
“Like my meditating and thinking about chocolate,” Ted jumped in quickly. That was a pretty good preemptive strike from a depressed man, I thought, because no one else jumped in and mentioned his affair.
“What else?” Janet brayed. “What?”
Ted looked at her nervously, but she was obviously addressing the other group members.
Van said he had trouble with women, passing up the opportunity to talk about his drug use. He must have been taking a cue from Ted.
Garrett was telling us about the suicide he didn’t prevent when the doorbell rang.
Janet marched to the door impatiently and flung it open. Two young women were standing there, one blond and tall, one short and Hispanic.
“I’m a friend of Van’s,” the two women said simultaneously. Then they whipped their heads around to stare at each other.
“You invited them both?” Isaac murmured incredulously.
He shook his head, but there was an admiring glint in his eye.
“No,” Van whispered. “I just told them where I’d be. Jeez, I never expected—” He stopped. The two women were advancing on him in tandem.
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 8
