I sighed. How come I hadn’t been able to say those words so simply and eloquently?
“Thank you,” Laura replied formally. “I have my assistants to help me with the logistics, but your sympathy is much appreciated. There is no way to explain my feelings.” She paused, then went on. “Wayne, I’d ask you to speak at the funeral, but I know how you feel about the confidentiality of the group. Steve would have felt the same.”
Wayne looked stricken, his eyes suddenly wide under his uplifted eyebrows.
“I…I…it’s just…” he tried.
“Thanks, Laura,” I finished for him.
Standing up in front of a large group to express intimate feelings had to be Wayne’s idea of hell. He’d have probably gone mute.
“Did your husband have other special friends who might be able to help you?” Aunt Dorothy asked.
Laura shrugged. “His friends will be at the funeral, of course,” she answered, or didn’t answer. She straightened her shoulders. “Steve wasn’t a very outgoing man, socially. His writing was his life. It was more important than anything else.”
“Not more important than you, I’m sure,” Dorothy said softly.
Laura’s perfect skin reddened under her makeup.
“Of course not,” she murmured. “Of course not.”
“So, Assemblywoman Summers, what can you tell me about your husband’s death?” Felix put in gently—for him. “Was it an attempt that was directed at you, or do you think—”
“I’ve prepared an official statement for the press,” Laura cut him off. “You can get a copy from my assistant.”
“But what do you think?” Felix bulldozed on. “You must have your own suspicion of who the perp was—”
“Out!” Wayne ordered. His voice wasn’t that loud, but its intention was. Maybe he felt he couldn’t speak at Steve’s funeral, but this task he was up to.
“Hey, wait a friggin’ minute,” Felix objected. Fear of Wayne or not, Felix had his political prey in sight and wasn’t about to be distracted.
Wayne strode toward the reporter.
“Listen, Big Guy,” Felix whispered loud enough for the whole room to hear. “This is my chance to scoop it, man—”
Wayne took hold of Felix’s arm and steered him toward the door. Felix looked lopsided—the side that Wayne was holding was higher than the other one.
I listened as Felix begged all the way down the stairs. But it didn’t do him any good; he wasn’t getting a shot at Laura Summers in our house.
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Dorothy exclaimed when we heard Felix’s car leave, and Wayne came back inside.
“Thank you, Wayne,” Laura whispered.
Wayne was the color of his own beet pâté.
“And thank you, Kate and Dorothy,” Laura went on. “It’s good to have friends at a time like this.”
“We’ll be here, dear,” Aunt Dorothy replied.
There didn’t seem to be anything left to say. Laura left without ever having taken a seat, with a quick embrace and an air kiss for each of us.
As I heard Laura’s slow, dignified footsteps going down the stairs, I realized that Steve wasn’t the only one without a social life. Laura Summers didn’t seem to have any close friends, either. Assistants, yes; friends, no. She and Steve must have been there for each other, and now…
“Poor woman,” Aunt Dorothy sighed.
That said it all. I nodded along with Wayne.
“Let’s all sit back down and plan our next steps,” Dorothy suggested.
Somehow, I knew I shouldn’t let my octogenarian aunt in on a murder investigation. But when she said sit, we sat, back in the hanging chairs.
“We need more information,” Dorothy stated. “About Steve and about the group members and their sigos.”
Wayne and I nodded, mesmerized. Then we realized that she expected some kind of response.
“My ex-husband, Craig, might know more about Van Eisner,” I thought out loud. “They’re both in computer consulting. He might even know Jerry Urban. He knows a lot of people in start-up businesses.”
My aunt nodded sagely, wisely forgoing any comment or question concerning my ex-husband’s reason for being my ex-husband.
“Steve’s friends,” Wayne muttered. “Gotta find Steve’s friends. They might know what he was up to.”
“The funeral,” I reminded him.
“I want to meet everyone,” Aunt Dorothy announced. And I didn’t object. What could I say? This woman had finessed my mother, so I was no match for her.
We talked a while longer, and then my aunt brought up her hand to cover a ladylike yawn. Whoa. Jet lag. I hadn’t even thought about it.
Wayne and I drove Aunt Dorothy back to the hotel on the corner. She left us in the lobby, insisting that she could tuck herself in.
At the elevator, she turned and waved.
“Nightie-night, lovies!” she chirped, and then she stepped into the waiting maw of the elevator.
“Like your aunt,” Wayne commented after we got back in the Toyota.
“She thinks you’re good and kind,” I shot back, starting up the engine.
Wayne snorted, clearly embarrassed.
I put my arm around his shoulder before pulling out of my parking place. “I think you’re good and kind, too,” I whispered.
Now he was really embarrassed. But he was smiling. He smiled all the way home.
I opened the front door and let out a blissful sigh of relief. Wayne and I were finally alone.
“Let’s turn off the house,” he suggested.
“Except for me,” I purred back. “You can’t turn me off.”
But my hormones vaporized when we got to my office and I saw the letter face-down on my desk. I’d forgotten all about the letter.
“Wayne?” I said tentatively.
“What?” he growled back affectionately.
“Um, I got a weird letter in the mail.”
“What weird letter?” Wayne asked, his voice all business now.
I showed it to him. It hadn’t changed any. It still read, stop now, in outsized felt-tip pen letters. Its words were still twisted, the “p” backwards, and a possible “e” on the end of now. And it still raised the hair on the back of my neck.
“Dyslexic?” Wayne hazarded.
“That’s what I thought,” I told him, excited now. “But we don’t know anyone dyslexic.”
“Maybe the handwriting is disguised this way.”
“Isaac would know how to write a fake dyslexic letter,” I told him.
“And Helen,” he reminded me.
“But if Isaac or Helen wrote it, wouldn’t it just point suspicion their way?”
“Yeah.” Wayne held the letter in his hands and scanned its two misshapen words as if he could discern something from their form.
“Wayne, have you seen the handwriting of everyone in the group?” I asked. “I mean, what if this is the best someone could write?”
Wayne’s eyebrows dropped over his eyes. “Haven’t really seen much in writing from the group, except from Steve. But Kate, everyone in the group, and all the people who were at the potluck, for that matter, have jobs. They must be able to write.”
I mulled this over for a while.
“How about Mike Russo?” I came up with finally. “He doesn’t have a job.”
“His school would have to notice if he was dyslexic,” Wayne argued. “And Carl would have talked to the group about it.”
“Okay, how about Ted and Janet Kimmochi?” I tried. “One could be dyslexic, and the other one could be covering.”
Wayne shook his head. “They took tests to become certified financial advisors—written tests.”
I ran the possible suspects through my head. Van Eisner? A dyslexic couldn’t write computer code, could he? Garrett Peterson? How many tests had he taken to become an M.D. and a psychiatrist? And Laura Summers? She’d taken the state bar exam. Good luck to her if she was dyslexic. Carl Russo was an accountant, Jerry Urban an enginee
r—
“Kate, you do realize, whatever its form, that this is a threat?” Wayne cut into my analysis.
“What?” I said.
“This note is a threat to us, or to one of us.”
“There wasn’t any address on the envelope,” I put in helpfully.
“So what are we being threatened about?” Wayne asked.
“Investigating?” I answered in a very small voice.
“Kate, I’d like to take care of this mess myself,” Wayne said carefully. “Maybe you and your aunt could go on a little vacation while I—”
“Don’t even suggest it, Mr. John Wayne,” I snarled. “Would you go on a vacation and leave me to take care of it?”
“But you’re…you’re—”
“Female?”
“No, I was going to say that you’re not a member of the Heartlink group.”
Sure that’s what he was going to say. That’s why it took him three tries to come up with it.
“So, big whoop,” I said aloud. “I’m with you, got it?”
After a minute of silence, Wayne said, “Got it,” and put his arms around me. I nuzzled his herbed chest, redolent of cooking. He kissed the top of my head. I tilted my head back, and he kissed my lips. It was an equal-opportunity kiss, though. I returned it, with interest.
*
It wasn’t until the next morning, Friday, in the middle of our shower, that we talked about taking the letter to the police. My skin tightened, just imagining Captain Wooster’s reaction. Would he even believe we hadn’t written it ourselves? And even if the sender had been dyslexic, I would bet that person was smart enough not to leave fingerprints. So what would be the use?
“Let’s wait a little while,” I told Wayne.
He grunted in agreement. His grunt sounded as relieved as I felt.
“The only thing we can do is find out who killed Steve,” Wayne added.
I would have had a hard time believing he really meant that if he hadn’t taken his slippery-clean body to the phone and called his restaurant to let them know he wouldn’t be in that day—on a Friday, no less!
I, too, went to my work desk and said goodbye to my stacks of Jest Gifts paperwork.
“So, what do we do first, Sherlock?” I asked my sweetie.
“First, Van,” he announced.
I opened my mouth to ask why Van was first and then closed it again. From the look on Wayne’s face, I wouldn’t want to be Van.
Van Eisner’s office was really more of a large room, located on the second floor over a sushi bar in San Ricardo. I’d been there before. I knew he did most of his real work out of his house. His home office was filled with computers, pieces of computers, manuals, and paper. Finding anything in that office was something only Van could do. But this office was different. Neat, with teal furnishings and gray carpet against pearl-white walls, it spoke of money. It said, “Buy my services as a computer consultant.”
But today, it was saying something else.
“You slimeball!” a voice shrieked through its closed door. “My girlfriend warned me about guys like you. What if I tell my brother about us, huh? He’ll kill you!”
Wayne closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again and knocked on the door of Van’s office.
The shrieking stopped, which was a relief. Even the sushi downstairs was probably cringing.
“Come in?” came Van’s nasal voice. The uncertainty in his voice made me wonder how much more trouble he was expecting.
Wayne reached out toward the doorknob, but suddenly the door flew open as if by magic and a buxom, well-cared-for woman in a business suit ran past us and down the stairs.
“Client,” Van assured us through the open door, the tremor in his voice ruining his attempt at nonchalance. “Come on in, you guys.”
I took a look at this man. What was it about him that attracted these women in the first place? His slight build? His balding head? His pointy features? All I could see was what drove them away. I moved my eyes away from Van and scanned his office.
It was as neat and polished as ever. The only thing that seemed out of place was a mirror lying face-up on his desk next to his computer—a mirror with a hint of white powder and a razor blade and a straw.
Van must have noticed where I was looking.
“Hey, wanna toot?” he asked jovially.
Wayne growled from beside me.
“Just a little joke, heh-heh,” Van said, quickly popping the mirror, blade, and straw into one of his drawers.
“Van, are you crazy?” I asked. “What if it had been Captain Wooster who’d visited you this morning?”
Van’s pointy face paled.
“Is he really coming here?” he asked, cleaning off the surface of his desk with a tissue like a mad housewife. He should have wiped his nose, but I didn’t tell him that.
“No, Van,” Wayne answered for me. “The captain isn’t on his way as far as I know, but he could be. Why are you risking everything?”
“For God’s sake, it’s no big deal,” Van insisted, his nasal voice high now with indignation.
“Never mind,” Wayne said. “Pretend I never asked.”
Van put his head in his hands for a minute, then looked back up, a little color returning to his face.
“You’ve been divulging group secrets.” Wayne cut to the chase.
Van squirmed in his chair.
“Why?” Wayne asked.
“They’ve got me by the short and curlies, that’s why,” he whined. “I’ve…I’ve got a record.”
“We know.” Wayne told him.
“You know!” Van jumped out of his chair. “See, I’m not paranoid.” He threw his hands in the air. “Even you know!
It’s supposed to be secret. Jeez, they could be here any minute. You’ve gotta find the killer. I don’t want any trouble. I just need to be okay for a while—”
“Van, you need help,” Wayne said softly.
Van looked at him, intelligence flashing behind his pinpoint pupils for a moment. Then he shook his head.
“I can’t,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”
I was glad when we left. I still didn’t see what women saw in Van, but now I felt sorry for him. Even without Steve’s death, how much longer could he keep on?
“Did he kill Steve, Kate?” Wayne asked seriously, once we were back in the Toyota and heading home.
“But why?” I answered after a few miles. “Van is messed up, that’s obvious. But what motive would he have to kill Steve? Steve wouldn’t have broken group confidentiality over Van’s drug habit. Van knew that.”
“Maybe Van didn’t know,” Wayne put in. “He said himself that he’s paranoid. How much trouble could he be in for a second offense?”
“I read an ad in the paper,” I said, suddenly remembering. “For 1-900-DRUGLAW. It’s a phone number for an attorney’s service. You call these guys, and they answer drug-law questions confidentially. Want me to call and find out just how much trouble Van could really be in?”
“Thanks, Kate,” Wayne said and put his warm hand on my thigh. I sighed and the Toyota veered. Wayne removed his hand.
After we got home, I found the ad for 1-900-DRUGLAW in an old paper. I was just dialing the number when I heard a car popping gravel in the driveway through the still-open front door.
A familiar voice chirped in the doorway—my Aunt Dorothy. Once again, I’d completely forgotten about her. I put down the phone and went to greet her.
My fairy god-aunt was not a happy camper.
“You left without me this morning,” she accused. She patted her goofy white curlicues, looking forlorn. “I got my own rental car at the hotel. Now, I can investigate with or without you, dear. But of course, I’d rather be part of the team.”
“But Aunt Dorothy—” I began.
“I know,” she told me, her eyes suddenly twinkling behind her mascara. “I’m old. Who better to take risks? You have years ahead of you.”
“Don’t even say such a thi
ng!” Wayne admonished, stepping up behind me. “We’re just trying to figure out—”
“So, I’m with you on this,” Dorothy stated.
Wayne and I looked at each other, and then both nodded reluctantly. How were we supposed to stop her?
So, we put my aunt in the back seat of the Toyota and took off to talk to Isaac Herrick.
Isaac lived in a condo in Cortadura. We knocked on the front door and heard grumbling from inside.
“Just a minute! Just a minute!”
Then Isaac was at the door and we were ushered into his living room, a room filled with equal amounts of books and empty whiskey bottles.
He turned to us, his ruddy face bleary for the early visit. He was wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and a ratty flannel robe. His bleary face lit up when he saw Dorothy.
“Whoa!” he said. “My little Dot, still as cute as a button.”
“Isaac, you old fraud,” Dorothy replied and willingly embraced the fraud in question, ratty robe and all.
- Twelve -
Wayne and I must have looked like mismatched twins, staring at Aunt Dorothy and Isaac Herrick with our mouths wide open. How could my sweet aunt be hugging Isaac the Terrible? The smell alone would have put me off. Whatever Isaac had drunk last night was emanating from him quite odoriferously now, not to mention whatever he’d added to the brew this morning. And that ratty robe and those pajama bottoms…How much of him was really covered? Would I have to rescue my Aunt Dorothy’s virtue?
But Isaac unhanded my aunt before I had to intervene. He even seemed a little embarrassed, straightening his robe and tying the sash tighter.
“How many years has it been, Isaac?” Dorothy said softly.
“Too many,” he replied, rubbing the stubble on his face. “Too many.”
“How’s Helen?” Dorothy asked, her voice a little louder now.
“Helen’s great,” Isaac told her. “Still as feisty as ever. And as smart. She’s divorcing me.” He laughed, then returned the question. “How’s Claude?”
“Claude passed on,” Aunt Dorothy answered. A sad little smile played on her lips. “He would have loved seeing you.”
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 13
