Felix blushed.
“The spiritual answer, man. You told me you could sleuth-the-truth in the cosmos, too. You know, don’t you?”
“Felix,” I tried gently. “I meditate, all right? Sometimes I think I feel a faint connection to the higher self, something that makes me imagine there might be a divine spirit, but I don’t know anything for sure. I try to trust my body, to trust those feelings. But I don’t think I’ll ever know—really know—in this lifetime, so I live with that faint connection.”
“Kate, that was lovely,” my aunt said from behind me. Her voice was tired. “Perhaps we could go in now?”
My connection to the earth grew stronger. I reached for my keys and opened the front door. Of course, Felix dived in the entryway before anyone else and was on the couch in a blur of denim and flannel.
Dorothy and Wayne headed for the kitchen.
“Tea,” Wayne explained tersely.
I turned to follow them, but Felix lassoed me verbally before I could.
“I had that gonzo dream for a reason, Kate,” he insisted. “You know more than you’re telling me, just like always. But this woo-woo stuff is important, man.”
“Felix, I’m not holding out on you spiritually,” I told him, dropping into the hanging chair for two. I didn’t mention that I was holding out on him about the scoop of the day.
As Felix peered at me with expectant, soulful eyes, I began to wonder if my own individualistic search for spiritual truth was a viable one. Maybe I should be in a group, have someone to follow like Felix did. Felix! I felt like slapping myself.
This had to be a bad dream. I had actually thought of Felix Byrne as a spiritual inspiration.
“Felix, you need to meditate,” I said with an authority that was voice deep. If he was meditating, maybe he’d quit staring at me. Maybe he’d even quit talking.
“Wow, Kate,” he whispered. “That’s the same friggin’ thing Brother Ingenio says. Far out.”
He brought up his legs and crossed them on top of the couch, then closed his eyes. And he stopped talking.
I leaned back in my own chair, feeling the comfort of its gentle swaying.
The phone rang before I could even sigh.
“Kate, it’s Barbara,” I heard from the machine.
Felix’s eyes popped open.
“Felix, you keep on meditating,” the machine went on. “I want to talk to Kate.”
Felix closed his eyes again. He’d long ago stopped bothering to ask how his sweetie knew such details.
“Hey, kiddo,” Barbara said. “Just a few things. First, don’t worry about Felix. It’s just one more step in his evolution. Ignore him.”
I nodded. That was good advice from someone who ought to know.
“And stop worrying about this Typhoid Mary of Murder stuff—”
“I haven’t been worrying—” I began after picking up the receiver. But then I stopped because I had, actually. Discovering two bodies in two days wasn’t cool.
“And stop worrying about finding other men attractive. It’s natural to look at other men once you’re sure of your own relationship.” I blushed. I wasn’t about to answer her.
“And the fourth thing…” Barbara paused. “Oh, now I remember. I know Jerry Urban. I thought you’d want to hear about it.”
I wasn’t blushing anymore. “You know Jerry?” I demanded eagerly. “Tell me everything.”
“Jerry and I worked together on that big community center out in Mariquitas. He is one funny guy, I mean ha-ha funny, a real crack-up. He was the engineer on the project, and I was the electrician.”
“What do you remember about him?”
“His practical jokes. He wired doors to talk and walls to say ‘ouch’ when you hammered them. He knew as much about electricity as I did, maybe more.”
“Is killing someone with a car a big practical joke?” I asked Barbara softly.
There was a long silence.
“I don’t know, kiddo,” she finally replied, seriously. “I can’t imagine Jerry ever doing anything really mean-spirited, much less murderous, but—”
“But murder fritzes your circuits,” I finished for her. It’s nice to beat the local psychic to the punch once in a while.
I tiptoed into the kitchen after Barbara hung up. Dorothy and Wayne were enjoying a peach tea that smelled delicious. Wayne poured me a cup. No one said a word, maybe because a journalist was meditating on our couch. Or maybe just because we were all exhausted. It was nice, though, sitting in the kitchen and watching the dust motes dance.
After I’d finished my tea, I retreated to my lonely desk and worked on some new gags for music teachers and bookstore owners. Work can be therapeutic, especially when you’re designing open-book earrings instead of filling out I.R.S. forms. I had actually forgotten all about Isaac, all about Steve, and all about the Heartlink group when the doorbell rang.
The doorbell acted like a Pavlovian shock, bringing everything back in one peal. I rushed to the door. If our visitor had anything to do with the Heartlink group, I didn’t want Felix beating me there. But Felix was still on the couch, his eyes closed. Maybe he was asleep.
I opened the door and slipped out onto the deck, hoping to leave Felix out of whatever awaited me.
Laura Summers awaited me. I almost ran into her when I came through the doorway, still looking over my shoulder at Felix.
“Kate,” she said and reached out for my hands. “Have you heard anything?”
For a moment, I thought she was talking about Isaac, and then I realized she probably hadn’t even heard about Isaac yet. She had to be asking about Steve. My heart clunked.
“No,” I told her, and then remembered my manners. “Why don’t you come with me into the kitchen? Wayne and my aunt are having tea.”
Laura must have seen Felix on the couch, but her all-American features remained neutral as we walked past the living room into the kitchen. As a politician, she’d probably ignored stranger foibles than meditating friends. Or maybe he wasn’t a meditating friend; I thought I heard a faint snore behind us as we crossed the threshold of the kitchen.
“Wayne!” Laura cried when she saw my husband.
He got up from the kitchen table and readied himself for the inevitable hug. And he received it, the full-force Flying Walenda of embraces.
“Oh, Wayne,” Laura murmured. I took a big breath and reminded myself, again, of Laura’s circumstances. Still, she could have hugged me first.
I looked at Dorothy. She smiled back at me, shrugging a shoulder. It was a message, but I wasn’t sure what. Men are men? Women are women? You worry too much?
When Laura finally disengaged, she looked up at Wayne’s pink face. “Wayne, I’ve been racking my brain. Why Steve? Did he say anything to you, anything that might make some sense of his murder?”
Wayne just shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Laura slumped in her tasteful black suit, now looking more like a widow than a politician.
I wanted to offer her some tea, but that seemed like a paltry diversion when she was asking who killed her husband.
“Laura,” I began. “It’s early yet. I’m sure the police—”
And then I heard a screech from the living room.
My first thought was that someone had hurt my cat, C. C. I sprinted into the living room just in time to see Felix rise from the couch as if by teleportation, with C. C.’s claws still stuck in his flannel-covered shoulder.
- Fifteen -
Felix landed back on the couch with a thud. C. C. looked up at me as I came to a skidding stop in the living room, then she casually hopped off of Felix’s shoulder. But Felix continued to scream. By this time, Dorothy, Wayne, and Laura had caught up with me and were all watching him scream, too.
Finally, the screaming stopped.
Felix looked at each of us in turn, his rounded eyes scanning for something. Auras? Witches’ brooms? Only Barbara might know what he was seeing, and she wasn’t here.
�
��You’re all friggin’ gonzo,” he concluded. He leapt off the couch and ran out the door and down the stairs before I had time to refute or confirm his accusation.
“What happened to that poor man?” Laura Summers asked once I’d started breathing again.
C. C. sauntered up to us as Laura waited for an answer. I thought I heard a rumble outside. Was that Felix’s car?
“Isn’t he a reporter?” Laura tried again. “He looks familiar. Wasn’t he here before?”
“The Marin Mind” I answered briefly, listening. Yes, I definitely heard a rumble, and voices, maybe footsteps.
“The what?” Laura asked, bringing my mind back into the room.
“He’s a reporter for the Marin Mind—you know, the newspaper.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “Now I remember. I don’t read it often. Papers are such a bother.”
By now, C. C. had reached us and was stretching her front paws out in front of my Aunt Dorothy. Dorothy squatted down until she was almost eye level with C. C. I expected a reprimand—C. C. had been a very bad cat. But my aunt laughed instead.
“What a wonderful cat you have, Katie! A watch cat.”
She scratched behind C. C.’s ear. C. C. purred. Feline and human had an instant rapport. I wondered if C. C. would make a good bridesmaid.
“C. C.—” I began.
A knock on the door interrupted my planned lecture.
I opened the door without really considering who might be on the other side, then wondered how many lifetimes it would take to teach me to think before acting. The front yard was ringed with people, not to mention cars, trucks, cameras, microphones, and notebooks. Felix stood at the front of the crowd, looking slightly bewildered. If it hadn’t been for the look on his face, I would have suspected him of calling the media to bedevil us. But he hadn’t had enough time to call in the troops, anyway. And he’d left Laura Summers alone when he could have harassed her privately. Laura, I thought, my pulse jumping in recognition of the probable cause for all the attention. And then the questions began.
“Is Laura Summers here?” a muscular young man with a microphone demanded.
“I…” I began, and then I shut my mouth and imagined a clothespin holding my lips together.
“Laura Summers was seen coming to your house. Is she inside now?” a woman in a suit and silk shirt asked.
“We want to talk to Laura!” another voice yelled. And then it sounded like the zoo, all random shouts, squeaks, and rumbles.
I slammed the door and locked it.
“I might as well go out and face them,” Laura offered mildly. “They’ll just wait for me, anyway.” She sighed. “I took Tiffany’s car to throw them off the scent. It’s around the block. I thought I wouldn’t be recognized.”
“Would you like to avoid them, dear?” Aunt Dorothy asked her.
“Yes,” Laura said slowly. “But I don’t think I can.”
“Don’t worry,” my aunt responded cheerfully. “This just calls for a disguise and a little diversionary action.”
“But—” I began.
“Wayne, may we borrow some of your things?” Dorothy asked.
Wayne nodded, and Dorothy led Laura back to our bedroom. When my aunt reappeared, she was standing next to what looked like a man in sweat pants, a sweatshirt, and a watch cap. Laura Summers had disappeared.
“Do you have a back door?” Dorothy asked next.
Wayne and I nodded our heads in unison, our mouths open.
“Wayne, I’ll go out front, and you take Laura out the back,” Aunt Dorothy commanded.
“Right,” Wayne replied. He didn’t salute, but it was implied. “The Donovan’s fence. They won’t mind.”
The Donovans, who lived behind us, wouldn’t mind because they were out of town.
Wayne and Laura went to the back door and Dorothy opened the front door.
“Well, hello!” she greeted the press. She threw her arms open theatrically as if to embrace them. “I don’t know how you tracked me down, but I would be glad to give an interview. Anything for my loyal fans.”
The muscular young man at the door squinted at her. He wasn’t the only one. All around the yard, people were staring at my aunt, trying to figure out who she was. The only one missing was Felix; maybe he’d gone home to meditate.
“Now, which one of my films did you want to ask about?” Dorothy trilled.
“Ma’am, who are you?” someone asked from the back.
Dorothy’s face fell dramatically. She raised her hand to her heart. “You mean you don’t remember me after sixty-odd films and countless TV appearances?” she asked, her voice trembling. She pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and covered her face for a moment.
“Uh, sure we do,” a young woman assured her.
“Who the hell is she?” a whisper drifted our way.
“I’ll give you a clue,” Dorothy purred, shedding her handkerchief. “Funny Face.”
“Audrey Hepburn?” someone shouted.
“No, she’s dead,” someone else informed the shouter.
“Well, she sure ain’t Barbra Streisand!”
As people shouted out guesses, my aunt simpered, threw kisses, and cooed.
“Lillian Gish?”
“Shirley Temple?”
“Meryl Streep?”
Meryl Streep? Yikes. They were getting desperate. And suddenly the cosmetically enhanced reporters were crowding up the stairs, shoving each other to get a better look at my aunt. But no one shoved Dorothy. A few cameras angled for better shots, but Dorothy’s petite frame was invisible behind the crowd.
“Another movie?” someone demanded.
“Little Abner” she replied without hesitation.
Where was she getting these titles?
Then she raised her arms and recited. “Blow, blow, thou winter wind. Thou are not so unkind as man’s ingratitude—”
“I got it, she worked with Ingmar Bergman. What’s her name?”
“I thought that was Shakespeare—”
“Nah, Bergman. If only I could remember…”
Then my Aunt Dorothy sang a little Cole Porter. Apparently, my Uncle Claude hadn’t been the only musical one in the family.
But I could see she was getting tired. Her frail body was beginning to sway, and not just from the rhythm of the music.
When Wayne put his hand on my shoulder, I felt the burden of acute tension leave my body, only to be replaced by anxiety. I swiveled my head and cracked my neck for good measure. If Wayne was back, Laura was probably gone.
“The coast clear?” I hissed.
“Completely,” he assured me.
Now it was my turn on the deck. I strode out, put my arm around my aunt, and declared, “This has been really wonderful, but Miss Murphy needs her rest now. She has a busy day ahead of her tomorrow.”
“Miss Murphy?!” a roar went up, as if it were feeding time at the zoo.
My aunt shuffled in the door with me just as people began asking who the hell Miss Murphy was.
“Eddie Murphy?” someone suggested, and I closed the door and locked it again.
“Oh, my, that was fun,” Aunt Dorothy murmured once she was safely inside again.
“Oh, Miss Murphy?” I breathed. “May I have your autograph?”
Dorothy giggled, but then her face grew wistful “Isaac would have loved it,” she murmured.
“This calls for a special dinner,” Wayne announced quickly and marched into the kitchen.
Dorothy and I sat at the table while Wayne cooked and told us about helping Laura Summers over our back fence and around the corner to her car.
“You missed a great show,” I told him.
“What did you do?” he asked, turning from the stove. The fragrance of curry and garlic wafted our way.
“I didn’t do anything,” I told him. “My aunt is the actress in the family.”
Dorothy giggled again, then said, “Meryl Streep.” Her giggles crescendoed into loud guffaws. The ladylike Aunt Dorothy was
gone; enter the comedienne.
“Did you ever think of really acting?” I asked her once we were seated and slurping down curried peanut and spinach soup.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Many years ago. I did summer stock for a while, you know.”
I shook my head. I certainly hadn’t known. I would have liked to have known more, but by the time we’d consumed dessert, my aunt was back on the subject of weddings.
She led me into the living room and we took our places on the couch. Wayne stayed behind to do dishes. I envied him.
“Have you considered the size of your wedding party?” Dorothy asked.
“No,” I replied, searching my mind for another topic. “So, how’s Kevin?” I asked. “Have you seen him lately?”
“Kevin will be happy to attend your wedding, I’m sure,” she outbid me. “You need to think of your wedding in terms of scope and theme.”
“How about Mom?” I tried.
“Your mother’s fine; a little nervous about your wedding, but fine otherwise, Katie. You know this means a lot to her.”
I sighed. Did I owe it to my mother to have a formal wedding? Did I owe it to Aunt Dorothy? Did I owe it to Wayne?
“Oh, Katie,” Dorothy broke into my thoughts. “Do you mind if we shelve the wedding plans for the moment and talk about Isaac?”
“Oh, that’d be great!” I exclaimed, and then added more sedately, “I know you cared for him.”
“Katie, I didn’t know this Steve Summers of yours. But I knew Isaac. And I know Helen. We have to do something about this—perhaps hire a private detective.”
“Do you really think a private detective would do any good?” I asked. “I mean, we’re the ones who know the group members—”
“But a private detective might be able to find out things that you can’t. Who knows if any of these people had past connections, perhaps relatives who had dealings with Steve or Isaac? The possibilities are endless.”
“How do you think we would find a good—” I began.
The doorbell rang. This time I got up from the couch cautiously, with Aunt Dorothy on my heels, and cracked the door open a few inches. Carl Russo stood on the deck with his son, Mike.
I opened the door wider.
Carl pushed his son through the doorway.
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 17
