I’d barely noticed when the first speaker finished, but then Laura Summers took the place he’d vacated at the podium. She looked out at the crowd, no notes in her hands. Murmurs flitted around us like mosquitoes.
“I will speak briefly of my husband, Stephen Summers,” she announced, and the murmuring stopped. “I could speak of my husband’s good works for hours, even days, but my husband believed in brevity. He also believed above all in the truth, in doing the right thing. And so he lived his life. He was a man of high principle. He always did what he felt was right. May he always be remembered for that.”
There was a silence as Laura sat down.
I felt the pressure of tears behind my eyes. What would I say if I had to eulogize Wayne?
A couple of Steve’s fellow journalists spoke after Laura, citing his prizes and award-winning articles. But nothing they said could top what Laura had already told us. She was right—Steve’s legacy had been one of high principles. Still, I took mental snapshots of the two men as they spoke. These were Steve’s elusive other friends, men we could interview. What could they tell us about the real Steve Summers?
Finally, the original speaker returned to the podium and told us that family and friends would be welcome for a short reception at the Summers’ residence. It would be a private reception, he warned—no reporters who were not friends of the family would be allowed. As members of the crowd scrambled from their folding chairs, I considered the irony of barring the reporters whose ranks Steve Summers had belonged to from the final recognition of his passing.
Making our way to the Toyota in that swarm of people was a slow, hot, and irritating process. Getting out of the parking lot was worse. Then, finally, we were on our way to the Summers’ house, deep in the hills of Hutton.
When we got there, I could see that very few reporters had been discouraged by the speaker’s final words. The front door was massed with shouting, shoving members of the press. They weren’t getting far, though. Laura Summers stood slightly inside the front door, surrounded by a phalanx of security guards. She nodded, and the guards let some people in. But for her every nod there were at least nine distinct shakes of her head, and nine disgruntled reporters. I was glad I didn’t see Felix, though somehow, I guessed he was in the crowd.
And then Aunt Dorothy, Wayne, and I were nodded through the door of the Summers’ residence, past the roar of the media.
“Thank you for coming,” Laura greeted us as we entered the octagonal living room that had so impressed me the first time we’d been to the Summers’. The ceilings had to be at least fourteen feet high, and each of the eight walls had an inset window draped in velvet and lace and graced by a comfortable tapestried couch. I wondered, not for the first time, how Steve had reconciled this room with his ideals. Or maybe he’d just never noticed the room.
“We’re glad to come,” Wayne murmured to Laura in the relative silence inside the door.
“Of course,” Dorothy said, grasping Laura’s hand.
“You made a wonderful speech,” I added uncertainly; maybe she didn’t want to talk about those final words.
But Laura smiled. “Thank you, Kate,” she whispered. “I’m so glad you thought so.”
A tall, gawky young man in glasses stood next to her.
“Steve Summers,” he introduced himself, reaching out a hand.
For a moment, I was confused. Did this young man think he was Steve Summers?
“Our son,” Laura put in helpfully. “Steve Junior.”
Aha. The young man wasn’t suffering from delusions. He was Steve Summers. He just wasn’t the Steve Summers I’d known before.
“Oh, right,” I tried. “You’re in college now—”
“University,” he interrupted. “I’m doing my Ph.D. dissertation on invisible disabilities—”
“Steve, can you help Tiffany with the buffet?” Laura interrupted and shook her head three times in rapid succession. Three more reporters were turned away. “Steve is a good boy, but he does tend to talk people’s ears off about his dissertation,” Laura apologized.
“How is he handling his father’s death?” I asked.
Laura sighed. “He seems okay, but I worry. He and Steve—”
Laura stopped to nod the Russos in, and I felt a tug on my sleeve—Aunt Dorothy’s tug. I understood the meaning immediately: Laura didn’t need us clogging up the entrance, with all the nods and shakes she was in charge of.
So, the three of us walked over to the elaborate buffet that had been set up in the center of the room. I saw Janet McKinnon-Kimmochi and Garrett Peterson immediately. They were deep in private conversation. And I could hear them.
“I wish we’d brought Niki and Zora, but Ted didn’t think it would be a good idea,” Janet was confiding to Garrett over a slice of ham.
Garrett nodded solemnly, his dark face taut with some emotion, maybe unhappiness.
“Steve just loved Niki and Zora,” Janet went on. “They spent hours together. He only had the one son. I guess he enjoyed the girls. Anyway…” She lowered her voice to a carrying whisper. “Someone that repressed probably related better to children.”
“Quiet people are not necessarily repressed,” Garrett responded. There was a slight tremor in his gentle tone. I wondered how hard it was to keep his words that mild. “Steve just kept to himself.”
Janet’s face paled under her freckles. She was not a woman to be disagreed with.
“Hey, Kate,” someone said from behind me before I could jump into the fray. I turned and saw Carl in his inevitable badly fitted suit with Mike by his side in a suit just as badly fitted. “Sorry about last night.”
“Did you go to the police?” I whispered, hoping my voice wouldn’t carry like Janet’s.
“Yeah,” he answered. “They were pretty cool, for cops. I think they believed the kid. Your aunt is sumthin’ else. Gotta thank her.”
And then he turned to find Aunt Dorothy.
I turned, too, but by now Aunt Dorothy was across the room with Helen Herrick, Jerry Urban, and Ted Kimmochi.
I looked for Wayne. He stood across the buffet table, by Van Eisner’s right side. On Van’s left was the tanned woman he’d brought to the funeral.
“I thought you said this was a date,” she complained.
“Hold on a minute,” Van told the woman, turning back to Wayne. He rolled his shoulders and sniffed. “For God’s sake, you gotta help me out here,” he began.
Ugh. And I had felt comforted by having these people sitting around me.
I looked around the room and saw a number of unfamiliar faces. Friends of Steve’s? Friends of Laura’s? Relatives? Aides? And then I saw two faces that I recognized: the two fellow journalists who’d spoken at the funeral. One was tall, with thinning reddish hair; the other was burly, with an abundant head of black curls.
I was in front of them, with my mouth moving, in three paces.
“Hi, I’m Kate Jasper,” I told them. “My husband was a member of Steve’s support group.”
“Oh,” the tall one managed.
The burly one just stared.
“My husband and I are looking into Steve’s death,” I murmured. “We haven’t been able to find friends of Steve’s to talk to—”
“Makes sense,” the staring journalist muttered. I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.
“What?” I replied, startled.
“Steve wasn’t the friendliest guy in the world,” he explained. “But I guess I shouldn’t be saying that here.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” his tall friend whispered angrily. ‘Think how Laura feels. And Steve Junior.”
“Laura probably—”
“Not now, Gus,” his friend erupted. “I’m sorry…Ms. Jasper, did you say?”
I nodded. The man went on.
“I’m Neil, and this is Gus. Did you want something in particular?”
“Well, I was hoping that my husband, Wayne, and I could talk to you,” I answered cautiously. “We’d like to under
stand Steve better.” I looked behind me to make sure neither Laura nor her son were in sight. “Steve was murdered, and we thought if we knew more about him as a person, we might understand why.”
“You just said a mouthful, lady,” Gus replied and laughed.
“What?” I blurted again.
“Of course we’ll talk to you,” Neil told me. He handed me his card. “Just call. No matter how anyone felt about Steve, his death wasn’t right.”
Gus reddened upon hearing his friend’s words. I had a feeling that for a friend, Gus hadn’t particularly liked Steve Summers as much as Neil had. I would have liked to have defended Steve, but, as an informer, Gus would probably be better than Neil. I had a feeling the chip on his shoulder was ready to talk. At length.
“Thank you,” I told the pair of men. “I’ll be calling. It was good to meet you.”
And then I scuttled off to find Aunt Dorothy.
She was still standing with Helen Herrick, but the two women weren’t talking. Steve Junior was talking—or maybe lecturing would be a better description.
“See, invisible disabilities are even more difficult to deal with than the visible ones,” he was explaining. “Your husband writes so well about dyslexia…”
Helen’s face paled. But how could this boy know that Isaac was dead?
“I’d love to talk to Professor Herrick someday about the psychological effects of dyslexia. He’s been a real inspiration for me—”
“Steve,” Laura’s voice came from behind us. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm.
Steve Junior turned immediately.
“Mom?” he asked.
“Steve, Helen has her own issues to deal with now,” Laura said gently and led her son away.
Helen made a little bowing motion in Laura’s direction as they crossed the room.
“Did Steve say anything about his father?” I asked once the Summers were both out of earshot.
“Only that his father was interested in the Ph.D. project,” Aunt Dorothy replied. She shook her head. “I think the Summers bury their feelings very deeply.”
“Well, I don’t!” Helen interjected angrily. “I grieve for Laura, but my Isaac…” She stopped for a moment to grab for a well-worn tissue and blew her nose before going on. “I know he was a drunk, but his passion, his mind…” She buried her face in the disintegrating tissue again.
“Helen, we’ll find out who did it,” my aunt assured her.
I squirmed in place at hearing my aunt’s promise, especially since I was clearly part of the “we” to which she referred.
We didn’t stay much longer at the reception. Van had departed, with his unhappy date on his arm, while I’d been talking with Gus and Neil. Garrett and Jerry had said goodbye not long after.
Laura hugged Wayne as we left. Then she gripped my hand and Dorothy’s. I just wished that I could find words to comfort her.
“You must be very proud of your son,” Dorothy offered.
“Thank you,” Laura answered, and then we were on the sidewalk with the media again.
Driving home in the Toyota, Wayne spoke of Steve Summers. Maybe Laura’s eulogy had been too short for him.
“Steve was a man of principle. He had needs, desires, and beliefs. He wasn’t repressed. His passion was the truth.”
And then I realized that Wayne must have overheard some of the same criticism I had. And he’d taken it hard. What had happened to speaking well of the dead?
“Kate,” he said. “We’ll find out who did this.”
“Of course,” I whispered back, though I wished that people—myself included—would stop promising to find Steve and Isaac’s killer or killers. How could we possibly make a promise that we had no control over?
“For Laura, and for Helen,” Dorothy chimed in.
I squeezed up against my seat and hoped that we really were The Three Musketeers.
The three of us were already climbing the stairs before we noticed that we had a visitor.
It was Captain Wooster. I stopped thinking about promises and started thinking about jail.
- Seventeen -
“Well, Mr. Caruso, how do you rate your life span these days?” Captain Wooster began conversationally, a Halloween pumpkin smile carved above his outsized jaw.
Wayne looked up at him woozily.
“What do you mean?” he finally asked, slowly.
Wayne shouldn’t have ever asked that question because Captain Wooster had an answer—a long answer.
“Mary’s handbag!” Wooster bellowed, his smile gone now. He threw out his arms. “Haven’t you noticed that you and Ted Kimmochi are the only two husbands left standing? Hell’s bells, these women are killing off their husbands. First Laura Summers, and then Helen Herrick. If they can’t divorce you, they kill you. Women hate men, it’s as simple as that. Only Peter at the Gate knows what we ever did to deserve it, but they’re out for our blood.”
“I’m not out for Wayne’s blood,” I put in cautiously.
He turned my way, his chin in full assault mode.
“Huh! That’s what you say now. Holy Christmas, that’s what they all say at first. Look at that Helen Herrick; she was already divorcing the poor sucker, but nooo, that wasn’t enough, she had to put out his lights for him, too.”
“Are you accusing Helen Herrick of murder, Captain Wooster?” Aunt Dorothy demanded, raising herself to nearly five feet in her barely restrained indignation.
The captain pulled his head back. He’d obviously forgotten my aunt in his excitement.
“Not necessarily accusing, ma’am,” he floundered. He looked upward for inspiration. “Um, suggesting a theory. Yeah, that’s it.” He looked back at us and enunciated carefully, “One of the many possibilities we’re pursuing, ma’am.”
“I have known Helen Herrick for longer than you’ve been alive, Captain,” Dorothy informed Wooster, her voice cold with anger. “And Helen is grieving for a man she loved. Don’t you dare bully her.”
“We don’t bully people at the Cortadura Police Department,” he tried, adding “ma’am” once more as an afterthought. “For Joseph’s sake, we have to get them sandwiches if they want them. Or ‘wraps.’ It used to be croissants—”
“Well, I’ll save you a wrap,” Dorothy told him. “Helen didn’t do it.”
“But—” the captain started. Then he seemed to deflate. For a moment anyway, his chin went back to where most people’s chins are. Then he opened his mouth again.
“Felix Byrne,” he hissed.
I flinched.
“You know that little Judas weasel, don’t you?” he demanded. “Friends like—”
“Yeah, but we didn’t tell him anything,” I cut in, guessing what was coming. “He already knew. He told us that Isaac was suffocated for sure.”
“That little blood sucker!” the captain roared. “I don’t know who leaked it, but now the whole world knows how Isaac Herrick died. No chance of surprising the guilty party with withheld information—”
“The Marin Mind?” I guessed.
He nodded. “If I get my hands on that boy, I’ll—”
“Deny him a wrap?” my aunt suggested.
The captain’s complexion turned an unhealthy shade of maroon.
“Was the coroner female?” I asked before he started in on Aunt Dorothy.
“What?” he said. “What kind of question is that?”
“Felix has a way of weaseling information out of female officers that I don’t understand,” I explained. “Maybe he’s more attractive before you get to know him very well.”
“Well, if the coroner has been talking out of turn, I’ll have her hide,” Captain Wooster promised. So, we were talking about a female officer here. I just hoped the captain didn’t really have the power to make trouble for her. As far as I knew, the coroners worked for the county, not the city. “She should have known better than to talk to a reporter without my okay.”
“Did you give her explicit instructions to the contrary, C
aptain?” my aunt asked sweetly. “I thought these details were routinely given to the press.”
“No, I didn’t give her explicit instructions,” Wooster whined. “Mary, Joseph, and the baby, you’d think I was the only one with any sense.”
There was a moment of relative silence as Captain Wooster squinted his eyes. Was he thinking of the good old days of rubber hoses?
“Sir,” Wayne tried respectfully. “When will I be able to pick up my car?”
“When the bodies stop piling up,” the captain shot back. “If you live long enough to see it, that is.”
We were obviously back to the captain’s original theory.
Then suddenly Captain Wooster shoved his chin my way. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?” he asked.
I shook my head so hard I nearly slipped a disk.
“If you know something, you’d better tell me,” he finally threatened. “That goes for all of you. Or I’ll assume you dunnit, see?”
“But—”
“No buts,” he corrected me. “Anything you know, you tell me now.”
But jutting chin in my face or not, I didn’t know anything. I searched what was left of my mind and couldn’t find one important tidbit to pass on. At least, I hoped that nothing I knew was important. Wayne and Aunt Dorothy didn’t do any better than I did. Even C. C, who’d wandered out for the show, had nothing to offer.
The captain left, fuming. I hoped it was an act, but I didn’t think it was—not any more than my thudding pulse was an act.
After he’d gone, the three of us made it up the stairs, staggered into the house, and threw ourselves into the living room: Dorothy on the denim sofa and Wayne and I in the double hanging chair. C. C. brought up the rear, complaining about something—maybe it was Captain Wooster’s demeanor, but it was more likely food deprivation.
“That man should learn to control his temper,” Dorothy commented mildly. “He might have a heart attack.”
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 19
