Scott lived in the Noe Valley district of San Francisco. Even on a Monday, the residential district was bustling with people: Birkenstock-shod mothers (and fathers) pushing baby strollers, couples of all mixes walking hand in hand, dogs dragging their owners, and a few folks who knew it was Monday, dressed for success with their trademark furrows between their brows as they strode purposefully toward something seen only by them.
After the requisite ten minutes spent cursing while looking for a parking space, we finally beat out a four-by-four and screeched up next to the curb, then hiked some six or seven blocks to Scott's house. Shayla's too, I reminded myself as we opened the gate and walked up the short path to the unprepossessing gray-blue two-story wooden structure before us. Or maybe not so unprepossessing, I thought, as I noticed the immaculate white trim, the intricately carved woodwork, the brightly flowering window boxes, curved stairway, and oval windows.
"Wow, this is really—" I began.
The front door swung open and a familiar small woman popped out, turning at the doorstep to say goodbye.
"Well, thank you for the interview, Mr. Green," she said. "The Architectural Review will be sure to want the fu—article."
"Well, thank you for your interest, Miss Poirot," a deep and soothing voice replied from the house. "It was a pleasure."
And then Yvette turned and saw us.
Her head jerked back for one satisfying moment. But only one moment. Then she grinned.
"Just call me fuddin' Hercule P.," she whispered with a wink and pushed past us, a blur in green.
"All right, Fuddin' Head," I whispered after her.
She swiveled that head around to glare, mid-escape, but then her glare became a pleasant smile. I cut my laugh down to a snort and turned my own head back to the doorway. Our host was peering out at us.
Scott Green looked like a white lab rat equipped with aviator glasses. He was a tall, slender man with silky, white-blond hair and close-set eyes under his glasses. His nose was long and sharp. I waited for it to twitch, fascinated.
"GRAAARFFF!" exploded from his side. In stereo.
"Down, Baroque," he admonished, looking at the two panting grenades I'd never even noticed. "Down, Rococo."
And then the furry monsters with the saliva-dripping teeth turned back into friendly-looking collies. I wish my heart could have reverted back to normal as quickly. The successor to rap music was playing a tune on my aorta that would never be replicated.
"Wayne Caruso, Kate Jasper," Wayne put in from my side, sticking out his hand.
I pasted a smile on quickly. I wondered if I had any color left in my face at all.
"Cute . . . puppies," I squeaked.
Scott Green laughed. It was an amazingly deep laugh, coming from that slender body.
"That's the nicest description anyone's given these two hellhounds after that bark," he told me. "But let me thank you on their behalf."
"Uh, Mr. Green," I said after a minute, feeling I owed the man something. "Do you believe that the woman who just left really interviewed you for a magazine?"
He laughed again. "No, that's Yvette Cassell. I just wanted to see what she was up to."
But then the light went out of his eyes and his whole face locked in anger.
"I want to know who killed Shayla," he growled. "She was a beautiful spirit, a marvelous woman. She didn't deserve to die. And once I find out who killed her, I'll kill them myself. Do you understand?"
I nodded quickly, suddenly cold. This man didn't look like a lab rat anymore. And I promised myself that if we ever figured out who killed Shayla, I wouldn't let Scott know before I told the police. Because this man was serious. I saw it in his posture and heard it in the pitch of his voice. I could even smell the intention emanating angrily from his body. He was wounded and ready to fight back. No more lab rat. Now he looked like a hunting dog. With teeth.
"I wanted to talk to you because I know you're looking into Shayla's death," he went on. "Dean keeps me informed. And the police are useless." His hands bunched into fists. "The captain acts more like he's running for office than investigating.
"I want... I want. . ." Tears appeared in his eyes. He shook them away.
"Sorry," he said after an obvious effort to bring himself under control. I would have liked to put my arms around him, to comfort him. But I had a feeling nothing was really going to comfort him, not for a long while anyway.
"Come on in," he finally offered brusquely.
And we followed him into his house. The first thing I saw as we entered was a pair of Zoe's hangings. They seemed to mark the entrance to an enchanted kingdom, rich with swirling colors in dye and stitch that hinted at a hidden castle in the clouds. Or maybe that was just what I saw in the swirls.
"Zoe Ingersoll?" I breathed.
"Yes, these are Zoe's," he answered, his deep voice softening. "God, she's a genius."
Zoe wasn't the only genius represented here, I decided as Scott led us into a room with sunlight pouring through skylights and oval windows to shine in exactly the right places, theatrically illuminating curved ceilings and four floor-to-ceiling spiral columns. The furnishings were spare: a wooden armoire, bookcases, one painting. And a mantelpiece with seven handblown glass cylinders of varying but complementary shapes and colors holding seven yellow candles, all lit. A photograph of Shayla stood in the center of the candles.
"Did you design this house?" I asked.
"Oh, yeah," Scott answered, tilting his head away as if embarrassed. "I'm no Frank Lloyd Wright, though—"
"But," I objected, "it's beautiful, magical."
"No," he insisted. "Shayla was the genius in the family. I built this house for her. I'm just a mediocre architect, lucky enough to have family money behind me."
"But—" I began again.
Wayne gave me an unsubtle nudge. And I stopped arguing. This was not the time to dispute Scott's genius relative to his late wife's.
The dining room we ended up in was simple. A wooden table with triangularly shaped legs and six linen-shrouded seats. And a sideboard in a recessed window. A feast was laid out on the sideboard, no take-out in sight. It smelled wonderful. Of onion and lemon and ginger. And chocolate.
"Eat," he ordered, pointing. "I have no one left to cook for now."
"Except Dean," I reminded him gently.
His face relaxed then, enough to see the charm again, the humor. The gentleness beneath the anger. His whole body seemed to lighten.
"Except Dean," he repeated in a whisper. "Dean under-
stood my love for Shayla, even shared it. He understands and shares my grief too. She was a glorious woman. And Dean knew it. I'd go crazy without him."
I stood still for a moment, unable to move.
"Eat," Scott repeated finally. He extended his arms as if to embrace the universe. "Eat!"
The dogs, who'd stayed silent by his side up till now, exploded in a new fit of barking.
"Not you, you little fools," he told them, patting each on the flank with affection. The dogs looked up at us as if to ask why we weren't taking Scott up on his offer. So we did.
The food on the sideboard looked good. And vegetarian. Dean must have kept Scott very well informed. Even Wayne looked impressed as we picked up our plates. Crusty bread, four kinds of vegetable pate, avocado soup, gingered eggplant salad, and a glass tray of rum and chocolate fruitcakes. Along with teas and juices.
"Did you do this all yourself?" I asked in wonder.
He answered with a shrug reminiscent of Wayne's. I just hoped the food was as good as Wayne's too.
I filled my china plate and bowl and sat down at the formally set dining table to eat.
I slurped a spoonful of the avocado soup. Ah, that was where the scent of lemon had come from. The avocado and lemon were in perfect balance. And the gingered eggplant was sweet and sour and spicy, the pates all herbed but with distinct flavors and perfect on the crusty bread. I had succumbed to the pleasures of the palate and almost forgotten why we wer
e here when Scott interrupted my feasting.
"Dean said he told you a little," he commented, laying down his fork. His voice deepened. "But maybe not the whole story. I want you to understand Shayla. You see, from the beginning, Shayla's parents tried to stomp on her dreams. But it just made her more determined. She was like that. Nothing stopped her. She wanted to be more than a
housewife. And by God, she was. So much more." Tears came to his eyes again.
"Are her parents still alive?" Wayne asked quickly.
"No," he answered. "They both passed away within months of each other some ten years ago. Shayla was an only child."
Scott pushed his plate away and took a sip of tea.
"We met in college," he told us, his voice softening in recollection. "We talked and talked, and stayed up talking some more. We played with ideas, with words, with puns. Then I waited for the inevitable, for her to ask why I wasn't interested in her sexually. I'd tried with various women but it just didn't work. I couldn't stop thinking of men in a time when that just wasn't allowed. But Shayla was one in a million. She said, 'You're not interested in women sexually. That's okay.' And suddenly, it was okay.
"I think that's when I fell in love with her. She said the unsayable aloud, and really didn't mind. We were best friends for three years. She had a couple of love affairs, one with a professor, but I was her friend. Her best friend. She was the one who proposed marriage. I reminded her that I was not interested in women beyond a certain point. I couldn't even say 'homosexual' then. I can barely say it now. But she just said, 'Exactly. And I don't want to be a housewife.'
"We made a deal then, a marriage of convenience, but of real affection. She could pursue her ambitions, and I could stop being afraid that someone would notice I wasn't sexually normal. Shirl—Shayla came to terms with my sexuality far more easily than I ever could. She was the one who allowed me to accept myself." Tears began in his eyes and poured down his cheeks. He went on without seeming to even notice.
"I loved her. She loved me. Shayla was an absolutely glorious woman. We were husband and wife, maybe not traditionally, but lovers in the sense of truly loving. And God, the
love of the mind. We could talk for hours. Her thoughts darted everywhere. She could talk on any subject. And with an enthusiasm that was unstoppable."
Rococo sighed and Scott leaned over to stroke the animal. He'd wiped the tears from his face by the time he resurfaced.
"Be sure to try the rum and chocolate fruitcakes," he ordered briskly. "Shayla loved them."
Then he rose and placed one of each on two small plates and delivered them to the table.
Neither Wayne nor I said a word, hoping Scott would continue once we were eating again. I bit into the chocolate cake. The flavor of a basketful of fruits and spices and chocolate filled my mouth. And Scott went on talking. It was hard to enjoy the extraordinary flavors while listening to Scott's pain. But Shayla had loved these fruitcakes. So I ate them, for her.
"Shayla had affairs," Scott announced, a challenge in his voice. Neither of us responded. He sighed and Rococo echoed his sigh. "She had to, really. We even talked about them. They were each of short duration. And she was so busy with her writing and publicity the last few years, I don't think she even had the time. Or the energy."
I thought of the man she had met at the anthropology convention." Had she ever told Scott? I shook off the thought and took another bite.
"There was a time when Shayla collected friends like baseball cards. Everyone was interesting to her. But she couldn't keep up with everyone she knew. In the last few years, she'd become far more reclusive. There were so many people interested in her as a famous author rather than as a person. She would start up friendships, then drop them."
He shook his head. "She loved meeting new people, but tired fast. I was her friend, her best friend." His eyes moistened again. "Our love was true."
"What about Zoe?" Wayne asked.
Scott's light skin pinkened. Was he embarrassed by his wondrous wife's insensitive behavior?
"Zoe was her friend, but I think that was ending." He gave his head a quick shake as if ridding it of some thought. I would have liked to know what thought. "And of course Dean was her friend, and Sadie, the elderly woman next door."
He stopped and sipped his tea again. His eyes were troubled. And his voice was distant as he went on.
"And of course, Shayla had a sort of friendship with her agent and editor." He frowned. "But all the public friendships, those associations, wore her down. There were so many. Writers' clubs, women's groups, fan clubs. That man, Quadrini, hosted a fan club for her every month. She attended on sufferance."
I wondered if my reaction was reflected in my face. Shayla sounded unappreciative at the least, cold and aloof. Was this the glorious woman he loved?
"She wasn't always kind to a fault, my Shayla," Scott admitted quietly. "But it was hard for her, you see. Every step of the way. She began as a feminist before there were feminists. She did what was necessary to have the kind of intellectual life she thrived on. She was fascinated by ideas, by power. Certainly, some people saw her as ruthless. But for a woman in academia, ruthlessness was necessary. It was her only way in. And people were hard for her up close. She was a good observer, but detachment was really her strong suit." He smiled softly. "When she was in love with an idea, though, a project, her whole being lit up."
"How'd she start the Beth Questra series?" Wayne asked.
"She was always writing, but never quite making it. Then she discovered the perfect vehicle, an alien with psychic abilities, a superwoman in a way. With dignity and power."
"Did she . . . get the idea from Ted Brown?" I asked. I almost said "steal," but caught myself at the last instant.
Scott looked down at his tea, frowning again. This wasn't as easy as explaining his true love. I wanted to tell him it was all right to love someone with imperfections. But I was here to prompt and listen. Not to lecture.
"Not consciously," he answered finally. "But unconsciously . . ." He shrugged again. "I remember her reading Ted Brown's book and being excited—she loved the alien idea—but just remember, Brown wasn't the first either. There were Adams and Smith before him. And you see, she knew she could write it better. Better than any of them. And she did.
"And it wasn't just the writing. She groomed herself, changed her whole appearance. She went at publicity with a military sense of strategy. She even took diction training. And she made it."
Scott stopped speaking for a while and we finished our fruitcakes, savoring the flavors, Shayla's favorite flavors.
"Will there be a funeral?" Wayne finally asked, gently, softly.
Scott shook his head.
"Shayla was adamant on that," he told us. "No more publicity after she was dead." Scott smiled, his eyes defocusing. "Shayla hated the publicity after a while. She did it because she had to. Shayla once said that Salman Rushdie was lucky on one point. At least he didn't have to do any more publicity events."
He laughed, but there were tears in his eyes.
When Scott's smile dimmed and Rococo began to whine, we rose to leave.
"Find the killer," Scott told us at the door. And then he and his dogs were gone.
I took one last look back at the lovely house Scott had
built for his wife, the woman he loved, and tears sprang up in my own eyes. For Scott. Not for Shayla.
"Psst!" a voice said at my shoulder.
I turned, expecting to see Yvette, but the woman at my side had to be twice her age, wrinkled, with bright raisin-black eyes and sparse white curls brushed over her pink scalp. She leaned on an aluminum walker.
"Please find out who killed her," the old woman whispered. "It pains Scott so."
And then the woman turned and hobbled away on her walker just as abruptly as she had appeared.
"Sadie?" I shouted out.
She turned.
"We'll try," I told her.
She smiled and then made her way ba
ck onto the sidewalk and into her own house next door.
Wayne and I made our own way to the sidewalk carefully and cautiously. I wondered if he felt as fragile as I did. As fragile as Sadie. As fragile as Scott.
At the gate, we looked at each other and shared a quick, tight embrace.
As we broke apart, I saw Scott's next visitor coming up the sidewalk. It was Felix Byrne, our own pit bull of a reporter.
I shook my head. It was useless to try to head him off.
But it wasn't until we stepped onto the sidewalk ourselves that I saw Yvette Cassell, crouched behind a bush, ready to spring.
Twelve
His I watched Yvette skulking in the bushes, I wondered if Felix had contacted her yet. I didn't have long to wonder. Felix was only a yard away from us now.
"Hey, Felix!" I greeted him with a shout.
Only a blink showed his surprise at seeing us. I'd hoped for more. I was tempted to slap him on the back. Years of tai chi practice had given me a backslapping technique that could be extremely dangerous for the slappee, and extremely satisfying for the slapper. I reminded myself of the principles of tai chi. Ethics can sure ruin a lot of fun.
"Yvette Cassell," I told him instead. "She's—"
"Hey, were you just putting me on about that friggin' woman?" he demanded. "She's as hard to find as the Bill of Rights at a political convention, man. I've searched everywhere in the known universe and—"
"She's right over there," I whispered, pointing behind the bush.
Death Hits the Fan 137
"That gremlin's her?" he breathed. "Holy socks! Why's she hiding behind the friggin' foliage?"
"You're a reporter," I told him. "Why don't you find out?"
He looked at Yvette. Then he looked toward Scott Green's door. He pulled on his mustache, meditating. I could imagine his dilemma. Who to harry first? So many victims, so little time.
Death hits the fan Page 12
