"I would like for us all to just get along," the bookseller stated for the record.
I waited a moment for Ivan to go on. He didn't.
"And ..." I prompted. It appeared our back seat was taking on a new role as a virtual reality crisis hotline.
"Marcia Armeson appears to be a thief and a forger," Ivan murmured, and sighed. "If she would only talk to me, we could find some point of agreement, I'm sure. But she seems angry."
"No kidding," I replied.
"Oh, dear," Ivan whispered. "Did she bother you?"
I looked at Wayne, hoping he wouldn't be angry at my previous nondisclosure. Then I babbled. About Marcia's visit. About my call to Vonburstig. About how scary a woman Ivan's assistant was.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Wayne demanded when I got to the part about Marcia's final threats on her way down the stairs.
"I wanted to wait until tonight," I lied. Or maybe I didn't lie. It was tonight and I had just told him.
"But I'm most concerned about Winona Eads and my son," Ivan interrupted providentially. "She's too much older than Neil. Why, he's not even out of high school." He lowered his low voice even further. "And what if she turns out to be a murderer?"
I wanted to tell him Winona Eads couldn't be a murderer, but I didn't know that. Actually, I didn't really know very much about her at all.
"She seems to be a very kind young woman," I offered tentatively.
"But my son—"
All three of us jumped when we heard another tap on the car roof.
Dean Frazier was standing out there now.
I wondered if Yvette had noticed that her party was taking place in our car? Probably not. At least Lou was back with her again.
"Are you all okay?" Dean asked quietly.
"Oh, sure," I answered, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "Want to join us?" Maybe there was something he wanted to get off his chest too.
"Lord, no," Dean replied. "Not that I wouldn't like to, I mean. I just wanted to say goodbye."
And then he was gone. But my suspicions weren't. What had Dean wanted? Had he really just wanted to say goodbye again? Or was he worried that Ivan was holding us hostage? Or that we were holding Ivan hostage? Or was Dean spying? Or—
"Perhaps we could go back to the store and talk there," Ivan suggested, cutting off my speculation. "I'm hungry myself. How about you two?"
"Yeah, food," my mouth said before my brain engaged. I was hungry, hungrier than I'd realized. I hadn't ever eaten a
proper dinner. And two bites of muffin weren't near enough to count as a meal.
"Why don't you go to the bookstore and I'll meet you there with some take-out," Ivan went on, "from the health food store."
"No reason for you to provide the food," Wayne objected. And then the two men sparred ever-so-politely to see who could be more generous. I just sat back and let them duke it out. Finally, they agreed that we'd pick up some drinks, and Ivan would pick up the food, since he was the one who wanted to talk.
I looked at my watch. It was past eight.
"But is your store still open?" I asked. I was ready for home—Ingrid, skunks, and all.
"Certainly," Ivan assured me. "Fictional Pleasures is open until nine o'clock weeknights. For the community. And Marcia is probably there. Neil was holding down the fort till she came back. But she must be back by now."
Oh joy. More talk. And Marcia to boot.
Ivan whizzed away in his Buick. I waited a few tense moments for Wayne to say something, but he didn't. I started up the Toyota.
We were halfway to the nearest grocery store to get Wayne's favorite apple juice, my favorite carrot juice, and Ivan's favorite iced tea, when Wayne finally exploded. At least as much as Wayne is capable of explosion.
"Why didn't you tell me about Marcia?" he growled. "She's dangerous—"
"I am not Yvette Cassell," I answered, feeling a spurt of anger tingle through my own body. Actually it was more like a gusher than a spurt. But I tried to keep my voice steady. And to keep my hands steady on the wheel. "I can handle myself. I am not irresponsible—"
"No one can handle themselves if a murderer is determined—"
"You just think I'm as goofy as Yvette—"
"Yvette has nothing to do with this—"
"She's only a murder suspect—"
"Exactly what I mean, Kate—"
We were off and running, the Toyota going faster and faster as our words escalated.
We got to the grocery store a lot faster than we should have. And I was shaking with anger. After all this time, Wayne still didn't trust me. And anyway, how was I supposed to know Marcia would show up on my doorstep? Was that my fault?
"I'll get the drinks," Wayne muttered when I parked the car.
"I'll call home and see if my answering machine's on," I muttered back. There was a pay phone at the entrance to the store. I might as well make use of it. And I didn't feel like walking down any aisle with Wayne right then.
Once I'd locked all the car doors, showing just how responsible I could be, I walked to the pay phone and dialed my own number. I didn't get my answering machine. I got Ingrid.
"I'm not Raoul," I informed her.
"Oh," she said.
"And I'll give you five seconds to turn my machine back on," I added. It was all too easy to infuse menace into my tone. I just hoped she could smell my anger over the phone. I just hoped she'd turn my answering machine back on. But I wouldn't have bet on it.
I glared at the phone for a while after I hung up, just for good measure. But I didn't call again. Active avoidance of disappointment can be a good strategy in times of stress. Not to mention complaining.
I was all set to complain about Ingrid when I got back to the car. But Wayne's stone scowl stopped me. He stood patiently with two bags full of drinks waiting for me to unlock the door. He'd probably bought enough beverages to drown a small na-
tion, just to show Ivan how generous he was. It was then that I remembered Wayne wasn't carrying a key to the Toyota.
The remainder of the drive was quiet. And slow. I curbed my accelerator foot and mouth with an effort. I parked the Toyota on the street next to Fictional Pleasures and waited for Wayne to say something as we sat there. He didn't. And I just couldn't stand it. I'd never be able to resist real torture. Silence is enough to make me talk.
"I'm not like Yvette, am I?" I asked Wayne finally.
He didn't answer me right off. Then he growled, "No, you're taller," and got out of the car.
He stalked up to Fictional Pleasures and disappeared through its doorway before I could even think of a reply. Wayne could be aggravating at times, but the man was not stupid.
PMP was screaming when I followed Wayne into the store.
"Cash or charge, scree, squawk! No literary merit! I have pictures! God, paperbacks are expensive, scree!"
It was good that PMP was doing some screaming. Because I was ready to join in.
"Taller?" I said to Wayne. "Taller!"
"Sorry," he murmured, looking at his feet. Wayne was rarely mean at all, and when he was, it didn't last more than an instant. "Cheap shot, Kate. You know I care—"
But by now, PMP had taken up the refrain. "Taller!" she shrilled. "Want a bag? Will you shut up!"
I looked around the store, suddenly self-conscious. Why were we having this ridiculous argument? But I didn't see anyone watching us. As far as I could tell, there was no one in the store to hear our argument, ridiculous or not. The tall wooden bookshelves were all full and leaning toward us in apparent readiness to serve. But PMP was the only live being behind the counter.
Wayne and I must have realized it at the same time. We looked at each other and shrugged in unison.
"Pretty bird," PMP tried. "I understand. Anything with cats?"
But it was still spooky there without anyone else in the bookstore, for all of PMP's efforts.
The store heater roared into life, and Wayne and I both jerked in our shoes.
"D
o you think there's something wrong?" I whispered to Wayne, petty arguments forgotten for the moment.
But before Wayne could answer, Ivan bustled in the door, a brown bag complete with grease spots in his hand.
"The health food store wasn't open," he told us. "So I got Chinese—"
"Where's Marcia?" Wayne asked.
"Marcia?" Ivan said, eyes widening as he looked around him. "Isn't she here?"
"I don't think so," I began slowly.
"Marcia?" Ivan shouted.
"Marcia!" PMP echoed. "Stooo-pid parrot. Will you shut up!"
"She must be in the storeroom," Ivan told us and lumbered down the center aisle.
I waited for a moment, then followed Ivan. Just as I pushed the door open at the end of the aisle, I heard his cry. It was softer than PMP's, but more urgent.
I burst through the door, afraid that Ivan had been attacked. But he hadn't. He stood stock-still in the center of the small storeroom. Just as before, books were everywhere. In carts, and piles, and boxes stacked to the ceiling. But the handcart I'd seen before was no longer on top of the highest stack of boxes.
The handcart was on top of Marcia Armeson.
SixTftn
1 looked closer. I shouldn't have. Marcia Armeson lay face down on the floor. The handcart lay at a haphazard angle to her body, its scoop end mashing the back of her head. I turned away, but not before the image of pulp and blood stamped itself indelibly on the retina of my mind's eye.
As I turned away, I saw Wayne coming through the door, registering the same picture I had. I pulled him into my arms in less than a moment. Yes, I was taller than Yvette Cassell. And shorter than Wayne. And none of it mattered. Just that we were alive and could hold each other.
I absorbed the intensity of Wayne's body: its heat and vibrating energy, and sudden dampness. And smelled the taint of fear in his perspiration. I could even feel his convulsive swallowing in the stillness of the storeroom. I concentrated on my impressions of his body, ignoring the one I was no longer facing, though I imagined I could still see Marcia Armeson through Wayne's eyes. Or maybe I really could.
"Might still be alive?" he suggested, so softly that I barely heard it over the roaring in my ears.
Oh God, he was right. Someone had to check. To take her pulse at least. To touch her. My body stiffened with resistance.
Ivan sighed, and then I heard him move. Even without turning, I was sure the rustle of cloth meant he was bending over Marcia now, the intake of his breath that he was touching her. Then I heard cloth rustle again.
"No pulse," he announced, his gentle voice thick. "Harmony," he added. I wasn't sure what he meant until I heard his tears. "Be one with all, Marcia."
And then silence. And the sound of a series of squawks from PMP that seemed very far away.
The interim between Ivan's words to Marcia and his next words felt endless and momentary at the same time. Something like meditation. I would have preferred meditation in my living room. But the three of us stood silently in the storeroom, there with Marcia for an infinite duration.
Then Ivan spoke again.
"We need to take proper care," he whispered. "We need to call the police."
And suddenly I was awake. Police. Marcia. Murder.
The three of us stumbled back into the main room of the bookstore all too quickly, united in our desire to be gone from the storeroom. Gone from the obvious presence of death.
Wayne and I set up a half-dozen folding chairs as Ivan called the Verduras Police Department. We had to do something. Anything.
I plopped onto one of the chairs with a sigh and wiggled uncomfortably on its slats. I had a feeling it was going to be a long time before we smelled skunk again at home. I almost missed the smell now.
"I understand," PMP sighed with me. "I understand."
It was good someone understood.
The first two men in uniform from the Verduras Police Department certainly didn't. Ivan led them down the aisle to the room where Marcia's body lay, and one of them came lurching back out, his face pale beneath its freckles. He looked young. Very young. I offered him a seat and he took it, then put his pale face in his hands. His partner stayed manfully on the spot as PMP squawked, merrily offering all forms of genre fiction to the assembled guests. Then Captain Cal Xavier and a tall female officer arrived. The pale, young, uniformed man leapt up from his chair. And the show began.
"So good to see you three again," the captain greeted us, his smile in place, but looking frayed now.
He even kept his smile pasted there on his trip to the storeroom and back again. Not frayed, I decided—his smile was more feral than frayed. Savage, actually. The store heater blasted more hot air into the room, and I realized I was already sweating.
"Accident or murder?" Ivan asked quietly.
"You tell me," Captain Cal answered and lowered himself onto a folding chair. His descent was slow and deliberate, his gaze intent. He might have been taking his place on a throne.
Then the questioning began. I was surprised that he didn't separate Ivan, Wayne, and me, but it appeared that Captain Cal had no time left for ritual. Within minutes, he'd established Wayne's movements and my own after Yvette's party. And Ivan's.
Or at least Ivan told Captain Cal his version of what he'd done after the party. He said he'd gone to the health food store, only to find it closed, and then to the Chinese restaurant next to it. He had the greasy bag to prove his story. The mixed smells of garlic and ginger and oil drifted over from behind the counter, mingling with the overheated air. But
the smells that would usually make me salivate were making me queasy now. Because I wasn't sure that Ivan's tale was the truth. What if he'd killed Marcia first, then rushed out for food, with us as convenient almost-alibis? Or patsies, even.
". . . my son, Neil," Ivan was saying quietly, his voice as low as PMP's was high. "He was scheduled to work until Marcia came back, and then to hand the store over to her. They got along well—"
"Get the kid down here," Captain Cal interrupted. He wasn't smiling anymore, feral or otherwise. And the anger in his dark eyes wasn't an improvement. I shifted in my chair. Now he looked like his younger brother, Bob, good-looking ... and scary.
And his questions went on. And on. Like a medieval artist's patron, he had us draw the sketches of our movements with our own words first, then encouraged us to supply the colors and the finer shadings. And like those artists of old, we knew we were in trouble if we couldn't supply the exact pictures the captain wanted.
"... I think Yvette was still at her house when we left," I was telling Captain Xavier, about twenty PMP scree-scraws later. "But I couldn't say for sure. Anyway, she had plenty of time after we left to get here before us. Everyone did—"
The front door opened, with a whoosh of cool air that chilled my moist skin, and a bigger whoosh of verbiage.
"Hey, Dad!" Neil Nakagawa interrupted, his young voice shrill with excitement. "What's the deal here? These Five-0 recruits want to put a snitch jacket on me—"
"Neil," Ivan put in, his voice heavy with fatherhood. "This is very serious. This is not a game. Cooperate, please."
"But, Dad—" came the teenage lament.
"Neil, listen to me," Ivan went on, unheeding. His voice didn't waver and his face was unreadable, but his hands
were clasping and unclasping as if in interrupted prayer. "There's been a death—"
"That's enough," Captain Xavier told Ivan.
Ivan shut his mouth slowly, his hands still fluttering in his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at his son, a plea on his face.
The captain looked at Neil too, but his eyes were the angry eyes of law enforcement.
"When did you last see Marcia Armeson?" Captain Cal Xavier demanded.
"Marcia?" Neil looked confused. "A little before eight, I think. She came in and I gave her the day's ledger and the keys, and then I went home." His eyes widened. "Marcia's okay, isn't she?"
The captain didn't
answer him. He just questioned Neil as exhaustively as he'd questioned us. And listening to a teenager being interrogated wasn't any more fun than being interrogated myself. But Neil had been alone with Marcia. Of course, Wayne and I had been alone with Marcia too. True, she'd been dead at the time. But the police didn't know that. Only we did.
Had Ivan been alone with Marcia? I shook my head. I liked Ivan, damn it.
Someone else must have been alone with Marcia. Someone who'd followed and killed her after Neil had left and before we'd arrived.
Or maybe it just was an accident after all. But would the police ever be able to tell? I could imagine that precariously placed handcart falling. I even shivered when I saw it hit Marcia in my mind's eye. But still, my imagination had to ask what caused it to fall in the first place.
"I told Marcia to be careful with the handcart." Ivan had broken in now. "I tried to communicate with her, to let her know that she shouldn't put it on top of things. It was too big, too heavy. But she didn't always listen to me."
Neil snorted. "She never listened to you, Dad," he said. "No way."
"I saw it too," I put in. Captain Cal's eyes raced to mine in an instant. And in that instant I was sorry I'd spoken. But I had to tell the truth. "When I went to the bathroom," I finished up. "The handcart was on top of a stack of boxes. It could have fallen."
"Right," said the captain, smiling again. Maybe the plain old anger was better. "And wouldn't that be convenient for everyone?"
Unfortunately, Captain Xavier wanted me to explain why and when I'd been in the storeroom before. And then I was the artist again, shading here, adding color there as Captain Xavier prodded and probed. I told him what I could remember, leaving out the fact that I had been nosing around, looking for whatever I thought Marcia might have hidden back there. As far as the Verduras police needed to know, I'd just gone to the bathroom. And I didn't mention that the same Marcia who was lying dead in the storeroom had attacked me the day before. Wayne didn't either. Or Ivan. Should I?
Death hits the fan Page 16
