"You can leave now," Captain Cal Xavier said as if in answer.
The captain's words jolted me out of my seat. And answered my unspoken question. He'd never asked me specifically about the day before. There was no reason to tell him. Not really. At least that's what I told myself.
Wayne kept one big gentle hand on my shoulder on the long drive back home, and around my waist as we passed In-grid's sleeping form in the living room and tiptoed down the hall to the bedroom.
"Tall enough for you?" I demanded, once we'd closed the door behind us. Gallows frivolity.
"Perfect," Wayne answered.
And then he proved it.
Death Hits the Fan 183
• • •
Jn Thursday morning, Wayne left to catch up on restau-ranteuring, and I got back to work on Jest Gifts in my skunky, paper-littered office. I never wanted to see Fictional Pleasures again. Or any of its nonfictional inhabitants. Except Phyllis Oberman, maybe. I paused as my No. 1 pencil touched columnar tablet, thinking about the woman. She was the only one that I'd never really talked to. The elusive goddess of needles. My curiosity bubbled up. I tried to put a lid on it as I marked a number in a box.
A few hours and too many stray thoughts later, I'd waded through two months' worth of invoices, almost bringing that pile of paperwork into the current year, when the doorbell rang.
I went rigid in my chair. I didn't really have to answer, I told myself. If only my doorbell worked like an answering machine, I could screen my visitors. I would screen my visitors. Why not? I was just sneaking over to my office window to see if I could catch a glimpse of the person who'd rung my doorbell when Ingrid answered the door. I smacked my fist into my palm angrily. And painfully. How could I have forgotten about Ingrid?
Our visitor was none other than Captain Cal Xavier of the Verduras Police Department.
And Ingrid was all aflutter, grinning and wiggling in aerobics spandex. And looking all too good as she did so. I wondered if Captain Cal was single.
"Cal," she greeted the captain, her loud voice now husky with affection. My heart dipped down to stomach level. And it didn't like the ride.
"Why, Ingrid," Captain Cal greeted her, smiling pleasantly. "Looking good as ever. Bob told me you were staying here."
After a few more minutes of brotherly pleasantries, the captain turned my way.
"But it's really Ms. Jasper I've come to see," he told her apologetically, his smile changing from pleasant to predatory as his eyes met mine. "Gotta get the job done. You understand the situation."
Ingrid nodded, her eyes wide with admiration and understanding. But she didn't leave the room. She just lowered herself gracefully onto her futon—our futon—while the captain settled down in one of the swinging chairs and I took the other.
"Have a few more questions for you, Ms. Jasper," the captain announced. I'd hoped he'd shoo Ingrid out of the room, but he didn't. "About Marcia Armeson's death."
The captain was about ten minutes into his questions, and I was ten minutes into the hell of continued interrogation, when Ingrid jumped up suddenly.
"Marcia Armeson!" she yelped. "Kate, wasn't Marcia Armeson that really, really scary woman who you were fighting with the other day? You know, the one who came at you, but you pushed her over—"
"I didn't push her over," I objected. I wanted to explain that Marcia's own energy had pulled her over, but the subtleties of tai chi were wilting under the captain's suddenly rapt gaze. "She just missed," I finished.
"Oh no, Kate," Ingrid kept on. "You were really cool, you really pushed her around. It was like some karate movie or something—"
"Listen, Captain Xavier," I began. "Marcia Armeson did visit me two days ago. I guess she was mad at me because she was afraid I knew about her book scam—"
"Book scam?" the captain asked, his voice deep with something like pleasure. Or maybe greed. Or lust.
I'd wondered if Ivan had told the Verduras representative of law enforcement about Marcia's allegedly larcenous activities. I didn't have to wonder anymore. He hadn't. And that was going to look suspicious in itself.
So I took a big breath and started in, about Perkin Von-burstig's call, about Marcia's reaction, about Ivan's reaction. And about my bookseller friend's reticence to speak of Marcia's possible fraud and thievery once she'd been killed.
"Respect for the dead," I called it.
"Withholding information," the captain corrected me.
It went downhill from there, the captain pulling details from me like an exorcist yanking out bad spirits. It was more than half an hour before Captain Cal Xavier left, replete with the feast of incriminating information that Ingrid had helped to supply.
I listened to the captain of the Verduras Police Department drive off. Then I turned to Ingrid.
"Find another hotel," I told her.
"But Kate!" she objected. "I thought you were my friend..."
"Another hotel," I repeated and turned on my heel.
"But that's not nice!" Ingrid yelped as I found my purse. "It's . . . it's gross!"
I didn't reply as I slammed my own door behind me.
Somehow it seemed wrong that / was making the dramatic exit from my own house. But I had an acupuncture appointment to go to.
Phyllis Oberman's office was located not far from me in Mill Valley. And it was mellow. The sound of birds and flutes swam harmoniously in the air as I entered. The walls were tinted aqua, the furnishings a light peach. And the receptionist was blond and slight and spoke so quietly I could barely hear her voice.
"I'm here to see Dr. Oberman," I told her, muting my own tone. Phyllis was after all, as I could see from the diploma hanging behind the receptionist's desk between two art prints, a doctor of Chinese medicine.
"Please, sit down," the receptionist whispered as if sharing an important secret.
I sat. Unfortunately, I sat on some kind of box that let out a clanging of church bells. I jumped up. A New Age whoopee cushion? My heart was pounding like the church bells.
"Oh my!" the receptionist whispered as she ran toward me. "The Sound Soother. I wondered where it had gone."
Within moments, she flicked the proper switches and the box was silent. We were back to flutes and birds. And intimate whispers as she sat down on the couch next to me.
"My name is Juliet," the receptionist told me. "And I'm terribly, terribly sorry to have upset your balance."
"No problem," I assured her, sensing a possible point of entry as my pulse returned to normal. "Juliet, how long have you worked for Dr. Oberman?"
"Oh, my," Juliet answered. "Five years at least. It's so soothing here."
I was beginning to feel drowsy myself, even after the church bells. Was it the birds and flutes? Or a little something extra in the incense that filled the room? I roused myself to nosiness.
"I'm a little worried," I told Juliet. "I've only met the doctor once and she seems a little, well. . ."
"Brusque," Juliet filled in helpfully.
I nodded, trying to look scared. It wasn't hard. The doctor was going to stick needles into me, after all.
"Oh, she's much more compassionate than she seems," Juliet assured me. "She really cares. And she's really beautiful, isn't she?"
I nodded sincerely, remembering Phyllis Oberman's tall, lush body, a body that cried out to be painted in an age when large women were better appreciated. That along with her big hazel eyes and creamy white skin—
"I wish I could be that big and beautiful," Juliet went on. "And you should see her boyfriend. He's a huge man, over
Death Hits the Fan 187
six feet and three hundred pounds, but so sexy, so graceful. They're such a pair. He's a bail bondsman."
"Wow," I said, imagining the two together, on Mount Olympus. Then I got back to work.
"Did she see Shayla Greenfree much?" I asked innocently.
"Who?" Juliet asked and drew her head back from mine.
"Shayla was an author—"
"Oh, yo
u mean that weird little woman who wears tinted glasses and looks like a leprechaun?" Juliet asked.
It was then that I remembered that Wayne and I were supposed to be watching out for Yvette Cassell. So far, neither of us had been doing much of a job on that assignment.
"When did the little woman come—" I began.
"Juliet?" came a questioning voice from above us. I flinched. The acupuncturist was in. And looming. At least there were no needles in her hands. Yet.
I swallowed and followed Dr. Phyllis Oberman into her office.
"Juliet tells me you have a sinus problem," she led off once we were seated.
"And a murder problem," I added. I wasn't going to put anything over on Phyllis. I was pretty sure of that.
Phyllis glared at me from those beautiful hazel eyes.
"Shayla was always difficult," she admitted.
All right! She was going to talk.
"You know that I was acquainted with Shayla in school, I suppose?" she said. "When she was still Shirley?"
I nodded.
"I will say this, and this only. Then I'll do your treatment," Phyllis announced. She stared into my eyes for agreement.
"All right," I conceded.
"In my view, which is many years old, since I've hardly seen Shirley since high school, Shirley was a woman of
great internal integrity, despite her apparent ruthlessness. She did what she felt she had to do to give her life meaning. It wasn't easy for women our age. I must be at least ten years older than you. And what a difference in culture those ten years meant. I went the traditional route: got married and had kids, worked as a nurse. Good work, but not my life's work. Once my children were grown, and my husband had left, I began to see the human potential in alternative medicine. I went to school while I did nursing, here first, and then, once I'd saved the money, in China."
Phyllis went silent, her hazel eyes on the wall behind me, brooding.
"Shirley?" I prompted.
"Shirley was smart," Phyllis said as if she'd never stopped speaking. "I only talked with her maybe a dozen times over the years, but often enough to know she was on her own track. Her paradigm was different than mine, but no less valid. And her exceptional writing proved her worth."
I waited for more.
"It's time for your treatment," the doctor said.
In minutes, I was lying on a couch, listening to birds and flutes, staring at a fuzzy picture of waves, with a set of needles inserted under my eyes, and another above them, and a couple alongside my nose for good measure. They hadn't actually hurt too much going in, but my own fear was tensing every muscle in my body, for all the relaxing music. I was afraid to move my face, even afraid to move my toes, in case I'd jar the needles. I lay there, stiff as a corpse until Phyllis came back to release me, and then she was gone. I paid Juliet for the treatment and flew out of the office.
On the way home in the car I sniffed experimentally. I could breathe better. But maybe that was just fear opening my nasal passages.
I walked into my house, pondering the enigma of Phyllis Oberman, a woman who valued integrity, yet she'd ne-
Death Hits the Fan 189
glected to tell the police of her relationship with the murder victim. And then I came perforated-face to face with Raoul Raymond.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded impatiently.
"Ah, the beautiful Ms. Jasper!" he cried. "I am but a cad. I can no longer say I love you."
"Really?" I asked cautiously. Hopefully.
"I love Ingrid," he finished.
"And I love Raoul," Ingrid added from behind me.
"Wonderful." I congratulated them both.
I moved closer to Raoul than I liked to. But it was necessary to whisper in his ear.
"Show her you really love her," I advised him. "Take her away tonight."
S cvcnTfcn
T^aoul's boiled-egg eyes widened spectacularly. Even the unruly curls on the top of his head danced as he stared at me.
"You don't mind?" he yelped in astonishment, so astonished his accent slipped for a moment.
"Look, are you rich?" I asked him. Usually I'm not so direct, but Ingrid's disappearance was riding on my rudeness.
"I have a certain, um.. . inheritance," he answered, his accent and charm back. He waved his hand gracefully. "From my late father."
"Yeah?" I prodded suspiciously.
"He was in the carpeting business," Raoul whispered into my ear. I was pretty sure I was hearing the truth now, sans accent. "Old fart made a bundle. And just me and Ruthie— you know—Ramona, to leave it to."
"Ramona's your sister?" I shot back. Now, he'd surprised me.
He looked over my shoulder, suddenly nervous. Was Ramona his excuse for not becoming too involved with the se-
ries of women he fell "in love" with? I decided I didn't care. I just wanted him to take Ingrid off my hands.
"Ingrid," I announced, swiveling my head to look at her where she stood behind me. "Raoul is rich. You are now homeless. Let him be your new hotel. Go for it." I felt like a minister at a wedding. A happy minister.
But Ingrid stuck out her lower lip. Perhaps I'd been a bit too insensitive? A bit too . . . gross?
"Raoul loves you," I corrected myself quickly. "Let him sweep you off your feet."
But when I turned back to Raoul, I could see that he was beginning to look panicked now. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned homeless. Maybe I should have just left them alone.
"Poor Ingrid is just temporarily homeless," I backpedaled desperately. "A romantic affair, you understand?"
"Ah," Raoul breathed. He brought his hand to his heart in comprehension. "The romance. It is everything."
He looked longingly over my shoulder at Ingrid. Romance lived.
And then I did leave them alone, tiptoeing to my office to sit at my desk and beat back the paperwork jungle with my No. 1 pencil.
Wayne rolled on home in time to fix me a late lunch. I told him about Ingrid and Raoul over a quiet repast of non-Whol-ios, as the two lovers communicated in coos and murmurs from our living room. Wayne told me the two had been holding hands when he'd passed them.
"Good," I said, feeling hope warm my chest for the first time. The feeling went perfectly with the toasty soba noodle salad that Wayne had fixed. The salad that Ingrid hadn't even sniffed out in her current state of bliss. Or anticipatory bliss, or whatever she was feeling in her predatory little heart.
"Think he's really rich?" Wayne whispered.
"Probably," I answered judiciously.
"Then she'll be all over him like an opportunistic affection," Wayne predicted.
I chortled and leaned forward. "I told her to get a hotel," I confided.
Wayne smiled. And the whole room felt lighter. The sunlight was shimmering in through the slats of the window in the back door. And it was beautiful, glowing in fuzzy lines on the grainy wood of the kitchen table.
"If that doesn't work, there's always the skunk broker," he said. But then, suddenly, the smile left his face. "Why'd you tell her to go to a hotel?" he asked.
Sometimes I wished Wayne was just a little dumber. Only sometimes. And just a little.
But he wasn't, so I told him about Captain Cal's visit, his friendly relationship with Ingrid and Ingrid's blathering about my "fight" with Marcia. My sweetie didn't look happy anymore. So I told him about Phyllis Oberman too. Might as well make his day.
He glared, and opened his mouth. Mental tai chi time.
"We forgot about Yvette," I reminded him.
He shut his mouth and his eyes flickered guiltily beneath his lowered brows.
"Do you think she's all right?" I asked quietly. "We did promise Lou—"
"Okay, Kate," he growled. "Message received."
He pushed himself away from the table with the warm soba noodle salad. Away from the lines of sunlight. And went to the telephone to call Yvette Cassell. But of course, she wasn't home.
The phone rang the minute Wayne set th
e receiver back in its cradle. He picked it up.
He grunted and uh-huhed a few times and then whispered "Ivan" my way as he kept on listening.
"Ivan's for dinner?" he asked me finally, his hand over the mouthpiece.
I thought about the danger of pursuing this investigation any further. Then I thought about all the paperwork I had to do.
"Sure," I told him.
"Well?" I prompted after Wayne hung up the phone. I knew twenty minutes of grunting and uh-huhing weren't necessary for the acceptance of one dinner invitation.
"At least we know where Yvette Cassell is," he answered. "Or was."
"And where was that?" I continued to prompt, wishing I was Captain Cal Xavier for a minute. He'd probably be able to get information out of Wayne faster. Or maybe not.
"Ivan's," he answered. "At the bookstore, nosing around. Alive and well when she left."
"Should we call to see if she made it home?" I asked.
But there was no answer at the Cassell residence when Wayne phoned. And there was no answer an hour later when I called, in the midst of trying to figure out why the bank thought I had $26.72 more in my business account than I did. Or an hour later, when I'd finally found the error in my own ledger. Or another hour later, when I'd found another mistake. And then it was time to go to Ivan's house for dinner. At least we'd been invited to visit his home. I don't think I could have tolerated another evening event at Fictional Pleasures. Not after the previous evening's event.
"Just how are we supposed to keep an eye on Yvette Cassell?" Wayne demanded as he steered his Jaguar toward Ivan's house in Tiburon. "Move in with her?"
"Have Ingrid move in with her?" I suggested innocently.
Wayne barked out a laugh, then swallowed it again. He was right. It wouldn't be very funny if Yvette became the third fatality while Lou was away on his business trip. But how the hell were we supposed to watch over someone we couldn't even find? Neither of us had an answer by the time we drove up the long winding driveway to Ivan's home.
Death hits the fan Page 17
