Death hits the fan

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  Ivan's decorator-beautiful home in Tiburon never failed to impress me, set atop a peak that allowed a visitor seated in the elegant living room a view not only of the Golden Gate Bridge, but of the Bay Bridge and everything else in between. Or maybe I should have said Nancy's home in Tiburon never failed to impress me, because the home was much more his wife's than his. In almost all ways. Not only did Nancy make far more money as a busy Tiburon dentist than Ivan made as a quiet bookseller, but Ivan didn't actually seem to notice much about his own home, except for the bookshelves and their contents. The sweeping views, vaulted ceilings, and original works of art that set off the white-on-white living room might have been invisible to him. The only room where he ever seemed comfortable was his own den, which was as stuffed with books as Fictional Pleasures. And the kitchen.

  Because Ivan could cook. And that's exactly what he was doing when Nancy met us at the door.

  "So good to see you two again," she greeted us, smiling her perfect smile and waving us into her perfect living room. I wondered whether a smile really meant friendly on Nancy Nakagawa's face. I wondered if she got free dentistry or fixed her own gleaming teeth. Nancy shared Ivan's Japanese-American ancestry and seemingly little else. Where Ivan's face was thuggish, Nancy's was delicate and attractively oval with wide-set eyes. Where Ivan smelled of wool and books, Nancy smelled of a sweet cologne too expensive for me to identify. Where Ivan was heavyset, Nancy was petitely stylish in a crimson miniskirted business suit and matching heels. The color made me remember she was a dentist. Was the crimson to match the color of—

  "Ah, my friends," Ivan called out from behind his wife. "Want to follow me into the kitchen? I'm still cooking."

  The smells could have pulled me into the kitchen on their own. Aromatic tai chi. I marched into the well-heated par-

  adise of tile, wood, and copper, and breathed in lemon and garlic and curry and herbs and the almond smell of something baking. Wayne took a more aggressive interest, lifting the lids off pots and sniffing, peeking into the oven, discussing ingredients, grunting happily with Ivan as they put the final touches on the feast. No wonder the men were friends. They could talk cooking.

  Nancy, who followed us in, stood with me in silence as our men communicated the best way they knew how. And all of my being cried out that Ivan not be a murderer. He was Wayne's friend. He could have been his brother.

  "We're worried about our son, Neil," Nancy finally announced once we were properly seated at the dining room table on silk brocade chairs, sampling the eggplant dip on crusty whole-wheat bread. I made an effort to listen as my mouth embraced the flavors of garlicky capers and lemony herbs. "He's infatuated with this Winona Eads woman, and she's far too old for him." She paused with a significant look across the long rosewood table at her husband. "Among other things."

  There was a short silence, and I noticed for the first time the soft background music. Violins so faint, I couldn't even catch the melody. Probably the same music Nancy piped in for her dental patients.

  "Winona seems to be a serious young woman—" Ivan began.

  I took another bite as Nancy retaliated.

  "A serious young woman!" she snorted. "A serious mental case, if you ask me. And Ivan is actually considering offering her a job at the store."

  "I need someone now that Marcia's gone," Ivan replied quietly. "And Winona truly loves and knows books—"

  "Books aren't everything, Ivan," Nancy interrupted. A hint of affection actually stretched her face into something

  like a smile for a moment, but then it was gone. "The girl is trouble. Even her own mother won't speak to her—"

  "Why?" I mumbled through a mouthful of eggplant and bread. Though I was fairly sure I knew the answer.

  "Well, because ..." Nancy's skin colored to more closely match her crimson suit. "Because of the child."

  "Winona Eads is a single mother," Ivan put in. "But she cares for her son, Neil tells me, cares very well and very much. We aren't living in Victorian times. There is harmony possible—"

  "Well, we're not living in the Age of Aquarius, either," Nancy countered. "Neil is our child." She slapped her well-manicured hands on the rosewood table, palms down. "And that's all that matters."

  The war continued through the asparagus-and-watercress soup, and the curried yam salad. I was surprised Ivan was even capable of such military spirit. But in his own quiet way, he kept up with his wife.

  It wasn't until we were devouring the main course, a deceptively simple linguine with fresh basil and vegetables, that Nancy's voice softened.

  "My son's special," she murmured. "He's diabetic, you know. He has to give himself shots. Can you imagine that, our poor sweet kid . . . ?"

  I was imagining all right, because shots implied syringes and Ivan had never mentioned his son being diabetic when we'd talked about access to syringes.

  "The police suspect Neil," Ivan said, his gentle voice rising in pitch. "My own son."

  "Neil, for God's sake!" his wife threw in, as if we hadn't understood.

  For the moment, Nancy and Ivan seemed united, united by fear, but united all the same.

  "Neil told me he said goodbye to Marcia before he left,

  but then he just drove away," Ivan went on. He pushed his hands together. "He didn't see anyone hanging around—"

  "He wasn't looking," Nancy put in angrily. "Why should he have been?"

  "But he's okay," Ivan answered, reaching out to his wife with his gentle voice. "He's alive."

  Nancy sighed, a sigh not unlike Ivan's. Or PMP's, for that matter. "That's right," she agreed. "At least he's alive. When I think how Ted's son died—" She shook her head slowly.

  "Ted Brown?" I asked, alert now.

  "Yeah," she answered, tilting her head my way. "Some weird disease. God, it was sad."

  "Do you know Ted?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I know Ted," she answered, her tone louder now, almost defensive. "I'm his dentist. I was Shay la's dentist too. I know the best teeth in town."

  I glared over at Ivan, adding to my list another little thing he hadn't bothered to tell us. First, his son's syringe-use, and now, his wife's role as Shayla's dentist.

  Ivan got up to clear the dinner plates. Quickly. And refused any offers of help.

  Nancy ushered us into the living room on cue. She might not know why I was glaring at Ivan, but she seemed to know enough to back up his retreat. Maybe they had more in common than I thought.

  Wayne and I were admiring the view of the Golden Gate and Bay bridges, lights twinkling against the darkness now, when Ivan brought in dessert, a platter of homemade almond biscotti and raspberry dipping sauce. He set it on a white lacquered coffee table shaped like an oversized lap tray. We took our places on the long sofa behind the coffee table, also white with throw pillows in blush and aqua. It was a long reach to the platter. I really wanted to sit on the floor. The plush white rug would have been plenty comfortable. And it was cool in the expansive living room, too cool. It would

  probably be warmer on the rug. But I looked at Nancy in her miniskirted suit and decided against the floor.

  I'd snagged a biscotti and made the long-distance dip into the raspberry sauce when Ivan spoke again.

  "I found the camera and film that Marcia shot during the signing," he announced. I jerked my head around to look at him. And dripped raspberry sauce onto the pristine white carpet. "I got the pictures made up this afternoon. I have the prints."

  "Have you looked at them?" I breathed, bending over to absently swipe at the splatters of sauce with my napkin. All that filled my mind was Marcia. Was there a clue in her pictures?

  "Don't worry," Nancy said.

  "What?" I replied.

  "The sauce, I'll take care of it," she explained.

  Even then, it took me a moment to bring my mind back. Back from the storeroom at Fictional Pleasures. Ivan squatted down and laid a blue cardboard box of prints on the coffee table next to the platter of biscotti. He closed his eyes for a moment
and then slid the top off the box.

  "I was afraid to look," he answered belatedly. "Afraid of what I'd see. Or what I'd miss."

  I nodded and sat down on the floor next to him. Wayne crowded in next to me and Ivan lowered himself from his squat to sit, too. Even Nancy knelt down across from us, on the other side of the coffee table, miniskirt and raspberry sauce forgotten.

  Ivan pulled out an envelope of negatives and a stack of glossy prints. I recognized the first one right away. It was a picture of the authors' table, from the authors' side: neat stacks of books and pens for each author, three glasses of water, and one open book. An open book with Shayla Greenfree's signature. Nothing more, nothing less.

  "So she could copy the signature?" Wayne suggested aloud.

  Ivan grunted, turned over the print, and laid down another photo of the authors' table, this one a close-up of Shayla's signature. As Ivan flipped the prints over, we saw more and more shots of Shayla's signature. And then, finally, a few close-ups of Ted Brown's and Yvette Cassell's signatures. Then a couple of shots of Ted Brown, S.X. Greenfree, and Yvette Cassell trooping down the aisle from the storeroom, and a few shots of the audience, including Wayne and myself. And one of Winona Eads lurking behind a bookshelf. That was all. No surprises.

  We passed around the pictures and scrutinized them one by one. But I didn't see any clues to the murder. Only to Marcia's scam.

  "Where'd you find the camera and film?" Wayne asked as he looked at a shot of the authors.

  "In the storeroom, behind some books," Ivan told him.

  I shivered involuntarily. Was that camera what Marcia had been hiding in the back room of the store? But why? Because the film might show her all-too-evident interest in author signatures? I ran my eyes over the pictures again.

  "Would the books be more valuable once Shayla was dead?" I asked Ivan after I couldn't look at the glossy prints anymore.

  "Probably," he answered simply.

  "But—" Wayne began.

  "I know, I know," I finished for him. "Marcia is dead too. So she's not likely to be the murderer." I didn't bother to add that I'd ruled out murder/suicide in my own mind. Self-inflicted handcart injury wasn't a likely method of suicide.

  "Why were the books already signed?" I tried.

  "We like to accommodate the people who can't make events," Ivan explained, his voice tired, disappointed. I didn't blame him. I'd hoped there would be an answer in the prints too. "The authors sign some books ahead for them."

  I took one last look at a shot of Shayla, S.X. Greenfree, a

  swan in elegant blue silk. If I squeezed my eyes and thought back, I could just see the former Shirley Green beneath the smooth exterior. I sighed, too. It was too bad PMP wasn't there to join us.

  Wayne and I scarfed down more almond biscotti without the appreciation that Ivan's baking deserved, then took our leave. Nancy and Ivan Nakagawa stood at the door as we left, with identical looks of hopelessness on their faces. Why had I thought the two had nothing in common? They had their son in common, if nothing else. And then Wayne drove back down the winding driveway, through Tiburon, and toward home.

  "Should we drive to Yvette's and see if she's there?" I asked as we were almost home. It had taken me that long to remember her again. To remember our promise to Lou.

  "Maybe call first so we don't startle her," Wayne suggested as he turned the car into our driveway.

  "Right," I said. We sat in the car for a moment.

  Then we left the Jaguar's warm leather womb and climbed out into the cool night air.

  We had walked halfway up the stairs before we noticed that someone was waiting for us. Someone seated quietly in one of the chairs on our deck. Was it Ingrid? My heart beat a little louder. Or Bob? Or one of our murder suspects? I tried a long, cleansing breath to calm myself down. Or was it Felix? Or maybe an overgrown skunk? Or were Felix and an overgrown skunk one and the same?

  The silent figure didn't speak as we took the next stair. And its identity didn't become any clearer. In part, because the figure was dressed in black, from its headdress and veil to its long black robe. Dressed in black with its head lolling back over the top of the chair.

  Had Death come to our house for a visit?

  ^iQtiTffn

  Whaa?" the figure in the chair mumbled, jerking its head forward. "Damn, fu-fuddin' ... guess I fell asleep."

  It wasn't Death. It was Yvette Cassell. And for once, I was actually glad to see her.

  Or at least to hear her through the heavy black veil she wore.

  She jumped out of her chair, stretched out her black-robed arms like an oversized crow in the starlight, and then yawned.

  I walked up the last few stairs and gave her an impromptu hug. Lou would be happy. Not only was his wife alive, I had her in my grip. For the moment.

  "Whaa?" she repeated, suspiciously this time, and I released her from my embrace. Her costume smelled of must and mothballs anyway.

  "Been here long?" Wayne asked from my side.

  "Shi-shift, no. No more than half an hour, I guess," she answered, pulling the veil up and tossing it over the rest of

  the headdress. Sure enough, there she was, sharp nose, tinted glasses, and all. "I rang the doorbell, but no one answered."

  "Why are you wearing that. .. that stuff?" I asked. With the veil and black burnoose, if it was a burnoose, she might have been a combination sheik/nun ... or something.

  "I'm in disguise," she confided, lowering her voice mysteriously.

  "I can see that," I told her slowly, suddenly not as happy to see Yvette as I had been. How do you protect a woman who disguises herself in outfits that wouldn't even blend in on Halloween? "But why are you in disguise?" I finally asked.

  "That's for me to know and you to find out," she replied, her voice a falsetto now.

  Ugh. Not only was she speaking in the language I remembered as noxiously peculiar to high school, but I couldn't even remember the ritual response. I hate it when that happens.

  "So anyway," she went on, "I gotta talk to you guys. I think maybe I've got a lead, you know. Whaddaya think, huh?"

  "About what?" I asked carefully.

  Yvette looked around her as if for eavesdroppers. I found myself following her glance nervously until I reminded myself that any eavesdroppers out here were likely to be non-human ones, and probably black with white stripes. Yvette pulled the veil over her face again.

  "Let's go on inside," I suggested.

  "Yeah, yeah," Yvette agreed impatiently, looking around her again as I opened the front door.

  I didn't have to turn on the living room lights. Ingrid had already done that. She was folding a pair of jeans and placing them in her suitcase as we entered. And I was hoping that meant she was packing.

  "Hey!" Yvette objected as she followed us into the living room.

  I turned to Yvette, wondering what the problem was now. Was she upset by the lingering scent of skunk? But Yvette's eyes were on Ingrid. Ingrid folded a halter top in three precise rectangles and added it to the jeans in her suitcase. My heart executed a premature jump for joy.

  "Were you here the whole time I was ringing the bell?" Yvette demanded, pointing her finger at Ingrid accusingly.

  "Uh-huh," Ingrid muttered. I figured she'd have a hard time actually speaking while keeping her lower lip jutted out that far.

  "Then why didn't you answer the figgin' bell?" Yvette shouted.

  "I'm homeless," Ingrid answered briefly, then turned her perfect back on us as she continued to pack. Yes, packing. Her back was a beautiful sight in movement.

  "Yeah, that's cool," Yvette replied, seeming to accept In-grid's explanation. "Anyway, I think I've got it. It took a while, but now ..." Her words trailed off suggestively. If she was trying to create suspense, she was doing a great job. If she was trying to drive me crazy, she was doing even better.

  "What?" I prodded. "What do you think you've got?"

  Yvette put her left hand up in the halt position, shaking her head.
I was sure she was grinning under that veil.

  "Not so damn-darn fast," she warned, plopping down in one of the swinging chairs and pushing off with her feet. Her veil floated in the breeze as she swung to and fro. "First we talk suspects. Huh, huh?"

  "Fine," Wayne agreed, laying a restraining hand on my arm. He must have felt the micro-movements in that arm, urging it up and toward Yvette's neck. I willed my arm to rest, and Wayne and I took a seat together in the other swinging chair to wait for Yvette's murder-suspect review.

  "First, you guys," she began.

  Ingrid turned back to us with interest then, holding a piece of lime-green spandex in midair.

  "Shayla called out your name—" Yvonne accused.

  "But that was because—" I began.

  "I know, I know," she cut back in impatiently. "But still, she called out your name and you were there. Even if I can't think of any motive, to tell you the truth."

  "Me neither," I assured her, as my mind actually tried to think of one. My mind works that way, unfortunately.

  Ingrid turned her back on us again with a small sigh of discontent.

  "Marcia Armeson was up to something, some kind of scam, I'll bet," Yvette went on, bending forward eagerly. I wondered how much she knew. "But she's toast. Or scrambled eggs maybe."

  Ivan's lovely meal flip-flopped in my stomach. The description was too apt. I wondered where Yvette had gotten her information. Or had she been there? Was Marcia's scrambled head—

  "Now Ivan had the best opportunity. Talk about your man on the spot. Shick, he set up the whole fuddin' show—"

  "But if he wanted to kill Shayla, would he have done it in his own—" Wayne began.

  "Naah," Yvette agreed, waving a hand. "Probably not. Unless it was some spur of the moment thing. But it couldn't be, not with that bracelet. Though there's his kid and that Winona person."

  Before I could ask what his kid and Winona had to do with it, her mouth moved on.

  "Now Zoe's an interesting one ..." Yvette's words faltered again. And I couldn't see her face under the veil. Was she torturing us on purpose?