"The jewelry business," I interrupted. "Ted was in the jewelry business?"
Hire you telling me that Ted was in the jewelry business, as in making bracelets, not just selling them?" I prodded, my voice gaining speed along with the pounding of the blood in my temples.
"Well. . . yes," Ivan admitted slowly, tilting his head as he looked at me. Could he have really missed the connection?
"So could Ted have made the bracelet?"
Blank-faced silence was my only answer at first. It probably wasn't very long before Ivan finally reacted, but it felt like decades.
And then Ivan gulped. I could hear the sound just as clearly as if I'd gulped myself in the stillness of the bookstore. Ivan's face grew even grayer than before. I hoped he wasn't going to pass out. I hoped / wasn't going to pass out.
"No way," Winona whispered.
The heater seized the moment to kick in with a roar of hot air.
We all jumped simultaneously. Even Wayne. Even PMP.
"Scree!" the parrot screamed. "Shut up! Shut up! Thank you."
"Tell me about Ted's business," Wayne ordered, standing abruptly. "Did Ted actually manufacture jewelry?"
"Well, yes, he did," Ivan answered, blinking urgently. He squeezed his hands together again. "He and his wife made necklaces and earrings." His voice lowered. "And bracelets. They sold their stock to jewelry stores and boutiques. It was a good little business. They worked very well together. But when Ted's writing actually began to pay him enough to live on, they shut down the jewelry operation. I don't know about the equipment..." He faltered. "I didn't even think of it. I thought of Ted only as a writer. I..."
"You're not just talking about stringing beads on wire for bracelets?" I asked. I'd done that myself in college for a few extra bucks. So had half the women I'd known.
"No, they had a professional workshop and everything," Ivan assured me. Not that it was an assurance I particularly wanted. Though at least Ivan's face was getting some color back now. "I don't know what was involved, but they used precious metals and gems, and did some lovely, intricate designs—"
Damn. Now I was out of my chair too. Ted could have made the bracelet.
"But wait," Ivan put in, frowning. "Yvette made jewelry at one time too." But then he shook his head. "No, no, that's not right. I think it was Lou, when he was in accountancy school. His mother or his aunt—or someone—was in the jewelry business. Something like that. Oh, I can't remember the exact details." He made his hands into fists as if to force the information out. "I just remember Yvette talking about how beautiful Lou's pieces were. So it must have been Lou. I think."
Yvette. My mind shrilled a warning. Yvette was having a
meeting. Lunchtime, she'd said. And she'd said Ted would come. Like Ivan, I was having a hard time remembering exactly. Hadn't she said Ted would come "for sure"? Why would she say that? Why hadn't I asked?
"But making jewelry doesn't necessarily imply—" Ivan was saying.
"Wayne, they're meeting now!" I interrupted. And suddenly I was shouting. "Lunchtime, Yvette's house!"
"Oh no," Ivan groaned. "I'd forgotten. Yvette's having another meeting."
"Gotta go," Wayne growled and headed toward the door.
I was right there with him, until Winona blocked me.
"Kate, let me come too," she begged. "Yvette asked me. Let me help."
I looked at Winona, hardly able to focus on her freckled, oval face with Yvette's narrow, sharp one floating in my mind. I tried to center my nagging thoughts. We had to hurry.
"No," I said firmly. "You've got Johnny, remember?"
Winona's shoulders slumped. But she nodded in agreement as I ran past her to catch up with Wayne.
"It's probably no big deal anyway," I yelled over my shoulder as we passed through the doorway.
But one last, backwards glance told me that neither Winona nor Ivan believed me.
"No big deal," PMP echoed cheerfully as the door closed behind me. "No big deal."
Once we were on the highway, I pushed the Toyota to its limit. Unfortunately, my aged Toyota's limit with two people inside wasn't quite seventy miles an hour.
"We promised Lou," Wayne murmured as I prodded the Toyota over a steep hill by pure force of will. My hands were sweating and slippery on the steering wheel.
"Maybe we're just overreacting," I told him. At least I was. My pulse was doing everything the Toyota couldn't.
"Lou might have killed Shayla himself. Or Yvette might have, for that matter. If Lou knew how to do whatever you have to do to make jewelry, she probably did too. And who knows who else could make jewelry?"
"But why Yvette?" Wayne shot back. "Why Lou?"
"What if Yvette was jealous of Shayla?" I proposed. "What if she was just nuts?"
"Lou could have been trying to protect Yvette somehow, but..."
Wayne's voice faltered as I skidded around a curve. Honking greeted the brief intrusion of my rear wheels into the next lane.
"Or Lou and Yvette together," Wayne muttered.
"Or Ted Brown." There, I'd said it. "Ted. He had the means. And his son died. Maybe he blamed Shayla somehow. She stole his ideas."
I let my words float through the car as I swung off onto the exit ramp, minutes away from Yvette's. What would be there when we arrived? Nothing, I told myself. Nothing but the usual chaos of bric-a-brac and animals. And weapons, I remembered suddenly. Daggers, swords, and shillelaghs among the teacups and posters and African masks.
I rammed my car up to the curb and over in front of the house. I didn't stop to parallel park. And just as I yanked open the gate to the Cassells' green, leprechaun-encrusted yard, Wayne spoke again.
"The film," he whispered. "Marcia's film. There was no bracelet on the table before the authors came in."
The photos that Ivan had shown us flashed through my mind. Wayne was right. No bracelet. But which author had come in first? I didn't have time to remember as we rushed to Yvette's front door. But when I tried to open the door, it was locked. I twisted the knob furiously. It couldn't be locked. Yvette was having a meeting. It had to be open. But
it wasn't. A dog barked somewhere inside the house. Then I heard a human voice.
"If you're Demetrius Douvert, then I'm a fuddin' leprechaun." Yvette, that was Yvette speaking. Her voice was high and loud, but calm.
Douvert, my mind sorted urgently. Wasn't Demetrius Douvert Ted's protagonist?
"I take the lives of those who are evil," another voice answered. A deep voice. Was it Ted's voice? It sounded something like Ted, but it lacked its usual brittle, jerking quality. This voice was deep and slow. Ted Brown playing Shakespeare. One of the tragedies.
"Listen for a damn-dang minute here, Ted," Yvette said. "Shayla wasn't evil. Absolute good and evil are only illusions. Shi-shick, she had her good points, her bad points—"
"She was evil," the deep voice answered. Ted's voice. It had to be, unless Yvette was talking to herself.
I twisted the doorknob again. But it was well and truly locked.
"Well, was Marcia evil, then?" Yvette inquired. I didn't hear fear in her voice. But I felt it creeping up my own body. Hadn't Ted just said he took the lives of those who were evil? Wasn't he saying he'd killed Shayla?
It was quiet inside the house for a few heartbeats, then the deeper voice answered.
"Ted didn't mean to kill Marcia. Marcia thought she had it all figured out. Ted thought she was coming on to him sexually, but she just wanted to blackmail him. He shoved her and the handcart fell. An accident."
"Okay, okay. It was a figgin' accident. But am I evil, Ted?" Yvette asked, her voice that of a professor posing an important question to a student.
"Not Ted, Douvert!" he roared.
The sound of dogs barking obscured all other sounds for
a moment. But the dogs weren't near Ted and Yvette, I realized. Their barking came from the rear of the house.
Damn. Yvette wasn't evil. She was crazy. Did
she want this man to kill her? I looked for a window to break.
I moved away from the door just as Wayne hurled himself at its oaken surface. But his large, muscular body just bounced off.
Yvette still sounded calm as Wayne stepped back to try again.
"Okay, Douvert, am I evil?" she rephrased her question.
"Hey, guys, um ..." A new voice. Was that Felix Byrne? "You know, this gonzo stuff is really far friggin' out and all, but—"
"Felix, open the door!" I shouted.
"You defend an evil woman," the deep voice went on. It sounded like a judgment.
Had anyone even heard my shout? I looked around me. The ceramic harp by the door looked sturdy enough to break glass.
And then the door opened.
Felix was the first person I saw in the maze of Star Trek, Ireland, Africa, and the mysteries that defined Yvette Cas-sell's living room. Fear had widened Felix's dark, soulful eyes, but excitement was lurking there too.
Wayne rushed through the door one pulse ahead of me.
"Hey man," Felix whispered, grabbing his arm. "This Ted guy's from outer space, you know, another planet.. ."
I stepped around the two men, surveying the room, and there, past the Enterprise, past the needlepoint, and past the poster-size blow-ups of Yvette's book covers, I saw Ted Brown. He wasn't wearing his cowboy hat, but his dark ponytail was in place, his posture ramrod-straight now as he faced Yvette.
"Earth to Ted," Yvette said, her hands resting on her tiny hips as if in exasperation. "I keep telling you, Shayla wasn't
fuddin' evil." Yvette stared at Ted through her tinted glasses, her head back as if trying to figure something out. Too late. Ted grabbed a bust of Nero Wolfe and advanced on her slowly. The dogs began barking again. But the dogs were in another room.
"Evil," he repeated. "Evil must die."
"Oh, come on, Ted," Yvette cajoled, but she was reaching in the long pocket of her green jacket. For her shillelagh? She'd never get it out in time.
My mind didn't have anything to do with the next instant. I was just running and kicking. My foot circled and knocked the Wolfe bust from Ted's hand. No cerebral assistance was necessary.
But then he turned his face to me. And my mind returned and was chilled. Ted's face was no longer morose. It was filled with hatred. He reached a hand toward me. My mind urged me to move. To move fast.
I stepped backwards, out of reach. And centered myself, ready.
One breath was all I took, and Wayne was behind Ted, one arm around his neck, the other holding his arm behind his back in a classic hammerlock. As if Wayne and I had been a team. Maybe we had.
My own body went slack with relief. And my brain buzzed. The science-fiction writers had been wrong. It wasn't always enough to kill on paper. At least, not for Ted Brown.
"I knew it was Ted," Yvette announced. She threw her little hands up in the air. "But would anyone listen?"
"Why didn't you just say so?" I demanded, feeling cold and clammy now. And resentful. Didn't this woman know I'd just saved her life?
"I tried—" she began, but Ted, or Douvert, wasn't finished.
"Shayla's success made Ted broke," he said, his voice a monotone, his eyes disappearing inward. "No more health insurance. Then Ted's kid got sick. Ted heard you could
bribe someone at the national transplant registry. He tried the coordinator's assistant, but he wanted lots of money. More money than Ted had. Ted's son died. Ted's wife left. Ted almost killed himself, but I promised to revenge the evil done. I, Douvert, made the bracelet. I talked Ivan into the signing. Shayla ruined Ted's life. She killed his son. Wouldn't lend Ted money. And she didn't even need the money. Her husband was wealthy. She was evil, evil—"
"Ted didn't mean to off Marcia," Felix threw in helpfully. "But Shayla ..."
I tuned him out. Because Ted was still speaking. Or was it Douvert?
"Shayla could have helped Ted out. She had money. She could have saved Ted's son. She owed it to Ted. She stole his ideas, made him a pauper. But she just ignored his son's illness, like everyone else ignores illness .. . and death."
For a moment, his eyes burned with rage again.
"You know what she said when Ted begged her? She said, 'Oh, I'm sure the boy will get better.' The only thing that could have made him better was a liver transplant—"
"But why Shayla?" I broke in. "Why didn't you kill the coordinator's assistant? Why didn't you kill the person who denied your—" No, not your, I reminded myself. This man is Douvert now. "Why not kill the guy who denied Ted's son a transplant?"
"I did," the man held before me in a hammerlock replied. And then the rage was gone from his eyes, disappearing inward once more. "I did."
Jhick, it was easy to figure out whodunit," Yvette was saying. Her high voice cut clearly through the sound of the rain pounding her bric-a-brac house. "Fu-fuddin' deduction, you know. Holmes was right. Deduction is everything."
"Especially tax deductions," muttered Lou over her head. He gazed down at his wife fondly. The nomadic accountant had come back from his business trip early this morning and had been glad to find his wife alive. Very glad. He must have thanked Wayne and me more than a dozen times. Of course, Yvette hadn't thanked either of us once. But if you counted them as a couple, the gratitude quotient seemed reasonable. Not that the same could have been said about Yvette.
"Pretty damn-darn obvious if you think about it, huh?" she went on. She stuck her tiny hand in the air and counted off the fingertips of her kelly-green gloves. Green gloves to match the green tights and minidress she wore as the star of her own self-celebration. I hoped she was warm. I wasn't. It
was too cool from the many openings and closings of the front door. "Motive, means, opportunity .. ."
I looked around the room, trying to ignore the Star Trek memorabilia, Irish kitsch, African mementos, and the weapons. Especially the weapons. The police had taken away the Nero Wolfe bust, but swords and daggers and cudgels still lurked in the chaos of collectibles.
The English bulldog at my feet gave a low growl as if he were remembering the Nero Wolfe bust, too. I took a deep breath. And smelled wet wool and the sweetish remainders of the tea and pastries that Yvette had fed us earlier.
"Holy moly, only you could have gotten the skinny on this gonzo case," Felix gushed. I was sure there was a tape recorder keeping pace in his pocket. "Jeez-Louise, presto-pronto, whiz-bang .. ."
Felix. Felix who had done nothing to defend Yvette against Ted Brown's attack the day before, but who was nevertheless celebrating Yvette's deductions along with the rest of us on that rainy Monday evening. Because you'd better believe all the suspects had answered Yvette's summons this time. Ivan had come with Winona. Even his son, Neil, was here. I wondered who was minding the store. PMP probably.
And Zoe had rushed in the front door a few minutes ago bearing the wall hanging she had pieced together from the suspects floating through her steroidal mind. It was glorious. And I was jealous. Especially since I was the one who'd suggested the puzzle motif in the first place. The shimmering silk tapestry lay over the back of an easy chair now. I was sure it would be lost soon in the jungle of Yvette's living room, peeking out from behind some twelve-foot blowup of a book cover or something. It would have been given top billing in my living room. Not that I could see any suspects in the sparkles and colors that swirled mysteriously through its stitched sections. Maybe that took deduction.
"Poor man," Phyllis Oberman commented. "A profoundly tortured soul."
Vince Quadrini and Dean Frazier nodded earnestly across from her. Well, she ought to be an expert on torture, I thought, nodding beside them, remembering my own acupuncture treatment.
"Yeah, yeah," Yvette conceded. "But he wasn't very careful, you know. Uncool procedure all the way around. Anyone could have seen him. Shi-shick, if I were going to kill someone..."
"How's Scott?" I whispered to Dean under the cover of the sound of rain and Yvette's continuing analysis of her own acumen.
<
br /> "Scott's doing better, thank the Lord," Dean whispered back. "Now that he knows—now that he's thought on it—I do believe he's come to accept a little. Just a little for now, but. .." He shrugged his shoulders to finish his sentence, fingering the amulet beneath his shirt.
I nodded. I was doing better myself. No more murder to worry about. And the skunks seemed to be gone permanently. But Ingrid? I clenched my teeth. Was our uninvited guest planning a return engagement? It hadn't even been a consideration until this morning. Until Wayne had watered one of our mammoth potted plants and found a backpack tucked neatly behind it. The pack contained two pair of spandex pants, two halter tops, undies, a toothbrush, and a bag of cosmetics. Not quite a bomb, but Wayne and I were still trying to decipher its meaning. I unclenched my teeth. There was good news, I reminded myself. My warehouse-woman Judy had definitely, absolutely, changed her name to Jade. Actually, I wasn't too sure about that either.
"So this Marcia woman was doing a fuddin' book scam, right?" Yvette asked, turning her tinted lenses on Ivan.
I forgot about Ingrid as Ivan's head popped up guiltily.
"It appears so," he admitted. "But she's at peace now, so—"
"Peace, shmeece," Yvette interrupted. "The woman was a menace. How come—"
"Mr. Nakagawa did everything he could," Winona threw m unexpectedly. She even reached out and touched her new employer's shoulder diffidently. "No way he could have done better."
"Yeah, no way," Neil chimed in, gazing fondly at Winona and his father. Ivan folded his hands together and a gentle smile settled on his thuggish face. He wanted harmony. And it looked like he was finally getting some. At least for a little while.
"Hey, Ivan," Zoe put in, her voice fast and nervous. "I was putting the suspects in place, you know, for the tapestry, and I just kept wondering about everyone. Like who had needles and stuff. Like me, for instance. Duh? And like who was really mad and stuff. And I was going to ask you, but I forgot." She tapped the side of her head with the heel of her hand, propelling more words out. "Who suggested the signing in the first place?"
Death hits the fan Page 24
