The sound of a car driving up behind us broke our clinch. Simultaneously, we dropped our arms and turned toward the incoming vehicle.
It was a turquoise vintage ‘57 Chevy. Driven by Felix Byrne, my friend Barbara’s boyfriend, the pit bull of newspaper reporting.
Wayne and I exchanged a look of panic. Was there time to run away? Then Wayne’s eyebrows dropped into protect mode and his shoulders swelled into their bodyguard persona. No one but me would have believed the look of panic had ever been in his eyes now. I tried to copy his expression and posture. As much as a person of my size and shape can.
Felix slipped out of his Chevy cautiously, eyeing Wayne as he approached us. Felix was small and slender with a luxurious mustache and soulful eyes. And a lust for information that the whole of the Internet wouldn’t satisfy. He’d badgered me unmercifully to get gory details for his articles so many times that I could almost predict his approach. Anger, hurt, then bargaining. But Wayne scared him.
Not enough, unfortunately.
“Howdy-hi, Kate. Hey, big guy,” he greeted us with a wide smile. “Heard through the grapevine you two discovered a stiff in Gravendale today.”
I nodded. Wayne just glared. Smart man. I vowed to keep my head immobile from here on in.
“Care to share a little information with your old pal, your compadre—” Felix began.
“Go away,” Wayne said quietly.
“Now wait a friggin’ nanosecond here,” Felix objected. Nope, not scared enough. “You both were there when the first stiff got fried too, and you guys never bothered to tell me! Me, your friendly crime reporter. Holy moly, what are friends for?”
He stared our way, his soulful eyes full of obvious hurt. Too obvious. Felix could have had a career on the stage.
When neither Wayne nor I said anything, Felix changed directions.
“Man, that Gravendale cop shop is a gonzo place, huh?” he tried this time. “Thinking two nice guys like you could off a couple of Kate’s old buds.” He shook his head sympathetically.
I was dying to ask him if the Gravendale police really thought we did it, but I kept my mouth shut despite my thumping heart. Gravendale was in Sonoma County. I had a feeling Felix couldn’t suck information there like he could here in Marin. And anyway, I didn’t believe that Irick and Gonzales could agree on anything, even if it was our guilt.
“How about a little info trade, huh?” Felix offered. “My poop for your poop—”
“Go,” Wayne said again slowly. “Away.” Only this time he took a step forward.
Just one step. But it was enough.
Felix took a step backwards.
“Hey, big guy,” he said, smiling widely again. “Just asking the question, man. If you’re uptight now, maybe I’ll make it back here a little later.”
Wayne took one more step.
Felix jumped into his vintage Chevy and backed out of the driveway, popping gravel.
“Later, man,” he yelled out his window. And he was gone.
Wayne and I walked up the front stairs and were through the doorway before we dared to look at each other. Because the moment we did we started laughing. We laughed all the way over to the couch and held each other until all the laughter was gone.
Completely gone. At exactly the same time. I rubbed my arms. Suddenly, my whole body felt numb. But not my mind.
I looked into Wayne’s now serious eyes.
“Who—” I began.
“You spent yesterday interviewing people,” he stated.
I could feel my shoulders slump as I nodded. And I reminded myself, no more snooping. Hadn’t Elaine’s body been proof enough that the murderer was serious?
“Who did you talk to?” Wayne asked.
“Pam, Lillian, Jack, Aurora, and Natalie,” I told him. No more lies either. But should I tell him about the telephone threat?
“And…” he prompted.
“And Pam loves Charlie,” I replied on cue. “Charlie’s worth a million dollars, by the way.” Wayne blinked in surprise. I went on. “Lillian is a great sculptor. Jack’s a manic-depressive with suicidal tendencies, and Aurora…”
I stopped to think. Aurora was so many things. Worried mother. Hypnotist. Saint? Manipulator?
“Aurora’s a witch,” I finally finished. “But I’m not sure if she’s a good witch or a bad witch.”
“And Natalie?”
“Natalie’s a concerned boss and about as stressed out as you can be and still walk,” I concluded after a moment’s thought. If Natalie’s jerking gait even counted as walking.
Damn. I wanted to find out who did it. Snooping or no snooping. Because until I did, there was always going to be a threat to Wayne. And who knew what the murderer thought counted as snooping? Coming to Sid’s memorial may have been enough by itself.
I’d find out who the murderer was. It was that simple. My chest opened up with the decision. I took a long breath in and tried to imagine that breath was courage.
“Kate, if you talk to anyone else, will you take me with you?” Wayne asked as if he’d heard my decision.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. Because if we were always together, Wayne would be safe. Or at least more likely to be safe.
Wayne blinked again, unbelieving for a moment.
“From here on in, we’re in this together,” I insisted, straightening my shoulders. “Where you go, I go. Where I go, you go. Deal?”
I stuck out my hand.
Wayne took it and shook it, looking into my eyes, searching. I returned his look without flinching. I wasn’t going to tell him about the threat. We would find the murderer and it would be over.
The majority of my brain cells were already gathering for a protest march, screaming in anticipation. But I ignored them and took Wayne into my arms again. And then we made love until I could feel again.
*
The next morning, true to our deal, Wayne and I were seated together on a vinyl couch between a woman with a yowling orange cat in her wire carrier and a man with a black Scotch terrier choking on its leash. It was time to talk to Mark Myers, veterinarian. I wondered if we should have brought C.C. as a cover. Mark had a partner in his practice. Her name was on the door. Maybe she wouldn’t appreciate our just dropping in like this any more than Mark would.
So far, I hadn’t seen anyone at the desk, so Wayne and I had just sat down. I peered sideways at Wayne. His brows were dropped in a scowl. Yesterday, the idea of investigating together had sounded good to both of us. Today, it was a little different as we both took more time out to neglect our respective businesses. But then again, that might not have been why Wayne was scowling. It might have had more to do with the terrier, choking on its leash, trying to get to the cat just two bodies away. The terrier that was frantically clawing Wayne’s thigh in frustration.
The whole office was bursting with the sound of animals. I could hear chirping and yelping and squealing from the inner offices. I just hoped none of it was human. The smells were definitely animal, though, and pungent despite the antiseptic base.
When I turned my head back, magically there was a woman seated behind the receptionist’s desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked us, a smile on her square freckled face.
“Well, yes,” I answered quickly, smiling back as widely as I could. I remembered my recent fiasco at Nusser Networks all too well. “My name’s Kate Jasper and this is Wayne Caruso, and we’re friends of Mark. We were in the neighborhood, so we thought we’d just drop by.” I paused and added earnestly, “And I promise we’re not solicitors.”
The receptionist leaned her head back and laughed. That was a relief.
“Just stay where you are,” she told us. “It might take a little while. Mark’s giving a Russian Blue her shots, but he’s always glad to talk to friends.”
So we sat on the couch for a few more minutes until another woman came in with another caged cat. Wayne graciously rose and gave her his seat, his scowl disappearing completely with the action.
<
br /> When the woman sat down, the terrier went really crazy, snuffling and leaping in the air, and choking on its leash, as the cat inside the new carrier hissed and cursed the terrier’s ancestors. At least, that’s what it sounded like. The woman with the new cat shoved up against me, trying to pull the cage out of terrier range.
I never heard Mark walk up over the din. I jumped nearly as high as the terrier when he tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hey, Kate! Wayne!” he shouted cheerfully. “Enjoying the local fauna?”
“Oh, sure!” I shouted back.
Mark winked. But his intense eyes were alert in his round face. Maybe that’s what gave him such a youthful appearance. Even with the receding hairline, he looked younger than any of the rest of the class of ‘68. A good twenty years younger than Becky, I thought sadly. And his wiry body was in shape too.
“Thought we’d ask a few questions if you’ve got a minute,” Wayne put in seriously from his side.
Mark’s eyes narrowed for a moment, looking even more intense. But then he motioned us past the receptionist’s desk with good humor.
“Follow me to my private kennel,” he offered, and we did, down a hallway past a couple of rooms with open doors. A tall woman was wrestling with a poodle in one of the compartments. An animal container whose contents were hidden to my eyes howled alone in the other one.
“Kennel” was a good word for Mark’s office. The whole space must have measured all of six by ten feet, barely enough room for its battered wooden desk and the equally battered chairs on both sides. A bird cage hung from the ceiling with two little yellow birds, chirping away. We squeezed into the room and took our seats, the door still open to the sounds of the less cheerful animal mayhem surrounding us.
“Betcha a potbellied pig you’re here to talk about Sid,” Mark opened the conversation, plopping down in his own chair.
“You’d win,” I replied, happy to cut to the chase.
“Ask away,” he ordered and spread his arms wide in acquiescence. At least, as wide as he could without denting the walls.
“Did you see Sid at all during the years between high school and the reunion?” I asked.
Mark leaned back in his chair, his eyes rolling up in their sockets as he thought.
“A few times right after high school, I think,” he answered, rolling his eyes back down finally. “In town once. And a couple times at restaurants. But nothing for the last twenty years or so.” Then he smiled. “It’d been donkey’s years, if you know what I mean.”
Wayne took over then, ignoring the animal humor.
“Seemed like you really liked Sid in spite of his…” He faltered for a moment.
“His homophobic put-downs?” Mark finished for him, tilting his head.
Wayne nodded.
Mark shrugged. “I’ve heard worse,” he told us. “Listen, I’ve been compared to more species of animals than I’ve practiced on. Sid wasn’t actually that bad. Teasing me was just one more joke for Sid, like teasing someone fat or disabled. Or female for that matter. In his own way, he was an equal opportunity offender.”
“So you liked him?” I prodded. I still wasn’t sure.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to marry him,” Mark shot back wryly. “But Sid was fun. And fun to watch. He was a real puppy, you know. All full of life and knocking into things by mistake. And he wasn’t afraid of my homosexuality. He actually shook my hand. A lot of men won’t do that anymore.”
I tried to remember if Wayne had shaken his hand. Or if I had.
“Who do you think killed him?” Wayne asked before I could remember whose hands had shook whose.
Mark leaned back again for a few moments, then said, “Elaine seemed angry enough. Though not at Sid, apparently.”
I stiffened. Mark didn’t know Elaine was dead. Of course. Or else he was an awfully good actor.
“Where’d you go after the memorial yesterday?” I demanded.
Mark’s intense eyes peered into mine for a moment before he answered me.
“Back here, to the office.” He paused, then asked, “Why?”
Wayne and I looked at each other. Then Wayne turned back to Mark.
“Elaine’s dead too,” he said quietly.
Mark’s whole torso jerked forward in his chair.
“Elaine?”
“Murdered,” Wayne added.
“God,” whispered Mark, his skin color fading from rosy to creamy white. “What’s happening to us?”
He certainly looked like a man in real shock to me.
He shook his head slowly. “So the question is whodunit,” he murmured softly, as if to himself. He looked up in the direction of the bird cage, his eyes out of focus. “Natalie’s uptight. Jack’s depressed. Becky’s an alcoholic. God, who knows?”
Finally, he brought his eyes back down and looked across at us, looking first at Wayne and then at me.
“Animals are easier than people, you know,” he told us. “Nicer too, sometimes. And when they die—”
But whatever Mark was going to say was lost as an orange cat came racing into the room and jumped onto the wood desk. The black Scotch terrier wasn’t far behind, skittering in through the door, its leash trailing behind. The dog spotted the cat and leapt triumphantly.
- Twenty-
Mark caught the orange cat in his arms just as Wayne picked up his foot and stepped on the terrier’s leash, choking the dog to a stop in midair. The dog dropped back to the ground and Wayne grabbed its leash by hand.
“Hey, buster,” he muttered, not unkindly, and pulled the dog to him with one hand, the other hand outstretched palm up.
The terrier whined and tilted its head at Wayne, with a very human plea in its eyes. Cat, please. Oh, please, let me at the cat.
Wayne just shook his head.
Maybe all that karate practice had done Wayne some good. He was tough. And his reflexes were certainly fast enough. So were Mark’s for that matter. But this probably wasn’t the first flying cat Mark had ever caught in his practice.
“That’s all right, sweetie pie,” Mark soothed the cat, who was nuzzling and clawing his chest simultaneously as if trying to climb inside to safety.
Mark was smoothing the cat’s ruffled fur gently when the receptionist and the man who owned the terrier came racing into the office, neck and neck. It was getting a little crowded in the small space. Wayne handed the man his dog and Mark passed the orange cat to the receptionist. Finally, the woman who owned the cat came running in a late third, huffing and puffing with each step.
“Is Camellia all right?” she demanded breathlessly.
“Perfectly all right, Mrs. Harvey,” Mark assured her as the receptionist passed the cat in question to her rightful mother. “And Camellia’s fast too. Not bad for a cat her age.”
Mrs. Harvey smiled then, preening a little in Camellia’s reflected orange glow.
It was more than a little crowded in Mark’s six by ten office now. Animals and humans alike were jammed in as tightly and haphazardly as the contents of my kitchen junk drawer. Luckily the receptionist was between the terrier held by its owner and Camellia held by Mrs. Harvey. But it was still hard to breathe. Even the little yellow birds had stopped chirping. Wayne and I looked at each other and stood up. We wouldn’t be able to ask any more questions today. Time to go.
Wayne stuck out his hand to Mark.
“Good talking to you,” he said.
“Oh, you don’t have to shake my hand,” Mark teased him, squeezing around the table. “Just give me a big fat hug.”
Wayne chuckled and did just that.
I gave Mark a hug too. Then we said goodbye to all the various species of human and animal that we’d met and threaded our way carefully out of Mark’s office.
Once we were back in the Toyota, I took a moment to breathe in the lovely silence. No barking, no yowling, no chirping. Heaven.
“So?” Wayne demanded, interrupting my moment of bliss. “What did we learn?”
“Cats are fa
ster than dogs when properly motivated?” I answered.
I have to give him credit. He tried to smile. But his heart wasn’t in it. Nor were his brows.
“I don’t know what we learned,” I admitted finally. “It’s hard to believe that Mark could be a murderer…but you never know.”
Wayne nodded glumly. “Where next?” he asked without any obvious enthusiasm.
“Charlie’s?”
Wayne looked at his watch. We were still in Mill Valley. Charlie’s place was a good hour and change away.
“Better call first and make sure he’s there,” Wayne suggested.
“Home?”
“Home, James,” he ordered, and I started the Toyota.
Unfortunately, home smelled a lot like Mark’s office when we got there. Especially at the bottom of my filing cabinets. The spraying cat had sprayed again while we were gone.
“That’s it,” I hissed. “First I’m getting a squirt gun and then I’m finding that big black cat—”
“Are we sure it was that particular cat?” Wayne asked rationally. “Just because he was in here doesn’t mean he’s the one, or one of the ones, doing the spraying. From the size of him, he might have just stopped here for a snack.”
His words pulled all the steel right out of my spine. Rationality can do that to righteousness. Rationality can be a big pain. I slumped. Wayne was right. For all I knew, my own cat was the guilty party. C.C. showed up on cue, meowing sweetly as she strode in the room. Too sweetly. I stared at her, wondering if female cats ever sprayed their own homes, while Wayne walked over to the phone.
“Charlie,” I heard Wayne say. “Thinking of coming by today…”
Good. Charlie was home. I turned back to C.C.
“Confess,” I whispered, glaring in an imitation of Sergeant Gonzales.
For all the good it did. C.C. turned gracefully and stalked out of the room, her tail high. I could almost hear her say, “Some detective,” as she left.
A half an hour later, after scrubbing the bottom of my file cabinets and the rug they sat on, Wayne and I were on the road again, passing familiar brown hills, green oaks, and cows of many colors as we headed up the curving blacktop to Charlie’s place out in the hills beyond Gravendale. I drove while Wayne navigated as per the directions Charlie had given him over the phone.
Most Likely to Die (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 20
