A Stiff Critique (23 page)

Vicky nodded, then shrugged again. But at least she had turned her head back in our direction now.

“Where did you and Travis meet?” Carrie asked gently.

“N.A.,” Vicky answered.

“N.A.?”

“Narcotics Anonymous,” Vicky expanded.

So that’s why Travis wouldn’t tell, I thought. Anonymity. He took the concept seriously. I found myself liking him a little better for his honorable intentions. But then another possibility came to mind. What if he hadn’t told us about N.A. because he wanted to hide a narcotics problem from Carrie?

“I go to N.A. instead of O.A.,” Vicky continued, her voice taking on speed. “I’ve really got an eating problem, so I should go to Overeaters Anonymous, but I hate those meetings. There’re fat people there, awful fat people. It’s so disgusting. They’re such pigs…”

Vicky was off and running. It was at least ten more minutes before Carrie could ask her anything else. And all Vicky had to say when asked about other group members was that Travis was “kinda strange.” That made two of them.

Carrie asked her how she felt about Slade Skinner, and got another shrug of Vicky’s skinny shoulders in reply. That was the answer to the next three or four questions as well. Vicky’s attention seemed limited to subjects having to do with food and disgusting fat people. Finally Carrie gave up and said goodbye. I was just as glad when we left the apartment. Vicky’s obsession gave me the shivers. And I was tired of standing. Vicky never had asked us to sit down.

“Did you know Travis had a narcotics problem?” I asked Carrie once we were back in her Accord.

“I knew he went to N.A.,” she answered. “He used to have a drug problem. He goes to the meetings so he won’t slip back.” I felt my tense muscles relax. Travis was an honorable man. I just hoped he wasn’t a murderer.

We drove back to the junction, but Carrie turned the wheel in the direction of the highway instead of my house when we got there.

“Wait a minute!” I protested, my muscles tensing all over again. I was sick of interviewing group members. “Where are we going now?”

“My house,” Carrie answered with a flash of white teeth. “I’ll cook you lunch.”

As it turned out, she had already cooked most of the lunch ahead of time, a pasta salad with more of her garlicky marinated capers, beans, onions, olives and mushrooms. Along with onion-herb bread baked that day. And fresh fruit compote for dessert.

“I thought a reward would be appropriate,” Carrie explained as she spooned out the last of the fruit compote. Basta was sitting comfortably on my feet by then. Sinbad was curled up on Carrie’s lap. The black cat gave out little pneumatic hisses each time Carrie shifted in her chair.

“And you knew I’d need a reward before we even got started,” I accused. Then I took another bite of the compote. It was as good as the rest of the meal, flavored perfectly with maple, lemon and ginger. Carrie cooked as well as she practiced law, I thought contentedly. The only thing she did better was to manipulate her friends.

“Carrie,” I said after I swallowed. “I still have no idea who killed Slade Skinner.”

“I know you don’t,” she replied, her last word dissolving into a long sigh.

And with that sigh, Travis came to mind. Travis, young, passionate and apparently in love with Carrie. And Cyril as he lay dying, skeletal and distant. My full stomach twinged. Was that guilt or indigestion? Whatever it was, Carrie deserved a chance at a life with a man who wasn’t guilty of murder. That much I was sure of.

“Tell me more about Slade,” I ordered. Unless Slade really was the victim of random violence, the trigger for his death must have been something he did or said. Or something he was.

“Slade was an obnoxious man but not an evil one, I think,” Carrie said, straightening in her chair. Sinbad hissed. “I imagine him as a child, one of the kids the other kids don’t like. Observing the others, seeing their weaknesses and faults. I believe that was the source of his writing skill, this ability to observe. Unfortunately, this ability seemed to stop short with his personal involvement. Maybe his desires short-circuited it.”

I ate another spoonful of compote as I listened.

“I would guess that he lived on inherited wealth for some years. This gave him the freedom to write. But I wonder if it didn’t also damage him in some way. He never had to work, never had to depend on himself. He could buy whatever he wanted. And he couldn’t trust people to like him for himself.” She looked across the table at me. “Does that sound foolish? To believe that wealth somehow damaged him?”

“No,” I said. Easy money often did do damage. “I’m just surprised he had the self-discipline to write.”

“Ah, but his writing was what gave his life meaning.” She raised her spoon and shook it as she made her point. “There wasn’t anything else in his life. He hardly knew his family. He had no real friends. No religious beliefs. His writing was everything.”

“Did he ever write anything but thrillers?” I asked.

Carrie smiled softly, her eyes going out of focus. “Oh, he wrote song lyrics too.”

“What kind of lyrics?”

“Perhaps I was wrong when I stated that Slade had no religious beliefs,” she prefaced. “He believed profoundly in self-actualization, to the extent of writing lyrics that paid tribute to the process.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“I cannot tell you specifically, but I believe one of his songs went something like…” Her voice lifted. “‘All of my love, all of my love for me.’“ Then she put a hand over her face and chuckled into it.

“Oh, I get it,” I said. “Stuff like, “‘I will follow me…wherever I will go.’“

Carrie really laughed then. So did I. Then she started singing again. “‘Loving me was better than any love I’ve ever had before!’“ Sinbad jerked his head up and jumped off Carrie’s lap with a great show of disgust.

“‘I never knew love like this until I looked in the mirror and saw my face,’“ I chimed in.

After five or six more improvisations, we were pounding the table as we laughed. Even Basta stirred with that noise. Then suddenly, I remembered the man we were making fun of was dead. No more lyrics. No more self-actualization.

Carrie must have remembered at just the same time. She leaned back and the crinkles of laughter around her eyes flattened into a mask of sobriety.

We sat quietly for a few moments, Basta snuffling around to get comfortable on my feet again. And then a new thought drifted into my head.

“You know what we haven’t asked?” I said, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“Where was everybody when Slade was killed?” My pulse quickened. “Maybe Travis—”

“Had an alibi?” Carrie cut in. “I had hoped so. But Travis, like everyone else, went home after the meeting. None of the group members has anyone that can vouch for their whereabouts after the meeting and before we found Slade’s…Slade’s corpse. Except for Donna. She says she was with her children.”

“You asked about alibis already.”

She nodded. “When I called everyone about the emergency group meeting. It was the first thing I asked.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my excitement ebb away into a pool of self-reproach. Why hadn’t I thought of alibis before?

“Shall we discuss the suspects?” Carrie asked gently, forgiveness for any lapse on my part implicit in her tone.

“Russell Wu,” I answered after a moment. I stuck out a finger. “One, I think he’s still following me.” I stuck out another. “Two, he lifts weights. Three, Slade wrote a character like him into his manuscript.”

“Wait a minute,” Carrie ordered, holding up her hand. She trotted out of the room and when she came back and sat down she had a yellow legal pad and a pencil. She shoved the dishes out of her way, set the pad on the table and wrote something down, then said, “Go.”

I went.

“Nan Millard. She has the requisite temperament—”

“A consummate bitch,” Carrie summarized as she wrote.

I thought about it, nodded and went on. “Nan was closer than the others to Slade. His lover in fact. Who knows what promises he made her? And which ones he broke? And he put a version of her in his manuscript too.

“Joyce,” I said when Carrie had finished her notes on Nan. “She may be a saint, but she’s a celibate saint. And Slade kept making passes at her.”

Carrie lifted an eyebrow but kept on writing.

“And Donna,” I went on. “Her family is organized crime. We know that now for sure, don’t we?”

“I would feel safe in saying that we are ninety percent certain of that affiliation.” Carrie shook her head. “Ye gods and goddesses, it’s hard to believe that Donna is related to such thugs. She’s a menses poet, for heaven’s sake.”

“A messy poet?” I asked.

- Eighteen -

“No, no,” Carrie corrected me, shaking her pencil in counterpoint. “Not a messy poet. A menses poet, Kate, as in menstruation.”

I must have still looked confused.

“Don’t you remember Donna’s recitation?” she asked. Then her voice went atonal. “‘Red on white—my mother—my grandmother—blood ties—blood spilled,’ et cetera, ad nauseam.” She threw up her hands.

“But I thought that was Mafia poetry,” I protested.

Carrie leaned back in her chair and exploded into laughter.

“Do you say these things to cheer me up?” she asked once she could speak again.

“Of course,” I lied. What the hell. I felt like an idiot, but at least Carrie was having a good time.

“So what else do you imagine Donna is guilty of besides bad poetry?” she asked, still smiling.

“Well…” I hesitated to put forth Barbara’s theory. I had already said my quota of foolish things for the afternoon.

“What is it, Kate?” Carrie asked, her smile gone abruptly.

“What if Donna slept with Slade?”

Carrie frowned. “I don’t believe she ever did, but what would be the significance of such an act in any case?”

“What if she told her father and then her father thought she’d been dishonored?”

“And in response, he sent out a hit man?” Carrie’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve been watching too many old movies. This is California. Nobody cares about honor. At least I don’t think so…” Her words faltered and then stopped. She bent over her yellow legal pad and scribbled.

“Do you think the police are taking Donna’s family seriously?” I asked.

“I would guess so. You heard what Russell said. The police are aware of the family’s connections and considering them in regard to this crime.” She shook her head abruptly. “But Donna’s family doesn’t fit the scenario in any case. Remember, Slade said he was meeting someone from the group at five o’clock. He did not say he was meeting the family of someone in the group.”

“All right,” I conceded. “How about Vicky?”

“Vicky seems to be suffering from a severe eating disorder. She’s obsessed with food and out of touch with reality.” Carrie sighed deeply. “But I can’t for the life of me see how her obsession translates into murder.”

“Me neither,” I said glumly. “Though she acts like a bomb waiting to go off.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe Slade triggered her rage somehow. What if he told her his agent was interested in her writing, just like he told you? And then, what if it turned out he was just stringing her along?”

“Vicky is obsessed with food to the exclusion of all other serious interests,” Carrie pointed out. “I find it hard to believe that she would be concerned enough about her writing career to kill for it. I, on the other hand, am concerned to the point of desperation not only in having my writing published but in making enough money to finance my early retirement from the practice of law.” I winced, wishing I hadn’t brought the subject up. I didn’t want to hear Carrie say any of this.

“But even if I were willing to kill to further my career,” she went on, “there is still a gaping hole in the theory.” She paused and stared at me across the table, her molasses-brown eyes as cool as her voice.

“Which is…” I prompted quietly. My pulse wasn’t quiet though. It had climbed into my ears, pounding all the way.

“Which is…that killing Slade would
not
have furthered my career. Any possibility that he could engineer my representation by Hildegarde Tucker died when he did.” She kept her eyes on mine as she finished. “The same is true for Vicky Andros.”

“I don’t think you killed Slade,” I stated for the record. I knew we weren’t just talking about Vicky.

Carrie let out a long breath. “Thank you, Kate,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did suspect me.”

I let out my own breath and my pulse settled gently back into my veins.

“So who’s left?” I asked briskly.

Carrie looked down at her legal pad.

“We’ve already discussed Travis,” she answered just as briskly. I was glad to hear she considered him discussed. I didn’t want to travel over that mine field again. “Which leaves Mave Quentin.” She looked back up. “Any ideas?”

“He argued with her over her claim to have met what’s-her-name, the sculptor.”

“Phoebe Mitchell,” Carrie filled in. “And she was a painter.”

“Slade and Mave knew each other a long time. They might have had a private feud going that you never heard about.”