A Stiff Critique (28 page)

“Howdy, Kate,” Mave yelled over the animal sounds and then magically the sound stopped.

Russell came walking in with Carrie a few moments later. He nodded quietly in the direction of each sofa and then sat down on a wooden chair. I tried to look at him without looking at him. He didn’t seem to be looking back. Then Travis started in again.

“Much as I didn’t like Slade’s writing, he did a pretty cool job on Nan’s personality with what’s-her-name…”

“Patty Novak, the real estate agent,” I filled in for him.

“Yeah,” he said. “Her. I’ll bet Nan was just like that, you know, someone who was out for herself even in the sixties when people were cool.”

“So you assume that everyone was actually into peace and love in the sixties?” Russell asked. The smooth sound of his voice almost erased the essential sarcasm of the question.

“Yeah,” Travis said excitedly. “See—”

“You weren’t even old enough to understand,” Carrie said with affection. “Just a baby.”

“I was born in 1961,” Travis said. “I was almost grown by the end of the sixties. I went on peace marches with my parents.”

“I should have guessed,” Carrie said and rolled her eyes.

“Carrie!” Travis protested, his beautiful dark eyes round with hurt.

“How about you, Russell?” Mave threw in quickly. “When were you hatched?”

“Nineteen sixty-three,” he answered. So Russell was younger than Travis. Somehow I’d thought he was older.

“I’m 1963 too!” Donna squealed. “Isn’t that amazing? We must share the same Chinese astrological sign and everything.”

Russell nodded unenthusiastically.

“Babies,” Carrie said. “All babies. Now, Kate and I certainly weren’t babies then.”

“Excuse me,” Joyce murmured, standing up next to me. “I have to go heat up the chili.” Maybe she hadn’t liked the sixties as much as the rest of us. She had to be nearly the same age as Carrie and I.

“Good golly, you’re all just babes in arms to this old lady,” Mave said, grinning at Carrie. “And I suppose your generation reckons you’re the only ones who discovered sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll too.”

Carrie just laughed.

“Got to hand it to Slade,” Mave went on, her smile dimming. “He caught the feeling of the era in
Cool Fallout.
All that goofy hope and optimism, everyone and their dog thinking they were going to change the world. And then the loss of innocence—”

“But
Cool Fallout
wasn’t even original,” Travis broke in, his voice shrill with excitement. “It was the same damn plot as that movie, you know, the one a couple of years ago with Robert Redford.”

“
Sneakers
?” offered Russell.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Travis, shaking his hands above his head like a referee. “That’s the one. A bunch of former antiestablishment guys from the sixties get called together later—”

“But it was just one guy in
Sneakers
who—” Russell began.

“But blackmailing Redford with his past crimes, that whole shtick, you know. The same plot.”

“I believe Robert Redford was only guilty of computer hacking in
Sneakers
” Carrie pointed out. “Killing a policeman is certainly a far more serious crime.”

At the mention of killing, all the fight seemed to go out of Travis. “Yeah,” he said, flopping down in the easy chair. “I guess so.”

“Well, I have incredibly good news!” Donna’s happy voice burst into the ensuing silence. “At least I think it’s good news.” She frowned for a moment.

“What exactly is your news?” Carrie asked.

“Oh!” Donna looked up and smiled again. “Well, I already told you and Kate. My dad says that it’s okay if I write my book now, as long as I use a pen name. I mean, we’re really repairing the structure of our relationship. It’s really exciting.” Her smile faded. She stuck a finger in her crystal necklace and began twirling the beads around it. “But I’m still not sure…”

“Sure of what?” Carrie prompted.

“Well, is it really ethical, like with real integrity, to use a pen name? I’ve talked to my woman’s support group, and my personal best group, and my living with the planet group, and I just don’t get an answer. What do you guys think?”

“Sure, it’s ethical, honey,” Mave answered. I was glad we had a qualified ethicist in the group. “Considering how riled up your kin have been getting, it’s probably more than ethical.”

Donna nodded violently. Then she gave her necklace one last twist and it broke, spraying crystal beads onto the floor.

Carrie and Donna cleared up the beads, clanking heads once in the process. Then Carrie said it was time to eat.

We all served ourselves from the kitchen and came back with plates stacked high. Joyce had brought a spicy chili studded with raisins, corn and cashews. Mave brought homemade garlic bread; Donna, sesame broccoli. And Travis had whipped up a carrot-nut loaf with lemon sauce that actually tasted good. I just hoped he wasn’t the murderer. He’d make a great house husband for Carrie. And then I could always visit at dinner time.

Of course, some of the plates were stacked higher than others. Travis’s was towering with food. Vicky’s held a fistful of her own salad and nothing else.

“Sure you don’t want some garlic bread?” Mave asked her once we were all seated again. “Skinny critter like you could use a little meat on her bones—”

“I know what I look like!” Vicky snapped. “So don’t pretend I’m not fat. Slade and Nan were always teasing me too and look what—”

Then she stopped short and went back to watching everyone else eat.

Nobody said much of anything for the rest of the meal. A few muted compliments were made about the food here and there. Travis liked my grape leaves. He snagged the last of them on his fourth trip to the kitchen. Then Russell brought out dessert.

“Black Forest cake,” he announced. His gaze turned slowly toward me. Then his lips curved into an ever so slight, tentative smile. My heart contracted. “It’s totally vegan. I found a vegan bakery in Berkeley.”

I remembered what Carrie had said about Russell courting me the best way he knew how. Was vegan Black Forest cake part of that strategy? I looked into Russell’s face, trying to see beyond the tinted glasses. I reminded myself that it wouldn’t be polite to run screaming from the room. Anyway, the cake looked good.

It tasted good too, of chocolate, honey, cherries and tofu cream. And something that might have been cherry preserves. I took another bite and told myself that later I would do my best to discourage Russell gently, without hurting his feelings. I just wished I knew exactly how to do that. Carrie’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“…are meeting here this evening to see if we can better understand the murders of Slade Skinner and Nan Millard. Has anyone any information that could help us?”

She looked around the room slowly. No one answered.

“Any theories?” she prodded.

“Anger,” Russell suggested quietly. “They were both difficult people.”

My skin prickled, hearing that quiet suggestion. What would make Russell Wu angry? Rejection?

“Slade was a real creep,” Travis added helpfully.

“Well, my dad wasn’t the one who did it,” Donna piped up. “I asked him and he said he wasn’t.”

For a moment, I waited for Nan to take her to task. Then I remembered with a jolt that Nan wasn’t here anymore. How could I keep forgetting? Suddenly the Black Forest cake didn’t look so good anymore. Or feel very good on top of the other food in my stomach.

“Nan might have seen whoever murdered Slade,” Mave offered. I was glad someone else had come up with the idea. “Remember all that hoo-hah about looking across the street?”

“Nan was always doing that, making a big deal about nothing,” argued Travis. “She just wanted to be the center of attention.”

He might just be right about that, I realized. Could someone have killed Nan because they
thought
she saw something? Even though she hadn’t?

Surprisingly, no one else offered any other theories. In fact, no one else had anything at all to say about the murders. Nothing, no matter how many different ways Carrie posed her questions. Though maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Who wanted to air theories that reflected on the other members of the group? Theories that might get the theorist killed?

Carrie gave up after a few more tries, and everyone began getting up and talking about how late it was and how they had to work the next day. Another emergency meeting over. And no murderer to show for it.

I was washing silverware in Carrie’s kitchen when Russell came in. I didn’t hear him until he was right behind me.

“Kate,” he began. “Would you—”

I whirled around, spraying soap bubbles.

Russell’s mouth dropped open for a moment, then closed again and settled into a half smile.

“Stop following me!” I shouted. So much for the gentle approach.

First his smile disappeared; then he tilted the direction of his tinted glasses downward. I looked down too. And realized I was holding a soapy spoon out in front of me like a sword.

I lowered the spoon. And lowered my eyes.

“Listen, Russell,” I began again. “I’m sure you’re very well-intentioned, but you have to stop following me. I’m not sure exactly why you’re following me, but if you’re interested in a…a…” Somehow I couldn’t spit out the word “relationship.” Maybe I’d just skip to the Wayne part. “Anyway, I’m very happy with—”

“I thought I’d say goodbye now,” a soft voice interrupted.

I turned and saw Joyce standing in the kitchen doorway, carrying a casserole dish.

“Would you like a ride home?” Russell asked, turning to her.

“No, no,” she answered, shaking her head. She looked down at the dish in her hands, cheeks pinkening. “The bus will be fine.”

But Russell quietly insisted, and they walked out of the kitchen together. Russell turned at the doorway to say goodbye and flashed a little smile at me. I guess I hadn’t been too rough in my approach. Too bad. I’d try harder the next time. But at least he couldn’t follow me around if he had Joyce in the car. Unless they did it in tandem.

I shook my head and went back to washing silverware.

I was right about Russell not following me this time. I looked in my rearview mirror all the way home and never saw his car once. I just hoped Joyce was okay.

*

Early the next evening I was wearing out my pencil on the Jest Gifts ledgers, hoping I had heard the last of the critique group murders, when Carrie called again. Carrie wasn’t a quitter. I had to give her that. But she sure could be annoying, as persistently annoying as my own conscience.

“We can’t just allow these murders to go unsolved, Kate,” she insisted. “If we keep on asking questions, I’m certain the answers will come.”

“But who the hell’s left to answer our questions?” I protested. “We’ve already talked to each and every group member—”

“That was before Nan died.”

“All right, all right,” I said, giving in ungraciously. “Your car or mine?”

We took her car. I’d worked myself up into a damned good snit by the time she picked me up. Why couldn’t she just leave it alone? I slunk into her car, buckled my seat belt and crossed my arms across my chest. Then she announced that our first stop was Travis’s.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel so abused anymore. Poor Carrie. She
had
to know who the murderer was. I looked over at her grim face and slowly uncrossed my arms. Then I tried to think of something to say that could make it all better. I never did, but at least we were speaking again by the time we got to Travis’s.

“Hey, you guys!” Travis greeted us when he answered the door. For once his handsome face was smiling.

I had a feeling his smile was more for Carrie than myself, however.

Travis cleared some partially dismantled video games off a sofa that had to be older than he was and motioned us onto it with a flourish. Then he crossed his legs and sank to the floor in one fluid motion. I’d always wished I could do that. But I think the practice of yoga is a prerequisite. Or maybe it’s youth.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Kate and I are investigating the possibility that someone in our critique group is responsible for both Nan’s and Slade’s deaths,” Carrie explained. “We hoped to hear your ideas on the subject.”

“Yeah,” he said, standing back up. Maybe he could only talk on his feet. “I wondered about that too. Only I can’t see who, you know?” He stood on one leg and then the other. “You’re cool. Joyce and Mave are cool. Russell’s—”

“Cool,” Carrie finished for him. “Be that as it may, can you think of a reasonable motive that anyone in our group might have had to kill one or both of the victims?”

Travis sighed, walked to the other side of the room and turned.

“Well, Slade was a real asshole, you know,” he said on the return trip. “And Nan. Jeez, she wasn’t very cool either. Neither of them are great losses to the world. I mean, homeless people die every day and—”

“Travis,” Carrie interrupted. She stood up now herself, somehow managing to appear taller than Travis as she straightened her back. “You have to stop saying those sorts of things.”