A Stiff Critique (29 page)

“What things?”

She took a step closer to him. “That Nan and Slade weren’t a big loss—”

“Well, they weren’t!” he protested, throwing up his hands.

“That doesn’t matter!” she shouted back, throwing up her own hands. “By making those statements you give the impression that you might have murdered them yourself.”

“You think I murdered them?” he demanded, stepping toward Carrie. As the distance between them shrank, their relative heights became abruptly evident. He was towering over her now. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. “Do you really think I’m a killer?”

- Twenty-Two -

Carrie stared up into Travis’s dark gypsy eyes for one long moment.

“No, I don’t believe you are a murderer,” she said finally.

Travis took his hands from Carrie’s shoulders. And Carrie began talking again as if a switch had been thrown.

“But I am concerned that you will be perceived as a murderer if you’re not more careful about what comes out of your mouth.” She lifted her hands and made chopping motions in the air. “You must learn—”

“I tell the truth,” Travis interrupted, chopping back with his own hands. “I don’t tell lies for anyone…”

I stopped listening as I watched the two of them argue. Each of them had their head jutted forward, dark eyes flashing under puckered brows. Each punctuated their remarks with their hands. And each was absolutely sure that God was on their side. No wonder they were in love with each other. Despite differences in sex, race, age and height, they were identical in their gestures. And in their passion.

I smiled as I watched them.

Both of them turned to me at the same time.

“What are you laughing at?” Carrie and Travis demanded as one.

Then I really did laugh.

It was Carrie’s turn for a snit on the ride home from Travis’s. But hers didn’t last any longer than mine had.

“Okay,” she said finally, her voice far more friendly than it had been earlier. “What
were
you laughing about?”

“You and Travis,” I answered. “Have you ever wondered if you were twins? Separated at birth, of course.”

“No I have not,” she shot back, turning a quick frown my way.

“The waving hands,” I explained. “The burning eyes—”

“Ah,” she broke in. The frown turned to a smile. “I begin to understand. I believe you may be right.” She paused for a moment to guide her car into the next lane, then asked, “Do you think a little incest might be in order?”

“Go for it,” I ordered, relieved that her sense of humor had returned. But the humorous phase didn’t last long.

“I was telling the truth when I stated that I didn’t believe Travis was a murderer,” she followed up in a voice so serious she might have been giving evidence in a court of law. “But I was not stating the whole truth. Because I am still not entirely certain. I wonder if I ever will be.”

“If the real murderer is caught—” I began.

“But that is exactly where we started!” She threw her hands into the air. I held my breath and hoped she was steering with her knees. “Believing we could discover the identity of the murderer.”

“Maybe we still can,” I argued as her hands grasped the wheel again. “You were right about visiting everyone individually. They may say things to us alone that they wouldn’t say in front of the group.”

I looked over at her. Her face was grim, but she seemed to be thinking about what I’d said.

“I have a hearing tomorrow morning,” she told me finally. “However, I believe I might be able to leave the office for the afternoon. Would you be willing to join me then to visit more of the group members?”

I said yes. I couldn’t really say no. After all, it had been my idea. At least, I was pretty sure it had been my idea.

Carrie left me off at my driveway. Once she drove away, I walked to the mailbox to get my mail and check for Russell. The mail was there. Russell wasn’t. Maybe there was a God.

Barbara called while I was sharing a quiet meal with C.C., Friskies Senior turkey and giblets for her, rice crackers and soy cheese for me. And the terrible thing was that C.C.’s food was beginning to look better to me than my own. I told myself Wayne would be home soon. The man could cook. And not just in the kitchen. I sighed, my thoughts dancing into the bedroom without me. Luckily, the phone rang before I could get myself too worked up.

“Hey, kiddo,” Barbara said. “I heard about the second murder—”

“You didn’t pick it up psychically?” I asked, putting a full load of nasal sarcasm into my voice.

“Even psychics aren’t on full time,” she answered cheerfully. “Felix told me about it. But I knew you were distressed—”

“Right,” I muttered.

“—especially about Russell Wu following you,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard the interruption. “I finally got a bead on him. I don’t know if he’s the murderer, but he does have a crush on you.”

I kept my scream subvocal with an effort. For all the good that it did.

“Let it out, Kate,” Barbara advised. “You need to scream a little.”

“That’s all right,” I told her through clenched lips. “Do you happen to know who the murderer is?”

“Not yet. Sorry about that.”

Barbara always seemed to know all kinds of nifty things until you really needed an answer. She couldn’t predict Lotto numbers either, much to Felix’s loud annoyance. My thoughts returned to Russell. What in the world did he see in me?

“You’re an attractive woman,” Barbara answered the thought. “Look at Wayne. Look at Craig.”

Damn. I had almost forgotten my ex-husband in all the excitement. Guilt washed over me.

“It’s not your fault,” Barbara told me. “Don’t worry so much about Craig.”

I said goodbye and hung up before she could catch me thinking that I damn well hadn’t been worried about Craig. Not until she’d called.

I went to bed at nine o’clock, vowing to get up really early and get at least six hours of Jest Gifts work in before Carrie showed up the next afternoon.

*

I managed six and a half hours of work. Carrie knocked on the door a little after one, looking formidable in her gray pinstripe suit.

“Ready?” she demanded.

“Ready, Captain,” I answered with a crisp salute. I picked up my purse and a bag of rice crackers as we went out the door into the bright sunlight. I had a feeling the bag of crackers was going to be all the lunch I was going to get.

We decided to visit Mave first. Not because she was the most suspicious member of the group, but because she seemed likely to be the most observant. Actually Russell might have been more observant, but he wasn’t answering his telephone.

There was a Harley-Davidson motorcycle parked in front of the slatted gate to Mave’s front yard. It looked strangely comfortable there, guarding the small Victorian estate. Carrie and I walked silently around the motorcycle and up the flagstone path to the house. Was the owner of the Harley-Davidson visiting Mave?

“Howdy, women!” Mave greeted us at the door. She winked heavily from behind her thick glasses. “Want you to meet my special friend, Ellen Martin.”

As Ellen and I dutifully shook hands across the doorstep, I decided she couldn’t be the owner of the motorcycle. True, she was dressed in sturdy jeans, but Ellen still could have posed for Grandmother of the Year. She was comfortably plump, with rosy, round cheeks, twinkling blue eyes and gray hair pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

“Nice meeting you both,” she trilled before turning back to Mave. “See you soon, sweetie,” she said in a much deeper voice and hugged Mave tightly.

My mind began to process the meaning of “special friend.” But before my mind could even finish, Ellen grabbed a motorcycle helmet from a table near the door and walked past us. I turned in time to see her pump the Harley-Davidson into noisy life, and then she roared away.

Mave grinned at us, obviously pleased by the effect of Ellen’s exit. I shut my gaping mouth.

“Some hog, ain’t she?” Mave remarked and turned to lead us to the living room.

Carrie and I were seated side by side on a purple couch in Mave’s lavender living room by the time I figured out that “hog” was probably a reference to the motorcycle and not Ellen Martin. Mave sat down on the matching couch across from us as Carrie began to speak.

“Kate and I thought you might be able to help us identify the man or woman who murdered Slade Skinner and Nan Millard,” she said, bending forward and staring straight into Mave’s eyes.

“So you think the same critter killed them both?” Mave asked, or maybe stated, as she stared back at Carrie.

Carrie nodded.

Mave tilted her head and pressed on. “And you think that very same critter is a member of our critique group.”

“I’m not certain, but I believe it is possible,” Carrie answered solemnly.

Mave leaned back against the cushions of the couch and laughed. “Ask a lawyer a simple question,” she rasped, shaking her head merrily.

“I merely—” Carrie began, her eyes narrowed with annoyance. Then she took a deep breath. “Mave, are you testing me?”

“I guess I am at that,”. Mave replied. She sat up straight again, merriment gone from her wrinkled face. “I’ve got a feeling whoever killed those two had a tad more anger running through their veins than your average human. And I’ve seen you angry more than once. But how angry?” Mave shrugged her shoulders lazily, but kept her bright gaze fastened on Carrie’s face. “Angry enough to kill?”

“No, I’ve never been angry enough to kill,” Carrie answered tersely. “But you bring up an interesting point. I haven’t really given the issue of anger due consideration. Even though I saw the result.” Her eyes went out of focus as she stopped speaking.

Was she seeing a dead body in her mind? Or was she thinking of Travis? Travis who had enough anger to fuel Pacific Gas and Electric’s operations for the next ten years. Maybe for the next century.

“The murderer might not be someone who’s obviously angry,” I offered. “It could be someone who’s hiding their anger all too well. You know, someone who’s repressed—”

“Well, that sure narrows down the field,” Mave commented, turning my way. “Especially when we add newcomers to the herd of suspects, folks who we know next to nothing about. How’s
your
temper, Kate?”

I didn’t answer her right away. I was still taking in her transition from folksy old woman into hard-boiled interrogator. Both roles were probably an act, I realized with a little jolt. Of course everyone poses a little, I told myself. Mave had just been at it longer than most.

“I’ve got a temper, but not a murderer’s temper,” I answered finally. I congratulated myself on my calm, cool delivery.

“That’s what Russell tells me,” Mave confirmed with a knowing smile.

Russell? When had Mave talked to Russell about me? Maybe Carrie and I weren’t the only two collaborating to solve a murder.

“He says you’ve been involved with murder before, but only as a witness,” she went on. “But then Russell seems to be a mite prejudiced in your favor.”

Damn. So much for being calm and cool. I could feel a hot blush crawling up my face. Was it my fault that this guy liked me? I had to tell him about Wayne—

“Who do you believe the angry one is?” Carrie asked Mave suddenly.

Mave opened her mouth, then shut it again. For the millionth time in my life, I wished I could read minds.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’ve convinced myself it was each of us, one at a time. Travis, Joyce, Donna…I can make a case for anyone, including myself. But for all of that, I don’t really know.” She shook her head slowly, looking all of her seventy years.

“Well I, for one, cannot actually imagine any of the group members doing it.” Carrie threw her hands wide. “If only we could ask Slade or Nan.”

“‘Tzu-lu asked how one should serve ghosts and spirits,’“ Mave piped up. I could tell from her oratory tone and erect shoulders that she was quoting again. “‘The Master said, “Till you have learnt to serve men, how can you serve ghosts?” Tzu-lu then ventured upon a question about the dead. The Master said, “Till you know about the living, how are you to know about the dead?”’“

Mave paused after the punch line, then smiled. “Confucius said that. Not that it gets us any further than a weasel can spit.”

I was glad she had reverted to her old folksy self. She was harder to suspect that way. But harder to interrogate too.

“You’ve known Slade longer than anyone else in the group,” I led in. “Did you ever meet any of his ex-wives? Or his children?”

“Nope, can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” Mave replied cheerily.

“Have you observed any connection between Nan and Slade that might explain their serial murders?” Carrie tried.

“Nope.” She shook her head and got up from the couch. “Enough jaw-wagging. How’d you two women like some homemade zucchini bread?”

The zucchini bread was tasty. I told myself that it counted as a green vegetable for lunch, though after one bite I was pretty sure that it had more sugar in it than zucchini. And there seemed to be more fertilizer than information in Mave once she’d reverted to her folksy self. My head was reeling with quotations, country metaphors and aphorisms by the time we left.