A Stiff Critique (6 page)

Carrie nodded again solemnly. She wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand.

“Why do you think so?” I asked her, my voice too high even in my own ears.

“Because Donna warned us they might show up.”

“Donna warned you?” I said and slumped down onto the desktop. Its sharp edges weren’t very comfortable, but Carrie had already taken the only chair in the room. “You mean you knew these guys were going to show up?”

“Not exactly,” Carrie said.

“What the hell do you mean by ‘not exactly.’“

“Let’s go make dinner,” she suggested. “And I will tell you about Donna.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “Aren’t you going to call the police?”

“Do you think it would do any good?” she asked back, tilting her head as she looked up at me.

“Of course it would,” I answered. “You know who the guys were—”

“Not specifically,” Carrie corrected me. “Donna never named anyone specifically. And I didn’t see the men’s faces just now, only their backs. And I would doubt that they left any fingerprints.” She took one last swipe at her damp forehead, then stood up and straightened her shoulders. “Let’s talk about it in the kitchen.”

“But what if these guys murdered Slade?” I objected.

Carrie frowned for a moment, then said, “I doubt it,” and turned to leave the study.

I opened my mouth to argue. But I knew from experience it did no good to argue with Carrie. So I closed my mouth and followed her as she made her way back to the kitchen at a far more leisurely pace than she had left it. So did Basta, Yipper and Sinbad, each one returning to his own individual bowl like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And for them, nothing probably had. Seen through their animal eyes this latest example of human behavior had to be incomprehensible at best. But
I
needed to know more.

“Tell me everything,” I ordered as Carrie opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bulb of garlic.

“If you wish,” she murmured, carefully peeling a section of the garlic bulb. “Donna claims her family made their money originally through gambling, prostitution and loan-sharking activities. A very enterprising clan.” She began mincing the garlic. “She also says her family subjected her to neglect, ‘verbal abuse’ and various kinds of ‘emotional oppression.’“ She glanced over at me, as if for comment.

“Well, that part sounds pretty normal,” I obliged.

I’d lived in Marin long enough to figure “neglect” could mean not getting your parents to give you the money for that new pair of sunglasses, “verbal abuse” might be your parents explaining why, and “emotional oppression” was the result when they asked you to go to your own room to scream about it.

On the other hand, I knew all three descriptions could stand for truly cruel acts.

“Do you think her family was really mean to her?” I asked.

Carrie shrugged. “It’s hard to tell with Donna,” she muttered. She splashed a little sesame oil in the saucepan and turned the stove on. “Would you like to slice the bread?” she asked me over her shoulder.

I nodded. I needed something to do with my hands. My earlier rush of adrenaline had left them twitching. Not to mention the rest of me.

Carrie pulled a loaf of Alvarado Sprouted Sourdough from the refrigerator and handed it to me. Then she tossed the minced garlic into the sesame oil with a pinch of herbs from a jar near the stove. I sliced the bread while the garlic and herbs began to sputter. The aroma filled the room and I began to salivate. I was actually hungry, I realized. Then a vision of Slade’s mangled head intervened and my mouth went dry again.

“Donna gave each of us group members a hard copy of her manuscript at last Saturday’s meeting,” Carrie said. “She was afraid her father’s business associates—read ‘hoods’—would steal her own copy. They have before. She also warned us that they might attempt to retrieve the copies she gave to each of us.”

“And you think those were the guys in the Armani suits?” I said slowly. “Are we really talking Mafia?”

Carrie didn’t answer me right away.

Instead, she dipped the slices of bread in the garlic mixture one at a time, then put them all into the microwave to heat. After that, she minced some fresh basil and added it to what was left in the saucepan, then poured in a can of minestrone soup and a splash of sherry.

“I’m not certain that the men in the suits are actually members of a specific crime organization. Or even that they are connected to Donna’s family,” she answered finally. “But the latter does seem probable if we assume Donna is telling the truth about her family. How many other men would come to steal her manuscript?”

“But you don’t think they murdered Slade.”

“No, I don’t believe so,” she said briskly, opening the refrigerator door again with a hard yank that shook the bottles on the shelves. “Wouldn’t our visitors have roughed me up at the very least if they were that violent? They just ran, Kate. I couldn’t have scared them that much.” She looked into the refrigerator for a moment. “Not to mention the fact that Slade said he was meeting someone at five from our group, someone who probably killed him. The two men in the Armani suits were not in our group, I can assure you.”

“But—” I began.

“On the other hand,” Carrie went on, “one of the many questions I would like to ask Donna is whether she thinks her father’s hoods are capable of murder.”

“After you ask her if they’ve been out retrieving manuscripts,” I said. I still wasn’t sure that we had established that fact. My stomach began churning. Anxiety or hunger? Both, I decided.

Carrie pulled a bunch of butter lettuce, some tomatoes and a glass jar from the refrigerator.

“Marinated green beans, capers, kidney beans, onions, olives and mushrooms,” she told me. “My own recipe.”

I rinsed the lettuce and tomatoes quickly as Carrie stirred the soup. I chopped them up in an even bigger hurry once the microwave
pinged.
In spite of the shocks of the day—or maybe because of them—I was really hungry now. Even thinking about Slade couldn’t quell my yearning for food.

In a few more minutes the meal was on the table. I crunched into a piece of bread, burning my lips. The burst of garlic, sesame and herb flavors was worth the pain. I chewed happily, then opened my mouth to ask Carrie what herbs she had used. But her mouth was faster than mine.

“So, what do we do now, Ms. Jasper?” she asked me, her tone light. The tone didn’t fool me for a minute. I could see the way her hands were clenched together on the tabletop. And she hadn’t touched her food yet.

“Eat?” I hazarded.

“About the murder,” she added in a heavier tone. A much heavier tone.

“I don’t know,” I told her defensively. “I’m not a detective. I’m just a gag-gift maker.”

“Well,
I’m
just an attorney and not a criminal attorney at that,” she shot back. Her hands came apart and fluttered around like crazed butterflies. “And it appears that
I
am in this situation whether or not
I
like it.” Then she leaned forward, crossed her arms and stared at me without blinking.

I hate that. It even works when my cat does it.

“How about asking the group members if any of them visited Slade at five o’clock?” I suggested after another minute of the treatment.

“That’s exactly what I plan to do,” Carrie said, leaning back in her chair. “At least if I can reach each of them on the telephone to schedule an emergency meeting.”

I took a bite of salad as I tried to think. It was perfect, full of vegetables dressed with a tart marinade flavored with more garlic and herbs. Mentally, I identified chervil and tarragon. I looked back up to ask Carrie if I was right.

She was staring at me again.

“So tell me more about the group members,” I said quickly. “Anything weird or suspicious, aside from Donna’s family?”

Carrie looked up at the ceiling for a moment. That was a good start. She wasn’t staring at me anymore. I ate another forkful of salad and took a bite of bread while she was occupied.

“I can all too easily imagine Nan Millard killing someone for a good deal of money or status,” Carrie said after another couple of bites. Mine not hers. “But how would killing Slade get her either? In fact, she has actually
lost
status now that her famous lover is dead.”

I nodded my understanding, my mouth too full to say anything.

“And as for Joyce—”

“She’s the one that started Operation Soup Pot, isn’t she?” I mumbled through my mouthful. “A quiet Buddhist, right?”

Carrie nodded. “Slade was always trying to date the poor woman. And she was no more interested in him than I was.” Carrie grinned. “I believe Joyce found it a wee bit difficult to extend her infinite love and compassion to Slade Skinner. Not just because he was so individually obnoxious either. I get the distinct feeling that Joyce isn’t sexually interested in men at all.”

“Lesbian?” I asked curiously.

“I don’t think so,” Carrie answered slowly. She circled her fingers as if trying to pluck a description from the air. “Celibate is more like it.”

I slurped a spoonful of soup. So that was why Nan had agreed that Joyce couldn’t comment on the romantic angle of her story. Now it made sense. The soup tasted of more garlic and herbs. Not that I would have complained. The soup was as good as everything else.

“Russell Wu has the most obvious connection to crime,” Carrie commented, looking back up at the ceiling.

“What connection?” I asked eagerly.

“I told you earlier, Kate. He writes true-crime books.”

“Oh,” I mumbled, disappointed. Somehow, I figured someone analytical enough to write about true crime probably wasn’t going to commit a crime. On the other hand—

“Tell me all about this Russell guy,” I ordered.

“He’s a published writer,” Carrie obliged. “He has two books out. One that he ghosted for an illiterate mass murderer three years ago. Another about that nursing home aide who was helping his patients on to the great beyond.” She wiggled her shoulders. “It gives me the creeps. I don’t know how Russell can stand working with these people. Now he’s working on the story of that musician in San Jose who was—or at least is alleged to have been—killing the groupies who hung around after his shows. Russell has to wait out the trial before he can do his last chapter. It won’t work without a guilty verdict.”

“Why is Russell so interested in mass murder?” I asked.

Carrie shrugged massively. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think Russell is a killer. He’s very gentle, soft-spoken—”

“So are half the mass murderers they arrest,” I interrupted. “You know, all the neighbors say what a nice, quiet boy he was after the fact. How they never suspected. It’s classic.”

“That’s why I would like you to come to the emergency meeting,” Carrie said. She jabbed a finger in my direction.

“You need to see these folks again for yourself. Then you can make your own judgments.”

“I suppose so,” I answered slowly, thinking it out. If I didn’t get involved. If I only observed—

“I knew you would,” Carrie purred, grinning now. She jumped out of her chair and ran around the table to put her arm around my shoulders. “Thank you, Kate,” she added and squeezed.

Then she went back to her chair, grabbing a piece of bread as she sat down. She bit into it and I realized that the bread was the first food she’d touched. Damn, there was no way I was going to tell her I wouldn’t go now.

Carrie swallowed and said, “Have any more questions, Ms. Jasper?”

“Do these guys all write for a living?” I asked back.

“Most of them aren’t paid enough for their writing to make an actual living,” Carrie answered. She looked down at her salad and picked up a fork tentatively. “So they have day jobs. Travis fixes video games. He’s very bright. I have tried to convince him to go back to school and study computer programming, but…” She swiveled her head and massaged her shoulder with one hand. “It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to go back to school. He’s working, writing, and spending most of his time on causes—”

“What kind of causes?”

“Animal rights. Freedom for Tibet. Fighting world hunger. Those are just the ones you would recognize. Travis can tell you about causes you’ve never even heard of.” She let out a big sigh and put her fork back down.

“Russell’s a technical writer,” she went on before I could ask her what the sigh was about. “Vicky programs computers. Nan sells real estate. Joyce manages Operation Soup Pot’s kitchen. And I argue appellate insurance cases.” She sighed again. At least I understood this sigh.

“But I shouldn’t complain about my work,” Carrie went on. “Hazelwood, Hazelwood and Lau has paid for my children’s education. I only wish I didn’t have to practice law at all.”

She picked up her fork again and took a bite of her salad.

“Mave doesn’t have to work outside of her writing,” she mumbled through the bite. “She’s long retired from teaching. Lots of time for her historical biography. Donna doesn’t work either. I’m not sure where her money comes from. Probably from her husband. Or perhaps from her family.”

She sent me a significant look across the table as she said “family.” I wished she hadn’t. I’d almost managed to forget Donna’s family.