Death hits the fan (13 page)

I opened my mouth to ask her, but thought better of it and turned back toward Yvette's open front door instead. Wayne was already on the doorstep. The three of us entered the house cautiously, single file. I was last in line and the decor stopped me at the threshold, smack behind Winona's stalled body. I peered around her in awe. Yvette's home was as full as Winona's had been bare.

I should have expected the Irish knickknacks: porcelain figurines, needlepoint, teacups, posters. But there wasn't just one theme in this house. There was a bunch of cat bric-a-brac too, for starters. And real cats. And dogs. An English bulldog sniffed my ankles as a taller Labrador retriever checked out the middle portions of Winona's anatomy. The room also housed an extensive collection of implements of murder: daggers nestled with bone teacups, swords hanging alongside poster-size blow-ups of Yvette's book covers, a shillelagh resting conveniently next to the door in the shamrock umbrella stand. And then there were the African masks staring at us. And all the Star Trek stuff. The Enterprise hovered over a granite bust of Sherlock Holmes. A cardboard cutout of Mr. Spock stood guard by a wall-to-wall bookshelf. With a live Siamese cat rubbing up against the Vulcan. Still, there was a sense of organization to the chaos. Everything seemed grouped by size or color. Or by something that matched. Even the cats took their places at aesthetically appropriate positions.

Yvette must have noticed my mouth hanging open. That or Winona's stalled body. But it was me she spoke to.

"Lou's Star Trek collection is a fu-figgin' trip, huh?" she prompted cheerfully.

The Star Trek stuff was the least of it. But I didn't say that.

"Well, I guess you're of Irish ancestry," I commented finally.

"Lou too," she told me.

My mouth fell open again. But I hastily closed it, hoping she hadn't noticed my surprise.

"Yeah, Lou has as much green in his blood as I do," Yvette went on with a smile. "Shi-phooey, maybe more. On his mother's side. We met at a Remember Ireland Festival."

I nodded, embarrassed.

"And don't worry," she assured me. "Damn-darn few people ever stop to think that African-Americans have any blood but African in their veins."

I gulped and attempted a smile. She had noticed my reaction.

"So, come the hell on in," she invited.

Winona finally began to move in front of me. I followed her into the Cassells' living room.

It was then that I took in the other occupants of the room, mixed in with the cardboard cutouts and animals and weapons.

Wayne was already talking to Lou Cassell near another bookshelf, this one guarded by a couple of Persian cats. Zoe Ingersoll and Ivan Nakagawa were there too, chatting behind a giant revolving blow-up of A Small Detection, Yvette's most recent book.

Vince Quadrini was seated in a green velvet armchair, looking something like a more gentlemanly Godfather in navy blue pinstripes today. Dean Frazier bent over him, handing him a cup of tea. I just hoped it wasn't poisoned.

I walked up next to Winona, who now stood in the center of the incredible room looking as awkward as ever.

"Who isn't here?" I whispered in her ear encouragingly.

"That lady from the bookstore," she whispered back.

I nodded. "Marcia Armeson."

"And the tall woman, the acupuncturist..."

"Phyllis Oberman ..."

"And Ted Brown." Winona bent her long body down closer to mine. "I don't really like his writing much," she confided.

"Me neither, though he's good with suspense," a voice from behind us put in.

Winona and I jumped together, then accepted cups of tea from Yvette. I handed our hostess my bag of whole-wheat goodies.

Then Yvette disappeared in a whirl of green velour, only to reappear minutes later to distribute small china plates and napkins, and to direct everyone to a table where little sandwiches, sushi rolls, muffins, sliced fruit, and my own contribution of whole-wheat pastries were spread out on trays. Along with the herbal iced tea that Wayne had brought. And glasses. Yvette was fast.

And even faster, once we'd all taken our seats on plush green upholstery, balancing our respective plates, napkins, glasses, and cups on our knees. She grabbed the oak shillelagh from the umbrella stand before sitting down in a smaller version of Vince Quadrini's easy chair to call the meeting to order.

I was biting into a muffin and staring at the intricate carving on her oak cudgel when our hostess spoke.

"So we're going to get to the fuddin' bloody bottom of this thing today, okay?" she began.

Obedient nods answered her. Even the dogs nodded. The cats just looked bored.

"Anyone want to confess?" she threw out.

No one nodded this time. Except the dogs. The cats continued to look bored.

"You, Ivan," she went on, pointing her shillelagh in his direction. "You had the best opportunity . . ."

And so it went. The scene could have been a remake of the one at Fictional Pleasures, though Yvette was a wee bit more subtle with her interrogation this time. As if an edited version of the same script was being used. No "Where were you on the night of the twenty-ninth," but a lot of accusations and requests for unavailable information, while Lou looked increasingly embarrassed.

When she got to Vince Quadrini and questioned him about his "obsession with S.X. Greenfree," the pinstriped Godfather merely stood, nodded, and left.

I took Mr. Quadrini's exit as an excuse to go to the bathroom. Herbal iced tea does have a tendency to race through a body. Especially mine. And, anyway, I wanted to see Yvette's bathroom. You can tell a lot about a person from their bathroom.

Yvette's bathroom was wallpapered in shamrocks. So much for anything new.

My iced tea recycled, I washed my hands, dried them, and crumpled up the paper towel to toss it in the wastebasket. Then I saw the syringes.

7 looked closer into the green wastebasket, inhaling the scent of rubbing alcohol as I did. Sure enough, there were a good half-dozen syringes deposited there, small plastic ones, but syringes all the same, lying underneath a scattering of paper towels.

I grabbed a clean paper towel and cautiously pulled one of the syringes from its nest, plunger-end first, avoiding the wicked-looking metal needle at the other end. My hands shook with the effort. And once I held my prize, I had to resist the urge to run from the bathroom to the living room, waving it in front of me.

But when I got back to the living room, walking as coolly and sedately as possible, the suspicious syringe wrapped in paper toweling in my hand, I saw that Vince Quadrini's departure had created more than an excuse for my trip to the bathroom. Half of our group seemed to have left. Zoe, Ivan, and Winona were nowhere to be seen. But Dean was still there, talking to—no— listening to Yvette as they stood near

her oversized hanging book cover, Dean stroking his gray beard thoughtfully.

"This dam-dang case is shaping up," she announced triumphantly. "I've almost got it..."

Should I challenge Yvette directly with the syringe? The ever elusive Yvette. A prickle at the base of my spine turned me away from her like a divining rod. Lou? I looked around. Lou and Wayne were talking over by Mr. Spock, too softly to be overheard.

It was time for some shock treatment I decided as I walked toward the two men. I unwrapped the syringe, still holding the plunger end by the paper towel and held it up between them. Wayne looked shocked all right. He came as close to jumping back in surprise as a man with a karate blackbelt is about to. But unfortunately, Lou looked unperturbed.

"Oh, sorry," he said pleasantly. "Did I leave one of those out again? We have to give the Siamese shots and ..."

Finally, his voice withered away. The meaning of my holding the syringe hit him.

His body tensed visibly, changing as suddenly as his feline features to an attitude of intensity, even ferocity.

"Now look here," he commanded, his tone even and cold, his brown face jutting forward. "Yvette is a completely ethical and honest woman. Those syringes have nothing to do with Shayla Greenfree's death. You can call our veterinarian if you'd like. I'll give you her phone number. She'll tell you that we have a sick cat."

"All right, fine," I conceded, chilled by Lou's abrupt change of mood and physique. Was his instant transition from pussy cat to tiger a Jekyll and Hyde phenomenon? Wayne moved closer to my side.

Lou must have noticed my nervousness. And Wayne's move.

"Listen," he sighed, softening his tone and his body as he

pulled his head back. "You have to understand my Yvette. Her imagination takes her too far sometimes. And she's not always so good with live people. Fictional characters are much easier for her to deal with." He chuckled, and I saw the affection in his big brown eyes now. "But Yvette has integrity. Too much, probably. And I can assure you, she's no murderer."

That seemed like a pretty good parting line, so Wayne and I made goodbye sounds to Lou and then turned to go.

That's when I saw Yvette, standing still and silent less than a foot behind me. A siren went off in my head. I just hoped she couldn't hear it or see the accompanying adrenaline hit my body. Damn, that woman could be quiet when she wanted to. I wondered how long she'd been listening.

I handed her the syringe carefully and thanked her for brunch before walking out the door.

We caught Dean in the front yard. He was smiling down at a green statue of a leprechaun, complete with pipe and shamrocks. There was a slight resemblance between man and statue, in the beard and the weathered face.

"You serious about talking to us today?" Wayne asked him.

"Surely," Dean replied. "Would tonight suit? I have to warn you, I don't cook—"

"We'll bring take-out," Wayne and I offered simultaneously.

"No, no," he objected graciously. "I'll provide take-out. Lord knows, I ought to be able to do that at least."

After a lot of polite to-ing and fro-ing, we agreed that we'd provide the apple juice and dessert, and Dean would provide some kind of entree.

"So," I asked eagerly once we were in the Toyota and rolling toward home. "Do you believe what Lou said about Yvette?"

"Maybe," Wayne answered, shrugging. "But notice he didn't assure us he wasn't a murderer."

We chewed on that one all the way home. Would Lou kill to protect Yvette? But why would he have to? And then there was his dead brother . . .

We were still talking on the way into the living room. Neither of us even registered Ingrid's presence. Or the presence of the man sitting next to her on the futon. Our futon.

"Well, howdy-hi, you guys," her companion greeted us, on his feet instantly. He was a small and slender man with a luxurious mustache and dark soulful eyes. "Holding out on me again, huh? Lucky your new roommate gave me the poop on your little ol' murder."

Roommate? Ugh. My whole body cried out for release. Because the man with our roommate was Felix, my friend Barbara Cha's boyfriend. And more importantly, it was Felix Byrne, pit bull reporter for the Marin Mind and a correspondent for the Philadelphia Globe. I wanted to run away. My legs were twitching with the urge. But it's hard to run when you're in your own house. Felix strode our way, shark's smile in place.

"So, you find another friggin' corpse—"

"We didn't find a—" I objected.

"No, you actually witnessed the whole tripping thing, man," he ground on inexorably, "and didn't bother to call your friend, your compadre, nooooo—"

"Time to go," Wayne interrupted Felix.

Felix's soulful eyes took on that hurt look he was so good at. He opened his mouth to argue some more. As much as he was scared of Wayne, I knew Felix would get us sooner or later. He'd wear us down as piteously as a cat torturing a mouse.

"Listen, Felix, here's the deal," I said, deepening my voice, trying to sound as scary as Wayne. "I'll fill you in on exactly what happened—"

"Briefly," Wayne put in.

"Briefly," I agreed. "And then I'll refer you to an even better source."

Felix leaned forward. "Yeah?" he shot back. "Who?"

"Yvette Cassell," I told him. "She's a famous writer; she was there; she knew the victim, and she's got a mouth the span of the Golden Gate Bridge." I waited a count of two for that information to sink in before finishing up. "And in return, you'll give us back any information you pick up from your sources."

"Holy moly," he breathed. "Yvette Cassell." Damn. Maybe Yvette really was famous. "Will this Cassell woman talk to me?"

"I'll give you her phone number and address," I replied. "And when you talk to her, tell her I sent you."

He fondled his mustache for a moment, then put out his hand.

"Deal," he agreed, slapping his palm against mine. "Now speak."

I spoke, briefly. And then Felix ran out of our house to find Yvette Cassell.

"A match made in heaven," I said to Wayne as the sound of Felix's footsteps disappeared down the gravel path.

Wayne just smiled and shook my hand.

Then I realized that Felix had never given us any information.

"Poison," I began, suddenly realizing we didn't really know anything about the poison that had been used to kill Shay la Greenfree. All I'd been thinking about was syringes. Access to poison was a much more interesting question. "Do you think Felix knows—"

"So are you guys really, like, part of a murder?" Ingrid asked from the futon, her voice a mixture of excitement and fear.

Wayne's smile disappeared. I thought about the fear in our houseguest's voice.

"Yeah," I told her. "And being around us could be really dangerous. Whol-ios does that to a person."

"What?" she squeaked, jumping up. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, Ingrid," Wayne chimed in, his homely face solemn and menacing at the same time. "This could be very dangerous for you."

"But I don't have anything to do with it!" she objected. Apollo let out a little yip in agreement, hiding behind his mistress's muscular calves.

Wayne and I retreated to our bedroom for a continued discussion of the situation. Actually, to giggle together hysterically, but quietly. Not easy, but we did it. Then we decided to get some work done before our dinner with Dean. Unfortunately, Ingrid was still there when we came out. I went back to work on my stacks of Jest Gifts paper as she pelted me with questions and objections and arguments.