Death hits the fan (19 page)

Now I was beginning to understand Marcia's anger. But why was I the target?

"I have spoken to both Mr. Nakagawa and finally, eh, Ms. Armeson," Vonburstig went on. "I have tolded them both that I would speak to you . .."

Target practice was making more sense now.

Vonburstig told me, at length, of his theory that Marcia was not only stealing books from Ivan, but forging author signatures to increase their value, and then selling them as collectibles through ads. He seemed quite pleased with his discovery, but was not quite ready to go to the police. Maybe he was having too much fun. By the time I hung up the phone, I wasn't having fun, though. I wanted to talk to Ivan. Why hadn't he warned me?

I called Fictional Pleasures, but it was Marcia who answered the phone. I hung up without a peep, not even a yelp. Ingrid was right about one thing, Marcia was scary. And probably a thief and forger. But my mind couldn't make the leap to murderer. If Marcia was a murderer, wouldn't she have tried to keep a lower profile? Misguided deck attacks did not seem like an intelligent strategy. And the person who had loaded Shayla Greenfree's bracelet with curare had been an intelligent strategist. One capable of a better attack than Marcia's. On the other hand, she could be—

The phone rang, cutting off my musing mid-doubt.

"Hi, Kate," a familiar voice greeted me. "This is Jade." Right, now I had the current name too. My number one Jest Gifts employee, my main warehousewoman, and I'd already forgotten her latest name. "Listen, you might want to call the police," she told me.

"Huh?" I said. I hadn't told Judy/Jade about the murder, much less about Marcia. Was she as psychic as Barbara now?

"'Cause somebody else is answering your phone," Judy—maybe I could call her Jadey—went on.

"Houseguest," I explained briefly through clenched teeth.

"Oh, that's cool," my warehousewoman said graciously and then began the daily recitation of Jest Gifts crises.

I had to get back to work. The towers of paper on my desk loomed. I needed to contact errant suppliers, financially recalcitrant customers, not to mention my frantic accountant. But Shayla Greenfree's death loomed too.

Just one more little whodunit call, I promised myself. Then I called Phyllis Oberman's office. I wanted to hear her own explanation for omitting her former relationship with Shayla Greenfree from her police statement.

But Phyllis didn't talk from her office. She only did acupuncture. And I didn't have her home number. So I told her receptionist my sinuses hurt and made an appointment. Then I sat down at my desk and worked hard. Long and hard. When Wayne came home late that night, I was still at my desk, having stopped only to eat, and to wonder where an acupuncturist stuck the needles for a sinus treatment.

7 was still wondering about the needles the next day as I dutifully continued Jest Gifts crisis-stifling and bookkeeping, a virtual telephone abuse and paperwork sponge.

Wayne had agreed to accompany me to Yvette's that evening, and Ingrid was at work. And the skunks hadn't

sprayed during the previous night. If it hadn't been for the unsolved murder, life at my desk might have been paradise. Or close anyway ... if my back weren't so sore ... if I could forget Marcia's threats ... if I could forget my upcoming acupuncture treatment... if...

Many hours later, when Wayne finally walked in the door, barely in time to go to Yvette's meeting, I was more than ready to leave desk paradise.

We heard Yvette Casseli's voice ringing out from her open door before we'd even passed the first set of elves in her yard. Her actual words became piercingly clear by the time we stepped around the leprechaun statue.

"Shi-shick, we were all there," she was insisting. "Someone must have seen fuddin' something. Huh, huh? I mean ..."

By the time we got past the sniffing Labrador retriever into the living room, she was still insisting, but no one was answering.

Ivan and Marcia sat next to each other in identical green velvet easy chairs under revolving posters of Yvette's books. Ivan was as still as a stone Buddha, with a marmalade cat in his lap and an English bulldog asleep at his feet. Marcia glanced up at us, though, once we'd shuffled through the open doorway, then whipped her head back around toward Yvette, but not before squirting a narrowed eyeful of vitriol my way.

"... musta seen something, heard something .. ." Yvette went on.

Ted Brown sat farther back, near the Mr. Spock side of the bookcase, alone on a wooden chair. He raised his heavily lidded eyes briefly to us in greeting, then lowered them again. Lou Cassell and Dean Frazier sat side by side on a green tweed couch under a mobile of harps and shamrocks, apparently mesmerized by Yvette's words.

Who wasn't here? I scanned the room to see if anyone was hidden behind an oversized knickknack. Were the sane

suspects the only missing ones? Zoe Ingersoll, Winona Eads, Phyllis Oberman, Vince Quadrini—

"Hey," Yvette greeted us, breaking into her own monologue. "You guys know what I mean, huh? The flickin' woman died and we were all there." She paused for a breath. "Goodies on the sideboard. Get some and take a seat. Then tell us what the hell-heck you think happened."

Getting the food, a variety of breads and spreads and sliced fruit, and arranging them on a china dish took a few minutes. The food smelled good against the must of animals and bric-a-brac. Settling ourselves on another green tweed couch near what seemed to be a bust of Nero Wolfe gave us a minute more. And then Wayne and I were under Yvette's intense tinted-glass scrutiny.

"You guys probably know what happened, right?" she prompted.

"Wrong," I answered briefly and took a bite of some kind of muffin dipped in tahini-peach spread. A big bite.

She wouldn't question a woman whose mouth was full, would she? Of course she would.

"Damn-darn, even if you don't know exactly what happened, you know a lot," she pressed. "You two have been asking questions. And getting fuddin' answers." She pointed her finger. "You're not going to tell me you don't know shick. No, you're going to tell me what you know right now—"

"Honey," Lou objected, his dark skin flushing under his wife's glare. "These two people are honest and professional. If they don't want to share what they've learned . .." His words faltered, but his gaze lingered, shifting from my face to Wayne's. And back again. And his gaze begged us to talk.

Was this part of a good sleuth-bad sleuth act? If it was, it was tempting. Why not spill the beans about Marcia's scam, and Zoe's hurt, and Phyllis Oberman's omission—

"Don't even try to make sense when you talk to your

woman," Ted Brown burst in, his voice harsh. He barked out a laugh. "The last time I tried to have a lousy chat with my wife, she left. I got the divorce papers the next day. Injustice runs as smoothly as German trains."

"Oh, Ted," Yvette murmured, shaking her small head. There was affection in her softened tone. Or maybe just pity.

Her tone changed when she turned to Dean, though.

"Come on, Dean," she ordered loudly. "You knew the flickin' woman. You knew what made her tick. Don't you get it? If we all put our cards on the table, we can solve this thing."

"I've thought on this, believe me," Dean answered quietly. "And I just can't think of a thing that matters."

"Well then, what doesn't matter?" Yvette demanded, throwing up her hands.

But Dean just shrugged, slowly. Sadly.

I looked over at Marcia, wondering why she'd even shown up tonight. Or Ted—

"Kate?" Yvette demanded. Damn, she'd caught me thinking. I'd have to stop that.

"Kate?" she asked again, her voice softer. And I heard an echo of Shayla's pre-death "Kate" in her voice. Damn. My skin bubbled up into goose bumps like a pancake in a skillet. Yvette's tinted glasses zoomed in on my face.

"If we knew something relevant, we'd let you know," Wayne announced calmly.

I squeezed his hand gratefully, not even caring if Yvette noticed.

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged. Then she threw up her hands again. "Okay, I fuddin' give up. Eat, drink, and forget someone died. Have fun."

And with that, she turned on her tiny heel and left the room.

The sigh of relief that followed her was impossible to pinpoint. Maybe it was collective.

Slowly, some people began to stand and congregate.

Wayne walked over to Ivan. I stayed right where I was. I didn't want to get any closer to Marcia. A striped cat jumped and claimed a spot on my lap. She was heavy, but at least she wasn't clawing.

I was chewing on a second bite of muffin when Lou sat down next to me and the cat. I swallowed unhappily. Not that Lou Cassell wasn't a nice man. Gorgeous too, with those big brown feline eyes. But I didn't think he'd come over my way to chitchat.

"Yvette likes to take the initiative," Lou said by way of greeting. Nope, no chitchat. "She's a very courageous woman, but I'm worried that she's in over her head."

I nodded and looked past his shoulder.

Wayne, Ivan, and Dean stood in one corner, talking quietly. Marcia and Ted were in another corner, speaking in animated whispers, their heads darting back and forth like chickens pecking. I just wished I could hear what they were saying.

"You two have experience in these things," Lou went on.

I brought my eyes back to his concerned face. I looked closer. He really was concerned. It showed in the tightness under his cheekbones. Had he lost weight in the last few days? And in those beautiful eyes.

"Look," I told him. "Yvette is smart. She'll be careful."

Lou shook his head emphatically.

"My wife is intelligent, yes. And creative. But she doesn't seem to see the danger in this thing. She's an innocent—"

"Humph!" a voice snorted from our side.

Once again, Yvette had snuck up on us. How could such a loud woman be so quiet?

"An innocent?" she demanded, her head tilted to one side. But she didn't really sound angry.

Now Lou looked guilty as well as concerned. Yvette bent

to kiss him on the forehead. She didn't have to bend far despite the fact that Lou was sitting and she was standing.

"Only innocent for you, my darling," she murmured huskily.

Phew! Pheromones filled the air, and the room went into action. Ted was the first out the door. Then Dean walked up to say his goodbyes. The striped cat jumped off my lap. After that, Marcia left without a word.

Then finally, Wayne and Ivan came trudging up together. I was struck once more by the similarity of my sweetie and his friend. Their bulldog faces were both impenetrable. And yet I knew they were each softer inside than most. At least I knew Wayne was. Did an inner softness necessitate a hard shell?

"Looks like Ted and Marcia are getting pretty cozy, huh?" Yvette said to Lou.

Lou put his head into his hands.

"Please, Yvette, no more matchmaking," he begged. "Remember Paul and Joan and his ulcer—"

"Ah, come on, honey," she put in. "Ted could use some cheering up."

Marcia didn't seem exactly the cheery type to me, but I was keeping my mouth shut. Yvette turned to Ivan.

"And your son, Neil, and that Winona character," she added, raising her eyebrows over the rims of her glasses.

"Excuse me, but my son isn't even old enough—" Ivan began.

"Hey, get ready for the wedding bells," Yvette laughed and slapped him on his massive shoulder.

Ivan and Lou groaned together this time.

It seemed like a good time to leave. So Wayne and I did. We could still hear Yvette cajoling, Lou murmuring, and Ivan sputtering as we walked out the still-open door.

Wayne and I sat in my Toyota for a few moments after we got in, just holding hands. And breathing in the cool night

air as we felt each other's warmth through palms and fingertips. And we thought.

"Kate," Wayne murmured into the silence finally. I guess he'd done the most thinking. "Wonder if we've done enough here. Woman's dead. Ivan's ready to let it go .. ."

I thought I heard a rap on the car, maybe a bird, but I ignored the sound.

"Worried about you," Wayne went on. "This isn't so simple as—"

A dark hand reached in the open window and Wayne's words came to an abrupt halt. Along with most of my vital signs.

cfinnn

7 felt the hand touch my shoulder, and my head vaulted toward the car ceiling. My vital signs were definitely coming back. Fast.

And then I heard the whisper.

"Sorry to startle you."

I looked out into the night and saw Lou Cassell bent uncertainly over our car, his hand withdrawn now. I could feel Wayne vibrating at my side. Had he just started to breathe again, too?

"Fine, no problem," I assured Lou. Only the words came out in a squeak.

"Sorry," Lou whispered back again. "I was just trying to get your attention. I tapped the roof of your car, but you didn't hear." He paused. "A strange hand on a dark night. Everyone's nightmare."

I forced a laugh, uncomfortably.

"Listen," Lou said urgently, looking over his shoulder

nervously. "I need to finish what I was trying to tell you in the living room."

"Want to get in the car?" I asked when he glanced over his shoulder again. Yvette was good at unexpected appearances. And it looked like Lou was trying to avoid one.

"Thanks," he murmured gratefully and climbed into the back seat.

"I have to leave on a business trip," he said, once he was settled in behind us. "I'm new at the company. I can't afford even a hint of unprofessionalism. So I can't back out of the trip now. I am professional. Or at least that's what we call it." I could hear an easing in his voice. Was he smiling behind me in the dark? "Actually, like a lot of 'professionals,' I'm one of the new homeless. Instead of pushing around a shopping cart with all of my belongings, I push around an airport cart with all of my luggage. I've flown to practically every state in the country."

His tone deepened again. "Usually, it's fine. But I'm worried about Yvette right now. Really worried. Please, will you two watch out for her?"

I didn't have an instant answer. Yvette? Watch out for Yvette? Was this going to be something like trying to catch a cat and give it a bath? Or would it be even harder?