Death hits the fan (22 page)

Phyllis went silent, her hazel eyes on the wall behind me, brooding.

"Shirley?" I prompted.

"Shirley was smart," Phyllis said as if she'd never stopped speaking. "I only talked with her maybe a dozen times over the years, but often enough to know she was on her own track. Her paradigm was different than mine, but no less valid. And her exceptional writing proved her worth."

I waited for more.

"It's time for your treatment," the doctor said.

In minutes, I was lying on a couch, listening to birds and flutes, staring at a fuzzy picture of waves, with a set of needles inserted under my eyes, and another above them, and a couple alongside my nose for good measure. They hadn't actually hurt too much going in, but my own fear was tensing every muscle in my body, for all the relaxing music. I was afraid to move my face, even afraid to move my toes, in case I'd jar the needles. I lay there, stiff as a corpse until Phyllis came back to release me, and then she was gone. I paid Juliet for the treatment and flew out of the office.

On the way home in the car I sniffed experimentally. I could breathe better. But maybe that was just fear opening my nasal passages.

I walked into my house, pondering the enigma of Phyllis Oberman, a woman who valued integrity, yet she'd ne-

Death Hits the Fan 189

glected to tell the police of her relationship with the murder victim. And then I came perforated-face to face with Raoul Raymond.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I demanded impatiently.

"Ah, the beautiful Ms. Jasper!" he cried. "I am but a cad. I can no longer say I love you."

"Really?" I asked cautiously. Hopefully.

"I love Ingrid," he finished.

"And I love Raoul," Ingrid added from behind me.

"Wonderful." I congratulated them both.

I moved closer to Raoul than I liked to. But it was necessary to whisper in his ear.

"Show her you really love her," I advised him. "Take her away tonight."

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T^aoul's boiled-egg eyes widened spectacularly. Even the unruly curls on the top of his head danced as he stared at me.

"You don't mind?" he yelped in astonishment, so astonished his accent slipped for a moment.

"Look, are you rich?" I asked him. Usually I'm not so direct, but Ingrid's disappearance was riding on my rudeness.

"I have a certain, um.. . inheritance," he answered, his accent and charm back. He waved his hand gracefully. "From my late father."

"Yeah?" I prodded suspiciously.

"He was in the carpeting business," Raoul whispered into my ear. I was pretty sure I was hearing the truth now, sans accent. "Old fart made a bundle. And just me and Ruthie— you know—Ramona, to leave it to."

"Ramona's your sister?" I shot back. Now, he'd surprised me.

He looked over my shoulder, suddenly nervous. Was Ramona his excuse for not becoming too involved with the se-

ries of women he fell "in love" with? I decided I didn't care. I just wanted him to take Ingrid off my hands.

"Ingrid," I announced, swiveling my head to look at her where she stood behind me. "Raoul is rich. You are now homeless. Let him be your new hotel. Go for it." I felt like a minister at a wedding. A happy minister.

But Ingrid stuck out her lower lip. Perhaps I'd been a bit too insensitive? A bit too . . . gross?

"Raoul loves you," I corrected myself quickly. "Let him sweep you off your feet."

But when I turned back to Raoul, I could see that he was beginning to look panicked now. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned homeless. Maybe I should have just left them alone.

"Poor Ingrid is just temporarily homeless," I backpedaled desperately. "A romantic affair, you understand?"

"Ah," Raoul breathed. He brought his hand to his heart in comprehension. "The romance. It is everything."

He looked longingly over my shoulder at Ingrid. Romance lived.

And then I did leave them alone, tiptoeing to my office to sit at my desk and beat back the paperwork jungle with my No. 1 pencil.

Wayne rolled on home in time to fix me a late lunch. I told him about Ingrid and Raoul over a quiet repast of non-Whol-ios, as the two lovers communicated in coos and murmurs from our living room. Wayne told me the two had been holding hands when he'd passed them.

"Good," I said, feeling hope warm my chest for the first time. The feeling went perfectly with the toasty soba noodle salad that Wayne had fixed. The salad that Ingrid hadn't even sniffed out in her current state of bliss. Or anticipatory bliss, or whatever she was feeling in her predatory little heart.

"Think he's really rich?" Wayne whispered.

"Probably," I answered judiciously.

"Then she'll be all over him like an opportunistic affection," Wayne predicted.

I chortled and leaned forward. "I told her to get a hotel," I confided.

Wayne smiled. And the whole room felt lighter. The sunlight was shimmering in through the slats of the window in the back door. And it was beautiful, glowing in fuzzy lines on the grainy wood of the kitchen table.

"If that doesn't work, there's always the skunk broker," he said. But then, suddenly, the smile left his face. "Why'd you tell her to go to a hotel?" he asked.

Sometimes I wished Wayne was just a little dumber. Only sometimes. And just a little.

But he wasn't, so I told him about Captain Cal's visit, his friendly relationship with Ingrid and Ingrid's blathering about my "fight" with Marcia. My sweetie didn't look happy anymore. So I told him about Phyllis Oberman too. Might as well make his day.

He glared, and opened his mouth. Mental tai chi time.

"We forgot about Yvette," I reminded him.

He shut his mouth and his eyes flickered guiltily beneath his lowered brows.

"Do you think she's all right?" I asked quietly. "We did promise Lou—"

"Okay, Kate," he growled. "Message received."

He pushed himself away from the table with the warm soba noodle salad. Away from the lines of sunlight. And went to the telephone to call Yvette Cassell. But of course, she wasn't home.

The phone rang the minute Wayne set the receiver back in its cradle. He picked it up.

He grunted and uh-huhed a few times and then whispered "Ivan" my way as he kept on listening.

"Ivan's for dinner?" he asked me finally, his hand over the mouthpiece.

I thought about the danger of pursuing this investigation any further. Then I thought about all the paperwork I had to do.

"Sure," I told him.

"Well?" I prompted after Wayne hung up the phone. I knew twenty minutes of grunting and uh-huhing weren't necessary for the acceptance of one dinner invitation.

"At least we know where Yvette Cassell is," he answered. "Or was."

"And where was that?" I continued to prompt, wishing I was Captain Cal Xavier for a minute. He'd probably be able to get information out of Wayne faster. Or maybe not.

"Ivan's," he answered. "At the bookstore, nosing around. Alive and well when she left."

"Should we call to see if she made it home?" I asked.

But there was no answer at the Cassell residence when Wayne phoned. And there was no answer an hour later when I called, in the midst of trying to figure out why the bank thought I had $26.72 more in my business account than I did. Or an hour later, when I'd finally found the error in my own ledger. Or another hour later, when I'd found another mistake. And then it was time to go to Ivan's house for dinner. At least we'd been invited to visit his home. I don't think I could have tolerated another evening event at Fictional Pleasures. Not after the previous evening's event.

"Just how are we supposed to keep an eye on Yvette Cassell?" Wayne demanded as he steered his Jaguar toward Ivan's house in Tiburon. "Move in with her?"

"Have Ingrid move in with her?" I suggested innocently.

Wayne barked out a laugh, then swallowed it again. He was right. It wouldn't be very funny if Yvette became the third fatality while Lou was away on his business trip. But how the hell were we supposed to watch over someone we couldn't even find? Neither of us had an answer by the time we drove up the long winding driveway to Ivan's home.

Ivan's decorator-beautiful home in Tiburon never failed to impress me, set atop a peak that allowed a visitor seated in the elegant living room a view not only of the Golden Gate Bridge, but of the Bay Bridge and everything else in between. Or maybe I should have said Nancy's home in Tiburon never failed to impress me, because the home was much more his wife's than his. In almost all ways. Not only did Nancy make far more money as a busy Tiburon dentist than Ivan made as a quiet bookseller, but Ivan didn't actually seem to notice much about his own home, except for the bookshelves and their contents. The sweeping views, vaulted ceilings, and original works of art that set off the white-on-white living room might have been invisible to him. The only room where he ever seemed comfortable was his own den, which was as stuffed with books as Fictional Pleasures. And the kitchen.

Because Ivan could cook. And that's exactly what he was doing when Nancy met us at the door.

"So good to see you two again," she greeted us, smiling her perfect smile and waving us into her perfect living room. I wondered whether a smile really meant friendly on Nancy Nakagawa's face. I wondered if she got free dentistry or fixed her own gleaming teeth. Nancy shared Ivan's Japanese-American ancestry and seemingly little else. Where Ivan's face was thuggish, Nancy's was delicate and attractively oval with wide-set eyes. Where Ivan smelled of wool and books, Nancy smelled of a sweet cologne too expensive for me to identify. Where Ivan was heavyset, Nancy was petitely stylish in a crimson miniskirted business suit and matching heels. The color made me remember she was a dentist. Was the crimson to match the color of—

"Ah, my friends," Ivan called out from behind his wife. "Want to follow me into the kitchen? I'm still cooking."

The smells could have pulled me into the kitchen on their own. Aromatic tai chi. I marched into the well-heated par-

adise of tile, wood, and copper, and breathed in lemon and garlic and curry and herbs and the almond smell of something baking. Wayne took a more aggressive interest, lifting the lids off pots and sniffing, peeking into the oven, discussing ingredients, grunting happily with Ivan as they put the final touches on the feast. No wonder the men were friends. They could talk cooking.

Nancy, who followed us in, stood with me in silence as our men communicated the best way they knew how. And all of my being cried out that Ivan not be a murderer. He was Wayne's friend. He could have been his brother.

"We're worried about our son, Neil," Nancy finally announced once we were properly seated at the dining room table on silk brocade chairs, sampling the eggplant dip on crusty whole-wheat bread. I made an effort to listen as my mouth embraced the flavors of garlicky capers and lemony herbs. "He's infatuated with this Winona Eads woman, and she's far too old for him." She paused with a significant look across the long rosewood table at her husband. "Among other things."

There was a short silence, and I noticed for the first time the soft background music. Violins so faint, I couldn't even catch the melody. Probably the same music Nancy piped in for her dental patients.

"Winona seems to be a serious young woman—" Ivan began.

I took another bite as Nancy retaliated.

"A serious young woman!" she snorted. "A serious mental case, if you ask me. And Ivan is actually considering offering her a job at the store."

"I need someone now that Marcia's gone," Ivan replied quietly. "And Winona truly loves and knows books—"

"Books aren't everything, Ivan," Nancy interrupted. A hint of affection actually stretched her face into something

like a smile for a moment, but then it was gone. "The girl is trouble. Even her own mother won't speak to her—"

"Why?" I mumbled through a mouthful of eggplant and bread. Though I was fairly sure I knew the answer.

"Well, because ..." Nancy's skin colored to more closely match her crimson suit. "Because of the child."

"Winona Eads is a single mother," Ivan put in. "But she cares for her son, Neil tells me, cares very well and very much. We aren't living in Victorian times. There is harmony possible—"

"Well, we're not living in the Age of Aquarius, either," Nancy countered. "Neil is our child." She slapped her well-manicured hands on the rosewood table, palms down. "And that's all that matters."

The war continued through the asparagus-and-watercress soup, and the curried yam salad. I was surprised Ivan was even capable of such military spirit. But in his own quiet way, he kept up with his wife.

It wasn't until we were devouring the main course, a deceptively simple linguine with fresh basil and vegetables, that Nancy's voice softened.

"My son's special," she murmured. "He's diabetic, you know. He has to give himself shots. Can you imagine that, our poor sweet kid . . . ?"

I was imagining all right, because shots implied syringes and Ivan had never mentioned his son being diabetic when we'd talked about access to syringes.

"The police suspect Neil," Ivan said, his gentle voice rising in pitch. "My own son."

"Neil, for God's sake!" his wife threw in, as if we hadn't understood.

For the moment, Nancy and Ivan seemed united, united by fear, but united all the same.

"Neil told me he said goodbye to Marcia before he left,

but then he just drove away," Ivan went on. He pushed his hands together. "He didn't see anyone hanging around—"

"He wasn't looking," Nancy put in angrily. "Why should he have been?"

"But he's okay," Ivan answered, reaching out to his wife with his gentle voice. "He's alive."

Nancy sighed, a sigh not unlike Ivan's. Or PMP's, for that matter. "That's right," she agreed. "At least he's alive. When I think how Ted's son died—" She shook her head slowly.

"Ted Brown?" I asked, alert now.

"Yeah," she answered, tilting her head my way. "Some weird disease. God, it was sad."

"Do you know Ted?" I asked.

"Yeah, I know Ted," she answered, her tone louder now, almost defensive. "I'm his dentist. I was Shay la's dentist too. I know the best teeth in town."