Death hits the fan (29 page)

Winona looked over at Wayne, her lovely freckled face open with a willingness to believe his kind words.

But were Wayne's words really kind? I knew that's how he meant them. But what if Ivan Nakagawa was dangerous? If he was, it wasn't a favor to Winona to minimize that danger. Especially if Winona was going to work for Ivan at Fictional Pleasures.

"You have our phone number," I put in, trying to keep the urgency out of my voice. "If anything strange happens, just callus."

Winona turned her head my way now and frowned in confusion. No wonder she was confused. Talk about mixed messages.

"Just in case," I added, trying to soften the message. I manufactured a smile.

"Oh, cool," she replied and smiled back, seeming to relax the littlest bit.

My mind began reeling off disaster scenarios as I kept the corners of my mouth in the up position. Painfully. Worrying and smiling was like trying to chew gum and walk at the same time. Difficult for someone like me. I imagined Winona alone with Ivan. Winona discovering whatever it was that had gotten Marcia Armeson killed. Winona calling us .. . and getting our answering machine. My heart sank, but then struggled up to the surface again.

Winona Eads had a job. A job in the bookstore she loved. Was I going to ruin that for my imagination's sake? The chances that Ivan was a murderer were minimal, I told myself. Well—all right—maybe one percent, two percent?

I erased the percentages from my mental ledger and just

kept smiling, willing Winona to be all right. She'd had enough tragedy in her young life. She didn't need any more.

And then suddenly, she was on her feet, looking at the ceiling and rubbing her arms.

"Urn, thanks, you guys," she said diffidently. Then she brought her gaze down from the ceiling and peered into my still smiling face as if seeing me for the first time. The rest of her words came out in a rush. "You've been really cool about this. And don't worry about me. No way anything bad's gonna happen to me. Not while I have Johnny to take care of. No way."

I wanted to hug her. She'd gotten the message. She'd take the job at Fictional Pleasures. But she'd be on her guard.

And when she started toward the door, I did hug her. Just long enough to feel her initial start and then her responding embrace. She almost knocked me off my feet with the enthusiasm of her response. I'd forgotten how tall she was. And how strong.

She was blushing as she galloped out the front door, issuing more thanks over her shoulder. And then she was gone.

"Did we do the right thing?" I asked Wayne when we finally sat down to the meal he'd rescued. Fresh-baked pumpernickel bread and onion soup with herbs. I waited for his answer before taking a bite.

"Hope so," he shot back, his brows low with what might have been thoughtfulness. Or maybe guilt. "Ivan's no killer, Kate. Can't be."

I suspended disbelief and took a bite of the warm bread. Molasses, lemon, and raisins nuzzled my taste buds first. And then the more subtle flavors kicked in. And the soup was even better, loaded with onions (burnt but delicious), bay, and brandy. Food heaven.

I gave Wayne a reprieve as we chomped and slurped, the soup and bread warming me from the inside out. Then I went for the jugular.

"Why was Ivan in a mental hospital?" I demanded quickly, hoping to catch him off guard.

"Stress of being an attorney too long," Wayne shot back. He'd been expecting the question, I could tell. And he'd prepared his answer. Well, his answer wasn't good enough. I bent forward over the kitchen table.

"You know what I mean," I insisted. "What was wrong with him? What was his diagnosis?"

"Nothing that relates to murder," my so-called sweetie answered, staring down at the remains of his soup.

Stubborn. But I could be stubborn too. I crossed my arms and narrowed my eyes, trying to look threatening.

"I'm not going to stop asking," I told him. • He sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to blow its way through the whole house like a gentle tornado. So much for unwedded bliss without Ingrid.

"Wayne, you have to tell me," I bulldozed on. "I'm not going to stop worrying about Winona until you do."

Wayne mumbled something beneath his breath. Something that ended with the word "whip."

A whip. It was true, I could have used one. But my mouth would probably be enough.

"I'm not going to stop—"

"Okay," he interrupted, his voice rising an octave. He lowered it again. "Okay. I'll tell you. But it goes no further, understood?"

I nodded my understanding. And kept my arms crossed for good measure.

"Ivan got very depressed working as an attorney," Wayne began. He sighed again. "Very depressed. Then he got into drugs—"

"Ivan?" I blurted out. I couldn't imagine it. Literally.

Wayne glared at me.

"Sorry," I put in swiftly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Not much more to tell, anyway," Wayne growled.

"Nancy got him into a hospital. Luckily, it was a good one. He realized that the drugs were a cover for his depression. And that his depression was because he hated what he was doing. So he stopped practicing law. That simple. Nancy insisted. Ivan has family money. Nancy works. He didn't have to be an attorney."

I opened my mouth to ask if the drugs in question had involved needles, but shut it again when I saw the scowl on Wayne's face. He thought he'd told me too much already. He didn't have to say it. The anger and guilt radiated from him. If ice can radiate. I shivered, longing for a vest, maybe a lead-lined one. Wayne was loyal to his friends. And right now he was probably mad at himself for not being loyal enough. I was just getting the leftovers.

"I needed to know, sweetie," I told him softly. "It ends with me, I promise. And thank you."

The scowl disappeared. Now he radiated gratitude. Warm gratitude that melted the ice.

"Thanks, Kate," he murmured.

Damn, Wayne was an easy man to love. I reached over and laid my hand on his bigger one. He grabbed it for a moment, then let go. And if it weren't for his inherent goodness, there was always the food to sweeten the deal. I took another bite of bread. It tasted even better now that the interrogation was over.

Wayne and I hugged a lot for the rest of that day, at least until he had to go to the city. In between pencil-pushing, we'd each take turns slipping out of our respective offices for sneak attacks and then returning furtively as if the goddess of entrepreneurs might be taking notes on who was being naughty. And then Wayne left for San Francisco. Saturday night at La Fete a L'Oiel was always a busy one.

I spent the rest of the evening working in silence. No more doorbells, no more phone calls, only the buzzing of my own worried mind for my Saturday night entertainment.

• • •

7 woke up Sunday morning with Wayne's warm arm resting lightly on mine as he slept. The sun was just beginning to play on the wet skylights, shimmering through the drops of leftover rain. But something was different. No fresh skunk smell, that was it! And no Ingrid, I reminded myself. I moved closer to Wayne, in a bliss of non-thought. And then I remembered the murders.

"Whaa?" Wayne murmured sleepily. I must have stiffened.

"Ivan," I whispered. "We have to see Ivan today."

"Lunchtime," he told me, never opening his eyes, and then he was asleep again. If he'd ever been awake.

By noon, I doubted he'd even remember his early morning words. But just as I'd filled in the last box on my sales tax return, Wayne was behind me. I jumped in my seat when his hands touched my shoulders. The man knew how to walk softly, too softly sometimes.

"Time to see Ivan now?" he suggested. "Then lunch?"

"Could we drop in on Yvette afterwards?" I found myself asking. Was I beginning to like the woman? No, that was impossible. But still... "As long as we're out?"

"Good plan," he agreed. Though I could hear the sigh he was stifling. "We did promise Lou."

Lou. I'd almost forgotten Lou and our promise to look after Yvette. And then there was Shayla's husband, Scott. And Winona. And Ivan. Too many people were depending on us to solve a set of murders that were probably unsolv-able. How had we gotten into this, anyway?

And that wasn't the only question on my mind as I drove my Toyota toward the Fictional Pleasures Bookstore. Because I had no idea what Ivan and Wayne and I were going to talk about when we got there. What had Ivan said on the phone the day before? Something about feeling uneasy. But

what did that mean? Killing two women might make a person uneasy.

PMP greeted us as usual when we pushed the bookstore door open. "Scree, scraw, cats are good. Cash or charge?"

And then Winona waved at us from behind the counter. Her face was beaming. Even her shoulders looked straighter as she rang up book prices on the aging cash register. A middle-aged woman in a parka watched with suspicious eyes as Winona banged the keys.

"I certainly hope you enjoy them," Winona said when she'd totaled up the sale. She guided the stack of books gently into their bag. "And thank you."

"Well, thank you," the woman replied, handing over her credit card. Surprise flavored her words. Maybe Marcia had waited on her the last time.

"Thank you, scree. Thank you," PMP put in. She learned fast.

I hoped Ivan knew how lucky he was to have Winona behind the counter instead of Marcia. Then I remembered why Winona was behind the counter instead of Marcia . .. and a little chill went up my neck. Winona Eads had a motive. Maybe not for S.X. Greenfree, but for Marcia—

"Hi, you guys," the new suspect welcomed us enthusiastically. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Just here to see Ivan," Wayne told her.

"Oh, that's cool," Winona replied, her voice losing enthusiasm. Maybe she was hoping to sell us some books.

"There's a new Margaret Atwood in today," she said quietly.

She was trying to sell us books! I should have known that anything Winona took on she'd do her best at.

"In hardback or soft?" I asked, willing to be tempted.

"Hard, but it's, like, really worth it," she assured me. "I've already read the first few chapters," she whispered. "Here."

I bought the new Margaret Atwood and Winona had bagged it by the time Ivan came shambling up the center aisle to greet Wayne and me.

He hugged each of us with a rib-cracking grip, before sending a fond grin Winona's way.

"Ms. Eads has already doubled our annual sales in a morning," he told us.

Winona blushed.

"No way," she murmured, but she was smiling underneath the blush.

"Heard you needed to talk to us, Ivan," Wayne muttered.

Ivan's smile faded along with Winona's.

"I have a few chairs set up by the tea urn," Ivan told us. "Thought we could talk—"

"Kate, Wayne!" came a voice bursting into the store. "Whoa, good seeing you here."

Zoe Ingersoll came rushing up to the cash register, her moon face as usual looking too big atop her tiny body as she surveyed the store, her eyes receding from the rest of us. We might have all been invisible now.

"Wow," she murmured. "Wow. The murder scene." A few heartbeats later, her eyes refocused on us all, and finally on my eyes in particular. "See, I'm doing like you said, making it a puzzle, a cloth puzzle," she explained, her voice racing. "I made pieces for all the suspects, but I needed a bigger piece for the background, the gestalt, to weave it in, all the colors blending like a story—"

She cut herself off suddenly and slapped the side of her head.

"Duh," she muttered. "I guess I could have kept that to myself, huh? Oh, phooey! But it is coming together, a different kind of piece than I usually do, but I don't usually do death." She punched her palm this time. "Oops, I mean, I don't usually do artwork about death. Oh, phooey, I'm

hopeless." Her eyes rolled wildly under her oversized glasses.

"There's a new novel in by Margaret Atwood," Winona suggested diffidently.

"Really?" Zoe caroled, turning toward the sales counter. "I love her stuff. She's so complex, but not complicated, you know what I mean ..."

Ivan motioned us over to the chairs set up by the tea urn while Zoe and Winona talked. We slunk away under cover of the high, bright tones of Zoe's voice underlined by the occasional murmur of Winona's.

And then finally the three of us were seated. With nothing to say.

Ivan sighed first. Then Wayne. I turned, waiting for PMP to join in, but apparently she was too enthralled by the closer conversation.

"So why is Zoe in here?" I asked Ivan. Much as I already knew the answer. After all, I'd been the one who'd suggested she put the puzzle together, even if she'd thought of doing it in fabric. But at that point, I would have asked anything to get Ivan's mouth in motion.

"Harmony," he answered, his rough, round features solemn, his eyes almost closed. "The violence, it's too much. There are demons to be exorcised."

He wasn't talking about Zoe, I realized. He was talking about himself.

"Reason isn't always enough," he went on. The note of hysteria I'd heard before in his soft-spoken voice had risen again. "I... I... I'm sorry," he finished.

"Sorry for what?" I asked quickly.

But before he could answer, Zoe was waving and shouting her noisy goodbyes across the store at us. She carried a heavy-looking bag of books. Winona had sold her more than the Margaret Atwood.

"Sorry about what?" I repeated once Zoe had exited the store, leaving relative silence behind her.

Ivan put his hands together and squeezed.

"Sorry this all happened at my store," he explained. "Could I have stopped it? What could I have done? I keep wondering. Shayla was bad enough, but Marcia?"

I didn't wait for another opening. "Why didn't you just fire Marcia?" I asked.

Ivan drew in a sharp breath, still squeezing his hands together.

"Of course, I should have fired her. But I just couldn't," he said. His eyes finally opened to stare into mine beseechingly. "That's why I was such a terrible attorney. I like to get along. In peace. I don't like to argue. Confrontation makes me ... makes me ill."