Death hits the fan (31 page)

"I knew it was Ted," Yvette announced. She threw her little hands up in the air. "But would anyone listen?"

"Why didn't you just say so?" I demanded, feeling cold and clammy now. And resentful. Didn't this woman know I'd just saved her life?

"I tried—" she began, but Ted, or Douvert, wasn't finished.

"Shayla's success made Ted broke," he said, his voice a monotone, his eyes disappearing inward. "No more health insurance. Then Ted's kid got sick. Ted heard you could

bribe someone at the national transplant registry. He tried the coordinator's assistant, but he wanted lots of money. More money than Ted had. Ted's son died. Ted's wife left. Ted almost killed himself, but I promised to revenge the evil done. I, Douvert, made the bracelet. I talked Ivan into the signing. Shayla ruined Ted's life. She killed his son. Wouldn't lend Ted money. And she didn't even need the money. Her husband was wealthy. She was evil, evil—"

"Ted didn't mean to off Marcia," Felix threw in helpfully. "But Shayla ..."

I tuned him out. Because Ted was still speaking. Or was it Douvert?

"Shayla could have helped Ted out. She had money. She could have saved Ted's son. She owed it to Ted. She stole his ideas, made him a pauper. But she just ignored his son's illness, like everyone else ignores illness .. . and death."

For a moment, his eyes burned with rage again.

"You know what she said when Ted begged her? She said, 'Oh, I'm sure the boy will get better.' The only thing that could have made him better was a liver transplant—"

"But why Shayla?" I broke in. "Why didn't you kill the coordinator's assistant? Why didn't you kill the person who denied your—" No, not your, I reminded myself. This man is Douvert now. "Why not kill the guy who denied Ted's son a transplant?"

"I did," the man held before me in a hammerlock replied. And then the rage was gone from his eyes, disappearing inward once more. "I did."

Jhick, it was easy to figure out whodunit," Yvette was saying. Her high voice cut clearly through the sound of the rain pounding her bric-a-brac house. "Fu-fuddin' deduction, you know. Holmes was right. Deduction is everything."

"Especially tax deductions," muttered Lou over her head. He gazed down at his wife fondly. The nomadic accountant had come back from his business trip early this morning and had been glad to find his wife alive. Very glad. He must have thanked Wayne and me more than a dozen times. Of course, Yvette hadn't thanked either of us once. But if you counted them as a couple, the gratitude quotient seemed reasonable. Not that the same could have been said about Yvette.

"Pretty damn-darn obvious if you think about it, huh?" she went on. She stuck her tiny hand in the air and counted off the fingertips of her kelly-green gloves. Green gloves to match the green tights and minidress she wore as the star of her own self-celebration. I hoped she was warm. I wasn't. It

was too cool from the many openings and closings of the front door. "Motive, means, opportunity .. ."

I looked around the room, trying to ignore the Star Trek memorabilia, Irish kitsch, African mementos, and the weapons. Especially the weapons. The police had taken away the Nero Wolfe bust, but swords and daggers and cudgels still lurked in the chaos of collectibles.

The English bulldog at my feet gave a low growl as if he were remembering the Nero Wolfe bust, too. I took a deep breath. And smelled wet wool and the sweetish remainders of the tea and pastries that Yvette had fed us earlier.

"Holy moly, only you could have gotten the skinny on this gonzo case," Felix gushed. I was sure there was a tape recorder keeping pace in his pocket. "Jeez-Louise, presto-pronto, whiz-bang .. ."

Felix. Felix who had done nothing to defend Yvette against Ted Brown's attack the day before, but who was nevertheless celebrating Yvette's deductions along with the rest of us on that rainy Monday evening. Because you'd better believe all the suspects had answered Yvette's summons this time. Ivan had come with Winona. Even his son, Neil, was here. I wondered who was minding the store. PMP probably.

And Zoe had rushed in the front door a few minutes ago bearing the wall hanging she had pieced together from the suspects floating through her steroidal mind. It was glorious. And I was jealous. Especially since I was the one who'd suggested the puzzle motif in the first place. The shimmering silk tapestry lay over the back of an easy chair now. I was sure it would be lost soon in the jungle of Yvette's living room, peeking out from behind some twelve-foot blowup of a book cover or something. It would have been given top billing in my living room. Not that I could see any suspects in the sparkles and colors that swirled mysteriously through its stitched sections. Maybe that took deduction.

"Poor man," Phyllis Oberman commented. "A profoundly tortured soul."

Vince Quadrini and Dean Frazier nodded earnestly across from her. Well, she ought to be an expert on torture, I thought, nodding beside them, remembering my own acupuncture treatment.

"Yeah, yeah," Yvette conceded. "But he wasn't very careful, you know. Uncool procedure all the way around. Anyone could have seen him. Shi-shick, if I were going to kill someone..."

"How's Scott?" I whispered to Dean under the cover of the sound of rain and Yvette's continuing analysis of her own acumen.

"Scott's doing better, thank the Lord," Dean whispered back. "Now that he knows—now that he's thought on it—I do believe he's come to accept a little. Just a little for now, but. .." He shrugged his shoulders to finish his sentence, fingering the amulet beneath his shirt.

I nodded. I was doing better myself. No more murder to worry about. And the skunks seemed to be gone permanently. But Ingrid? I clenched my teeth. Was our uninvited guest planning a return engagement? It hadn't even been a consideration until this morning. Until Wayne had watered one of our mammoth potted plants and found a backpack tucked neatly behind it. The pack contained two pair of spandex pants, two halter tops, undies, a toothbrush, and a bag of cosmetics. Not quite a bomb, but Wayne and I were still trying to decipher its meaning. I unclenched my teeth. There was good news, I reminded myself. My warehouse-woman Judy had definitely, absolutely, changed her name to Jade. Actually, I wasn't too sure about that either.

"So this Marcia woman was doing a fuddin' book scam, right?" Yvette asked, turning her tinted lenses on Ivan.

I forgot about Ingrid as Ivan's head popped up guiltily.

"It appears so," he admitted. "But she's at peace now, so—"

"Peace, shmeece," Yvette interrupted. "The woman was a menace. How come—"

"Mr. Nakagawa did everything he could," Winona threw m unexpectedly. She even reached out and touched her new employer's shoulder diffidently. "No way he could have done better."

"Yeah, no way," Neil chimed in, gazing fondly at Winona and his father. Ivan folded his hands together and a gentle smile settled on his thuggish face. He wanted harmony. And it looked like he was finally getting some. At least for a little while.

"Hey, Ivan," Zoe put in, her voice fast and nervous. "I was putting the suspects in place, you know, for the tapestry, and I just kept wondering about everyone. Like who had needles and stuff. Like me, for instance. Duh? And like who was really mad and stuff. And I was going to ask you, but I forgot." She tapped the side of her head with the heel of her hand, propelling more words out. "Who suggested the signing in the first place?"

Ivan's solid body jerked back, his eyes widening for a moment.

"Ted," the bookseller answered finally. Then he sighed his trademark sigh. "It was Ted originally. He suggested a mystery/sci-fi crossover signing. And then I invited Yvette and Shayla. Ted must have known Shayla would be invited." He hung his head. "I never even thought about it. The planning stages were so long ago."

"See!" Yvette said, stamping her foot to better make her point. "It takes a real detective for deduction. Phooey, if Vd known Ted was behind the signing—"

"Honey, you're not a real detective either," Lou reminded her gently as Winona and Neil closed ranks physically and emotionally on either side of Ivan and glared Yvette's way.

I

"Yeah, yeah," she said, looking up at her husband, affection softening her sharp features. "You just want to keep me out of trouble. But I am a detective now. I just proved it."

Lou sighed, a beaten man. But a loved one. Yvette stood on tiptoe and kissed his gorgeous chin.

"But the guy in the trench coat and the red VW van was a real detective, wasn't he?" I threw in, turning toward Vince Quadrini. Mr. Quadrini had been awfully quiet all evening. Was he revising his absolutist views on Saint S.X. Greenfree upon consideration of her treatment of Ted Brown and his dying child? Or was he just feeling guilty for siccing his private investigator on us?

Mr. Quadrini reddened under my look, then cleared his throat and drew up his shoulders as if to give a speech.

"I must beg everyone's forgiveness for any intrusion on the part of Mr. McClanaha—"

"Who the hell-heck is Mr. McClanaha?" Yvette demanded.

"Mr. McClanaha is a private detective Mr. Quadrini hired," I answered in triumph. I might not have nailed the murderer, but at least I'd spotted the real detective.

But no one noticed my brilliance in the turmoil that followed.

"The guy in the red van?" Zoe muttered, hitting her head again. "Whoa—"

"Do you mean to tell me that the man who came to me requesting an acupuncture treatment was really an investigator, invading the integrity of my office?" Phyllis demanded, pinning Mr. Quadrini with a scowl.

Mr. Quadrini just nodded. Manfully, hands held behind his back.

"I wondered why he wouldn't take off his trench coat," Phyllis murmured, subsiding into an unfocused frown. "How the man imagined I was going to insert needles while he still had his coat on—"

"Was he the sleazeball that scared me that night?" Winona put in.

Ivan put his hand on her shoulder now, murmuring consolation. Then dawn broke on his own face.

"He parked across the street from Fictional Pleasures," the bookseller said slowly. "He even came in—"

"Good Lord, he parked across from my house too," Dean said in wonderment. "I thought he was just some poor homeless soul."

"But did he figure it out?" Yvette asked loudly, silencing the buzz. She threw her hands in the air. "Shick no. These hard-boiled guys don't have any class. No brains. Ted was angry. He knew how to make jewelry. And ..." She smiled widely. "And he was the first one to reach the authors' table, in the perfect position to leave the bracelet. Deduction. Fud-din' deduction."

"Yvette told Ted he was deep in doo-doo," Felix piped up, returning to sycophancy. "Then Ted went totally gonzo, locked the front door, even locked the dogs in the kitchen."

The bulldog at my feet straightened up, laid back its ears, and growled at Felix. Yeah.

"Why didn't you do something?" I demanded of my so-called friend.

"Holy socks, I'm a reporter," he huffed, his eyes widening with apparent hurt. "I observe objectively. It was a story, man. Get it?"

The bulldog looked up at me as if asking whether to tear the reporter's leg off. Objectively, of course.

"Down, Marple," Lou ordered and the bulldog lay on his—or her—back. Too bad.

"So was he, like, a multiple personality or something?" Winona asked tentatively.

"No," Yvette replied, returning to center stage. "He was just a writer. See, you really have to be your own protagonist to write a good story. Ted just went a little overboard."

A little?

"So why don't you kill people, then?" Winona asked.

"I, I mean my protagonist doesn't kill people," she reminded us. "Lovell is a peaceful leprechaun . . ."

Her mouth was off and running again, this time extolling her protagonist's virtues in loving detail.

"What I don't understand," Ivan whispered beneath the hum of Yvette's voice, "is why he didn't just go back to making jewelry to get the money he needed."

"It was too late," Dean returned his whisper. "His boy needed the liver transplant then. A child's body is less likely to reject a liver transplant than an adult's. But he needed it immediately." Dean paused and shook his head. "The poor man. I believe that's why Scott is beginning to forgive him."

"Vigilantism versus forgiveness," Wayne put in. "Should have seen it in his books. What Ted thought was righteous execution was murder. Forgiveness was beyond him."

"Yeah!" Felix's voice broke in, ecstatic now. "Man, everyone down at the cop shop is smiling. Verduras has got him for Shayla and Marcia. And the San Ricardo P.D. has got him for Steve Sanders—"

"Sanders?" Yvette interrupted.

"Sanders was the potato-brain from the national liver transplant registry. He tried to scam Ted outa a bundle to put his kid higher up on the list for a liver. He didn't really have the power. But Ted thought he did. When Ted couldn't come up with the moolah, he blew him off, told him to go away. So ole Ted put curare-tipped pins between the keys of the potato-brain's word processor. Tap, tap, tap, clunk!" Felix mimed collapsing over a word processor.

"No way," Winona and Neil murmured together.

Felix nodded eagerly, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

"Yeah, Ted is out there, man. Cops found the space cadet's diary. Tells the whole gonzo story. Ted Brown thinks

he's Demetrius Douvert, right from outer space. That's where he is now anyway. He said 'astral travel,' and they haven't heard another peep from the perp since."

"Shi-shift, dogs or no dogs." Yvette took up her story again. Her story. "I could have handled Ted with my shillelagh. Right between the eyes, you know. Though Kate here did do a pretty impressive kick."

Warmth filled my body. And my mind. She had noticed. I opened my mouth to thank her, graciously. But I wasn't fast enough.

"Not that it was necessary," she amended. "You see—"

The doorbell rang. I looked around, wondering who was left that wasn't already at the party.

Lou opened the door and my question was answered. Captain Cal Xavier, that was who. I flinched in spite of myself. In spite of knowing that Wayne and I weren't under suspicion anymore. Something about the captain's shining teeth still gave me the third degree. Was he here on his brother's behalf?

"Hello there, Mr. Cassell," he said, extending his ever ready hand to shake Lou's. "I wanted to thank each and every one of you for your help in clearing up the unpleasantness—"

"Shick, murder is more than unpleasant," Yvette interrupted him mid-speech.

His smile dimmed for a nanosecond. Then he turned on the high beams. "Especially you, Ms. Cassell," he said. "Quite the hero, or should I say heroine?"

Yvette smiled back, caught off guard. I tried not to gag. Meanwhile, Lou glared.

"Well, I did do pretty damn-darn well," Yvette caroled. "Even if I do say so myself."

After a nauseating tribute to Yvette, the captain made his way around the group to congratulate me on my minor role in Ted's capture.

He winked as he shook my hand. "I hear you practice some pretty mean tai chi, Ms. Jasper," he said, his voice hushed as Yvette continued her analysis of her own astute detective work. "Ms. Cassell ought to be thankful."

Now / smiled. Maybe this man would win his election bid after all.

"How's Bob?" I asked and then wished I hadn't. Because the famous Xavier smile had dimmed again at the mention of his brother's name.

"Well, Bob's given up on your friend Ingrid," the captain answered. "Ingrid came and spoke to me just yesterday. She told me she's living with a tango teacher now. I checked him out. The man calls himself Raoul Raymond, but his real name's Ralph Robinson. Turns out he's a very wealthy citizen. He teaches tango for his own entertainment, along with his sister, Ruth."