Most Likely to Die (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (17 page)

- Seventeen -

Unfortunately, I was one hundred percent capable of thinking of ten ways that Wayne could die. And I did, right then as the answering machine tape wound on with another call from a roofing company. Accidental poisoning, car crash, fall…

The acidic dread in my stomach churned its way into my chest as postmortem pictures flashed across the synapses of my brain.

But who had left the message? Now my mind was churning along with my body. Natalie? She’d certainly been angry with me when I’d left. But she didn’t have to leave an anonymous threat to let me know that. Aurora’s serene face appeared before me as I thought of the hypnotic quality of the last line. “Or can you think of ten ways on your own?” A little suggestibility trick she’d picked up from one of her pop psychology manuals?

It had to be someone I’d talked to today. Or did it? Pam might have called Charlie and told him I was snooping. Elaine could have called anyone I’d spoken to today and gotten the information. Or Becky. Or Mark—

I heard the sound of the front door opening and whirled around, adrenaline pumping.

But it was just Wayne who came through the doorway. No monster. No murderer. Just someone I loved more than anyone else in the world. I watched his kind, homely face as he walked toward me and suddenly remembered Barbara’s warning that Wayne might be in danger. Should I let him hear the words on the tape? I had less than a second to decide.

My hand shaking, I punched the rewind button, burying the tape’s message forever. I told myself I could let Wayne know about the threat later if I had to. But I didn’t want him to press a button and hear those ugly words by accident.

“Kate?” said Wayne, a look of concern on his face.

I rushed him before he could ask me what was wrong and wrapped my arms around his solid body, breathing in his scent like it was pure oxygen. I wanted to hold on to him forever. Whoever had left the message knew my priorities. I couldn’t even imagine a world without Wayne. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.

Eventually, I had to release Wayne from my impassioned grip. Even a man who loved hugs as much as he did might have become suspicious after a fifteen-minute embrace.

“So, how’s it going?” I asked inanely as I let him go.

“Fine,” he replied, tilting his head to the side, his brows lowering to half-mast. “Are you okay—”

“Gonna cook me dinner?” I demanded. “I’m starving.”

“Sure,” he answered, a hint of a smile battling with the suspicion that still lingered on his face. Wayne loved to feed me almost as much as he loved to make love to me. Almost. “Feel like minestrone?”

“
Sì
and
buona sera
,” I replied, using up my scant Italian, if it even was Italian, and thinking that indeed I did feel like minestrone, with all the different theories, anxieties, and impressions stirring in the cauldron of my brain. If they’d have been vegetables, I’d have been soup for sure.

I followed Wayne into the kitchen where he opened the refrigerator and began pulling out whatever he could find there. Wayne’s minestrone was different every time he made it, but always good. He gave me the job of opening a couple cans of pinto beans as he began chopping vegetables and herbs. Each to his or her own skills.

“Eat lunch with Pam?” he asked with affected nonchalance as he diced a bulb of fennel.

“Uh-huh,” I answered, lost in thought. If Wayne was in danger, maybe I should follow him around for the next couple of days. A bodyguard for a former bodyguard? Would he notice?

“And?” he prompted, flashing me a look over his muscular shoulder, suspicion in his voice again.

So I told him all about my lunch with Pam, playing up her feelings for Charlie and playing down my questions about murder as he combined the beans, garlic, homemade broth, and massive fistfuls of vegetables in a big pot. He handed me some mustard greens to chop, and I gave him the short version about visiting Lillian at Karma-Kanick.

“Her bronze busts are incredible,” I finished up. “Do you think you could fit them in your gallery?”

Wayne turned slowly away from the bubbling pot on the stove and looked me full in the face.

“You visited Lillian at her shop?” he asked, his voice as low as his eyebrows.

“There were people all around,” I defended myself. “It was perfectly safe.”

He sighed and turned back to the stove, giving the soup a long, deep stir with his wooden spoon, then adding more vegetables in silence. He didn’t say anything more either as he pulled his leftover homemade bread from the refrigerator and heated it in the microwave. Or as he put the finishing touches on the soup.

It was in that silence, filled only with the aromas of garlic and herbs and bread, that I decided not to tell Wayne about my visit to Jack. Or Aurora. Or Natalie. Or about the answering machine message. And I decided to stop snooping. Nothing was worth any danger to Wayne. Nothing. Why did I care who killed Sid Semling? I was done with it.

We ate a dinner that was probably delicious, but I could barely taste it. And we talked off and on. We talked about food and an interview of Maya Angelou that Wayne had heard on the radio coming home. Then we talked a little about gardening. And trimming our fruit trees this year. We didn’t quite get to talking about the weather.

The one thing we didn’t discuss was Sid’s murder. I could tell by the abstraction in his voice that Wayne was as much on automatic pilot as I was. We might as well have been speaking Italian. Or Mandarin, or Hindi, for that matter. I wasn’t exactly sure what Wayne was really thinking about. But I knew what was on my mind. Murder was dangerous. How could I have forgotten?

*

I didn’t talk to anyone even remotely connected with Sid Semling’s death for the rest of the evening. Or the next morning. Instead, I worked diligently on Jest Gifts like a good little sole proprietor. But I had to answer the phone when Elaine called to make sure Wayne and I would be at the memorial service for Sid that afternoon. And I told her we’d go. For sure. The fierceness of her tone as she insisted that everyone
had
to come to the service convinced me that it might have been more dangerous to refuse her invitation than to accept. And attending a memorial service was not the same thing as snooping. Right? Luckily, Wayne concurred when I called him to tell him I’d agreed to go. For both of us.

Wayne came home an hour later and we climbed into my Toyota to make the trip to the old Sonoma winery where the memorial service was going to take place. Apparently, the winery was owned by one of Elaine’s in-laws and the extensive grounds were often rented for company picnics and weddings. And funerals.

When we got there, I could see why. The winery operations were housed in modest, almost shabby, wooden buildings, but the grounds themselves were glorious in the afternoon sun. Spacious lawns extended beyond the modest buildings with scattered oak trees, picnic tables, and even a small pond complete with ducks to exude a picture of rural bliss. Rows of folding chairs and a podium had been set up on a sparkling patch of lawn near the pond. The picnic tables were filled with food and drink. I saw Elaine’s husband, Ed, busily arranging a tray of what looked like cheese wedges as we got out of our car in the nearby parking lot. I took a deep breath and looked at my watch. We were still fifteen minutes early for the ceremony.

Wayne nudged me gently and pointed his head toward the other side of the tables. I turned my own head and saw Elaine there, dressed in black. But her clothing was party-black not funeral-black. Her silk dress was cut low down the spine and short at the hem. Her black stockings glittered with gold threads, and her black stiletto heels were complete with big gold bows that matched her bracelets and layers of necklaces. I wondered if the stiletto heels were sinking into the lawn at the same time as I compared my own black cotton turtleneck and ChiPants, the best I could do on short notice.

I also spotted Becky, standing nearby in a modest black suit and low heels. And Pam and Charlie sitting next to each other in the first row of folding chairs. Charlie was in a black turtleneck too. That made us a set, but somehow I still didn’t think the two of us were making the proper funereal fashion statement.

“Been to too many of these damn things lately,” a voice murmured from behind us.

I didn’t leap out of my shoes, but my shoulders hopped.

Damn, I was jumpy. I turned and saw Mark Myers, somber in his black suit.

“Setting’s gorgeous though,” Wayne offered quietly.

Mark surveyed the scene. I could tell when his eyes lighted on the ducks. His face softened into a little smile.

“Don’t get many waterfowl in the office,” he commented. “Well-groomed feathers. Don’t look overfed either.”

For a moment I was disconcerted. Waterfowl in the office? Then I remembered that Mark was a veterinarian. In that suit I’d taken him for a lawyer. Or maybe an undertaker.

Mark started whistling something that sounded suspiciously like “Be Kind to Our Web-Footed Friends” as I tried to think of something socially acceptable to say.

Natalie Nusser joined us before I could.

“Kate,” she greeted us brusquely. “Mark. Wayne.”

She seemed to have forgotten yesterday’s pique for the occasion. But she still looked tense, her lips pursed and her hands clasped behind her military fashion.

The four of us stood for a short but infinite space of time without speaking until Natalie looked at her watch.

“Time to join the others,” she said and strode toward the gathering by the pond.

We followed her jerking steps without hesitation, ending up scattered behind the folding chairs. Natalie was a natural born leader. No wonder her employees appreciated her.

As we arrived, I noticed how few mourners there really were assembled for Sid’s memorial. We still had a few minutes to go, but there couldn’t have been more than a dozen people present that I didn’t recognize, A handful of elderly men and women. A few more a little younger. Were these Sid’s relatives? I wondered. Or were there some of his friends scattered among them? Had Sid had any other friends?

Elaine’s three children sat in the last two rows of folding chairs, gathered around a short, stocky woman whose face reminded me of Ed Timmons. His sister? She held an open book in her lap as she spoke to the children.

“If everyone is sitting on a table, is it still a table?” I heard her ask. “Or is it now a chair?”

“Or maybe a couch?” Dawn offered seriously.

“Very good,” the woman commented as Elyse giggled at the thought. Eddie Junior tilted his head professorially.

“So, it’s the perception and belief about the nature of the object that really defines it,” the woman went on.

All three children nodded solemnly. She had their interest completely. At that very moment, I was sure each of them had forgotten just why they were sitting in the folding chairs near a duck pond. I just wished I could join them. In mind as well as body.

“Aunt Ursula…” Dawn began.

“Gad, Kate,” a new voice hailed me.

I turned to see Becky, standing, leaning a little, in front of me. Her fragile face was close to mine, her blue eyes already tear-filled.

“Poor ol’ Sid,” she muttered, and I caught the bouquet of alcohol on her breath.

Poor old Becky, I thought back. And I pulled her into my arms for a quick hug. As I let her go, I peered into her face. She had too many damn wrinkles there for her age. And too many broken blood vessels. I knew it was none of my business, but I wanted to take care of her in that moment, to pull her back to sobriety if I couldn’t bring her back to her youth. She had been so alive twenty-five years ago, so full of mischief. But then, so had Sid. Pretty soon my eyes would be filled with premature tears too, I decided, and turned my face away. Just in time to see Aurora and Jack arrive.

Jack was humming as he shambled along beside Aurora, his head down and swinging to his own melody. At least it wasn’t “Be Kind to Our Web-Footed Friends.” It sounded more like “Good Night, Irene.” In fact I was sure of the tune for once because Jack’s hum was loud today, loud enough to record. Aurora looked as serene as always by his side in a flowing purple pants suit.

Could this woman have left me a threatening message? She enclosed me
and
the question in a solid hug before I even had time to consider it. Then she turned to hug Wayne. And Mark. I wondered if she’d have the guts to tackle Natalie. But I never found out. She had just taken Becky into her arms when Elaine arrived.

“I knew you’d all come,” Elaine said, surveying us slowly, one by one. Her voice was not particularly welcoming. Nor was her smile. There was more triumph evident in its curve then cordiality. And then even the smile evaporated.

“Where’s Lillian?” she demanded.

“Lillian had to mind the shop,” Aurora answered quietly.

Elaine opened her mouth as if she was going to demand that Lillian be produced that instant, then clamped it shut again and glared at us for a few heartbeats.

“This is for Sid,” she told us finally and spun on her stiletto heels to walk up to the podium, golden threads glinting off the black of her stockings in the sunlight. The warm June sunlight.

I was already beginning to sweat under my black turtleneck. There was no shade by the pond and the afternoon sun was beating down, doing its best for the occasion.