Tea-Totally Dead (17 page)

“And Mandy thinks he’s just hideous, of course,” Lori added, drawling the word “hideous,” as her daughter would have.

We all laughed at that, all but Wayne. And even his scowl had lessened just a little.

The conversation that had lurched so awkwardly before seemed to flow more smoothly after that. Once the waiter had taken our orders, Trent talked a little about Fulton College. He seemed very proud of his school, but insisted he was looking forward to his retirement. Lori was more volubly enthusiastic as she explained some of the more obscure principles of goddess energy to us. Even Ingrid put in her two cents worth about her work with illiterate adults.

I was actually enjoying the company by the time our mushrooms arrived.

“Well, these are really quite good,” Trent said in surprise as he tasted his mushrooms Stroganoff.

Lori and her mother praised their mushrooms too (curried and teriyaki) as I took a bite of my own (Szechuan style over udon noodles). Yum. Hot and sweet and sour, all at once. Then Lori started in on a class in Taoist healing that she had attended recently. I let her words flow over me like warm water as I ate, sneaking glances at Wayne every so often. I felt something loosen in my shoulders as he began to fork lemon mushrooms, chicken and rice into his mouth.

Later, as we said goodbye in the parking lot, Ingrid took me aside, tugging gently at my elbow.

“Don’t worry about your Wayne,” she whispered. “He’ll be better in time.”

I let out a sigh without meaning to. Was I that obvious? Then I said, “Thank you,” and turned to go.

But Ingrid was still holding my elbow. Did she have something else to say? I turned back. She gazed down at me with reddened eyes.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I…” She faltered.

My chest tightened with dread. What was she going to tell me? I liked this woman. She wasn’t going to confess, was she?

But all she finally said was, “I wanted to thank you for coming to lunch with us,” and, “I wanted to apologize. I know I’ve been bad company. I get weepy sometimes. And Trent hasn’t been at his best. He’s not really so cold and tyrannical most of the time. It’s just the years he’s spent smoothing over other people’s problems at Fulton. He really does deserve his retirement.” She reached for my hand and squeezed. “I’m just glad we were able to relax together, dear.”

And with that she turned to join Trent and Lori waiting in the Volvo. I let myself breathe again, glad Ingrid hadn’t said anything about Vesta’s death. Or had she?

There were two messages waiting for us when we got home. The first was a call on the answering machine for Wayne, from the coroner’s office. The second was a potted plant tipped over in the living room. That was a message for me from C.C. She had taken to this form of communication lately when she felt unappreciated.

“C.C.!” I shouted threateningly.

But of course, she was nowhere to be seen. I got a whisk broom from the kitchen and began sweeping the loose dirt back into the pot as Wayne called the coroner’s office.

I listened as he muttered “voice mail” and punched out more numbers, then told his name to someone on the other end of the line. After a few more brusque answers he actually strung together a full sentence.

“Was it murder?” he demanded.

I straightened the pot and patted down the loosened soil, listening even harder, but there was only assorted rumbles of assent from Wayne’s end of the conversation now. Finally, he said goodbye and hung up.

I walked around in front of him and put my hand on his shoulder gently.

“Well?” I asked as quietly as I could, reminding myself that it would be inappropriate to grab his shoulders and shake the information out of him if he didn’t answer me. But surprisingly, he did answer.

“Coroners are finished with her body,” he said. His face was stiff as he looked down at me, his eyes hooded and cold. “I’m supposed to call the funeral home to make arrangements tomorrow.”

“Oh, sweetie,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.

“Man I talked to is an investigator for the coroner’s office,” he went on. There was no hint of feeling in his voice. “Man wouldn’t say much. The lab hasn’t done all the tests yet. Told me preliminary tests seemed to indicate cardiac glycosides. Some kind of poison found in plants.” Wayne paused and took a breath. “Man said he’d send me a copy of the investigative report, but only more lab tests would show what happened for sure.”

I reached out for his hand. It was wrapped into a fist.

“Someone killed her, Kate,” he said. Feeling flooded into his eyes. “Probably someone in my family. I have to find out who.”

I put my arms around his neck and drew his head down to my shoulder. When I felt the heaving of his body, I knew he was crying. We stood that way for what seemed like hours.

Finally, Wayne pulled his head back. “Have to make funeral arrangements,” he said in a whisper. “Have to decide.

Do we have a religious ceremony? Flowers? A funeral procession? A buffet?” His voice cracked. “How am I going to decide?” he asked, his voice a child’s in that moment.

“It’ll be all right,” I said, keeping my arms around him. “I’ll decide. We’ll keep it simple. No buffet—”

“It was her birthday, Kate. How could they have killed her on her birthday?” He stood up straight, breaking away from my arms. “No procession to the graveyard. I’ll go to visit her grave alone… once I know who killed her.”

I nodded, shivering in spite of myself. The kind and gentle man that I had loved for the past three years was an avenging angel now. Would his tender side ever return? Of course it would, I told myself.

“I have to keep them here till I know,” his voice ground on. “We’ll wait a few days for the funeral. They’ll stay for that. Whoever killed her will wait for the funeral, at least.” He slammed his fist into his palm. I winced. He hit his hand again.

“Wayne,” I said. “Please don’t do that.”

He looked down at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“Don’t do what?” he asked.

“Don’t hit…”

But he wasn’t looking at me anymore. The moment was lost. He was looking out over my head now.

“Wayne?” I said. He didn’t hear me.

“I have to watch them, listen to them,” he whispered. “All of them. All of them together.”

And then he was using the phone again.

- Thirteen -

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

But Wayne didn’t answer.

I was pretty sure I could figure it out, though, by listening to his side of the conversation. He seemed to be arranging dinner for the whole Skeritt family, with someone on the other end of the line, probably Ace from the sound of it. Ugh. I didn’t know if my stomach could handle another family meal. I felt a little better when I heard Wayne propose his own San Francisco restaurant-art gallery, La Fête à L’oie, as the site for the meal. At least the food would be well prepared there. Tasty, tasteful, and more important, poison-free.

“What time’s dinner?” I asked when Wayne hung up the phone.

“Six o’clock,” he replied absently. Then his brows had descended completely, blotting out any feeling in his eyes. “Need to think for a while,” he announced quietly and shuffled off to the living room couch, where he resumed sitting and staring into space.

I watched him for a few minutes, wishing for once that I owned a TV set, one that I could put in front of him so that he would at least
look
comfortable staring that way.

I shook off the thought and took a peek at my watch. It was just one o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Time to get to work, I decided, and sat down at my desk to face the towering stacks of paper that Jest Gifts had spawned. I didn’t even sigh, afraid the sudden gust might topple those towers.

Wayne was still in position on the couch when I got up more than four hours later. I looked into his blank face, hoping, but doubting, that all his time spent thinking had helped him.

“Come on, sweetie,” I said softly, reaching out my hand to help him up. “It’s time to get dressed.”

“Oh my, but don’t you two look nice!” Dru greeted us as we walked into the foyer-cum-gallery of La Fête à L’oie.

I damn well hoped I looked nice. I was wearing the most expensive piece of clothing I owned, a velvet jumpsuit by Liz Claiborne. And Wayne was in a suit and tie. La Fête à L’oie was as upscale as a BMW. On second thought, make that a Mercedes, or maybe even a Rolls. Designer dresses and suits, high heels, Rolexes and real jewels predominated. It was not a place I would be inclined to visit without Wayne.

“Well, you sure look great,” I responded a beat later, pumping some warmth into my voice. Not that I was lying. Dru’s tall thin body looked elegant in a lavender silk dress. She fit right into this room with its pricey artwork and well-heeled patrons. Ingrid did too, in her linen suit and pearls. Even Lori had dressed up her colorful handwoven top with a few more bracelets and an extra dab of perfume, if my nose was any guide.

Gail, on the other hand, wore an uncompromising man’s dress shirt over twill pants. And Eric and Mandy were in jeans.

The men were all in suits. Even Ace.

“So tell me about the place, kid,” he said to Wayne, rolling his massive shoulders, as if uncomfortable in the confines of his suit jacket.

Wayne mumbled something so low that I didn’t even catch it standing next to him.

Ace’s smile dimmed for a moment, then relit. “Inherited it, didn’t you?” he tried again.

Wayne nodded, his chin sinking toward his chest as he did. Damn. Why hadn’t I made the connection before? Wayne had inherited La Fête along with his other restaurants and galleries from his former boss, Scott Younger, a man whom Wayne had cared for and been unable to protect against murder. And now Vesta was dead too. Wayne thought it was all his fault, every last little bit. I knew that as well as I knew that shark ornaments would never go out of style for attorneys.

“Wayne managed this place before he inherited it,” I said, my voice sounding too high and loud for the room. “And all the other restaurants and galleries too. He’s done a really great job—”

“You seem defensive about this place,” Gail cut in quietly. I looked into her serious brown eyes, not sure if she was talking to me or to Wayne. “Does it have unpleasant associations for you?”

All I could hear was the low murmur of the other patrons in the room in the instant after Gail spoke. That and my blood pulsing in my ears. I willed myself not to turn my eyes to Wayne at my side, not to grab his hand. That would
really
look defensive.

“Oh, Gail, honey,” Dru protested hastily. “Don’t you be so stuffy now. This isn’t your office. This is a lovely, lovely place. And I bet you haven’t even so much as glanced at the paintings on the wall.”

“I wasn’t being stuffy, Mother,” Gail replied, turning her gaze away. “I was just—”

“I love this collage,” Lori interjected. I turned to her gratefully. She was pointing at a conglomeration of plaster fragments, red paint, string and graffiti on bare canvas. “It’s a real fusion of energy, almost like lucid dreaming….”

“I think the photos are very nice,” Ingrid whispered behind us.

“You know what, this one’s totally excellent…”

“Well, I think it’s hideous…”

And then everyone seemed to be talking at once, their voices blurring into a noisy hum as the Skeritts spread out to look at the paintings, photographs, collages and sculptures displayed around the room.

Only then did I turn my eyes to Wayne. He stood perfectly still with his eyes closed and his head bowed, looking like a sculpture himself, though far more representational than anything else in the room. A Rodin figure of tragedy perhaps, clothed in a business suit. I grabbed his hand.

“It is
not
your fault,” I whispered emphatically into his ear. “None of it. You are a kind and responsible person, dammit. Stop blaming yourself!”

His eyes popped open. He looked at me for a moment, then said, “I’ll set up dinner,” and pulled his hand away.

I watched him walk toward the dining room. As he reached the entrance, he looked over his shoulder for an instant.

“Thank you,” he mouthed and then he disappeared through the doorway.

“Aunt Kate,” Eric called from behind me. “You gotta see this one….”

I spent the next twenty minutes viewing headless torsos, toeless feet, string art, improbable photographs and more improbable paintings, all the while wondering if I should get Wayne into therapy. Or myself. I knew there were support programs for the loved ones of the deceased. I just hoped there were programs for the lovers of the loved ones of the deceased too. There had to be, I decided. This was California, after all.

Luckily, the food at La Fête à L’oie was far more attractive than the artwork. At least in my opinion. Wayne had set up a special table for the whole family in the back of the dining room, shielded by discreet shoji screens. Crisp white linen draped the table, which gleamed with silver, china and glassware.

Once we were all seated, a man and a woman in matching tuxedos showed up to attend to our food desires, offering the carnivores all variety of fish, poultry and meat, sautéed, baked, layered, pounded, smoked and/or stuffed with touches of Dijon, thyme, tarragon, green peppercorns or raspberry. And then there were the sauces. Dru
oohed
and Trent
aahed,
and the carnivores ordered.