“Hell’s bells,” the captain finally said. “You going for an insanity plea or what?”
Marge threw her head back and laughed.
The captain turned to her angrily. “I hate Marin, Marge,” he whined. “I hate this karmic caboodle, you know I do. I hate all the channeling and crystals and wussy men in their wussy support groups. I hate—”
“Didn’t you want to ask Ms. Jasper and Mr. Caruso some questions, sir?” Marge cut him off.
“Right,” he answered, straightening his shoulders. He pulled his chin back a notch. “May we come in to talk?”
I looked at Wayne. The Captain had asked permission. I guessed that meant he didn’t have the right to just barge in. Was the captain better as a friend than an enemy? Wayne asked with his eyebrows. I gave a tentative nod. Wayne blinked and stepped back from the doorway.
“Come in and have a seat, Captain Wooster and…”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d forgotten Marge’s rank and last name.
“Oh, just call me Marge, honey,” she advised, walking past me in a lilac-scented cloud. “Or Sergeant Marge; lots of folks like to call me that.”
If the two of them were playing good cop and bad cop, they certainly had their roles straight.
We sat Sergeant Marge and Captain Wooster down on the wood-and-denim couch where Felix had been before. The captain’s nostrils flared. Could he smell the absent reporter? Or was he smelling our recent feast? Or Marge’s ever-present lilac scent?
“Right,” he repeated once he was seated. “Ms. Jasper, how come you were so quick to mention the other group members and—” he paused and rolled his eyes “—and their ‘significant others’?”
I glanced at Wayne again. Shouldn’t I tell the captain about the key and the potluck? Wayne might as well have had “no” printed on his forehead. I thought maybe I was getting as psychic as Barbara.
“Just logical,” I answered, keeping my voice even. Wayne and I both lowered ourselves into the double hanging chair. “They all knew about the group and when it ended.”
“Okay, let’s go over the timing of these groups,” Captain Wooster suggested, sounding almost human for a moment.
Wayne and I nodded like good puppies.
“Okay, Mr. Caruso, you guys had a group meeting today, right?” he asked.
Wayne nodded again.
“When was the previous meeting of your group?”
“Two Wednesdays ago,” Wayne answered. His voice was slow and careful. “Heartlink meets every other Wednesday.”
The captain bent forward. “What did you talk about at the meeting two Wednesdays ago?”
My body stiffened next to Wayne’s—someone from the group had talked to the captain besides us. The way he asked his question made it clear to me that he knew they’d discussed something out of the ordinary two weeks ago. Did he know they’d talked about their worst secrets?
“I can’t tell you that,” Wayne replied predictably. “Confidentiality.”
Wooster turned to me.
“I wasn’t there,” I stated honestly. I honestly hadn’t been there; never mind that Wayne’s confidentiality had spread to include me in its confines.
“And Scheherazade told good stories, too!” the captain snapped. He didn’t seem human anymore. “You two know plenty—”
‘They’ll tell us in their own way, sir,” Marge interrupted. “Lord, sometimes you’re enough to make a gal wanna wear earplugs.”
I looked at her gratefully, wanting to tell Marge everything. But maybe that was how it was supposed to work. Marge’s crinkly blue eyes were friendly but intent as she searched our faces. I kept quiet.
Finally, the captain began again. “Okay, so your Heartlink group had a meeting today and a meeting two weeks ago. And in between those meetings, the members of the group and their ‘significant others’ went to a potluck?”
“Potluck was last weekend,” Wayne confirmed quickly. He didn’t say anything about the missing key.
I wondered once more who’d been talking to the captain. I squirmed in my chair. How much had the captain heard?
“How about you two?” he hissed. “What are your worst secrets?”
My heart rammed itself against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The captain had heard too much, that was for sure. Someone had told him, but who? And what, exactly?
My heart was still ramming like a demented bull when Captain Wooster pointed a knuckled finger at me.
“You hate journalists,” he said, accusingly. For a moment, I thought he meant Felix, but then he expanded on the theme. “Heard you karate-kicked one on TV. And Steve Summers was a journalist.”
I took a deep breath. “I just used tai chi to get that particular journalist out of my way,” I explained. “She assaulted me first.”
“Hellfire,” the captain muttered, the hint of a smile on his face. “Wish I could do that myself, once in a while.”
Marge’s laughter made us all one happy family, for about a minute.
“And you,” he went on, pointing at Wayne. “You let your boss die when you were supposed to protect him.”
The blood pulsing through my veins seemed to pull me up and out of the hanging chair.
“That is not true!” I roared, surprised at my own volume. “Not any more than I could say you let Steve Summers die when you were supposed to protect him. Wayne did his best—”
“It’s okay, Kate,” Wayne admonished gently. He reached up and placed his large hand on the small of my back. “It’s okay,” he repeated.
Only then did I realize how easily I had fallen into the captain’s trap.
“Captain Wooster,” Wayne said formally. “I often feel that I failed my boss. I feel the weight of it almost every day, but I try to forgive myself. And I’ve done nothing illegal.”
I wanted to clap, to cheer. But I couldn’t, so I sat back down next to Wayne and put my hand on his muscled thigh. My eyes were watering now, with indignation, with pain for Wayne, with love. I blinked and tried to think of anything that would calm me down. I settled on sorbet. I imagined my favorite sorbet, the blueberries melting on my tongue. My eyes dried slowly.
“Captain,” Wayne was saying when I tuned in again. “Do you have any ideas you can share with us?”
“No,” the captain said. Wooster sorbet, I thought. It wouldn’t taste good, but it would sure be fun to make.
“No one saw anything,” the captain elaborated. “No one heard anything. Like your wife figured out so logically, it’s gotta be one of your little band of fruitcakes—”
“If you’re talking about Garrett—” I began, standing again.
“Joseph’s garters!” the captain objected. “I can’t say one piddly little thing without everyone getting up in arms. No, I didn’t mean your ‘gay’ friend Peterson or his ‘gay’ friend Urban. I meant all of you, anyone who was in that group or knew when Summers would be leaving.”
“Any motives?” Wayne tried again, pulling me back down into the hanging chair by my waistband.
“Why don’t you tell me?” the captain suggested. He smiled evilly.
We were mute. How many secrets had the captain heard? And were any of them the secret?
“Right,” he said. “And then there’s the terrorism possibility.”
“Terrorism?” I asked, trying to make sense of the word.
“Summers was married to a state assemblywoman.”
“So, you think someone who didn’t like how their property taxes were being spent retaliated?” I scoffed. “Someone in the group?”
“Not so funny, Ms. Jasper. Do you like the way your taxes are spent? We might be dealing with a lunatic here. Mary’s handbag, we probably are dealing with a lunatic. And everyone keeps telling me how peachy-keen the Summers’ marriage was.” The captain leaned forward again. “Though they say that Steve Summers seemed upset lately, maybe at his wife—”
“The Summers were just like anyone else—” Wayne began.
“Some folks h
ave good marriages,” Marge put in at the same time. I wondered about Captain Wooster’s own marriage, assuming he was married. Was his relationship with his wife the reason he was so hostile to Laura Summers?
“So this Summers guy must have known some secret, maybe like Watergate, right?” the captain said, ignoring both of them.
“Watergate on who?” I asked in exasperation. “Not on his wife. And what secret could be bad enough about an educator to lead to murder? Or a shrink, or an accountant, or a computer consultant?”
“A shrink might have plenty under the rug,” the captain pointed out.
“Not Garrett,” I replied, crossing my arms. “Garrett is a good man.”
“And we already know about the accountant’s kid,” Wooster added. “Trouble brewing there.”
“All teenagers have problems,” I stated with the assurance of a woman without children.
“And you left out the investment guy,” Wooster bulldozed away. “Who knows what he was doing. They screw up, they go to jail these days. And how about his wife? She was in the business, too, right?”
I had a feeling the captain was using the phrase “screw up” in reference to Ted’s professional life, not his personal one, but it was funny how close he was getting. Still, at least it seemed that he didn’t know everything.
“You’re smiling,” he accused, pointing his knuckled finger at me again.
“Huh?”
“You were smiling,” Marge translated.
“Well, I’ve stopped. All right?” I said, my voice cranky. Why was I in this conversation, anyway? Wayne was keeping quiet. Why couldn’t I follow his example?
“And that Eisner guy looks like a cokehead to me,” the captain put in.
I tried to keep my face impassive—no smiles, no frowns, no nothing.
“And just ‘cause Herrick is old doesn’t mean he has nothing to hide,” he ground away. “The longer you live, the more you have to hide. And why’s his wife still hanging out with him if she’s divorcing him?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” I said, taking a phrase from the captain’s guidebook.
But Marge didn’t laugh at that one. She and the captain were gone less than five minutes of abuse later. With promises.
“You haven’t seen the last of me,” Captain Wooster informed us at the door. Then he turned to Wayne. “And you can forget your fancy car, Mister Caruso.”
After we’d closed the door behind them, Wayne murmured, “Well, I guess we’re picking up Aunt Dorothy in the Toyota.”
I threw my arms around him and hugged him tight. He was warm and solid, and smelled like lunch and Wayne. We had faced the Wooster and survived. How to celebrate? I turned up my face for a kiss.
The phone rang just as our lips touched. This wasn’t the kind of electricity I’d hoped for.
Wayne answered it this time, but I could tell who was on the other end just by listening.
“Not to worry, Garrett,” he muttered.
Then, “…no threat to the group,” and “…not your fault.”
I wondered if psychiatrists were just naturally anxious. Maybe that’s what attracted them to the field.
“Don’t know any more than you do,” Wayne was saying. Then he said “uh-huh,” and “uh-huh” again.
I reflected on Jerry’s earlier call. He’d been truly worried about Garrett. Well, why not? Garrett couldn’t be feeling a lot better than Wayne was. And they were both too caring to successfully navigate the real world and its cruelty sometimes.
“Uh-huh,” Wayne said again, then, “Take care,” and then he hung up the phone.
“Garrett,” he told me.
“Right,” I said, imitating Captain Wooster.
Finally, Wayne and I sat back down to our lunch. I don’t think either of us wanted to risk the phone call another kiss might generate. There wasn’t much left of lunch, but that not much was mostly dessert—coconut milk pudding with strawberry chunks and drizzled carob sauce.
I brought a teaspoon to my lips and licked. It wasn’t Wayne, but it was delicious.
“Garrett called Laura,” Wayne mumbled through his own mouthful. “Laura told him Steve’s death was being treated as a murder. Garrett’s calling all the other group members to let them know—”
We might as well have been kissing because the doorbell rang before Wayne could even finish his sentence or I could finish my dessert.
I stomped to the door and flung it open.
A sincere-looking, well-dressed young woman stood in front of me. I’d never seen her before.
“Are you a solicitor?” I demanded.
“No,” she said. “Are you Kate Jasper?”
“I…” I began.
But then I looked behind her and saw a man with a camera. A truck with a video dish and a TV station emblem on its side pulled into the driveway.
It was worse than a solicitor.
It was the media.
- Six -
I didn’t think to shut the door. Instead, I opened and shut my mouth a few times for exercise as our whole yard sprouted with media beings: animal, vegetable, and mineral. They popped up everywhere. TV vans, cars with press signs on their dashboards, and worse, their occupants, unloading all their instruments for the inquisition: sound and video equipment, cameras, microphones, notepads, and mouths. Especially mouths.
“Ms. Jasper?” the sincere looking, well-dressed young woman in front of me began. Her formal tone told me that her station’s cameras were rolling, even if some of the other stations’ were a little slower. “We’re here at your home today to speak to you about witnessing the death of Steve Summers, husband of Marin Assemblywoman Laura Summers. This isn’t the first death you’ve witnessed in Marin County, is it? In fact, some call you The Typhoid—”
“Don’t say it,” I warned through gritted teeth.
She paused for less than an instant before her mouth opened again. “Steve Summers was the victim this time—a respected journalist, your friend, and, of course, the husband of Assemblywoman Laura Summers.”
Then Wayne was behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t have to turn my head to see the gargoyle stare he was aiming at the young woman—I could feel it.
“Is it true that Steve Summers was killed in a botched assassination attempt on Laura Summers?”
“But Laura Summers wasn’t killed, Steve Summers was,” I replied, then gave myself a mental kick for having spoken at all. Still, what was this woman talking about?
“Rumors are that Laura Summers was the intended victim!” a new voice shouted. I saw an older man in a perfect suit behind the young woman. “What did you see—”
“No comment,” Wayne broke in.
“Are you Mr. Caruso?” the young woman asked, finding some perverse encouragement from his non-comment.
“Mr. Caruso, isn’t it true that you were in some kind of radical political group with Mr. Summers?” another voice shouted. And then everyone was shouting.
“Did Mr. Summers agree with his wife’s political stands?”
“Did Steve Summers believe in the violent overthrow of the United States government?”
“Is it true that Steve Summers had a C.I.A. background?”
“Didn’t Steve Summers cause a suicide with one of his articles?”
“How did Assemblywoman Summers feel about her husband’s political activities?”
“Was the assemblywoman present when her husband was killed?” my original inquisitor demanded, still looking sincere.
“That’s it,” Wayne announced. “No comment. Goodbye.”
He shut the door, but it caught on the foot of the young woman who’d started it all off, leaving at least a six inch gap between us and privacy.
I looked at her blue, high-heeled shoe. Did I dare step on it? Or maybe kick it? I wouldn’t want to maim her, at least not terribly. Wayne seemed to be going through the same ethical struggle, unmoving but for his gaze, which was directed down toward the blue shoe.
And th
en my eye caught a glimpse of something through the gap at the top of the doorway—a flash of fur. Yes! Black and white fur.
C. C. dove and stuck her claws into the young woman’s shoulder. The woman screamed, and her foot disappeared from our doorway. I pushed the door shut quickly. C. C. could make her way back in through the cat door. I just hoped none of the reporters were small enough to use it.
Even with the door closed, we could hear the frenzy C. C.’s attack had caused.
“Was that a bobcat?” someone clamored.
“I thought it was a wolf,” came another voice.
Our inquisitor was now the inquisitee. Her wounds would heal, I told myself as I heard the flap of the cat door. Our hero had returned.
To reward C. C. or not to reward C. C? That was the question. What she had done was bad—very bad. But she had certainly picked a good victim.
I stooped down to pet my perfect little cat without even thinking. C. C. had remained to see the audience reaction this time. She knew she was a hero. She purred as I pet her, then slowly blinked her eyes before running off down the hallway to celebrate, her talents recognized at long last.
Once C. C. was gone, I turned to Wayne.
“Why did those guys think—” I began.
He put his finger across his lips. Was it possible that the reporters were still listening? We retreated to the bedroom just in case. Even in there, we sat on the floor and whispered.
“How did Steve Summers’ death become Laura Summers’ assassination attempt?” I hissed.
“She’s more interesting,” Wayne hissed back. “Makes a better story.”
“If the reporters are on us like this, what are they doing to Laura?” I asked a minute later.
Wayne was silent, his brows lowering. “Probably has employees to field reporter questions,” he finally answered. “But still…”
I reached out and grabbed his hand. How could Laura bear to lose her husband? If he was anything like Wayne…I couldn’t even complete the thought.
Instead, I bent toward Wayne and pressed my lips against his. Wasn’t that where we’d been before? And sure enough, the phone rang.
A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) Page 6