When Winona peeked out the door of her apartment, chain lock in place, I didn't fault her for paranoia. And when we walked in and saw her son, I realized the reason for the earlier edge in her voice. Winona couldn't have been much more than twenty. And her son looked around six or seven, as he stared up at us with those familiar turquoise eyes in his freckled face. Winona must have given birth to Johnny while she was in high school. No wonder she felt the need to hide her beauty.
"We brought Japanese food," I said cheerily, holding out the white cardboard boxes.
Winona smiled. It was a brief but lovely sight.
"For us?" her son asked. "For us?"
I nodded and looked around Winona's apartment as Johnny began jumping up and down in place and chanting, "Let's eat, let's eat."
Winona and Johnny's home was a studio apartment, with one bed in each corner neatly made up under its own bright plaid spread, and a table with two chairs in the center. Bookcases made of bricks and boards held paperbacks and what looked like textbooks on either side of the table. A few toys were arranged neatly on one of the beds and in a box beside it.
"I suppose we could eat in the kitchen," Winona suggested, interrupting my survey. And Johnny's chants.
"The kitchen sounds great," I answered hastily, ashamed to be caught staring.
The kitchen was neat and small. We all sat around the homemade pressboard table eating Japanese take-out on mismatched plates.
Johnny laughed with delight at the unaccustomed mixture of foods. And dissected them all, with scientific comments. And jokes. I laughed with him, realizing there was something intrinsically funny about avocado sushi.
"I called you because S.X. Greenfree was important," Winona announced suddenly as I was slurping up some udon noodles and Johnny was carving seaweed.
"Important?" Wayne prodded, his mouth apparently empty and ready, unlike my own.
"To me, to my life," she explained. She hesitated, looking at the ceiling, but only for a moment. "See, I'm working at a drugstore and going to school to be a dental hygienist. I'd love to be a writer..." She sighed, then went on. "But no way I'm any good like S.X. Greenfree. Still, when I read her
stuff, I'm, like, more proud of myself, I guess you'd say. And I think maybe I will be a writer someday ... maybe. She gave me that. So I owe her something."
Then she looked straight into my face without squirming.
"I don't want someone to just murder her and get away with it. No way. So I want to help. I'm not running away or anything, anymore."
I felt like applauding, but asked instead, "So what do you think happened?"
"Urn, I don't know," she answered, looking back down at the table.
And it seemed that she really didn't. Winona had been in one of the back aisles of Fictional Pleasures that night, she told us, blushing. She'd almost finished the book she'd been reading there off and on. So she hadn't really seen much. Only her idol, S.X. Greenfree, as the author had walked in and sat down at the table. And then collapsed. And even then, Winona's view of her idol from the back aisle hadn't been very good. And then she'd run, or tried to. Just because she was scared. That was all she could remember.
And apparently, that really was all. Despite her good intentions, it didn't seem that Winona had much to offer in terms of observations. According to her, that night was the first and only time she'd seen S.X. Greenfree. And she hadn't noticed anything she thought was important. End of story.
"Wanna play table croquet?" Johnny asked, pointing to the miniature croquet set that sat between the salt and pepper shakers on the kitchen table.
"No, Johnny," Winona told him firmly. "They have stuff to do, you know. Adult stuff."
I wanted to object. Maybe spend the evening playing table croquet with Johnny and encouraging Winona to write.
But Wayne nudged me before I offered any of that. He was right. It was up to Winona to decide how long we
stayed. So we stood up from the small table to leave. I thanked Winona for talking to us. I knew that her speaking up had been an act of bravery in and of itself. Maybe, when I knew her better, I'd have an opportunity to play table croquet and encourage her writing. Once we were sure she wasn't a murderer.
She had one last thing to say as we left.
"That little woman with the tinted glasses?" she muttered once we were outside her door.
"Yeah?" I prompted eagerly.
"I don't like her," she whispered. "No way."
Then the door shut behind us and the chain lock slid into place.
Unfortunately, Ingrid was sitting in our living room when Wayne and I got home. There were worse people in the world than Yvette Cassell, I decided as our guest began to speak. And Apollo began to yip.
Wayne and I skipped the evening discussion of Whol-ios and our other hospitality inadequacies and went straight to bed, snuggling quietly in skunky togetherness.
Syringes, I thought, just as my mind reached toward sleep. Dental hygienists have access to syringes. And then I was out.
7 woke on Sunday and stared up for a while at the morning sun that poured in through the skylights. Finally, I turned toward Wayne. He was staring at me, a soft smile on his rough face.
"We gotta find out who killed her," I declared. And watched that sweet smile fade. I damned my timing. But it was too late to take it back. "How many other women did S.X. Greenfree inspire to feel proud?" I asked more quietly.
"And how many more Zoes and Teds did she hurt with her ruthlessness?" Wayne countered.
"Oh," I murmured, deflated.
"Sorry," Wayne whispered. "You're right. The woman didn't deserve to die."
We shared some Whol-ios with Ingrid for breakfast. And then both went to work in our respective offices. Wayne was lucky. He couldn't hear Ingrid's made-for-melodrama sighs from his back room.
By ten-thirty, Yvette's suspects brunch was sounding good to me. At least, compared to lunch with Ingrid. We'd pick up something besides Whol-ios on the way to Yvette's. I played with the idea of deducting all the takeout food from my taxes. But I didn't think there was a column for unwanted-guest avoidance.
We arrived at Yvette's a little after eleven o'clock, a bag of whole-grain goodies in my hand and a six-pack of herbal iced tea in Wayne's.
I hate to be late, even to a gathering of murder suspects. So I zipped up to the curb, jumped out, opened the gate, and rushed into the Cassells' yard, Wayne in my wake, without even looking around me. But then I noticed the yard and paused for a gasp.
The Cassells' house was predictably green with white shutters, but the yard was greener yet, and filled not only with green and living things, but with green and non-living things. Green and non-living sculptures, actually. Of elves, harps, leprechauns, and castles, to name a few, all coyly peeking out from behind bushes and tree trunks and neat clusters of primroses. Wayne came up beside me and stared, too. Lou couldn't have designed this, could he? It had to be Yvette—
"Wow," someone murmured from my other side.
My shoulders jerked up and settled back down onto my body. I hadn't heard any footsteps, too lost in the garden of Irish delights.
I swerved around and saw Winona, her lovely freckled face wide with wonder.
"No way," she murmured, shaking her head. "No way."
No way, precisely. I laughed as I threw my arms around her and squeezed.
There was a blush beneath Winona's freckles when I released her from my hug, but she didn't look displeased by the gesture either. I wondered about her parents. Did she have parents? If she did, they certainly weren't helping her financially. Or emotionally either, I would have bet.
I opened my mouth to ask her, but thought better of it and turned back toward Yvette's open front door instead. Wayne was already on the doorstep. The three of us entered the house cautiously, single file. I was last in line and the decor stopped me at the threshold, smack behind Winona's stalled body. I peered around her in awe. Yvette's home was as full as Winona's had been bare.
/> I should have expected the Irish knickknacks: porcelain figurines, needlepoint, teacups, posters. But there wasn't just one theme in this house. There was a bunch of cat bric-a-brac too, for starters. And real cats. And dogs. An English bulldog sniffed my ankles as a taller Labrador retriever checked out the middle portions of Winona's anatomy. The room also housed an extensive collection of implements of murder: daggers nestled with bone teacups, swords hanging alongside poster-size blow-ups of Yvette's book covers, a shillelagh resting conveniently next to the door in the shamrock umbrella stand. And then there were the African masks staring at us. And all the Star Trek stuff. The Enterprise hovered over a granite bust of Sherlock Holmes. A cardboard cutout of Mr. Spock stood guard by a wall-to-wall bookshelf. With a live Siamese cat rubbing up against the Vulcan. Still, there was a sense of organization to the chaos. Everything seemed grouped by size or color. Or by something that matched. Even the cats took their places at aesthetically appropriate positions.
Yvette must have noticed my mouth hanging open. That or Winona's stalled body. But it was me she spoke to.
"Lou's Star Trek collection is a fu-figgin' trip, huh?" she prompted cheerfully.
The Star Trek stuff was the least of it. But I didn't say that.
"Well, I guess you're of Irish ancestry," I commented finally.
"Lou too," she told me.
My mouth fell open again. But I hastily closed it, hoping she hadn't noticed my surprise.
"Yeah, Lou has as much green in his blood as I do," Yvette went on with a smile. "Shi-phooey, maybe more. On his mother's side. We met at a Remember Ireland Festival."
I nodded, embarrassed.
"And don't worry," she assured me. "Damn-darn few people ever stop to think that African-Americans have any blood but African in their veins."
I gulped and attempted a smile. She had noticed my reaction.
"So, come the hell on in," she invited.
Winona finally began to move in front of me. I followed her into the Cassells' living room.
It was then that I took in the other occupants of the room, mixed in with the cardboard cutouts and animals and weapons.
Wayne was already talking to Lou Cassell near another bookshelf, this one guarded by a couple of Persian cats. Zoe Ingersoll and Ivan Nakagawa were there too, chatting behind a giant revolving blow-up of A Small Detection, Yvette's most recent book.
Vince Quadrini was seated in a green velvet armchair, looking something like a more gentlemanly Godfather in navy blue pinstripes today. Dean Frazier bent over him, handing him a cup of tea. I just hoped it wasn't poisoned.
I walked up next to Winona, who now stood in the center of the incredible room looking as awkward as ever.
"Who isn't here?" I whispered in her ear encouragingly.
"That lady from the bookstore," she whispered back.
I nodded. "Marcia Armeson."
"And the tall woman, the acupuncturist..."
"Phyllis Oberman ..."
"And Ted Brown." Winona bent her long body down closer to mine. "I don't really like his writing much," she confided.
"Me neither, though he's good with suspense," a voice from behind us put in.
Winona and I jumped together, then accepted cups of tea from Yvette. I handed our hostess my bag of whole-wheat goodies.
Then Yvette disappeared in a whirl of green velour, only to reappear minutes later to distribute small china plates and napkins, and to direct everyone to a table where little sandwiches, sushi rolls, muffins, sliced fruit, and my own contribution of whole-wheat pastries were spread out on trays. Along with the herbal iced tea that Wayne had brought. And glasses. Yvette was fast.
And even faster, once we'd all taken our seats on plush green upholstery, balancing our respective plates, napkins, glasses, and cups on our knees. She grabbed the oak shillelagh from the umbrella stand before sitting down in a smaller version of Vince Quadrini's easy chair to call the meeting to order.
I was biting into a muffin and staring at the intricate carving on her oak cudgel when our hostess spoke.
"So we're going to get to the fuddin' bloody bottom of this thing today, okay?" she began.
Obedient nods answered her. Even the dogs nodded. The cats just looked bored.
"Anyone want to confess?" she threw out.
No one nodded this time. Except the dogs. The cats continued to look bored.
"You, Ivan," she went on, pointing her shillelagh in his direction. "You had the best opportunity . . ."
And so it went. The scene could have been a remake of the one at Fictional Pleasures, though Yvette was a wee bit more subtle with her interrogation this time. As if an edited version of the same script was being used. No "Where were you on the night of the twenty-ninth," but a lot of accusations and requests for unavailable information, while Lou looked increasingly embarrassed.
When she got to Vince Quadrini and questioned him about his "obsession with S.X. Greenfree," the pinstriped Godfather merely stood, nodded, and left.
I took Mr. Quadrini's exit as an excuse to go to the bathroom. Herbal iced tea does have a tendency to race through a body. Especially mine. And, anyway, I wanted to see Yvette's bathroom. You can tell a lot about a person from their bathroom.
Yvette's bathroom was wallpapered in shamrocks. So much for anything new.
My iced tea recycled, I washed my hands, dried them, and crumpled up the paper towel to toss it in the wastebasket. Then I saw the syringes.
7 looked closer into the green wastebasket, inhaling the scent of rubbing alcohol as I did. Sure enough, there were a good half-dozen syringes deposited there, small plastic ones, but syringes all the same, lying underneath a scattering of paper towels.
I grabbed a clean paper towel and cautiously pulled one of the syringes from its nest, plunger-end first, avoiding the wicked-looking metal needle at the other end. My hands shook with the effort. And once I held my prize, I had to resist the urge to run from the bathroom to the living room, waving it in front of me.
But when I got back to the living room, walking as coolly and sedately as possible, the suspicious syringe wrapped in paper toweling in my hand, I saw that Vince Quadrini's departure had created more than an excuse for my trip to the bathroom. Half of our group seemed to have left. Zoe, Ivan, and Winona were nowhere to be seen. But Dean was still there, talking to—no— listening to Yvette as they stood near
her oversized hanging book cover, Dean stroking his gray beard thoughtfully.
"This dam-dang case is shaping up," she announced triumphantly. "I've almost got it..."
Should I challenge Yvette directly with the syringe? The ever elusive Yvette. A prickle at the base of my spine turned me away from her like a divining rod. Lou? I looked around. Lou and Wayne were talking over by Mr. Spock, too softly to be overheard.
It was time for some shock treatment I decided as I walked toward the two men. I unwrapped the syringe, still holding the plunger end by the paper towel and held it up between them. Wayne looked shocked all right. He came as close to jumping back in surprise as a man with a karate blackbelt is about to. But unfortunately, Lou looked unperturbed.
"Oh, sorry," he said pleasantly. "Did I leave one of those out again? We have to give the Siamese shots and ..."
Finally, his voice withered away. The meaning of my holding the syringe hit him.
His body tensed visibly, changing as suddenly as his feline features to an attitude of intensity, even ferocity.
"Now look here," he commanded, his tone even and cold, his brown face jutting forward. "Yvette is a completely ethical and honest woman. Those syringes have nothing to do with Shayla Greenfree's death. You can call our veterinarian if you'd like. I'll give you her phone number. She'll tell you that we have a sick cat."
"All right, fine," I conceded, chilled by Lou's abrupt change of mood and physique. Was his instant transition from pussy cat to tiger a Jekyll and Hyde phenomenon? Wayne moved closer to my side.
Lou must
have noticed my nervousness. And Wayne's move.
"Listen," he sighed, softening his tone and his body as he
pulled his head back. "You have to understand my Yvette. Her imagination takes her too far sometimes. And she's not always so good with live people. Fictional characters are much easier for her to deal with." He chuckled, and I saw the affection in his big brown eyes now. "But Yvette has integrity. Too much, probably. And I can assure you, she's no murderer."
That seemed like a pretty good parting line, so Wayne and I made goodbye sounds to Lou and then turned to go.
That's when I saw Yvette, standing still and silent less than a foot behind me. A siren went off in my head. I just hoped she couldn't hear it or see the accompanying adrenaline hit my body. Damn, that woman could be quiet when she wanted to. I wondered how long she'd been listening.
I handed her the syringe carefully and thanked her for brunch before walking out the door.
We caught Dean in the front yard. He was smiling down at a green statue of a leprechaun, complete with pipe and shamrocks. There was a slight resemblance between man and statue, in the beard and the weathered face.
"You serious about talking to us today?" Wayne asked him.
"Surely," Dean replied. "Would tonight suit? I have to warn you, I don't cook—"
"We'll bring take-out," Wayne and I offered simultaneously.
"No, no," he objected graciously. "I'll provide take-out. Lord knows, I ought to be able to do that at least."
After a lot of polite to-ing and fro-ing, we agreed that we'd provide the apple juice and dessert, and Dean would provide some kind of entree.
"So," I asked eagerly once we were in the Toyota and rolling toward home. "Do you believe what Lou said about Yvette?"
"Maybe," Wayne answered, shrugging. "But notice he didn't assure us he wasn't a murderer."
We chewed on that one all the way home. Would Lou kill to protect Yvette? But why would he have to? And then there was his dead brother . . .
Death hits the fan Page 10