Death hits the fan

by Girdner, Jaqueline

  "Bye, Felix," I said. And Wayne and I took off down the street. It's painful to watch a pit bull in a state of ambivalence.

  "Fu-fuddin' right..." rang down the street after us a few moments later.

  Then, ". . . but that's friggin' insane," in a deeper tone. Felix had picked Yvette. I was right. They were a match made in heaven. Well, maybe not heaven, actually.

  When Wayne and I got home, there was a strange beige Honda parked in our driveway. And a man sitting in the car.

  I pulled my Toyota past the Honda carefully. There was just enough room in the gravel driveway to park two cars side by side. And if I was lucky, this time I wouldn't knock down the little path-light I'd spent almost two hours setting back up the last time I'd knocked it over. When I got close enough, I saw that the man in the car was Dean Frazier.

  Dean got out of his car slowly, his face looking strained as well as weathered beneath his gray beard.

  "Was Scott okay?" he asked urgently but quietly, once we'd exited our own car.

  "Why don't you come in?" I countered. How could I answer a question like that? Of course Scott wasn't "okay."

  "No, no," Dean insisted, holding up his hands. "Don't want to be a nuisance. Matter of fact, I was just now wondering if I should bother you folks at all—"

  "Fine." Wayne cut his apology short. "No problem."

  I was grateful for Wayne's brusque delivery. At this rate

  we were going to spend a lot of time in the driveway talking to a man too polite to come into our house, while pinned uncomfortably between two very closely parked cars.

  "I was just concerned about Scott," Dean told us in a whisper. "He's been so . . ."

  "Angry," I filled in helpfully. Anything to speed things up.

  "Yes," Dean agreed, nodding emphatically. "Angry. Scott's usually an incredibly gentle human being. Lord, he treats those dogs of his like they're children, but now he .. . he almost frightens me."

  I nodded. And a dozen questions I should have asked myself earlier filled my mind. Like, why wasn't Dean talking to Scott directly? Had Shayla been their verbal link in emotional times? Or—

  "I cared for Shayla too, but not like Scott did," Dean went on. "I'm afraid for him . . ."

  As a matter of fact, I thought, I had some questions about Scott too. Why hadn't he told us less and asked us more? If he really wanted to find out who murdered his wife and kill the perpetrator himself, then why hadn't he interrogated us? Dean must have told him that Shayla had called out my name.

  "What was it that was so inherently lovable about Shayla?" Wayne asked Dean, and I came back to earth, or to gravel, anyway. It felt warm here between the two cars, too warm. Too intimate.

  Dean pulled his head back as if surprised by the question.

  "Why, Shayla, she was . . ." He paused to think for a moment. "She was witty and full of ideas. They came rolling out of her so fast, you had to run to keep up with her. I'm a little slower. And she loved Scott so."

  "Weren't you ever jealous?" I asked, tired of the endless recital of Shayla's virtues by these two men.

  "I expect so, if I'm honest with myself," he murmured. "I always knew Scott loved her more than he loved me. But

  then, I cared a great deal for her too, so it worked out pretty well, all things considered. It was like a triangle, the bonds went all ways."

  I was searching my mind for a segue into the question of access to poisons and syringes at the hospice where Dean and Scott had met. But Dean wasn't finished talking yet.

  "I just worry, though, that.. . that..." Dean paused, then took a great breath in, and let out something close to a shout, as much as a man like Dean Frazier could shout. "I do believe Scott suspects me!"

  "You?"

  Of course, I realized. It would be awful if Scott did suspect Dean. But it wouldn't necessarily be illogical. Still, I was surprised that Dean would voice his concern aloud.

  "I've offered to stay with Scott, but he won't have it. He talks to me on the phone, but he won't accept my comfort. It's as if he's alone. Good God, I'm grieving too. And he doesn't seem to comprehend that. I just—"

  Dean stopped mid-sentence. From between the two cars I could hear a crow cawing and kids shouting as they skate-boarded past.

  "I must apologize," he told us, staring at the gravel. "I don't know why I'm burdening you with this. I didn't kill Shayla, you know. I expect it looks bad, me being an anesthesiologist and all, but I most certainly did not kill her."

  And damn if I didn't believe him.

  "You know, Scott still cares for you," I told him gently. "He's just hurt."

  "I expect it's possible," Dean replied, unconvinced. "I'll just have to think on it."

  "He smiled when I said your name," I added.

  "Really?" he whispered, face coming up.

  "He said he'd go crazy if it weren't for you." I piled it on. I was pretty sure that Scott had said something like that.

  "Oh, thank you," Dean breathed, his weathered face

  beaming. He grabbed my hand in his and held it for a moment. "I'll go straight to Scott's. He might be needing me terribly."

  Wayne and I got out of the way as Dean pulled his Honda from our driveway.

  Once he was gone, I turned to Wayne.

  "Did I just cheer up a murderer?" I asked.

  But before Wayne could answer my question, another car drove up. At least this one parked on the street.

  An elegant, brown-skinned woman in a mauve suit climbed out. It was my friend Ann Rivera.

  "Hey, you guys," she greeted us and grinned.

  That toothy grin always looked so funny on her ever-so-professional face that I couldn't help smiling back.

  She walked up the driveway and gave us both hugs.

  "Barbara told me I oughta check in with you two," she said once she was finished. The hug felt good. That was one Marin ritual I endorsed. At least from a real friend.

  "Barbara?" I said, suddenly surprised that my psychic friend, Barbara Chu, hadn't checked in with me herself by now.

  "Yeah," Ann replied. "About the murder you're involved in. Sometimes I wonder, Kate, what it is that gets you into these . .." She stared at me for a moment before shaking her head and going on. "Anyway, she thought I might be able to help you with at least one of the smaller mysteries."

  "But how does Barbara know—"

  I stopped myself mid-question. My friend Barbara was psychic, or at least sporadically psychic. Or something. She always knew everything, everything except little things like the identities of murderers. But still, I needed to talk to her soon.

  "What smaller mystery?" I asked instead as we walked up the stairs.

  "Wayne, you gonna cook me an early dinner?" Ann asked, turning to my sweetie. She hadn't become a hospital

  administrator on her dressed-for-success looks alone. She was one smart woman.

  "Sure," he began. "At your—"

  Then we both remembered Ingrid.

  "Wait a sec," I ordered and ran up the front stairs, opened the door, and peeked in the living room.

  The living room was empty, though Ingrid's luggage was still present. I took in a happy breath and gave Wayne a thumbs-up signal.

  "Be glad to cook you dinner, anytime," he told Ann. He even treated her to a graceful waiter's bow.

  "What smaller mystery?" I repeated as we all walked into the house and settled down in the kitchen, Ann and I at the table, Wayne bustling around from refrigerator to counter to stove. Damn, it felt good to have our house back, for however short a respite. The sun was filtering in through the window over the sink; the neighborhood sounds drifted in too, sans Ingrid's voice, and my ancient kitchen chair felt warm and comfortable—

  "Remember the professional-women's success seminar we went to about ten years ago?" Ann asked as a bunch of scallions flew by in Wayne's hands, followed by some fresh basil. I knew it would be a good dinner. Wayne had to be as starved to cook as to eat after all the Whol-ios we'd shared with Ingrid. He lived to co
ok. And Scott's excellent meal had probably just whetted his appetite.

  I brought my mind back to Ann and away from salivary meal-anticipation. Though it was hard to ignore the fragrance of sizzling garlic and ginger that floated enticingly from the stove.

  "You mean that seminar in the city, where we all learned techniques to make ourselves Rich and Powerful?" I asked. I tried not to sneer. Ann might be close to rich and powerful, but I was still in gag-gifts and dressed for recess.

  "Yeah," Ann prompted, grinning again. "And remember who was in it?"

  Wayne was chopping eggplant now. How had he hidden fresh eggplant from Ingrid? And from me?

  I yanked my mind back once more. Who had been in the seminar? I was having a hard time remembering. It'd been so long ago.

  "You," I said. It was a start. "Me ..."

  "And Shirley Green," Ann finished for me just as Wayne produced mushrooms and onions. And marinated seitan. Did the refrigerator have a secret compartment I didn't know about?

  Suddenly, the name clicked.

  "Shirley Green!" I shouted, food forgotten. I stood up from my chair. "S.X. Greenfree. Shay la Greenfree, Shirley Green. Dean told me she'd changed her name, but..."

  "But what?" Ann asked.

  "But S.X. Greenfree was majestic, sleek—"

  "A swan, not a duckling," Ann suggested.

  That was it. all right. Shirley Green had been tall and slender, it was true. But she had worn heavy glasses, had a frizzy perm, and her shoulders slumped. When had she transformed herself? When had she straightened those shoulders and switched to contact lenses? When had she switched to a better hairdresser, for that matter? My mind's eye held a photo of the old Shirley over a photo of the new Shayla and sure enough, they matched. If you put on enough makeup.

  "How'd you make the connection?" I asked Ann in awe.

  "She was in my primary group, remember?" Ann answered. I nodded, though actually, I could barely remember the seminar at all. "She was calling herself Shirley Green then, but she told me her pen name was S.X. Greenfree and she was thinking of changing Shirley to Shayla, so I knew who she was when her first book came out."

  "Wow," I murmured. "What a relief. Now I know why—"

  But I stopped myself. So I had known Shirley Green ten years ago. So what?

  "But why did she call out my name?" I demanded, still not satisfied.

  "I've got that figured out too," Ann told me, grinning even more widely. "Remember the name-recognition exercises?"

  It was coming back, in nauseating detail. A weekend designed to produce successful women on the move up the career path. Lots of rah-rah and endless exercises.

  "Georgette Junge," I answered automatically. She'd been the one whose name I'd been assigned to memorize. "I remembered her by thinking of Georgette of the Jungle, since she was so athletic."

  "Maybe you were hers," Ann suggested. "Maybe you were Shirley's."

  "You're right," I breathed. I hit my fist on the table. That hurt. I told myself not to do that again. And it wouldn't take a memory trick to remind me. The pain radiating from the side of my hand was enough. "It was Shirley Green. Now I've got it. She memorized my name by thinking of 'communi-Kate,' 'cause I talked so much—"

  I heard Wayne snort down a laugh behind me.

  "See, Wayne," Ann put in quickly, before I could even think of objecting to his snort, much less retaliating. "The idea was that if you used the proper mnemonics, you could remember your assigned person's name for the rest of your life."

  "So Shayla did," Wayne commented somberly. "She did, with her dying breath."

  That was good for a few minutes silence. But not too many minutes.

  Pretty soon, Wayne and Ann were busy convincing me to wait to tell Captain Xavier why S.X. Greenfree had called out my name until he asked me again. The game plan was nonchalance, backed up by Ann's testimony.

  It was a good plan. I had a second appetite, a real appetite finally, no matter how recent lunch had been, when Wayne's meal came sizzling onto our plates, vegetables and seitan full of ginger and lemon grass and chilies over soba noodles.

  I let the flavors linger on my taste buds as I interrogated Ann about poisons and syringes. She didn't know much personally, but she gave me the name of an emergency room nurse who might know more. And suggested I call the poison-control center. I was just hugging her again and telling her what a good friend she was when the phone rang.

  I looked at my watch. It was getting close to six, time for my tai chi class. And time for Wayne to head into the city to oversee his neglected restaurant.

  Wayne gave me a quick shrug and tilted his head as if asking for permission to leave.

  I nodded and took the phone call as Ann and Wayne walked out the door together.

  Vince Quadrini was on the other end of the line. He had some information to share, he told me, his formal, elderly voice steady now. He asked that we come by his place of work the next day. I agreed, exchanged some polite words about looking forward to our meeting, and hung up.

  Then I grabbed my purse and ran out the door to make my tai chi class. Smack into Yvette Cassell.

  The impact was enough to stop me in my tracks, but it sent Yvette sprawling onto the redwood deck.

  "Fu-figgin' way to go—" she began, angrily.

  "What were you doing here, anyway?" I shot back.

  "Well, Holy moly and howdy-hi," came a new voice into the medley. A bass to our sopranos. Felix rubbed his hands together happily as he came up the stairs. "Finally, I've got you two gonzo brains together. Now we can friggin' talk."

  Yvette didn't utter a word for once. She just picked herself up off the deck and ran.

  I just wished I could have run with her.

 
  HJh-oh, Felix and Yvette weren't a match made in heaven. Or even in hell, it would seem. I wondered briefly what he'd done to her. Whatever it was, I could understand Yvette's desire to run. Felix had that effect on a lot of people he interrogated, including myself. But right then, I wanted the information Felix had never given me at our last meeting. A deal is a deal.

  So I gave up on my tai chi class and invited Felix in, telling myself the verbal sparring with Felix that was sure to ensue might be considered a form of tai chi. Mental tai chi. But then my mind bounced back to Felix's sweetie, my friend Barbara Chu.

  "How come Barbara hasn't called me yet?" I demanded.

  "Barbara?" he repeated, stepping back on the deck. Apparently, this wasn't a question he'd expected. "Her cousin's in the hospital, man," he answered sadly, suddenly looking less like a pit bull and more like a human being. "Dude's really sick. Cancer. He's been in and out of consciousness

  like a friggin' light bulb since last week. And they've got him baked on some pretty potent chemicals, so he's not even logged on when he's logged on, if you know what I mean."

  I did know what he meant.

  "I'm sorry," I said softly.

  "No biggie for me," Felix murmured, but just the lowering of his voice was enough to tell me it was. Felix was human. And upset. "Jeez, the guy's barely old enough to vote, you know." He sighed, not his melodramatic sigh manufactured for manipulation, but a real one. He probably didn't even know he'd let it out. "So Barbara's been going to the hospital whenever she's not working. She's reading to him from Tibetan books, breathing with him, trying to guide him to the light, all that woo-woo stuff."

  "Come on inside," I offered and almost reached out a hand. But even if this being was human for the instant, it was still Felix. So I just walked in and let him follow me.

  He plopped into one of the hanging chairs in the living room, then looked around appraisingly.

  "Hey, where's the aerobics bimbette?" he asked.

  I was glad I hadn't held my hand out to him.

  I lowered myself into the other hanging chair and asked my own question.

  "If Barbara's been in the hospital all this time, how'd she know about Shayla Greenfree and Ann and the seminar—"

&
nbsp; "Hey, hold it a friggin' nanosecond," Felix interrupted, throwing his hand up like a stop sign. "What seminar? What Ann? What's the scoop here?"

  Damn. He hadn't known about any of it. My mistake. I shouldn't have assumed Barbara had told him. So I talked. I wouldn't resist. There was no use in resisting the inevitable. Tai chi in action. At least I made it brief. In less than three minutes, I had explained about Ann, the seminar, the mnemonic name exercise, and Shayla's last words.

  I was surprised when Felix didn't jump on me immedi-

  .

  Death Hits the Fan 147

  ately with more questions. He seemed to be holding his breath. His face was certainly getting red. And then he finally exploded like an overblown hot air balloon.

  "Jeez-friggin'-Louise!" he shouted, leaping from the swinging chair. It swung back and forth wildly, the wooden bar on the bottom slapping the back of his legs on the rebound. He didn't seem to notice. "I never said diddly to Barbara about this Greenfree stiff, man. But Barbara's in another time continuum altogether. She just went presto-bango-woo-woo and knew somehow. And then who does she call? Huh? Huh?"

  "Ann," I suggested quietly.

  "Damn-straight, Ann," he yelped. "Not me, not her everting sweetie, noooo—"

  It was time for crisis intervention.

  "But you love her anyway," I put in gently.

  "Well, yeah," he muttered, throwing himself back in the swinging chair. Now his face was red again. But I knew Felix. Now he was embarrassed. "But still—"

  "So what was the poison in the bracelet, Felix?" I demanded.

  It took him a moment to reconnoiter. Then his soulful eyes took on a familiar gleam.

  "Curare," he whispered. "Do you believe that, man? What a tripping story this is gonna make. And there's more. When that Greenfree woman put the bracelet on her wrist, she was okay. But when she closed the clasp, ten little whiz-bang syringes simultaneously pierced her skin. Kablooey, exit stage left for the writer. Like some friggin' James Bond gizmo-deluxe."