"The Bible is a book," Wayne put in, peering into the man's face.
"The Bible is the Book. No other need to look. Harmony, peace, salvation beyond—"
"And a good plot," I cut in.
He turned to me angrily, water spraying off his sign.
"God's truth has no plot. Only man's lot."
Uh-oh. That didn't sound like good news for man's lot, or women's for that matter.
"Did you know an author died that night?" I asked before he started up again.
The picketer's burning blue eyes didn't flicker. Only his mouth moved.
"Death, dying, lying. Mocking our Lord."
"She was poisoned, you know," I told him, upping my volume again. I wiped the raindrops out of my eyes. I wanted to see his reaction. "Was it demonic poisoning?"
"Poisoned?" His blue eyes finally flickered. He even stepped back. Had he really not known? He stared up into the wet sky as if for an answer.
"God is good," he concluded finally. "God is not fiction. God is kind, not of mind. Satan is fiction—"
"But if poisoning was God's work—" Wayne proposed, his voice deep with authority.
"No, no!" the picketer yelped, spinning toward Wayne, the sign spraying me once more, across the face this time. "It's Satan's work, not God's, poisoning our minds."
He must have been rattled. His words weren't rhyming anymore.
"But poisoning our bodies," I put in. "Wouldn't that take human intervention?"
"No, demonic intervention!" he shouted. I wasn't even sure he'd understood the question. Or any of our questions, for that matter. "God is good. As it should ..."
We left him, versifying God's praise frantically in the cold, drenching rain. If I'd known how, I would have prayed for him in his own particular way.
My hair was as soggy as my brain by the time we made it back to the Jaguar's sumptuous embrace. I sank into the leather seat, feeling grateful I wasn't out in the wet anymore. And feeling guilty at the same time. Warmth came purring from the heater vents and I rubbed my icy hands together.
I'd make another donation to a homeless shelter when I got home. Visiting the city was getting more expensive all the time. Every time I saw someone on the street—
"Could he have killed her?" Wayne asked, interrupting my train of guilt.
"He was there, but he wasn't inside," I answered after an instant of reflection. "Was he?"
I assigned myself more homework. Beginning with a piece of paper labeled "nameless picketer, suspect."
"The man equates science fiction with the devil," Wayne muttered.
"And Shayla was a science-fiction writer, a famous one, it's true," I agreed slowly.
Motive filled itself in easily. But still, means and opportunity weren't so simple.
"He wouldn't have been able to get near the authors' table without attracting notice," I argued. "A lot of notice. And where would he get the bracelet?"
"And does he have the ability to plan ..."
We talked about the possibilities all the way home. And by the time we got there, I wasn't even sure the man with the picket sign warranted his own suspect-sheet.
We walked in the front door and turned the lights on. Wayne let out the tiniest whisper of an indrawn breath, a gasp from anyone else. My body went rigid. Who lay in wait for us this time? But Wayne's indrawn breath wasn't about who was there. It was about who wasn't.
"Ingrid?" Wayne murmured, pointing to the empty living room.
I blinked, then grinned, remembering.
"Ingrid doesn't live here anymore," I told him.
His brows went all the way to the top.
"Was it the skunk broker?" he asked, and for a moment I thought he was serious. Maybe he was.
I never got to ask him, though. He had me in his arms and
was carrying me down the hallway before I could speak, whooping like it was New Year's Eve. Maybe it was New Year's Eve somewhere. And even if it wasn't, there was no one else home to dispute our early celebration.
Saturday morning I woke to the smell of Soysage, fresh-baked dairy less Danish, and stuffed apples. No Whol-ios in sight. And Wayne had already reassembled the living room, our old denim-and-wood couch back in its place of honor between the swinging chairs, the futon neatly folded across from it. Now it felt more like Christmas Day than New Year's.
I sat down at the kitchen table, stuffing my face as I filled Wayne in on the details of the Fenestry Society.
The phone rang mid-laughter, and I wondered if Christmas was over. Ingrid may have been gone, but Shayla's and Marcia's ghosts weren't.
"Vince Quadrini here," the voice over the phone informed me. Christmas was turning into Boxing Day now. And yes, the ghosts were alive and well, and living in my stomach along with all that good food Wayne had cooked. "I would be very pleased to have you and Mr. Caruso visit my home today."
"Yeah ..." I murmured tentatively, waiting for more.
"Certain information has come into my hands that may be of use to you," he obliged.
"Well, I suppose—" I began.
"I'll send a driver within the hour," he told me. And then he hung up before I could even consider saying no, much less voice the word.
So Wayne and I finished our breakfast and our laughter, got dressed, and waited for Vince Quadrini's car.
And here I'd thought Wayne's Jaguar was embarrassingly ostentatious. Vince Quadrini's "car" turned out to be a limousine, driven by a taciturn white-haired man who couldn't
have been much younger than Vince Quadrini himself. Wayne and I sat in the rear and amused ourselves looking at the little bar and the little computer and the little phone, careful not to actually touch anything. By the time the car climbed the last long slope to reach its destination, the word Mafia had crossed my mind more than once. But the word rich was probably more to the point.
I wasn't sure about the first word, but at least the second one was proved correct when we stepped out of the limousine and were escorted up the marble steps to Mr. Quadrini's immodest mansion in the hills of Marin. Which hills, I wasn't exactly sure. Maybe that's why the limousine's windows were tinted, outside and in.
I took a moment at the entrance to glance at the formal garden surrounding the house, thinking that this estate really belonged in the English countryside, and then we were escorted past the fluted columns, through the double doors, to the foyer inside. Marble; scattered thick carpets; and spotlighted country prints from earlier centuries dominated the spacious room. I turned and took a step forward to look at one of the prints. Were they numbered? But our chauffeur shepherded us all too effectively, keeping us moving across the expanse of the foyer without any further dallying. Finally, he knocked on a thick wooden door and we were admitted to Vince Quadrini's private study.
Mr. Quadrini's study looked very much like his office, complete with a rosewood desk the size of a small soccer field and his honor guard of cats arrayed precisely in front of it. He clearly moved with his troops. But there were more country prints here, more books, more cat hair, and chairs upholstered in tapestry rather than leather. The room smelled pleasantly of must and potpourri. We quickly lowered ourselves into the tapestried chairs upon Mr. Quadrini's invitation.
Or had it been an order? I looked into the realtor's states-
manlike face and wondered if we had just been kidnapped. Damn. And I hadn't even thought to ask exactly where we were going in that limousine. As the thick wooden door shut, I realized the study we were in was probably soundproof. I couldn't hear traffic, or children's voices, or dogs barking, only the steady breathing of the humans and felines in the room and the even steadier ticking of a clock behind me. Hadn't Barbara told me to be ready? And now that In-grid had left, there was no one to say where we'd gone. Not that she would have told anyone, anyway.
"Please forgive me for inconveniencing you on a Saturday," Mr. Quadrini began smoothly. Were those the words of a kidnapper? That rich tone the voice of a murderer? "But I had information I thought yo
u might use in your investigation."
I opened my mouth to say we weren't investigating and then just shut it again. If Mr. Quadrini wanted to think we were investigating, I had a feeling we weren't going to stop him.
"You probably know already that curare was the poison used in the bracelet," he stated, as if for the record. He might have been a senator starting in on a cabinet appointee. A senator from the opposing party.
I nodded.
His gaze grew more intense on my face.
"Police contacts," Wayne explained quickly from my side.
"And did those contacts tell you that Yvette Cassell has an arrest record?" Mr. Quadrini inquired politely.
"He damn well didn't," I answered, turning to Wayne. Why hadn't Felix told us?
But Wayne's poker face showed no anger with Felix. Maybe he just didn't expect as much as I did out of our friendly reporter. Maybe he didn't expect anything. Anything but aggravation, of course.
"May I ask what Ms. Cassell was arrested for?" Wayne questioned, matching his polite tone to Mr. Quadrini's perfectly.
"Protesting the Vietnam War," Mr. Quadrini told him.
Protesting? Maybe that's why Felix hadn't mentioned Yvette's record. A protest arrest was just as likely to be a badge of honor as a stain for any woman who'd gone to college in the late sixties. And I figured Yvette had to be about my age.
"Perhaps your informant also failed to mention that one of our suspects spent time in an institution for the insane?" Mr. Quadrini threw in with affected nonchalance.
I flipped through my mental records frantically, finding no reference. Zoe? Ted? Winona?
"Need I tell you who?" Mr. Quadrini asked.
"Of course, you need tell me," I shot back, wondering why Wayne wasn't as excited as I was. Maybe I was being a trifle gauche? I modified my words. "I mean, please do."
"Ivan Nakagawa," Mr. Quadrini proclaimed.
I whipped my head around to look at Wayne. He rolled his shoulders. I could hear the crackling sound his tendons made in the nearly silent room. Had he known about Ivan's stay in a mental hospital? Of course he had. I brought my head back to the front. And he hadn't bothered to tell me.
"You probably know that almost everyone there that evening had some kind of experience with syringes," Mr. Quadrini ground on.
"But how do you know?" I demanded, suddenly fed up. With Felix. With Vince Quadrini. With Wayne.
Mr. Quadrini's handsome features reddened slightly. He coughed in his hand. His cats bristled in front of his desk. I was surprised when he finally did answer my question.
"I've hired a private investigator," he admitted.
"You what. . . ?"
Of course a rich, sane man would hire an investigator.
That made sense. My brain twitched. Something else was making sense now too.
"Does your investigator happen to drive a red VW van?" I asked.
Mr. Quadrini's face grew even redder.
"And does he happen to break into people's houses—?" I went on. Or tried to.
"You must understand, Ms. Jasper," Vincent Quadrini said, his voice as rich and smooth as ever. "I cared a great deal for Shayla Greenfree. I want her killer to be brought to justice. And the Verduras Police Department, well, they are not. . . perfect." He shrugged. "In this case, I believe the ends justify the means. Don't you?"
"I—" I stopped. I'd been ready to say no ends justified a man rummaging through my house. But two women were dead. "I don't know," I answered finally.
We were back in the limousine going home, very soon after that. Wayne and I conversed in hushed whispers in the rear seats, oblivious to the lure of the little computer and the rest of the toys. And I wondered if we were being taped, no matter how low our voices were pitched. For a man like Vince Quadrini, who felt the ends justified the means, it certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Maybe that cute little TV was really a camera. But still, we had to talk. Or at least, I did.
"Did you know about Ivan being—" I began as the limousine moved smoothly down the slope of the driveway.
"Yes, I knew about Ivan's stay in a mental institution," he cut in quickly.
"But then, why didn't—"
"Should have told you," he growled. "But it was a long time ago. Would have told you if it was necessary, Kate."
I opened my mouth to give him a whispered piece of my mind, but thought better of it. That was just the way Wayne was. Loyal. Somehow, I couldn't even whisper at him in
anger. Because I loved that loyalty. Anyway, I had more on my mind than Ivan's mental state.
"Quadrini's scary," I murmured in Wayne's ear. "Could he have decided Marcia killed Shayla and had Marcia killed himself?"
"Could Marcia have killed Shayla?" Wayne murmured back.
That topic took us all the way home. There could have been two murderers. Or one murder and one accident. Or . .. One thing was for sure, I needed to do up a suspect-sheet on Marcia Armeson after all.
The limousine driver dropped us off where he'd found us. We walked up our front stairs, happy in our knowledge that there was no Ingrid within. But the house was not completely intruder-free. The light on my answering machine was blinking intrusively, even aggressively, when we made our way inside.
"You guys there?" the tape asked when I ran it. "Huh? huh?" There was a silence. "Oh, shi-shift," Yvette finally babbled on. "I'm having another meeting tomorrow, lunchtime. Bring your goodies. Everyone will be there. You guys, Dean, Ted for sure, Zoe . . ."
"Well, at least she's still alive," Wayne commented. "Lou will be happy."
"Do you think those guys will really show up at her meeting?" I asked.
"Maybe they'll make up for our absence," Wayne muttered and then disappeared into the kitchen.
I could hear him pulling supplies from the cupboard. Bread, I decided. He was going to bake bread. And cook soup? I'd let him surprise me. I sat down at my desk, happy to push my pencil through the fields of paperwork, though my conscience kicked a little at the thought of Yvette's lunchtime meeting. Would anyone show up? I should call her back. I would, I told myself. But what could I say? I was
sure she'd talk me into something, no matter what I said. So I just kept carefully out of phone range. Even Wayne seemed to have managed to forget Yvette as he clanked and tapped and hummed around the kitchen.
Good smells came from the kitchen within minutes, and even better ones after half an hour had gone by. Sweet yeasty smells floated delicately over the heavier aroma of onions simmering with bay and thyme and brandy. I inhaled happily. The doorbell rang. So much for the benefits of deep breathing.
I approached the door cautiously. But not cautiously enough. I opened it and Bob Xavier came barreling through, his dark eyes rolling from side to side. When they got to the living room, I decided to tell him the good news.
"Ingrid's gone," I announced.
And suddenly his angry eyes were panicked.
"Gone?" he said, stunned. I knew he was stunned. He wasn't shouting. "But where?"
"I don't know," I told him, glad my answer was honest. Though a tango was playing in the back of my skull.
"Look, if you know anything, you'd better tell me," he threatened. "You know who my brother is—"
"Captain Cal Xavier," I cut in, keeping my voice calm. "I know. He knows."
Bob's shoulders slumped. Bingo. He couldn't play the big brother card if his big brother hated him.
"I don't know why I even let her get to me," he muttered, shaking his head.
I was liking Bob a whole lot better now that Ingrid was gone.
"What do you see in her?" I asked, curiosity grabbing my tongue and twisting it into voice.
"Ingrid's simple, you see," he told me, smiling a little as his eyes went out of focus. "I know what she wants. No complications. No 'are we communicating?' No 'intimacy
issues.' No 'privacy issues.' No, 'I think you're in denial of your female side.'"
I nodded. I was beginning to get the idea.
"Just money," he went on. "And fun. She's fun, you see."
I was beginning to feel some retroactive fondness for In-grid. She was just childlike, I told myself. That's all. Had I failed as a mother?
"Does she really have a degree in math?" I asked aloud.
"Oh, yeah," Bob answered, nodding enthusiastically, reminding me of Apollo for a moment. "In the abstract things, she was really smart. She knew all this complex stuff, way beyond me. It was just her social skills—"
"Simple?" I put in guiltily.
"Simple," he confirmed.
And then I heard the sound of something coming up the stairs. A lot of something coming up the stairs. Footsteps and excited voices and a whirring sound that seemed all too familiar.
7 looked over Bob Xavier's shoulder. A light flashed in my eyes, blinding me temporarily. Something kaclunked and whirred, and the sound of too many voices in imperfect chorus came flying at me like rotten tomatoes. My mouth turned dry as salt. The media had arrived.
"So, Ms. Jasper," a young woman with a halo of blond curls asked, thrusting a tape recorder my way. "How does it feel to be a suspect once again—?"
"How come you keep finding—?" another voice interrupted.
"Is it true that you fought with—?"
I stepped past Bob Xavier, onto the deck, blocking the front door with my body. Not one of these guys was going to set foot in my house. Not one! I rooted myself onto the redwood planks, through the redwood planks, ready to block any invasion. And closed my gaping, dry mouth. I would probably pass for a shark in the front-page photo. Or a wide-mouthed bass. I reminded myself not to look at any papers
for a while. And reminded myself not to answer any questions.
A tall, well-groomed man pushed himself to the front of the crowd, then turned to look out at a small red-haired woman with a Steadicam slung over her shoulder.
"We are here at the home of Kate Jasper," he began. "A woman who always seems to be where the dead bodies are...
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