“Come on, sweetie,” I prodded, trailing after him. “We gotta—”
“Hi there!” a voice boomed from behind us.
I jumped straight up into the air and turned as I came back down. It seemed to me that I flew high enough for an Olympic pole-vaulting medal, but I might have just imagined it. I didn’t have a pole anyway.
“Name’s Paul Paulson,” announced the man with the booming voice, a chubby blond whose tan face was stretched into an all-American smile. “I’m Vesta’s next door neighbor. I’ve been wondering what all the fuss was about.” He tilted his head and stared at us enticingly out of boyish blue eyes.
Wayne turned and subjected Paul Paulson to a 100-watt Skeritt glare.
“Mrs. Caruso’s passed away,” I said quickly. “We have to get going now.”
“Oh, hey. That’s too bad,” Paulson said. He wrinkled his forehead in a frown for a moment, then smiled again. “Hey, you’re her son, aren’t you? Are you going to sell the condo?”
Wayne had the right idea. I added my glare to his. But it didn’t stop Paulson.
“Well, I always say, when the universe hands you lemons, make lemonade,” he went on. “So when you sell that condo, you might want to think about investing in land development.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and pressed it into my hand. “You know, predeveloped land is a dynamic growth opportunity for creating wealth—”
“We really have to get going,” I said and took Wayne’s hand in mine. In tandem, we turned and strode toward the Jaguar.
“It’s been really nice talking with you folks,” Paulson called out amiably from behind us.
When we got to the car, I asked Wayne if he was up to driving. He grunted and got in the driver’s seat. I took this combination of sound and action as an affirmative.
Paulson waved heartily as the Jaguar pulled away from the curb. I didn’t wave back. Nor did Wayne.
I wanted to be sensitive to Wayne’s feelings. So I held out for three whole minutes, until we were on Highway 101 heading south, before asking him if he wanted to talk.
He grunted again and pulled into the fast lane. I took this grunt as a negative since he didn’t say anything immediately afterwards.
I settled back in my seat and tried to think of something pleasant as we whizzed down the road. Uninvited, Vesta’s lifeless body swam into my mind’s eye, twisted and sprawling, her black hair pooling on the golden rug. For a moment, I could even smell the vomit. My stomach fluttered, then clenched. What a horrible way to die. Nobody should have to die like that. My eyes burned with the effort to hold back tears.
“Harmony,” Wayne said abruptly.
“What?” I yelped, caught off guard. The impending tide of tears receded.
“Harmony made the tea,” he muttered impatiently. He pulled into the next lane to pass a Volkswagen that was creeping down the highway at the speed limit.
“And you think Harmony killed your mother?” I prompted.
He shrugged. “Harmony or someone else. Someone poisoned Mom.” His voice shimmied on the final word.
I pretended I didn’t notice the shimmy. “Are you sure she was murdered?” I asked carefully. I wasn’t sure. And I would have bet the police weren’t sure either.
He nodded emphatically. “Mom always said she had a heart problem, but she didn’t. You know that.” He turned his head for an instant and shot me a fierce glance. “No other major health problems either. Nothing that could kill her. I had the doctor check her time and time again. She was poisoned. Had to be.”
I opened my mouth to say that Vesta had certainly made plenty of people angry, then closed it again. Now that Wayne was talking, I didn’t know how to respond. This was his mother we were talking about.
Wayne didn’t seem to notice my silence. “Remember last night?” he went on. “Mom said she didn’t feel well. It was an hour or so after she drank the tea.”
I had forgotten, but now I remembered. Vesta had put her hand over her heart. She had been sweating, sweating profusely. And we had just walked out and left her there. Damn. My chest contracted, suddenly making it hard to breathe. I snuck a look at Wayne. If I felt this guilty, then how did he feel?
A rasping sound came from his throat, as if to answer my question. His face crumpled. He took a wheezing breath and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The veins on his hands stuck out blue and ropy.
“Are you all right?” I asked. Ask a stupid question.
He nodded affirmatively as he wheezed. Get a stupid answer.
“It’s okay to cry,” I said gently, wondering an instant later if crying while driving was actually such a great idea. Especially at seventy miles an hour.
The question was moot. He didn’t cry for the rest of the trip home. Or say another word. But at least he had stopped wheezing by the time he pulled into our driveway.
He set the parking brake, took off his seat belt and pulled the key out of the ignition. Then he just sat there immobile, staring straight ahead.
“Wayne?” I prodded.
“I’m the only one who ever took care of her,” he growled. “I have to take care of her now. Have to find out what happened. Someone killed her. Can’t let that go by. Bad enough what happened at Shady Willows.” He paused. He was breathing hard again. “More than twenty years over-medicated— “
“That wasn’t your fault,” I argued impatiently.
“I should have done something!” he shouted. His words reverberated in the enclosed space of the Jaguar. I stared at him open-mouthed. Wayne never shouted.
“I…” he began again. He stopped, overcome. His sentence turned into a long, painful wheeze.
“Oh, Wayne,” I whispered, my own tears beginning to fall now.
I turned awkwardly in my seat and put my arm around his shoulders. I heard a sob and pulled him toward me.
“It’s all right,” I told him.
And then he began to cry, wheezing at first as he fought the tears back, but finally letting go. He put his arms around my neck and leaned into me as he gulped and sobbed and keened.
I don’t know how long we sat there, crying in the front seat of the Jaguar. But finally he spoke again, his deep voice still rough with emotion.
“I have to know for sure,” he said, pulling away to lean back in his seat. “I have to know who did it and why.”
“Harmony,” I proposed instantly. “She made the tea. She knew that Vesta was sick and didn’t call a doctor.” But even as I said it, I didn’t really believe Harmony was the murderer. Why would she have told us about the tea if she was guilty?
“Clara,” Wayne countered softly.
“Clara!” I yelped. “Not Clara—”
“She’s a nurse, Kate,” he argued. “Has access to drugs. Knows how much would be lethal.”
“But why would she kill Vesta?” I challenged. “And why would she want to call the police if she did?”
He shrugged his shoulders and was quiet for a moment. “Don’t know why,” he admitted finally, his tone bitter. “Guess I just don’t want it to be one of my family.”
“Do you want to talk about your family?” I asked carefully. “Motives, opportunity, all that stuff?”
“Have to, I guess,” he answered succinctly. His eyebrows lowered. “Could be any of them. Especially the older generation.” He stared out the window for a few more moments, then added one word: “Secrets.”
“Like what?” I asked eagerly.
He shrugged again. “Who knows?” he growled. His eyebrows dropped even lower. “Mom was locked up over twenty years ago. If she was killed over an old secret, it would’ve had to have been Dru, Ace or Trent.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because no one else was old enough,” he explained. “Lori was in junior high then. I was just starting college. And Gail was in grammar school.”
“Well, Vesta—your mother—sure jumped all over Dru about her first husband,” I said thoughtfully. “And she gave Trent and Ace a pretty hard
time for letting her get locked up.”
“And me,” Wayne mumbled. I stole a look at his face. He was pale again and staring. I was losing him.
“Remember what your mother said about all the generations having secrets?” I added quickly, trying to divert his impending withdrawal. “That means it could be anyone. Lori or Gail for instance. Harmony’s mad at Lori for some reason. Maybe she knows something about Lori that we don’t. And Gail is weird enough to do anything, as far as I’m concerned.”
Wayne grunted.
“Then there’re the spouses,” I went on, glad for the grunt. “I can’t imagine Ingrid killing anyone. Not with all her crying. Or Bill for that matter. I can’t imagine Bill planning much of anything but getting his next drink. Still, maybe to defend someone they loved…” I let my sentence drift off tantalizingly.
Wayne didn’t even grunt. He just sat and stared out the window silently.
“Even Eric or Mandy could have done it,” I said desperately. “Look how Mandy defended her mother. And Eric—we think he’s funny, but everyone laughing at him can’t make him feel very good about himself. And Vesta made terrible fun of him.”
Wayne didn’t grunt. He didn’t blink. I wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. I might as well have been talking to myself.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggested with a sigh.
Wayne shuffled in after me without a word. I told myself that he was doing as well as could be expected. One good cry wasn’t going to be enough to erase the memory of his mother’s violent death. Or her violent life for that matter. I wondered what he was thinking. I wondered if he needed a therapist. I didn’t seem to be doing him a lot of good myself.
“Do you want to lie down, sweetie?” I asked him softly.
He jerked his head to the side and back, then sat down on the living room couch, a homemade denim-and-wood model that was probably even less comfortable than Vesta’s black leather one. He fixed his eyes ahead. At first I thought he was just staring into space again, but then I followed his gaze to the box. The great big box sitting in front of the couch, tied up in an oversized pink bow. The box that contained the mink coat Wayne had bought his mother for her birthday. Damn. Today would have been her birthday.
“Wayne?” I prompted.
He didn’t answer. I patted his hand and kissed his forehead.
“I’m here if you need me, sweetie,” I whispered and tiptoed across the entry hall to my office, where the answering machine was blinking.
The machine was far more talkative than Wayne. First, there was a message telling me I’d won an all-expense-paid trip to Las Vegas. And following that, there was an ominous message from my new accountant asking me to return her call on Monday. Then I heard a couple of hang-ups, and finally, another message from my warehousewoman, Judy. She needed to talk about her divorce. I realized guiltily that I had never answered her call from the night before.
I looked across the entry hall to the living room, where Wayne still sat unmoving.
“I’m going to phone Judy now,” I called out.
He made no objection. I sighed and punched in Judy Mulligan’s number.
“Jeez, Kate,” Judy said once she knew it was me. “You wouldn’t believe what Jerry’s done!”
“No. What?” I asked on cue.
“Well, we were going to do a friendly divorce. You know. Using one of those do-it-yourself divorce books. We don’t have any kids or any major property….”
“Uh-huh,” I said and flopped down into my comfy Naugahyde chair. I could see Wayne from here. And I was pretty sure this was going to be a long telephone call.
“… everything was going just fine. We each made lists of what property we wanted. Just the little stuff, you know. But when we got to the dogs, Daisy and Poppy…”
I wondered if Wayne would be scarred for life. I didn’t feel too hot myself, I realized suddenly. I was lightheaded. It was past lunch time and I couldn’t remember the last meal I’d eaten. Then I did remember. It had been last night’s buffet. Ugh.
“… two of the cutest little dachshunds you’ve ever seen,” Judy went on. “You’ve met them, haven’t you?”
“Who?” I asked.
“My dogs, Kate!”
“Yeah, yeah. Right,” I assured her. “Nice dogs.” Actually I had seen the pictures that Judy carried in her wallet at least a dozen times before I actually met the dachshunds. Poppy and Daisy. Judy ate, breathed and sneezed those dogs.
“Jeez, I raised them from puppies, you know,” she said indignantly. “Jerry never fed them or anything. And now the son of a bitch wants them!”
“Oh, dear,” I answered. My cat, C.C., strolled into the living room and stretched. I wondered if she’d heard the news about Judy’s dogs.
“I talked to an attorney about getting custody and she said there is no custody for pets,” Judy rattled on. “She said that technically the dogs are community property! Property! My little Poppy and Daisy.” C.C. jumped onto Wayne’s lap and yowled. Wayne didn’t move. C.C. sniffed his face curiously. Did she wonder what was wrong with Wayne? Or was she just hungry?
“Maybe you guys could agree to let the dogs decide,” I said absently. Wayne continued to stare straight ahead. At the box or through it, I couldn’t tell which. C.C. yowled into his face.
“How?” Judy asked, hope in her tone now. The tone woke me up. Why did I always try to solve other people’s problems? I had to learn to keep my mouth shut.
“Never mind,” I said quickly. “It was a stupid idea.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she said eagerly. “We could set it up so that Jerry and I come into the room at the same time and then see who Poppy and Daisy come to first.”
“But—” I began.
“Jeez, it’s brilliant, Kate,” Judy said. “Thanks.”
And then I was listening to the dial tone. I hung up the phone and sat watching as C.C. jumped off Wayne’s lap and tiptoed gracefully around his feet, sniffing.
Was Wayne going crazy? How long would he sit on the couch and stare like that? For another hour? Another day? Or would it be a lifetime?
My body began to shake. I pushed myself out of my comfy chair. I had to do something. Throw up, cry, scream. Something, anything. I strode into the living room, still shaking, and stood directly in front of Wayne, blocking his view of the box.
“Wayne, I’m scared,” I said.
- Seven -
Wayne didn’t react to my words. He just continued to stare past me, or maybe through me, at the gift box.
“Wayne, I said I’m scared!” I shouted finally. I rationalized that my shouting would be therapy for him. Shock therapy. Or would it just make things worse to divert him from his own pace, his own process?
“What?” he asked faintly. He pulled his head up slowly until his eyes looked into mine, seeing me now.
“You’re scaring the hell out of me,” I told him. “I don’t want you to go crazy.”
“Sorry,” he whispered as his gaze drifted back down to the box.
“Wayne!” I shouted again, not caring for the moment whether or not it was therapeutic for him, only that it was for me. “Talk to me!”
He shook his head violently as if to awaken himself, then brought his eyes back up to focus on my face.
“I’m not going crazy, Kate,” he announced brusquely. “At least not until I’ve found Mom’s killer.”
He glared then, a full-browed Skeritt glare. His back stiffened. His shoulders straightened. Gone was the vacancy of withdrawal. He looked determined now. And angry. I restrained myself from throwing my arms around him in celebration, not wanting to jinx the transformation.
“I’ll have to talk to everyone,” he said quietly, rising from the couch as he spoke. “Hear what they say. Watch their reactions. Find out who had access to poison.”
“Are we sure it was poison?” I asked cautiously.
“Ninety percent sure,” he replied, still glaring but alive now. Alive, intelligent, and leaping to conclusi
ons. “Wish I knew what kind of poison we were looking for. Whoever the killer is must have found it here in Marin. Or else brought it with them from home.”
I nodded thoughtfully. I hadn’t thought about the access issue. Where did one find poison? Pictures of ant stakes, hemlock leaves, dripping syringes, castor beans, prescription bottles and bleach bottles flipped through my mind in rapid succession.
“Have to talk to Harmony and Clara for sure,” Wayne went on. “But first,” he added grimly, “my family. I’ll call the hotel.”
He strode across the entry hall to the phone and dialed. Before his finger punched the final number he turned to me.
“This’ll keep me sane,” he whispered in explanation.
I nodded my understanding.
“Okay?” he asked quietly.
“More than okay,” I assured him. My voice was trembling, but I didn’t care. “Much more,” I finished happily.
He turned back to the phone and punched the last number just as C.C. began to meow from the kitchen.
I took a deep breath and went to feed her. I realized how hungry I was while scooping out Baked Tuna and Sardines Fancy Feast. It smelled good to me, really good. I was wistfully imagining how a little bite would taste when Wayne hung up the phone.
“Lori says they’re all on their way downstairs for a late lunch,” he told me. He took his keys from his pocket and started toward the front door. “The Old Burl Cafe.”
“Good,” I said. “Let’s join them. I’m hungry enough to eat hotel food.”
He stopped in his tracks. “No, Kate,” he growled as he turned back to me. “Don’t want you getting hurt. I’m doing this alone.”
“Oh no, you’re not,” I snapped. Then I put my hands on my hips and glared. It wasn’t a Skeritt glare, but it was still powerful. Wayne squirmed in place. “This isn’t some kind of John Wayne western,” I went on. “I’m going with you.”
“But—”
“Do you think it would be any better for me to sit here waiting for you and worrying?” I demanded. I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Of course not. And anyway, if we go together, we’ll both be safe.”
“But—” he tried again.
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