I listened as he muttered “voice mail” and punched out more numbers, then told his name to someone on the other end of the line. After a few more brusque answers he actually strung together a full sentence.
“Was it murder?” he demanded.
I straightened the pot and patted down the loosened soil, listening even harder, but there was only assorted rumbles of assent from Wayne’s end of the conversation now. Finally, he said goodbye and hung up.
I walked around in front of him and put my hand on his shoulder gently.
“Well?” I asked as quietly as I could, reminding myself that it would be inappropriate to grab his shoulders and shake the information out of him if he didn’t answer me. But surprisingly, he did answer.
“Coroners are finished with her body,” he said. His face was stiff as he looked down at me, his eyes hooded and cold. “I’m supposed to call the funeral home to make arrangements tomorrow.”
“Oh, sweetie,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say.
“Man I talked to is an investigator for the coroner’s office,” he went on. There was no hint of feeling in his voice. “Man wouldn’t say much. The lab hasn’t done all the tests yet. Told me preliminary tests seemed to indicate cardiac glycosides. Some kind of poison found in plants.” Wayne paused and took a breath. “Man said he’d send me a copy of the investigative report, but only more lab tests would show what happened for sure.”
I reached out for his hand. It was wrapped into a fist.
“Someone killed her, Kate,” he said. Feeling flooded into his eyes. “Probably someone in my family. I have to find out who.”
I put my arms around his neck and drew his head down to my shoulder. When I felt the heaving of his body, I knew he was crying. We stood that way for what seemed like hours.
Finally, Wayne pulled his head back. “Have to make funeral arrangements,” he said in a whisper. “Have to decide.
Do we have a religious ceremony? Flowers? A funeral procession? A buffet?” His voice cracked. “How am I going to decide?” he asked, his voice a child’s in that moment.
“It’ll be all right,” I said, keeping my arms around him. “I’ll decide. We’ll keep it simple. No buffet—”
“It was her birthday, Kate. How could they have killed her on her birthday?” He stood up straight, breaking away from my arms. “No procession to the graveyard. I’ll go to visit her grave alone… once I know who killed her.”
I nodded, shivering in spite of myself. The kind and gentle man that I had loved for the past three years was an avenging angel now. Would his tender side ever return? Of course it would, I told myself.
“I have to keep them here till I know,” his voice ground on. “We’ll wait a few days for the funeral. They’ll stay for that. Whoever killed her will wait for the funeral, at least.” He slammed his fist into his palm. I winced. He hit his hand again.
“Wayne,” I said. “Please don’t do that.”
He looked down at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“Don’t do what?” he asked.
“Don’t hit…”
But he wasn’t looking at me anymore. The moment was lost. He was looking out over my head now.
“Wayne?” I said. He didn’t hear me.
“I have to watch them, listen to them,” he whispered. “All of them. All of them together.”
And then he was using the phone again.
- Thirteen -
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
But Wayne didn’t answer.
I was pretty sure I could figure it out, though, by listening to his side of the conversation. He seemed to be arranging dinner for the whole Skeritt family, with someone on the other end of the line, probably Ace from the sound of it. Ugh. I didn’t know if my stomach could handle another family meal. I felt a little better when I heard Wayne propose his own San Francisco restaurant-art gallery, La Fête à L’oie, as the site for the meal. At least the food would be well prepared there. Tasty, tasteful, and more important, poison-free.
“What time’s dinner?” I asked when Wayne hung up the phone.
“Six o’clock,” he replied absently. Then his brows had descended completely, blotting out any feeling in his eyes. “Need to think for a while,” he announced quietly and shuffled off to the living room couch, where he resumed sitting and staring into space.
I watched him for a few minutes, wishing for once that I owned a TV set, one that I could put in front of him so that he would at least look comfortable staring that way.
I shook off the thought and took a peek at my watch. It was just one o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Time to get to work, I decided, and sat down at my desk to face the towering stacks of paper that Jest Gifts had spawned. I didn’t even sigh, afraid the sudden gust might topple those towers.
Wayne was still in position on the couch when I got up more than four hours later. I looked into his blank face, hoping, but doubting, that all his time spent thinking had helped him.
“Come on, sweetie,” I said softly, reaching out my hand to help him up. “It’s time to get dressed.”
“Oh my, but don’t you two look nice!” Dru greeted us as we walked into the foyer-cum-gallery of La Fête à L’oie.
I damn well hoped I looked nice. I was wearing the most expensive piece of clothing I owned, a velvet jumpsuit by Liz Claiborne. And Wayne was in a suit and tie. La Fête à L’oie was as upscale as a BMW. On second thought, make that a Mercedes, or maybe even a Rolls. Designer dresses and suits, high heels, Rolexes and real jewels predominated. It was not a place I would be inclined to visit without Wayne.
“Well, you sure look great,” I responded a beat later, pumping some warmth into my voice. Not that I was lying. Dru’s tall thin body looked elegant in a lavender silk dress. She fit right into this room with its pricey artwork and well-heeled patrons. Ingrid did too, in her linen suit and pearls. Even Lori had dressed up her colorful handwoven top with a few more bracelets and an extra dab of perfume, if my nose was any guide.
Gail, on the other hand, wore an uncompromising man’s dress shirt over twill pants. And Eric and Mandy were in jeans.
The men were all in suits. Even Ace.
“So tell me about the place, kid,” he said to Wayne, rolling his massive shoulders, as if uncomfortable in the confines of his suit jacket.
Wayne mumbled something so low that I didn’t even catch it standing next to him.
Ace’s smile dimmed for a moment, then relit. “Inherited it, didn’t you?” he tried again.
Wayne nodded, his chin sinking toward his chest as he did. Damn. Why hadn’t I made the connection before? Wayne had inherited La Fête along with his other restaurants and galleries from his former boss, Scott Younger, a man whom Wayne had cared for and been unable to protect against murder. And now Vesta was dead too. Wayne thought it was all his fault, every last little bit. I knew that as well as I knew that shark ornaments would never go out of style for attorneys.
“Wayne managed this place before he inherited it,” I said, my voice sounding too high and loud for the room. “And all the other restaurants and galleries too. He’s done a really great job—”
“You seem defensive about this place,” Gail cut in quietly. I looked into her serious brown eyes, not sure if she was talking to me or to Wayne. “Does it have unpleasant associations for you?”
All I could hear was the low murmur of the other patrons in the room in the instant after Gail spoke. That and my blood pulsing in my ears. I willed myself not to turn my eyes to Wayne at my side, not to grab his hand. That would really look defensive.
“Oh, Gail, honey,” Dru protested hastily. “Don’t you be so stuffy now. This isn’t your office. This is a lovely, lovely place. And I bet you haven’t even so much as glanced at the paintings on the wall.”
“I wasn’t being stuffy, Mother,” Gail replied, turning her gaze away. “I was just—”
“I love this collage,” Lori interjected. I turned to her gratefully. She was pointi
ng at a conglomeration of plaster fragments, red paint, string and graffiti on bare canvas. “It’s a real fusion of energy, almost like lucid dreaming….”
“I think the photos are very nice,” Ingrid whispered behind us.
“You know what, this one’s totally excellent…”
“Well, I think it’s hideous…”
And then everyone seemed to be talking at once, their voices blurring into a noisy hum as the Skeritts spread out to look at the paintings, photographs, collages and sculptures displayed around the room.
Only then did I turn my eyes to Wayne. He stood perfectly still with his eyes closed and his head bowed, looking like a sculpture himself, though far more representational than anything else in the room. A Rodin figure of tragedy perhaps, clothed in a business suit. I grabbed his hand.
“It is not your fault,” I whispered emphatically into his ear. “None of it. You are a kind and responsible person, dammit. Stop blaming yourself!”
His eyes popped open. He looked at me for a moment, then said, “I’ll set up dinner,” and pulled his hand away.
I watched him walk toward the dining room. As he reached the entrance, he looked over his shoulder for an instant.
“Thank you,” he mouthed and then he disappeared through the doorway.
“Aunt Kate,” Eric called from behind me. “You gotta see this one….”
I spent the next twenty minutes viewing headless torsos, toeless feet, string art, improbable photographs and more improbable paintings, all the while wondering if I should get Wayne into therapy. Or myself. I knew there were support programs for the loved ones of the deceased. I just hoped there were programs for the lovers of the loved ones of the deceased too. There had to be, I decided. This was California, after all.
Luckily, the food at La Fête à L’oie was far more attractive than the artwork. At least in my opinion. Wayne had set up a special table for the whole family in the back of the dining room, shielded by discreet shoji screens. Crisp white linen draped the table, which gleamed with silver, china and glassware.
Once we were all seated, a man and a woman in matching tuxedos showed up to attend to our food desires, offering the carnivores all variety of fish, poultry and meat, sautéed, baked, layered, pounded, smoked and/or stuffed with touches of Dijon, thyme, tarragon, green peppercorns or raspberry. And then there were the sauces. Dru oohed and Trent aahed, and the carnivores ordered.
Then the tuxedos turned to the vegetarians. Ratatouille, white bean salad, asparagus in pastry with dairyless bechamel sauce, baked beans a la Charente, artichokes vinaigrette, pasta and vegetables with sauce veloute. I lost count of the choices. Mandy and Lori and I agreed to split a little of everything. And then, surprisingly, Eric changed his order to join us.
“Vegetarian food is totally healthy, you know,” he said, with a quick sidelong glance at Mandy.
“Of course it is,” she said dismissively. Then she seemed to soften. “If you’re really interested, I’ve got a copy of Diet for a New America by John Robbins at the hotel. It’s a splendid little book.”
“That sounds totally awesome,” Eric breathed.
By the time he made it through the savory pepper-and-chestnut soup, Eric was a dedicated vegetarian. By the time he had eaten his salad, Mandy had talked him into renouncing dairy products as well. I wondered how long it would take the boy to realize that ice cream was a dairy product.
Wayne waited until the entrees were served to bring up Vesta’s funeral. Dru had just speared a piece of grilled duck in green peppercorn sauce. Trent was slicing into his rack of lamb Dijon on thyme jus. And I was just breathing in the tantalizing scent of sauce veloute.
“Been thinking about the services for Mom,” Wayne said quietly, lifting his tortured eyes to scan the table slowly. Ace gulped down the food he had just put in his mouth. I heard the sound of silverware being laid back down hastily. “Maybe you can help me,” Wayne went on. “You’re all staying for the funeral on Wednesday, aren’t you?”
“Of course we are,” Ingrid and Dru assured him, their distinctive voices raised together in uneven unison.
“Wouldn’t miss it, kid,” Ace promised a half a beat later.
Trent nodded solemnly. Even Bill averted his bland gaze for a moment, touched by some unknown emotion.
I put down my own fork in amazement. I’d never known Wayne to be manipulative before. It wasn’t his style. But somehow he had just talked the suspects into staying three more days. Maybe all that thinking this afternoon had helped him.
Then I noticed the way Gail was staring at him. I would have bet she was the only other person at the table who knew what he had just done.
“I’ve got an idea,” Lori said eagerly. “Maybe we could do something with the Tibetan Book of the Dead.”
Trent groaned and shook his head.
“Oh, dear,” Ingrid whispered. “I don’t think that would really be a comfort—”
“Maybe some music, though,” Dru chimed in. “Vesta always did love music so. Chopin—wasn’t it Chopin she loved?” she asked, turning to Ace.
“Chopin,” he agreed, his blue eyes sparkling. Were those tears? “And opera. Caruso especially. Remember how she loved…” His voice trailed off. He looked down at his coq au vin abruptly.
“You know what?” said Eric. “Caruso was Aunt Vesta’s name, Grampy. Isn’t that totally weird? I mean, here’s this guy she liked so much and that’s her last name.”
Ace was blushing now. Trent cleared his throat noisily. I wondered if Lori or Gail realized that Vesta had never been married, that she had chosen the name Caruso for herself when she became pregnant with Wayne. I couldn’t tell by either of their attentive faces.
“Well, I think Caruso’s a perfectly splendid name,” Mandy said, filling the silence. She looked over at Uncle Ace with a hint of adoration in her chocolate eyes.
“Oh, me, too,” Eric agreed eagerly.
“Have you thought about a minister yet?” Ingrid asked.
Wayne shrugged his shoulders. Now that he had them talking, he had slipped back into his cocoon of silence.
“Vessie was never very religious,” Ace put in softly. “Don’t think she ever went to church, did she?” He turned to Wayne.
Wayne shook his head.
“But still,” Ingrid insisted. “She must have been a Christian. You were all raised in the Christian faith, weren’t you?”
Ace tilted his head and grinned. “I guess you could call Baptists Christian,” he drawled.
Dru giggled, then added, “Ma and Pa sure thought so, anyway.”
Trent rolled his eyes. I wondered what Ma and Pa Skeritt had been like. I thought about asking, but Ingrid was still pursuing the religion issue.
“How about a nondenominational minister, then?” she suggested.
Wayne nodded. I did too, glad someone knew how to handle this.
“And flowers,” she went on, taking full charge. “Too bad we aren’t close enough to bring some from home.”
“Those florists charge you an arm and a leg,” Dru agreed. “I picked my own when Raoul died.” Her face drooped into sadness for a moment.
A man in a tuxedo came around the screen and looked at our still full plates.
“Is everything all right here?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine, George,” Wayne assured him, then waved him away.
“Here we are, letting all this good food go to waste,” Dru said, her tone high and aggressively cheerful. Her face wasn’t drooping anymore, but it looked a bit strained at the jaw line. “Now, what would Ma and Pa have said to that?”
“Eat up or else,” Trent shot back. A hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
Dru giggled into her napkin.
“And be sure to clean your plate,” Ace followed up in a falsetto.
Then everyone seemed to be laughing, Lori and Dru the loudest. Ingrid beamed at the table at large.
The Skeritts really felt like family now, I thought as I cu
t into the delicate asparagus-filled pastry. They hadn’t seemed to get along so well on Friday night, though. But then again, Vesta had been alive on Friday night.
I bit into my asparagus, pushing away thoughts of murder. It was delicious, rich with the bechamel sauce. The pasta with sauce veloute was even better. And the baked beans! Only the French could have thought to bake them in cognac, garlic, herbs and red wine.
I began to realize that I shouldn’t have worn my Liz Claiborne jumpsuit after all, as I took my last bite of fresh fruit compote. I could feel the velvet straining over my full belly. Oh, well. Maybe I’d be able to lose the added pounds if I skipped lunch for the next two weeks.
“Boy oh boy, was that good!” boomed Ace, patting his own belly happily.
“Truly magnificent,” Trent intoned ponderously.
“And we’re not finished yet,” Dru announced, draining her coffee cup. She grinned and reached into her oversized handbag. “Guess what I’ve got,” she challenged.
Ace was the first one to try. “Alka Seltzer,” he hazarded.
Dru shook her head, laughing.
“Even better,” she whispered. “Guess again.”
“Candy?” Eric tried.
She shook her head.
Cocaine? Pornography? The poison that had been used to kill Vesta? I kept my own guesses quiet.
“For heaven’s sake, Dru,” Trent protested impatiently. “Just get on with it.”
Dru pressed her lips together in a pout for an instant. Trent rolled his eyes. Finally, she got on with it.
“Ta-da!” she trilled and pulled a black volume tied with black ribbons out of her big bag. “I’ve got the family picture album.”
Trent groaned.
“You didn’t,” Ace protested, but he was already on his feet and circling around behind her to look.
Gail and Bill pulled their chairs in closer to Dru as the rest of us filed around and squeezed in behind her. I shoved my head forward under Wayne’s armpit, the only way I was going to be able to see around this family of giants.
Dru pushed her place setting aside and laid the album in front of her. Then she opened it with a theatrical flourish.
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