Jay was a good hour behind me. By the time he got home, I had zapped a packet of frozen soup base in the microwave, taken some bits of leftover seafood out to thaw, and made toast and a salad.
I fed him cioppino. When he looked as if his petals were reviving, I said, "Okay, open up. What did Dale mean by not enough blood?"
He dipped toast in his chowder. "Dale thinks the lacerations may be post mortem."
Inflicted after death. I digested that, not comfortably.
"Of course, the body was on ice for a whole week." Jay chewed, his tone vague as if he were thinking of something else. "That complicates everything."
Chapter 7
We had good sex that night of the sort calculated to offend the Pope, e.g. with no thought of generating a baby, at least on my part. Possibly I was just Affirming Life. When I woke from the second nightmare, I thought of that--in capitals.
Jay was sleeping deeply. I gave him a prod with my toe but he didn't respond. I wondered how many times he had wakened with a dry mouth and accelerated pulse to find me snorting away in oblivious insensitivity. As the idea crossed my mind, he rolled over and gave me a pat. He didn't wake up, but he wasn't oblivious.
I leaned back on my pillow, half afraid to fall asleep again, but I did without incident. When I woke at seven I went for a short run, and that improved my mood.
Jay had classes that morning, so I fixed him breakfast, and we talked a little. I told him Bianca was determined to go on with the workshop.
He swallowed orange juice. "And you agreed to abet her?"
"Abet!"
He smiled. "You have to say no a lot to that kind of personality. Usually they don't resent it."
"I'm sorry for her. She's in a terrible situation."
He considered that over a last bit of toast. He sipped herb tea. He finished off the orange juice. Then he said, "I'm sure she's grieved and worried. Still, at some level, she's enjoying the drama."
That made sense. Bianca was the daughter of an actress, after all. And of the director of any number of detective flicks. I envisioned the ill-omened press conference. It wouldn't do a damned bit of good, but it was bound to be dramatic. I had once held a press conference.
Jay wiped his moustache on a paper napkin and got up. He leaned across the table and kissed me. "Just say no."
"Gee, Nancy, I didn't think you cared." A stale riposte, not up to my standards. Jay gave me a perfunctory grin and went off to work.
I drank another cup of coffee. I was halfway through it when there was a knock at the back door. Bonnie, who was minding my store, came in, bearing printouts. I waited for her to start cross-examining me about the murder, but she just fed me data, mouth quirking in a dreamy smile.
"What is with you?"
She blinked. "What?"
"I found Hugo Groth's body yesterday at the farm."
Bonnie was suitably horrified and sympathetic. I told her about it, cried a little, and explained the workshop dilemma. Either the story had not yet reached the media, or Bonnie hadn't turned on the news. Or something else. I eyed her. "Why the goofy smile? Did you sell your book?" She had finished the manuscript that week.
"What? Oh, no. Not yet. The thing is, Tom's agent sold the film rights."
Of Tom's new novel, I deduced. "That's wonderful. He deserves it, but--"
"He wants to take me to Europe!"
Awk. Aargh. "When?" I croaked.
She laughed. "Hey, not today. Stop worrying. Not until after the store opens."
I quit hyperventilating, but I was worried. Bonnie's mind would be on Europe, not on my bookstore, and my bookstore was not ready for spring vacation. Bianca would have to cancel the damned workshop.
I tried calling her off and on all morning, but the line was busy. I finally got through around two-thirty.
When I had identified myself and before I could launch into a well-reasoned plea, she said, "Have you heard the results of the autopsy?"
"Uh, no. Have you?"
"No, and Nelson promised to contact me as soon as it was over. I can't stand this, Lark. It's awful not knowing what happened. He talked to Mei Phuoc last night. He hasn't told me anything about that, either."
I tried to explain that Dale was not going to confide in her so long as she and every member of her household were suspects. I tried, but I must have exercised a little too much tact, because she went on complaining as if I had said nothing. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that Bianca had difficulty hearing anything she didn't want to hear.
She didn't want to hear about canceling the workshop. After half an hour of fruitless pleading, I gave up and disengaged.
I was deep in Bonnie's printouts when the doorbell rang, front door this time. It was Dale. He said he had come to consult Jay.
I ushered him into the kitchen, checked the clock--it was almost four--and allowed that Jay would be home soon.
Dale collapsed onto a kitchen chair. He looked exhausted.
"Coffee?"
He nodded without speaking.
Unlike Marianne, I do not bake in an emergency. However, I can thaw stuff. I thawed a coffee cake and fed him two thick slabs. At that point, when he was almost articulate, Jay drove in. I put the kettle on--Jay still doesn't drink coffee--and awaited events.
Properly speaking, I was a suspect in the case. Dale should not have discussed the evidence in my presence. However, since the two men were sitting in the breakfast nook, I cleverly disguised myself as the lady of the house and began to prepare dinner, though it was Jay's turn to cook.
Dale needed a sympathetic listener. Jay listened. So did I, from the kitchen. As the deputy talked, he gave me one or two distracted glances, but I didn't seem to cramp his style.
He began, predictably, by griping about Bianca. She had called one of our U.S. senators, the governor, and the congresswoman for our district. No wonder the line had been busy.
Bianca was a heavy contributor to all three campaign funds, so the politicians listened. Then they called. Their calls had blotted up most of Lisa Colman's time, which was one of the reasons Dale felt the need to consult Jay. It was also a solid reason why Dale had not given Bianca the information she thought she was entitled to. I considered telling Dale to explain all that to Bianca, but I didn't want to call attention to myself, so I peeled carrots.
Having got that off his chest, Dale launched into a detailed account of the autopsy results. Egged on by Jay.
As Dale had guessed, Hugo had died, not from the knife wounds, but from a blow to the head. There were signs that he had put up a fight--bruises on his fists and elsewhere. There were also marks that indicated the body had been moved after the killing. The fight went some way toward explaining the uncharacteristic snarl on Hugo's dead face.
Dale was looking for indications that any of his suspects had been in a fight, though a week was time to heal. The lab was working on nail scrapings. The slashes that disfigured the corpse had been administered after death, and not immediately after death, either. Someone was naÏve. Someone was also vicious. Dale thought the mutilation was an attempt to throw suspicion on users of machetes. I thought so, too.
I rinsed a cup of rice and considered. I could believe Del Wallace was vicious enough and racist enough to incriminate the Vietnamese, but he also raised lambs for slaughter. Angie Martini might see that as further evidence of brutality, but, though he probably didn't butcher the animals himself, I thought Del would have a clear idea of the futility of post mortem wounds. He was stupid when he was drunk, but he wasn't drunk all the time. Of course he could have panicked.
So who else was ignorant and brutal enough to mutilate Hugo's body? The mutilation was foolish and brutal, but it was also unnecessarily elaborate. One of the students? Keith? I thought about Keith McDonald. I thought of Carol Bascombe and her unnecessarily elaborate hair.
Dale and Jay were speculating about the time of death. Apparently that was what the M.E. had done also, because the ice made any degree of precision impossib
le. Mary Sadat had seen Hugo alive at her parents' restaurant Saturday evening. Dale thought it probable Hugo had been killed the next day, although he didn't rule out Monday. It was unlikely that Hugo had ridden his bike out to the farm in the dark, so Saturday and Sunday night were probably out, and by eight or so on Monday there would have been too many witnesses around for the fight--and for movement of the body--to have gone unnoticed. Ergo Sunday. And Sunday meant Hugo had probably had an appointment with his killer. Otherwise he would not have gone out to the farm. It sounded logical but vague. It eliminated no one absolutely, though Marianne had stayed in and around the kitchen during the day, baking goodies for the workshop and freezing them. I had been with Jay.
It was nice to know Dale thought I was in the clear. On the strength of that, I made considerable noise spinning greens for a salad. I also poured Dale another cup of coffee, though he declined the cake. Jay had a piece.
Possibly the sight of the cake jogged Dale's memory. He slewed in the chair and dug an object from his pants pocket. "Want to see something really weird?"
I craned around the end of the cupboards.
"It looks like salt water taffy," Jay said after a moment. "What about it?"
"Groth was wearing one of those Gore-Tex rainjackets, the kind with big pockets that close with Velcro."
"Yeah?"
"He had six--count 'em, six--small bags of taffy, three in each of the big pockets."
I said, "That's from that little candy shop in Seaside."
Dale sat up. "What shop?"
"I don't remember the name, but they're supposed to make the best taffy on the coast. A house guest brought us a pound of the stuff last spring." My brother-in-law ate most of it.
"How can you tell where it's from?" Dale shoved the piece across the table.
"It's the paper. Most taffy is twisted in plain white paper, very light waxed paper, I think. This stuff has a little flower pattern. Flower's! That's the shop. Flower's Candies."
Dale took out his notebook and began scribbling. "Thanks, Lark."
"It still doesn't explain why Hugo had all that candy in his pockets."
"Sure doesn't. Any ideas?"
Dale and Jay starting spinning theories about the taffy and discarding them. Possibly Hugo had been smoking dope and had developed the munchies. I couldn't think of anything useful to contribute to the discussion, so I went back into the kitchen.
Jay gave up, too, after a while. "What about the interns? The Dean will want to know their situation."
Dale shrugged and pocketed the taffy. "Assuming the crime was committed Sunday between eight and four--"
"Assuming that."
"You've got the married couple, the Carlsens. They alibi each other, except for half an hour at one when the guy went to the Quik Stop for potato chips. Of course they would alibi each other. Ms. Bascombe..." Dale gave a fey little flip with his hand and pursed his lips. "Carol was with a Friend."
My ears pricked, but I had to laugh at the parody. Dale was revealing hidden talents.
Jay smiled. "Did she identify the guy?"
Dale shook his head. "She was real coy. Married man, I guess. Mary Sadat worked at the restaurant, but she was alone Sunday morning. Jason Thirkell and Bill Johnson drove down to Seaside early and didn't come home until well after dark. Jason's pickup is pretty distinctive. We're looking for corroboration--for all of the kids. I'd like to eliminate them." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't see why they'd do it."
My father is a professor. I said, "Come on, Dale. Disgruntled students assault their teachers all the time."
"That's urban high school and junior high kids, mostly. College students are smarter."
I wondered if Dale had ever been a college student in the usual sense of the word. "You didn't mention Mike Wallace. He's an intern, too."
Jay said, "He isn't in the program, Lark. He just lives out there and works for Bianca off and on. He's a student, though, so I'm concerned about him."
Dale sipped coffee. "Mike was in and out all day. No clear alibi."
Jay said, "What about the motives floating around Meadowlark Farm? I mean the staff's."
Dale set his empty cup down and stood up. "Lark knows the staff better than I do. Ms. Fiedler says they were all devoted to Hugo Groth--her words."
Jay had risen, too. "That wasn't the impression I got," he said mildly. "Bound to be conflicts in a small group like that. I gathered that Groth and Ms. Martini had philosophical differences."
"She's a dyke," Dale muttered.
I said, "She sounds more scrupulous, sexually, than either Keith McDonald or Del Wallace. I don't know what Hugo felt about homosexuals. She said he worked with her well enough."
"She said." Dale sighed. "Those folks are pretty intense about the organic stuff. Maybe there was professional rivalry. Wish I understood more about that kind of farming." He added, wry, "I was raised on a farm, the ordinary kind. Never took to it. When Dad decided to quit, he ask us kids if one of us wanted to take over. We didn't, so he sold the place. My folks like Arizona."
"Doesn't your father miss the farm?"
Dale laughed. "Not so's you'd notice. He's taken up golf."
Jay said, "You talked to Mei Phuoc last night. How did it go?"
Dale shrugged. "Mei was with her family that Sunday. Of course, she'd say that. So will the others. It's a tight community. She was very upset when we told her Groth had been killed."
"They got along?"
"I guess so. She cried some when I said he was dead, but she was defensive about the machetes."
"Natural enough to be defensive."
"Yeah." Dale sounded glum. He left shortly after that, and I took a look at what I'd prepared for dinner. There was a hunk of halibut in the meat drawer. I broiled it.
Bianca called me again that evening. "Lark?"
The human voice is an expressive instrument. Bianca's sounded like an ancient Victrola winding down.
I gritted my teeth and projected perkiness. "Oh, hi, Bianca."
"Trish is here."
I drew a blank. "Trish?"
"Hugo's ex-wife."
I digested that.
"Trish wants to go through his apartment tomorrow. She'll be trying to make funeral arrangements..." The low-energy sound trailed.
I covered the mouthpiece. "Jay, is Dale Nelson finished with Hugo's apartment yet?"
We were sitting in the breakfast nook reading. We sit there a lot.
Jay marked his place in his thick textbook with a reluctant finger. "What's that?"
I repeated the question.
"I don't know. You'll have to check with him. Why?"
I explained.
He frowned. "Why would the ex-wife be making the arrangements?"
I was beginning to feel like a relay satellite.
Bianca said, "Trish is Hugo's heir. He left everything to her."
I relayed that to Jay.
"Oh. Well, in that case, she can probably go through his stuff, but not until Dale gives her the go-ahead."
I explained the situation.
Bianca said wearily, "Okay. I'll check with Nelson in the morning and get back to you. If Nelson's through inspecting the place, will you meet us there and let us in? We don't have Hugo's effects yet. No key."
"All right, Bianca. I was going in to the bookstore in the morning anyway. Call me there."
Before I could segue into an impassioned plea to cancel the workshop she rang off.
I hung up less abruptly and caught Jay watching me.
He smiled. "She's a real fiddler, isn't she? Why are you dancing to her tune?"
"Goddamn, Jay, have a little humanity. The woman needs help."
"She's using you."
We had a quarrel. It was neither wounding nor lengthy, but it gave me food for thought.
Later, as I lay in bed drifting off to sleep, it occurred to me to wonder if Bianca's behavior had the same irritant effect on other relationships she intersected with.
&nb
sp; I drove in to the bookstore early and Bonnie went with me. She was full of the European trip. That was both threatening and restful--threatening for obvious reasons, restful because it made a change from Bianca's problems. Bonnie and I shelved books. Bianca called around ten and said she was on the way in. Dale had agreed to give Trish free access to the apartment.
I was paranoid enough to call Dale myself, no easy feat. I was just hanging up from my brief conversation with him when Bianca parked her van in front of the store. I watched her get out and go around to the passenger side as I tried to figure out how to deal with Hugo's not-widow.
Bonnie said, "Gee, she's pregnant."
She was. Bianca knocked. I opened the door, and Hugo's ex-wife entered. She was a pretty, faded woman Bianca's age--Hugo's age. She wore no makeup and her eyes were pink-rimmed. She had pulled her shoulder-length hair back on the nape of her neck. Her face looked defenseless. And she was very, very pregnant.
Bianca introduced her as Trish Groth.
She held out her hand. "You're Lark. Hugo liked you a lot."
He did? I mumbled my condolences and introduced Bonnie, who seemed to be taking mental notes for her next novel. I offered Trish a cup of tea, which she declined, and we went upstairs. Bonnie stayed below shelving books.
I unlocked the door. It was clear that the police had come and gone. Black smudges of fingerprint powder smeared the kitchen cabinets, and the bedding on the futon was bunched and crumpled. Somebody had tossed the wilted daffodils. Bianca made straight for the house plants.
"They need water!" She sounded shocked.
Trish was panting from the climb. She stood in the entry in the classic posture of a pregnant woman, belly thrust forward, one hand on her arched back.
"Shall I get you a chair?" I asked.
She smiled a little. "It's harder to get out of a chair than to stay on my feet. Thanks, though. This is nice." She drifted to the window and looked out. "He said he had a great view of the marina." She stared out at the distant water, face sad.
Bianca bustled back from the kitchen with a small watering can in bright enamel. She revived the failing vegetation and went back to the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, "His papers are in the back, in the bedroom. Did you want to go through them?"
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