A Stiff Critique

by Jaqueline Girdner

  “Back to the ranch?” Russell asked, startling me as he opened the door to the Civic. I hadn’t heard him walking up.

  “Certainly,” Carrie assented. Then she winked largely. “Perhaps we can rope some tofu steers when we get there.”

  Carnivore humor. I smiled. It always comes out after a good vegetarian meal.

  But Russell didn’t respond to her jest. In fact, he didn’t say another word until he had parked his car back at his own place. Maybe he was thinking. I certainly was. Something was missing with this guy. One minute he’s making conversation and the next he’s Mr. Silent. Without the charm of Marcel Marceau. I still didn’t know who he was.

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I asked as we all climbed out of his car.

  Carrie sent me a questioning look, but I ignored it. I wanted to see more than Russell’s nondescript living room. I wanted to see where he really lived.

  “Sure,” Russell answered, no discernible surprise registering behind his tinted glasses.

  We tromped back up the stairs and into his living room. Then he directed me down the hall. His bathroom looked like a typical single guy’s bathroom, or maybe a typical neat single guy’s bathroom. One bottle of shampoo in the clean shower, a clean toilet with the seat up and a small medicine cabinet. I opened the cabinet stealthily, under the cover of a running faucet. The first thing I noticed was a package of condoms. I slammed it shut again in embarrassment and saw my own red face reflected in the cabinet’s mirror. Damn. What was I doing here?

  I slunk back out of the bathroom, feeling ashamed of my nosiness, but I still couldn’t resist a glance through the open door just a little further up the hall. I tiptoed a couple more steps and craned my neck through the doorway.

  I saw a medium-sized room with only a straight-back chair and an exercise bench to sit on. A small TV sat on a low table on the other side of the room. And next to it, a barbell and some dumbbells were neatly arranged. Come to think of it, Russell did look pretty muscular under his flannel shirt. Then it hit me. Dumbbells! Slade Skinner was killed with a dumbbell. My ears began to buzz with adrenaline.

  It was all I could do to keep from running back down the hall to tell Carrie. But I slowed my steps and joined her in a polite goodbye as we left Russell’s apartment.

  Once we were safely alone in her car again, I told Carrie all about the dumbbells. But she didn’t seem impressed.

  “A significant percentage of the population lifts weights, Kate,” she said calmly as she turned the ignition.

  “But Slade was killed with a dumbbell!” I insisted.

  “I know that,” she replied. Her voice was even, but I saw how tightly her hands gripped the steering wheel as she pulled onto the road. I had forgotten for a moment that I wasn’t the only one who had seen the bloody dumbbell firsthand. “The murder weapon had to have been Slade’s own personal dumbbell,” she added. “You saw him play with it when he talked.”

  “But wouldn’t it be more natural for someone who lifted weights to use one as a weapon?” I persisted, though I wasn’t as enthusiastic as I had been. In fact, I felt a little sick. Too much of that good vegetarian food, I told myself. “Just knowing how to hold it. I mean—”

  “Perhaps,” Carrie interrupted. She was staring ahead now, but her attention didn’t seem to be on the road in front of her. Her dark eyes were out of focus. Was she seeing the bloody dumbbell in her head? I was.

  “Did you notice how talkative Russell was with Joyce around?” I asked. It wasn’t a complete change of subject, but it was the best I could do. “He was pumping her for information too, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do believe he was.” Carrie gave me a smiling sidelong glance. My stomach felt better instantly. “Russell Wu is no fool. He knows that a wee bit of conversation is the right lever to open Joyce Larson up.”

  “Why’d Joyce get so uptight when you asked her about Donna’s manuscript?” I demanded, forgetting Russell’s dumbbells now in the memory of Joyce’s stricken white face.

  “I don’t know,” Carrie said slowly as she pulled onto the highway. She frowned again, thinking. “Although she certainly did look afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “I don’t know,” Carrie repeated, sounding as tired of not knowing as I was. “Joyce is an odd woman. There is no doubt about that. But then again, everyone in the critique group is pretty strange.”

  “Including you?” I teased.

  “Including me,” she confirmed with a flash of white teeth. Then she got serious again. “The one thing I know about Joyce is that she’s very concerned about violence. She can’t even tolerate the mention of violence.”

  “Maybe she was worried that Donna’s father’s thugs would do something violent searching for the manuscript at Operation Soup Pot,” I said, trying out the theory as I spoke. “Maybe she was deciding whether it was safe to tell us where it was.”

  “That’s possible,” Carrie admitted, but she didn’t sound convinced. Not that she had a better theory about Joyce’s behavior. Or about anything else for that matter. The car may have been moving, but our brains were stalled.

  When we got to my house, Carrie and I sat in the car and talked a little more. But it was getting dark and we were getting nowhere. And I could tell she was tired. I could see it in the lines marring the round contours of her face.

  “Let’s call it a night,” I suggested finally.

  She nodded. “Thank you, Kate,” she whispered. “For everything.”

  I gave her shoulder a quick squeeze and climbed out of her car. It felt like a hundred years since we’d left my house. I was tired too, I realized. Bone-tired.

  I lifted my arm heavily to wave goodbye as Carrie backed out of the driveway. Then I climbed the stairs and opened my door.

  I heard a frenzied rustling as I reached for the light switch. I turned toward the sound angrily. Were the neighborhood cats here again, stealing C.C.’s food?

  And then something very large and human rushed at me through the darkness.

  - Twelve -

  I leapt out of the way of the shadowed form speeding toward me. A fraction of a heartbeat later, I saw that the form was indeed human and probably male. I couldn’t make out anything else. My eyes still hadn’t adjusted to the gray darkness of the entry hall. I caught a hint of a bulky profile, and then whoever it was bolted past me.

  “What the—” I began, turning toward the door.

  Then the second body pushed past me.

  I stood frozen for a breathless moment. Then I inhaled sharply and ran out the door after them. It was lighter outside than it was in the entry hall. I saw the backs of two solidly built men running down my stairs. They wore tailored suits.

  Probably Armani, I thought, remembering Carrie’s description of the men she had seen. And with that thought, I stopped running. I was like a cat stalking deer. What would I do if I caught one?

  So I stood on my deck, panting with anger and fear, and watched the two men run down my driveway. By the time I heard a car start and drive away, my whole body was shaking. Including my stomach. I just hoped none of its contents would shake on out.

  I turned back to my front door, thanking the years of tai-chi practice—and the adrenaline—that had enabled me to jump out of the way as the two men hurtled past. What if I hadn’t been fast enough? I thought of Slade, beaten to death with his own dumbbell. Had he gotten in these men’s way, these thugs’ way? I was sure by now that these were Donna’s father’s men.

  I stepped back into the house on weak legs, turned on the light and trotted over to the pinball machine where I had last seen Donna’s floppy disk. Sure enough, it was gone. Slade Skinner’s manuscript was still there, though. How had they known in the dark that it wasn’t Donna’s?

  And that wasn’t my only question. Was one of these men the one who had stood in my yard the night before? No, I decided. Their shadowy shapes had been different than that of the previous night’s intruder. Bulkier. And the sound of the
car driving away wasn’t the same as the previous night’s either. Though maybe they were driving a different car. Then my mind came back to the main feature. Had one or both of these men killed Slade Skinner?

  I jogged back to the front door and clicked both locks into place, something I almost never do.

  Then I heard something behind me. Just the slightest sound, something, maybe a foot brushing the carpet ever so lightly. I would have never heard it at all without the leftover adrenaline running through my body.

  I executed a 180-degree turn and looked around wildly for the source of the sound.

  Then I heard a new sound, a meow. I lowered my gaze. C.C. looked up at me, blinking sleepy eyes. The adrenaline drained more quickly this time, leaving me shaking and sick at my stomach once more. And cold.

  “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded.

  C.C.’s eyes opened wide. She stared at me accusingly.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  Then she began to meow in earnest.

  I couldn’t remember when I had fed C.C. last. Probably before I took off with Carrie. But I allowed the cat to shepherd me into the kitchen, where I fed her again, just in case, half a can of her favorite kitty entree. I even managed to replenish her water and dry food without spilling any. It wasn’t easy, the way my hands were shaking. Not that C.C. thanked me for the service.

  It wasn’t until I was on my way out of the kitchen that I noticed the blinking light on my answering machine.

  I set it for replay, flinching in advance. That always saves time.

  The first message was the friendly, crisp voice of someone who wanted to interest me, Kate Jasper, in a wonderful refinancing opportunity. I fast forwarded till a new voice came on. It was just as friendly, but not nearly so crisp.

  “Oh, let’s see, my number is…um…oh dear.” There was a pause and then whoever it was reeled off a phone number. The whoever was female by the sound of it, but that was the furthest I could go in identifying her.

  “Anyway, I called because I was a little worried,” she went on. “Things are incredibly complex over here and I’m afraid I may have, well, made a little mistake. My dad’s men came by earlier and they asked your name—”

  Donna. It had to be. My pulse began to pound again.

  “They saw you with Carrie, I guess. Anyway, I told them your name. I hope that’s okay with you. I know privacy can be very important to a person’s integrity—”

  It was Donna all right. If I hadn’t been so frightened, I might have laughed.

  “Anyway, the two of them aren’t really dangerous or anything. At least I don’t think so. But I thought I should let you know. Well, goodbye. Oh, by the way, I hope it’s okay for me to call you. I don’t want to infringe on your personal space or anything. Your number was in the phone book, so I guess it’s okay.”

  That was it. She never did leave her name. I turned the machine off. Not only was my phone number in the phone book, so was my address. That’s probably how the two goons had found me. Suddenly I wished I’d used an alias for the critique group.

  I punched in the number Donna had left, not quite sure what I wanted to say to her. It was too late for her to undo the damage. But maybe I could get her to leave me out of any further communications with her family or their muscular friends.

  “Hello,” said a squeaky voice. A child, I realized. Great.

  “This is Kate Jasper,” I said slowly and clearly. Not having children myself, I tend to treat the little munchkins as if they’re deaf. “May I speak to your mother?”

  “What do you want?” the squeaky voice replied.

  I was silent. How to explain to this child what I wanted? I thought of saying, I want to throttle your mommy, but that seemed excessive.

  “I’d like to speak to your mother about her critique group,” I explained instead.

  “Oh,” the voice responded.

  “Can you call your mother to the phone?” I asked, keeping my own voice pleasant with an effort.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, if it was a he.

  I waited for him to call her, but he didn’t. He was still on the phone, though. I could hear him breathing.

  And then I noticed something else, raised voices in the background. It sounded like two voices, one high and one even higher. Both of them were shouting.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked, suddenly concerned. Would this kid just sit and talk to me on the phone if his mother was being murdered?

  “Dacia fed another goldfish to the cat,” the voice informed me. “Then the cat threw up. Mommy told Dacia last time that she would yell really loud if that happened again.

  “And that’s what she’s doing now, yelling loud?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Look, what’s your name?” I demanded.

  “Dustin,” the voice said.

  “Listen, Dustin,” I said, back to my plan of speaking slowly and clearly, hoping he could hear me over the racket in the background. “Will you just call your mother to the phone?”

  Dustin didn’t answer me. I couldn’t even hear him breathing anymore. Only the voices yelling, which sounded louder now.

  “Hello,” I tried.

  No one answered. I read all the buttons on the phone console: “memo, pause, prog, redial…” Twice. Still no one answered. I said hello a few more times and then I hung up.

  I punched out Carrie’s number next. I was relieved to hear her hello. After not talking to Donna, I had been afraid I’d only get Carrie’s machine. Or that one of Carrie’s dogs would answer.

  “The hoods have been here,” I announced dramatically. “They broke into my house and took Donna’s floppy.”

  “They have visited me again as well,” Carrie replied, her rich voice as steady as ever. “While we were out visiting. I noticed the moment I stepped into my study. They had misplaced my box of floppy diskettes.”

  “Did they take Donna’s floppy?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she answered simply. “They did.”

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “Well, what, Kate?”

  “Did they murder Slade?” I spelled it out impatiently.

  There was a long silence. I hate long silences on the phone. They make me feel blind. I stuck the receiver under my chin and rubbed my cold arms, hungry for tactile sensation if I couldn’t have visual.

  “I think not,” she said finally.

  “Why do you think not?” I demanded. But even as I asked the question, I was calming down and thinking not myself.

  The men hadn’t been very interested in harming me. There had been two of them after all. They could have taken me on easily, tai chi or no tai chi. But instead they had run. And I had seen them. They had to know that. But they hadn’t come back to kill me to cover up. Not yet, at least.

  “I have no compelling evidence that these men are innocent of Slade Skinner’s murder. But I have none that they are guilty either. And, ultimately, I just don’t believe they were the ones. I think Slade was killed by a member of our group who was scheduled to meet him at five o’clock last Saturday.” Carrie paused, then added, “I’m sorry to have mixed you up in this.”

  “That’s all right,” I assured her. Some day I would learn to knock off my knee-jerk sympathy. “Though I think we oughta—”

  The doorbell rang, cutting me off as effectively as someone snipping the telephone cord. For an instant I thought my heart had stopped too, but then I heard it pounding again. Who the hell was out there?

  “Ought to what, Kate?” Carrie asked.

  “There’s someone at the door,” I told her in a whisper.

  “Well, I’ll let you go in that case,” she said.

  I said goodbye and hung up, wondering too late if I should have kept her on the line. I grabbed the phone console instead, poising my finger over the button programmed for 911, and carried it to the door, trailing the telephone cord behind me. I switched on the porch light.

  “Who is it?” I shouted, wishing for the hundredth
time that I had gotten around to installing a peephole in my solid wood door.

  “Delivery!” The answer boomed clearly through the door.

  Delivery? It was completely dark now, way past normal business hours. My skin tightened into goose bumps.

  “What are you delivering?” I demanded.

  “Flowers,” the reply came back, softer now but still audible. And familiar somehow.

  “I didn’t order any flowers,” I yelled.

  “Oh, come on, Kate!”

  Now I was sure I recognized the speaker. I put the phone down and yanked the door open, ready to scream.

  My ex-husband, Craig, was standing there on my doorstep, looking more handsome than ever dressed in a tuxedo and a grin, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand. Somehow the sight of all those flowers smothered my intended scream.

  ‘Ta-da!” he sang out and bowed, one hand across his midriff, the other holding the flowers out in my direction.

  “Damn it, Craig—” I began.

  I watched the smile leave his face, and my heart twinged with guilt. His brown puppy-dog eyes widened. I had loved this man at one time in my life. And the hurt he had inflicted upon me hadn’t been intentional. Not that it had hurt any less.

  “You shouldn’t have,” I finished. And I meant it.

  “Like ‘em?” he asked, cocking his well-trimmed head, a tentative smile on his lips.

  It was quite a bouquet. There were gladioli, poppies, chrysanthemums, daisies, snapdragons and five kinds of other flowers I couldn’t identify, in a rainbow of colors. They must have cost a bundle and Craig was a notoriously cheap man. Now my stomach echoed my heart’s twinge of guilt.

  “They’re very nice,” I told him, keeping my tone as unenthusiastic as possible. That wasn’t too hard. All I wanted at that moment was to figure out how I could get him to go away and never come back. Without hurting his feelings too much.

  “You know what the orange said to the doctor?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Maybe I should have screamed at him after all. Or bludgeoned him. Or—

  “I haven’t been peeling well,” he answered himself. “Get it?”