“Perhaps,” Carrie agreed reluctantly. “Though I think ‘excitable’ might be a better description. In any case, I don’t believe Travis is actually capable of violence.”
“But…” I prompted. I seemed to hear the word in her tone.
“But…I had a dream Friday night,” Carrie answered, her voice low and trembling.
I glanced at her face again and saw the fear there I had seen the day before, widening her eyes. A shiver prickled the hair on my neck. I didn’t want to see that look on Carrie’s face.
“It was actually a nightmare,” she went on. “In the nightmare, Travis held a sword. It was dripping with blood. And then I looked down and saw Cyril’s dead body. Travis had killed Cyril, Kate—”
“But he hadn’t killed Slade?”
“No. He had killed my husband, though. It was frightening, to say the least.”
“Carrie,” I said slowly, thinking as I spoke. “Did you ever wonder if the dream might be about your own feelings toward Cyril? He was your husband and you loved him. But he died, died of cancer.” I talked a little faster, surer now of my interpretation. “And here you are, all this time later, almost in love with another man. I know you. You think if you love Travis you’re killing Cyril, at least killing the part of him that lives in your memory—” I stopped short. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter what I think the dream was about. I’m not a therapist—”
“I believe your interpretation might be correct, though,” she said, interrupting my apology. But there was something wrong with her voice. It sounded too thick.
I turned my head just long enough to glimpse the tears running down her dark, freckled cheeks, then swiveled it back quickly. Sympathy squeezed my chest.
“It’s all right to love Travis,” I whispered, hoping I hadn’t said too much already. “It’s even all right to let go of Cyril—”
“As long as Travis isn’t a murderer,” Carrie finished for me, her voice husky but stronger.
And he might very well be a murderer, I answered her silently. All those country and western songs about looking for a heartbreak started playing in my mind.
“You see, Kate,” Carrie continued, “that’s why I feel so strongly that I need to identify Slade Skinner’s murderer. If I am to have any kind of life at all with Travis, I must know who the murderer is.”
Damn. What if we couldn’t find out?
Carrie didn’t say any more as we rolled along down the highway, but my mind was speeding, prodded by Carrie’s need to know who had killed Slade. She deserved that much. At least that much. But what relevant facts had we uncovered about the group members? Donna’s family was Family. That seemed relevant. Travis wasn’t telling us where he met Vicky. Russell might or might not be following me. Joyce was a saint in the making. Nan was not. And Nan had been Slade’s lover. Mave had known Travis a long time. Vicky was crazy or close to it. And Carrie had very badly wanted to be represented by Slade’s agent.
I glanced over at her as she took the Shoreline turnoff. Her profile was stern. And distant. Had she fought with Slade before I arrived on the scene? Had she— No, I told myself, Carrie had not murdered Slade Skinner. I was sure of that even if I wasn’t sure of much else.
There had to be something more we could do to find out who killed Slade. Maybe check into everyone’s past. But how to do that? There was one thing I could do, I realized, finish reading Slade’s manuscript. Maybe there was a clue there. Maybe—
It was then that I noticed we had passed the junction without turning. We weren’t heading for my house, we were heading into downtown Mill Valley.
“Where are we going?” I asked Carrie.
“Vicky’s,” she said without turning her head.
Vicky’s. Of course. My stomach churned in rebellion, but the rest of me kept quiet.
The apartment that Vicky lived in was neat to the point of sterility. There was very little to obscure the view of the spotless white walls and gray carpeting of the living room. One couch, one TV and one lone Georgia O’Keeffe print on the wall comprised its bare-bones furnishings.
“We were concerned about you,” Carrie told Vicky once we were standing inside.
Vicky shrugged her thin shoulders, looking even more waiflike than usual in her oversized T-shirt and baggy pants. I wasn’t sure what her shrug meant.
“You must learn to eat regularly,” Carrie continued.
“I really know that,” Vicky said. Those words should have been reassuring, but they were spoken in a voice too shrill to sound reasonable. “I just get wound up every once in a while and say crazy things. Just ignore me.”
“Have you eaten today?” I asked, really concerned now.
“Yeah,” she answered briefly, turning her head to look away from me as she wrapped her arms around herself and hugged. Was she lying?
I shot Carrie a glance. She gave me a tiny shrug. At least I knew what Carrie’s shrug meant. It meant the eating issue was hopeless. It was time to move on.
“Travis tells us he introduced you to the critique group,” Carrie said, her voice low and quiet. I recognized the tone as the one she had used on difficult patients over twenty years ago. Maybe she had practiced on difficult judges in the intervening years. She still did it well.
Vicky nodded, then shrugged again. But at least she had turned her head back in our direction now.
“Where did you and Travis meet?” Carrie asked gently.
“N.A.,” Vicky answered.
“N.A.?”
“Narcotics Anonymous,” Vicky expanded.
So that’s why Travis wouldn’t tell, I thought. Anonymity. He took the concept seriously. I found myself liking him a little better for his honorable intentions. But then another possibility came to mind. What if he hadn’t told us about N.A. because he wanted to hide a narcotics problem from Carrie?
“I go to N.A. instead of O.A.,” Vicky continued, her voice taking on speed. “I’ve really got an eating problem, so I should go to Overeaters Anonymous, but I hate those meetings. There’re fat people there, awful fat people. It’s so disgusting. They’re such pigs…”
Vicky was off and running. It was at least ten more minutes before Carrie could ask her anything else. And all Vicky had to say when asked about other group members was that Travis was “kinda strange.” That made two of them.
Carrie asked her how she felt about Slade Skinner, and got another shrug of Vicky’s skinny shoulders in reply. That was the answer to the next three or four questions as well. Vicky’s attention seemed limited to subjects having to do with food and disgusting fat people. Finally Carrie gave up and said goodbye. I was just as glad when we left the apartment. Vicky’s obsession gave me the shivers. And I was tired of standing. Vicky never had asked us to sit down.
“Did you know Travis had a narcotics problem?” I asked Carrie once we were back in her Accord.
“I knew he went to N.A.,” she answered. “He used to have a drug problem. He goes to the meetings so he won’t slip back.” I felt my tense muscles relax. Travis was an honorable man. I just hoped he wasn’t a murderer.
We drove back to the junction, but Carrie turned the wheel in the direction of the highway instead of my house when we got there.
“Wait a minute!” I protested, my muscles tensing all over again. I was sick of interviewing group members. “Where are we going now?”
“My house,” Carrie answered with a flash of white teeth. “I’ll cook you lunch.”
As it turned out, she had already cooked most of the lunch ahead of time, a pasta salad with more of her garlicky marinated capers, beans, onions, olives and mushrooms. Along with onion-herb bread baked that day. And fresh fruit compote for dessert.
“I thought a reward would be appropriate,” Carrie explained as she spooned out the last of the fruit compote. Basta was sitting comfortably on my feet by then. Sinbad was curled up on Carrie’s lap. The black cat gave out little pneumatic hisses each time Carrie shifted in her chair.
“And you kn
ew I’d need a reward before we even got started,” I accused. Then I took another bite of the compote. It was as good as the rest of the meal, flavored perfectly with maple, lemon and ginger. Carrie cooked as well as she practiced law, I thought contentedly. The only thing she did better was to manipulate her friends.
“Carrie,” I said after I swallowed. “I still have no idea who killed Slade Skinner.”
“I know you don’t,” she replied, her last word dissolving into a long sigh.
And with that sigh, Travis came to mind. Travis, young, passionate and apparently in love with Carrie. And Cyril as he lay dying, skeletal and distant. My full stomach twinged. Was that guilt or indigestion? Whatever it was, Carrie deserved a chance at a life with a man who wasn’t guilty of murder. That much I was sure of.
“Tell me more about Slade,” I ordered. Unless Slade really was the victim of random violence, the trigger for his death must have been something he did or said. Or something he was.
“Slade was an obnoxious man but not an evil one, I think,” Carrie said, straightening in her chair. Sinbad hissed. “I imagine him as a child, one of the kids the other kids don’t like. Observing the others, seeing their weaknesses and faults. I believe that was the source of his writing skill, this ability to observe. Unfortunately, this ability seemed to stop short with his personal involvement. Maybe his desires short-circuited it.”
I ate another spoonful of compote as I listened.
“I would guess that he lived on inherited wealth for some years. This gave him the freedom to write. But I wonder if it didn’t also damage him in some way. He never had to work, never had to depend on himself. He could buy whatever he wanted. And he couldn’t trust people to like him for himself.” She looked across the table at me. “Does that sound foolish? To believe that wealth somehow damaged him?”
“No,” I said. Easy money often did do damage. “I’m just surprised he had the self-discipline to write.”
“Ah, but his writing was what gave his life meaning.” She raised her spoon and shook it as she made her point. “There wasn’t anything else in his life. He hardly knew his family. He had no real friends. No religious beliefs. His writing was everything.”
“Did he ever write anything but thrillers?” I asked.
Carrie smiled softly, her eyes going out of focus. “Oh, he wrote song lyrics too.”
“What kind of lyrics?”
“Perhaps I was wrong when I stated that Slade had no religious beliefs,” she prefaced. “He believed profoundly in self-actualization, to the extent of writing lyrics that paid tribute to the process.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“I cannot tell you specifically, but I believe one of his songs went something like…” Her voice lifted. “‘All of my love, all of my love for me.’“ Then she put a hand over her face and chuckled into it.
“Oh, I get it,” I said. “Stuff like, “‘I will follow me…wherever I will go.’“
Carrie really laughed then. So did I. Then she started singing again. “‘Loving me was better than any love I’ve ever had before!’“ Sinbad jerked his head up and jumped off Carrie’s lap with a great show of disgust.
“‘I never knew love like this until I looked in the mirror and saw my face,’“ I chimed in.
After five or six more improvisations, we were pounding the table as we laughed. Even Basta stirred with that noise. Then suddenly, I remembered the man we were making fun of was dead. No more lyrics. No more self-actualization.
Carrie must have remembered at just the same time. She leaned back and the crinkles of laughter around her eyes flattened into a mask of sobriety.
We sat quietly for a few moments, Basta snuffling around to get comfortable on my feet again. And then a new thought drifted into my head.
“You know what we haven’t asked?” I said, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“Where was everybody when Slade was killed?” My pulse quickened. “Maybe Travis—”
“Had an alibi?” Carrie cut in. “I had hoped so. But Travis, like everyone else, went home after the meeting. None of the group members has anyone that can vouch for their whereabouts after the meeting and before we found Slade’s…Slade’s corpse. Except for Donna. She says she was with her children.”
“You asked about alibis already.”
She nodded. “When I called everyone about the emergency group meeting. It was the first thing I asked.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling my excitement ebb away into a pool of self-reproach. Why hadn’t I thought of alibis before?
“Shall we discuss the suspects?” Carrie asked gently, forgiveness for any lapse on my part implicit in her tone.
“Russell Wu,” I answered after a moment. I stuck out a finger. “One, I think he’s still following me.” I stuck out another. “Two, he lifts weights. Three, Slade wrote a character like him into his manuscript.”
“Wait a minute,” Carrie ordered, holding up her hand. She trotted out of the room and when she came back and sat down she had a yellow legal pad and a pencil. She shoved the dishes out of her way, set the pad on the table and wrote something down, then said, “Go.”
I went.
“Nan Millard. She has the requisite temperament—”
“A consummate bitch,” Carrie summarized as she wrote.
I thought about it, nodded and went on. “Nan was closer than the others to Slade. His lover in fact. Who knows what promises he made her? And which ones he broke? And he put a version of her in his manuscript too.
“Joyce,” I said when Carrie had finished her notes on Nan. “She may be a saint, but she’s a celibate saint. And Slade kept making passes at her.”
Carrie lifted an eyebrow but kept on writing.
“And Donna,” I went on. “Her family is organized crime. We know that now for sure, don’t we?”
“I would feel safe in saying that we are ninety percent certain of that affiliation.” Carrie shook her head. “Ye gods and goddesses, it’s hard to believe that Donna is related to such thugs. She’s a menses poet, for heaven’s sake.”
“A messy poet?” I asked.
- Eighteen -
“No, no,” Carrie corrected me, shaking her pencil in counterpoint. “Not a messy poet. A menses poet, Kate, as in menstruation.”
I must have still looked confused.
“Don’t you remember Donna’s recitation?” she asked. Then her voice went atonal. “‘Red on white—my mother—my grandmother—blood ties—blood spilled,’ et cetera, ad nauseam.” She threw up her hands.
“But I thought that was Mafia poetry,” I protested.
Carrie leaned back in her chair and exploded into laughter.
“Do you say these things to cheer me up?” she asked once she could speak again.
“Of course,” I lied. What the hell. I felt like an idiot, but at least Carrie was having a good time.
“So what else do you imagine Donna is guilty of besides bad poetry?” she asked, still smiling.
“Well…” I hesitated to put forth Barbara’s theory. I had already said my quota of foolish things for the afternoon.
“What is it, Kate?” Carrie asked, her smile gone abruptly.
“What if Donna slept with Slade?”
Carrie frowned. “I don’t believe she ever did, but what would be the significance of such an act in any case?”
“What if she told her father and then her father thought she’d been dishonored?”
“And in response, he sent out a hit man?” Carrie’s eyebrows went up. “You’ve been watching too many old movies. This is California. Nobody cares about honor. At least I don’t think so…” Her words faltered and then stopped. She bent over her yellow legal pad and scribbled.
“Do you think the police are taking Donna’s family seriously?” I asked.
“I would guess so. You heard what Russell said. The police are aware of the family’s connections and considering them in regard to this crime.” She shook her he
ad abruptly. “But Donna’s family doesn’t fit the scenario in any case. Remember, Slade said he was meeting someone from the group at five o’clock. He did not say he was meeting the family of someone in the group.”
“All right,” I conceded. “How about Vicky?”
“Vicky seems to be suffering from a severe eating disorder. She’s obsessed with food and out of touch with reality.” Carrie sighed deeply. “But I can’t for the life of me see how her obsession translates into murder.”
“Me neither,” I said glumly. “Though she acts like a bomb waiting to go off.” I thought for a moment. “Maybe Slade triggered her rage somehow. What if he told her his agent was interested in her writing, just like he told you? And then, what if it turned out he was just stringing her along?”
“Vicky is obsessed with food to the exclusion of all other serious interests,” Carrie pointed out. “I find it hard to believe that she would be concerned enough about her writing career to kill for it. I, on the other hand, am concerned to the point of desperation not only in having my writing published but in making enough money to finance my early retirement from the practice of law.” I winced, wishing I hadn’t brought the subject up. I didn’t want to hear Carrie say any of this.
“But even if I were willing to kill to further my career,” she went on, “there is still a gaping hole in the theory.” She paused and stared at me across the table, her molasses-brown eyes as cool as her voice.
“Which is…” I prompted quietly. My pulse wasn’t quiet though. It had climbed into my ears, pounding all the way.
“Which is…that killing Slade would not have furthered my career. Any possibility that he could engineer my representation by Hildegarde Tucker died when he did.” She kept her eyes on mine as she finished. “The same is true for Vicky Andros.”
“I don’t think you killed Slade,” I stated for the record. I knew we weren’t just talking about Vicky.
Carrie let out a long breath. “Thank you, Kate,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did suspect me.”
I let out my own breath and my pulse settled gently back into my veins.
A Stiff Critique Page 17