A Stiff Critique

by Jaqueline Girdner

  “Him or her,” Carrie corrected. “And yes, it does seem probable. Though there are other possibilities.”

  “Like?”

  “Perhaps she was killed for the same unknown reason that Slade was killed.”

  “Like?”

  “I just don’t know,” she sighed. “Slade and Nan had so many connections. They were lovers. They lived on the same street. They belonged to the same critique group. They were both extremely insensitive to others’ needs. They were both published authors.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure of one thing,” I told her. “Nan Millard didn’t commit suicide. Even Chief Gilbert figured that out.”

  “Gilbert and his two clones,” Carrie muttered.

  “Hey,” I said, trying for a cheery note. “Maybe it’s not a job requirement for the officers in Hutton to look like Gilbert. Maybe they’re Gilbert’s illegitimate children.”

  Carrie laughed then and told me what a good friend I was. I was glad she couldn’t see me blushing in the dark, the good friend who had suspected her.

  We spent an hour or so at Carrie’s house tossing around murder theories unenthusiastically. Neither of us had much real energy for the exercise. And when Carrie started calling the Hutton Police department “Gilbert and Sullivan” and singing operetta, I couldn’t seem to stop laughing. I made a quick diagnosis of communicable hysteria and left to drive home, still giggling uncontrollably.

  I’d finally stopped laughing when I pulled into my driveway some time after ten. What I saw in my driveway would have stopped my laughter anyway. It was a vintage ‘57 Chevy. And I knew it was turquoise even though I couldn’t see the color clearly in the dark. Because a turquoise vintage ‘57 Chevy was what Felix Byrne drove. Felix, my friend Barbara’s boyfriend, the pit bull of newspaper reporting. As I watched, he jumped out of his car, a short and skinny cauldron of steaming journalistic fervor running to meet me. I rolled down my window as he got to the Toyota.

  “Found another one, huh?” he greeted me. I knew there was a hurt look in his soulful eyes just like I knew the color of his car. He always started in with a hurt look. “And didn’t bother to tell your old friend Felix?”

  I thought about backing out of the driveway as fast as I could and going back to Carrie’s, but Felix had my car door open in the instant it took me to think of escape.

  I stepped from my car cautiously.

  In the dim light I saw Felix’s mustache twitch in what might have been a smile. I flinched.

  “Guess where I’ve been?” he ordered.

  “The Hutton Police Department,” I answered. I didn’t even try to dissemble. Felix knew. Felix always knew.

  “I shoulda gotten hip when the poop came in on the first Hutton stiff,” he started in softly. Then his voice picked up volume and speed. “I shoulda thought about my pal Kate. My compadre. Always finds the body but never calls her friend, her friend who’s a crime reporter for Christ’s sake! But noooo.” He drew the word out like a cow mooing. “I have to have strangers enlighten me when she finds the second stiff. Holy moly, were you going to hold out on that one too? Huh, Kate? Were you just gonna—”

  “How come you didn’t come by when you heard about Slade Skinner?” I asked, truly curious. Felix never passed up an opportunity.

  “My contact didn’t mention your name when she told me about the first one,” he said, a sulk slowing down the speed of his harangue. But not for long. “I shoulda known something was up when Wu asked about you—”

  “Russell Wu?”

  “Yeah, Russell Wu. Russell Wu of your friggin’ critique group! The critique group you never told me about. The critique group that both Nan Millard and Sherman Francis Skinner were in—”

  “Sherman Francis?”

  “What are you, a friggin’ parrot?” Felix demanded. I could feel his glare in the dark. “Sherman Francis Skinner was the poor friggin’ shlunk who bought it. Slade was just his pen name.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. Slade’s real name was Sherman Francis. I couldn’t wait to tell Carrie. Of course, it would have been more fun if Slade were still alive, I realized, and my smile fizzled.

  “So why was Russell asking about me?” I said, getting back to the first point.

  “I don’t know,” Felix answered softly. “Wu was down at the Hutton cop shop taking notes after this Skinner weenie got roasted. So, just being friendly, I talk Wu up a little, trying to find out what he knows. He just gives me this real spacey, looney-tunes smile, like there’s nothing there behind those weird-ass specs of his, and then he asks if I know Kate Jasper. Out of the blue. I told him we were friends, like real compadres, and Wu asks if you’ve been involved in other murders—”

  “But why does he want to know?” I interrupted. I could only listen to Felix’s stream of consciousness for so long.

  “I don’t know why, but he was real friggin’ interested, if you know what I mean. Of course, he hacks out these true-crime books. Maybe…” Felix paused.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Kate, you didn’t off Skinner and Millard yourself, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t, God damn it!”

  “Hey, don’t get your hemorrhoids in a lather,” Felix protested. I could see his hands flash up in the dark, as if to ward off blows. “You were the one who asked. So you tell me, what’s the real poop?”

  I didn’t fight it. I stood out there in the driveway and told Felix all I knew. Well, a lot of what I knew, anyway. I didn’t tell him about Carrie’s feelings for Travis. Or about any of my own theories. Or…Actually, I just gave him the bare bones. And I didn’t invite him into the house. I’d have just had to get him out again if I’d done that.

  After I finished, Felix was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “So, Kate. Do you think this Wu character whacked them?”

  “I don’t know, Felix!” I said impatiently. Then I remembered my dealing-with-Felix mantra, Felix could give information as well as suck it. “So what does Chief Gilbert think?”

  “Gilbert’s a real moron, you know, a real potato-brain. He doesn’t think a whole lot. Holy moly, he’s still going with the interrupted burglary routine.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said encouragingly. “For both of them?”

  “Right. A burglar with the same potato-brain that Gilbert has, trying to rob the house across the street this time. And if he can’t fit that theory onto some poor shlunk with a rap sheet, he’s got the enraged lover theory. Someone who’s hot to trot with Skinner or Millard, or maybe both of them, offs the first one out of jealousy and then whacks the second out of spite.”

  “How about suicide?”

  “Gilbert would give his left nut to lay that one on Millard, but corpses don’t wipe the prints off their own guns after they’ve offed themselves. Though the piece was registered to Millard…”

  As Felix went on, I remembered Nan talking about owning a gun for protection. I shivered. That gun had killed her.

  “…now the potato-brain’s starting to look at the critique group members. Especially since you and your friend found the stiffs. About your friend—”

  “Carrie isn’t the murderer, Felix.”

  “Hey, did I say anything?” he demanded in his most injured voice. “I did background checks on everyone. Wanna hear what I found out?”

  “Yes, Felix,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I would like to hear what you found out.”

  “First off, your friend Carrie is a widow—”

  “Her husband died of cancer!”

  “Holy Toledo, Kate! You’re touchier than a rhino with PMS.”

  My brain got wrapped around the image of a rhinoceros with PMS. Did rhinos even have periods? I almost missed it when Felix went on.

  “…Russell Wu’s a goody-two-shoes. No criminal charges ever filed against him. But he’s one trippy dude. Friggin’ weird. All that true-crime stuff.” I resisted a remark about the pot calling the kettle black. “Travis Utrelli’s been arrested a few times. But it’s for all th
is weenie political protest bullshit. Now, Joyce Larson’s a real strange one. Outside of managing the kitchen at Operation Soup Pot, the woman’s friggin’ invisible. No driver’s license. No credit cards. The woman could have just landed from Mars, if you know what I mean—”

  “Not everyone drives, Felix.”

  “Donna Palmer’s clean too. No criminal record. Divorced, two kids.”

  “Anything about her family being Mafia?” I asked.

  “Mafia?” Felix said in a voice that was thick with lust. I was glad it was dark. I was just sure there was drool dripping down his chin. “Her family are Mafia?”

  “I’m not sure if they’re actually Mafia,” I backpedaled, getting more cautious now that I’d spilled the beans. “Donna just mentioned the possibility of a crime connection a few times.”

  I could almost hear Felix’s brain whirring.

  “How about Mave Quentin and Vicky Andros?” I asked, hoping to derail him.

  “They’re clean,” he answered absently. I should have never mentioned the Mafia.

  “How about Slade’s family?” I tried. “Who inherits?”

  “His kids,” Felix answered, his voice still abstracted. “Kids are grown now. Two different mothers. Got plenty of money from Skinner already. Though Gilbert’s giving them the once-over.” He paused. “Hey, about this Palmer woman, if she’s connected, maybe she’s some kind of hit woman—”

  I laughed before I could help myself, remembering Donna tripping over her own clothes. A clumsy hit woman. The idea was deliciously funny. Until I thought of her wielding a gun and then thought of Nan Millard again.

  “Good night, Felix,” I said, suddenly very tired. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Holy socks, Kate! I’ve just started.”

  That was what I was afraid of. Then I heard a car driving up nearby.

  “That must be Wayne,” I told him, inspired by the sound. I just hoped Felix didn’t know Wayne was on vacation. Wayne was the only pest repellent that had any effect on Felix.

  “Okay, okay,” Felix said nervously. He believed me! “Wouldn’t want to get under the big guy’s skin.”

  And then he backed his vintage ‘57 Chevy out of my driveway.

  It was only after Felix had gone that I thought about the car I’d heard drive up. I was pretty sure its engine had stopped. But I’d never heard anyone get out of that car. I walked out to the mailbox in the dark, scanning the street with my eyes. I spotted an unfamiliar car across the street, behind my neighbors’ Volkswagen.

  Only it wasn’t that unfamiliar after all. It was a Honda Civic.

  - Twenty-One -

  Honda Civics are pretty common cars, I told myself. The one across the street probably belonged one of my neighbors’ friends. But what if it didn’t?

  I shook my head angrily, pulling an overtight tendon in my neck. Damn it, I was too tired to put up with this stuff. I wasn’t willing to be afraid anymore. If Russell Wu wanted to watch me get my mail in the dark, that was fine with me.

  I turned to my mailbox and fished out a pile of bills, solicitations and catalogs. Then I trotted into the house and locked both locks on the front door. I wasn’t willing to be afraid, but I wasn’t going to be stupid either.

  Once the locks were on, I sat down in my comfy chair and focused my mind on Russell, carefully avoiding all thought of Nan Millard. Russell hadn’t just been following my car, he’d asked Felix about me. Would he draw attention to himself that way if he was the murderer? If he planned to do me harm? And just what had I done to earn Russell’s interest anyway?

  It took a while to come up with an answer to that last question. But piece by piece, a reasonable theory burbled up out of my mind. Russell Wu wanted to write a true-crime story about the man or woman who had killed the two critique group members. I had a reputation, at least in Marin, for finding dead bodies and murderers. Ergo, Russell believed that if he followed me I might lead him to the murderer. Did that make sense?

  C.C. yowled from behind me.

  “You don’t like the theory?” I asked, craning my neck to see her.

  She yowled again and jumped up onto the arm of the chair.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” I complained and ran my hand down her velvety back.

  Minutes later, my eyes were beginning to close. Unfortunately, Nan’s dead body seemed to be painted on my inner eyelids. Was it going to be that kind of night?

  It was. I went to bed and spent the night pouring off sweat and dreaming of corpses. “A stiff,” Felix cackled in my dreams. “Shall I give it a friggin’ stiff critique?”

  *

  The next morning my head was aching and my stomach was queasy. An adrenaline hangover. I lay in bed a few more moments, staring out the skylights and wondering if it would feel any fairer to me if I were suffering from a champagne hangover.

  The phone rang as I was drinking my third cup of herbal blackberry tea. I took the cup with me to answer the phone. Carrie was on the line. Of course.

  “I’ve called another emergency meeting to be held this evening at my home,” she told me. Her voice sounded a lot better than I felt. “Six o’clock, potluck. Would you be willing to attend?”

  “Is everybody coming?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’ve reached each of the group members with the exception of Russell. I have left a message on his answering machine, however. I’m sure he’ll come.”

  “All you have to do is ask me to go,” I told her, an unwanted whine slipping into my voice. “Where I go, Russell follows.”

  “Is he still following you?”

  “Uh-huh. And asking questions too. He asked Felix about me—”

  “Is Felix the repulsive reporter?” Carrie interrupted, a touch of eagerness flavoring her low voice.

  “Yeah.” I took a sip of tea. “He caught up with me last night.”

  “Poor Kate,” Carrie said in what I was pretty sure was mock sympathy. Then her voice grew more serious. “Did he say anything interesting?”

  I took another sip of tea before going on. “Felix said Chief Gilbert thinks we’ve had two interrupted burglaries. Or maybe a lovers’ quarrel. Felix also said Gilbert was a moron and a potato-brain.”

  “Perhaps Felix isn’t so repulsive after all.” Carrie chuckled.

  “God, Carrie. That just proves you haven’t met the man.”

  “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Oh, you’ll love this,” I told her. “Slade’s real name was Sherman Francis Skinner—”

  Her laughter came hooting over the line. She did love it. But then she stopped laughing abruptly. Was she frowning now? Had she just remembered that Slade was dead?

  “Listen,” I said. “Back to Russell. I think he might be following me to get a story. But it’s still spooky—”

  “Kate, has it ever occurred to you that he might be following you in an attempt to woo you?” Carrie asked.

  “To woo me?” I repeated back, struck more by the archaic language than by what she was saying. Or was it a joke, Russell Wu wooing me?

  “Perhaps he is courting you in the best way he knows how,” Carrie expanded. “By protecting you.”

  I stopped noticing Carrie’s language. Because the awful sense of what she was saying was becoming clearer.

  “You mean he has a crush on me?” I squeaked.

  “Precisely.”

  I could feel my face flood with color. I was just glad Carrie couldn’t see it through the telephone. I had to do something about Russell. I had to tell him about Wayne. Because the terrible truth was that Russell Wu was not an unattractive man. I thought of his deep, soothing voice and the vulnerability of his face on the bridge. And felt immediately guilty and disloyal to Wayne. Damn. I wished Wayne were home—

  “Kate?” Carrie probed.

  “What?” I said impatiently.

  “Will you attend the meeting tonight?”

  “Of course,” I told her, coming back to the present. And as I came back, a question occurred to me. “How
’d you get everyone together on such short notice?”

  “There aren’t that many members left to call,” Carrie answered softly.

  We said goodbye on that note.

  I walked into Carrie’s house at six o’clock sharp with a dish of vegetarian stuffed grape leaves in my hands. No one but me would have to know that I’d bought them at the health food store on the way and transferred them into my own dish.

  Basta howled, Sinbad yowled and Yipper yipped when I walked in, but without their usual enthusiasm. Carrie didn’t even have to raise her voice to get them to stop. She just put a hand up and led me first to the kitchen to drop off the grape leaves and then into the living room, with the quiet animals following. Where I saw why the animals were tired of their guard duties. Even at six, almost everyone was there.

  Mave and Joyce were seated together on one of the blue sofas. Donna and Vicky were sitting on the other one. And Travis was on his feet, pacing as he spoke.

  “…gotta figure out why Nan died,” he was saying. “She could be a real bitch, but still…” He waved his hands around, out of words apparently.

  “I can’t help but wonder if her tetchy personality didn’t have something to do with her death,” Mave said. She wrinkled her wrinkled brow a little more, her eyes thoughtful behind her violet-rimmed glasses. “Go around acting like a donkey’s behind and sure as shootin’ you’re gonna run into someone who doesn’t appreciate it.”

  “Oh, you mean like karma,” Donna breathed. She bent forward eagerly with a sudden lurch that almost pulled her off the couch. Vicky flinched next to her. “People don’t always understand how extraordinarily complex our karma is. If you abuse your environment, your environment may abuse you.”

  “I like that,” Mave said, slapping her thigh. “Mother Nature playing tit for tat.”

  “But—” Travis began.

  Then the dogs and the cat started up again, and whatever he was going to say was lost in the cacophony.

  I took the opportunity to sit down between Mave and Joyce. I wasn’t sitting next to Donna this time.

  “Howdy, Kate,” Mave yelled over the animal sounds and then magically the sound stopped.