A Stiff Critique

by Jaqueline Girdner

  I kept my scream subvocal with an effort. For all the good that it did.

  “Let it out, Kate,” Barbara advised. “You need to scream a little.”

  “That’s all right,” I told her through clenched lips. “Do you happen to know who the murderer is?”

  “Not yet. Sorry about that.”

  Barbara always seemed to know all kinds of nifty things until you really needed an answer. She couldn’t predict Lotto numbers either, much to Felix’s loud annoyance. My thoughts returned to Russell. What in the world did he see in me?

  “You’re an attractive woman,” Barbara answered the thought. “Look at Wayne. Look at Craig.”

  Damn. I had almost forgotten my ex-husband in all the excitement. Guilt washed over me.

  “It’s not your fault,” Barbara told me. “Don’t worry so much about Craig.”

  I said goodbye and hung up before she could catch me thinking that I damn well hadn’t been worried about Craig. Not until she’d called.

  I went to bed at nine o’clock, vowing to get up really early and get at least six hours of Jest Gifts work in before Carrie showed up the next afternoon.

  *

  I managed six and a half hours of work. Carrie knocked on the door a little after one, looking formidable in her gray pinstripe suit.

  “Ready?” she demanded.

  “Ready, Captain,” I answered with a crisp salute. I picked up my purse and a bag of rice crackers as we went out the door into the bright sunlight. I had a feeling the bag of crackers was going to be all the lunch I was going to get.

  We decided to visit Mave first. Not because she was the most suspicious member of the group, but because she seemed likely to be the most observant. Actually Russell might have been more observant, but he wasn’t answering his telephone.

  There was a Harley-Davidson motorcycle parked in front of the slatted gate to Mave’s front yard. It looked strangely comfortable there, guarding the small Victorian estate. Carrie and I walked silently around the motorcycle and up the flagstone path to the house. Was the owner of the Harley-Davidson visiting Mave?

  “Howdy, women!” Mave greeted us at the door. She winked heavily from behind her thick glasses. “Want you to meet my special friend, Ellen Martin.”

  As Ellen and I dutifully shook hands across the doorstep, I decided she couldn’t be the owner of the motorcycle. True, she was dressed in sturdy jeans, but Ellen still could have posed for Grandmother of the Year. She was comfortably plump, with rosy, round cheeks, twinkling blue eyes and gray hair pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Nice meeting you both,” she trilled before turning back to Mave. “See you soon, sweetie,” she said in a much deeper voice and hugged Mave tightly.

  My mind began to process the meaning of “special friend.” But before my mind could even finish, Ellen grabbed a motorcycle helmet from a table near the door and walked past us. I turned in time to see her pump the Harley-Davidson into noisy life, and then she roared away.

  Mave grinned at us, obviously pleased by the effect of Ellen’s exit. I shut my gaping mouth.

  “Some hog, ain’t she?” Mave remarked and turned to lead us to the living room.

  Carrie and I were seated side by side on a purple couch in Mave’s lavender living room by the time I figured out that “hog” was probably a reference to the motorcycle and not Ellen Martin. Mave sat down on the matching couch across from us as Carrie began to speak.

  “Kate and I thought you might be able to help us identify the man or woman who murdered Slade Skinner and Nan Millard,” she said, bending forward and staring straight into Mave’s eyes.

  “So you think the same critter killed them both?” Mave asked, or maybe stated, as she stared back at Carrie.

  Carrie nodded.

  Mave tilted her head and pressed on. “And you think that very same critter is a member of our critique group.”

  “I’m not certain, but I believe it is possible,” Carrie answered solemnly.

  Mave leaned back against the cushions of the couch and laughed. “Ask a lawyer a simple question,” she rasped, shaking her head merrily.

  “I merely—” Carrie began, her eyes narrowed with annoyance. Then she took a deep breath. “Mave, are you testing me?”

  “I guess I am at that,”. Mave replied. She sat up straight again, merriment gone from her wrinkled face. “I’ve got a feeling whoever killed those two had a tad more anger running through their veins than your average human. And I’ve seen you angry more than once. But how angry?” Mave shrugged her shoulders lazily, but kept her bright gaze fastened on Carrie’s face. “Angry enough to kill?”

  “No, I’ve never been angry enough to kill,” Carrie answered tersely. “But you bring up an interesting point. I haven’t really given the issue of anger due consideration. Even though I saw the result.” Her eyes went out of focus as she stopped speaking.

  Was she seeing a dead body in her mind? Or was she thinking of Travis? Travis who had enough anger to fuel Pacific Gas and Electric’s operations for the next ten years. Maybe for the next century.

  “The murderer might not be someone who’s obviously angry,” I offered. “It could be someone who’s hiding their anger all too well. You know, someone who’s repressed—”

  “Well, that sure narrows down the field,” Mave commented, turning my way. “Especially when we add newcomers to the herd of suspects, folks who we know next to nothing about. How’s your temper, Kate?”

  I didn’t answer her right away. I was still taking in her transition from folksy old woman into hard-boiled interrogator. Both roles were probably an act, I realized with a little jolt. Of course everyone poses a little, I told myself. Mave had just been at it longer than most.

  “I’ve got a temper, but not a murderer’s temper,” I answered finally. I congratulated myself on my calm, cool delivery.

  “That’s what Russell tells me,” Mave confirmed with a knowing smile.

  Russell? When had Mave talked to Russell about me? Maybe Carrie and I weren’t the only two collaborating to solve a murder.

  “He says you’ve been involved with murder before, but only as a witness,” she went on. “But then Russell seems to be a mite prejudiced in your favor.”

  Damn. So much for being calm and cool. I could feel a hot blush crawling up my face. Was it my fault that this guy liked me? I had to tell him about Wayne—

  “Who do you believe the angry one is?” Carrie asked Mave suddenly.

  Mave opened her mouth, then shut it again. For the millionth time in my life, I wished I could read minds.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I’ve convinced myself it was each of us, one at a time. Travis, Joyce, Donna…I can make a case for anyone, including myself. But for all of that, I don’t really know.” She shook her head slowly, looking all of her seventy years.

  “Well I, for one, cannot actually imagine any of the group members doing it.” Carrie threw her hands wide. “If only we could ask Slade or Nan.”

  “‘Tzu-lu asked how one should serve ghosts and spirits,’“ Mave piped up. I could tell from her oratory tone and erect shoulders that she was quoting again. “‘The Master said, “Till you have learnt to serve men, how can you serve ghosts?” Tzu-lu then ventured upon a question about the dead. The Master said, “Till you know about the living, how are you to know about the dead?”’“

  Mave paused after the punch line, then smiled. “Confucius said that. Not that it gets us any further than a weasel can spit.”

  I was glad she had reverted to her old folksy self. She was harder to suspect that way. But harder to interrogate too.

  “You’ve known Slade longer than anyone else in the group,” I led in. “Did you ever meet any of his ex-wives? Or his children?”

  “Nope, can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” Mave replied cheerily.

  “Have you observed any connection between Nan and Slade that might explain their serial murders?” Carrie tried.


  “Nope.” She shook her head and got up from the couch. “Enough jaw-wagging. How’d you two women like some homemade zucchini bread?”

  The zucchini bread was tasty. I told myself that it counted as a green vegetable for lunch, though after one bite I was pretty sure that it had more sugar in it than zucchini. And there seemed to be more fertilizer than information in Mave once she’d reverted to her folksy self. My head was reeling with quotations, country metaphors and aphorisms by the time we left.

  “Do we know anything more than we did when we got here?” I asked Carrie on the way out to the car.

  “Not to my knowledge,” she answered.

  It never hurts to check.

  Our visit to Donna’s house was even quicker than our visit to Mave’s. Donna was at home. But so were her two children. And either Dacia or Dustin had taken one of the four cats and dumped it into the fish tank. Donna was trying to dry the dripping cat as she opened the door.

  “Dustin did it!” Dacia shouted. The wet cat screeched and jumped out of Donna’s grasp, leaving two bleeding stripes on her arms.

  “Uh-uh,” protested Dustin. “I don’t even like the stupid cat—”

  “The cats aren’t stupid!” Dacia roared.

  “Now, what are we learning about truth and cooperation?” Donna asked, kneeling in front of the two children.

  “Yeah, Dustin,” Dacia said, placing her chubby hands on her eight-year-old hips. “You lying little scumbag—”

  “Am not! Am not!”

  “Perhaps this isn’t a good time,” Carrie interjected.

  “Oh no, it’s fine,” Donna said over her shoulder. Then she turned back to her children. “I want you both to go into the meditation room now and meditate on the karmic importance of telling the truth. And remember your affirmations. And then, when you’re ready, you can come and tell me what actually happened.”

  The children glared at her for a moment, then marched into the meditation room and slammed the door shut. Donna stood up and motioned us through the front doorway.

  “We wondered if you had any idea who murdered Nan and Slade,” I blurted right out. I figured there was no time for subtlety if we were going to get any answers before Donna’s kids came back in.

  “Well, um, I—” Donna began.

  Something crashed in the meditation room, something that sounded big and heavy. A body? Then we heard the screams. I listened carefully and was relieved to make out two separate voices. At least neither Dustin nor Dacia had been killed. Not yet anyway.

  Donna sprinted to the door leading to the meditation room. She tripped over a pile of roller blades when she was almost there and hit the door with her head. The blow didn’t slow her down any, though.

  “Mahatma Gandhi!” she shouted as she wrenched the door open. “Be like Mahatma Gandhi!” Then she disappeared into the room.

  “Children are so incredibly spontaneous,” she said when she joined us a few minutes later.

  She was smiling, so I didn’t bother to ask if her incredibly spontaneous children were all right. Or even which one of them had dumped the cat into the fish tank.

  “Back to who killed Slade and Nan,” I prompted instead.

  Not that it did us any good. Donna told us she thought it must be “incredibly traumatic” to have committed two murders and not be able to talk about it. Then she assured us that some good would come out of the murders, at least karmically speaking. And finally she let us know once more that her father and she were communicating really well now and that he had nothing to do with the two deaths.

  “Do you think Donna’s trying to convince herself or us that her father’s not a murderer?” I asked Carrie on the way out to the car.

  “Both.”

  We went to my house after that and discussed murder theories while C.C. paced for us. If we didn’t solve the murder, it wouldn’t be for want of trying. Carrie had even brought a laptop computer for the exercise. She typed in four categories: suspect names, connections between suspects, notable facts and possible motives. The computer didn’t cough up the identity of the murderer at the end of the exercise. Maybe it needed a special program to do that.

  We did reach one unanimous conclusion, however. Dacia had been the one to throw the cat into the fish tank.

  “I give up,” I said finally. “Let’s get something to eat and then go see Russell.”

  “Why Russell?” Carrie asked, her eyebrows going up. “Do you believe he’s our murderer?”

  “No, no,” I said, squirming in my chair. “I don’t know if he’s our murderer or not. But he’s gotta stop following me—”

  “I thought he had stopped following you.”

  “Maybe.” I squirmed a little more, embarrassed to share my fears. “But maybe he’s just keeping out of my sight. Anyway, I have to tell him about Wayne, just in case he really does have a crush on me. And if he doesn’t have a crush on me, then why the hell is he following me? If he can’t explain himself, I’ll…I’ll…”

  “You’ll what, Kate?”

  - Twenty-Three -

  “Tell the police?” I said. At least I tried to say it, but it came out more of a question than a statement.

  Carrie nodded, though, as if satisfied, then asked, “And what will you do if Russell admits to having a crush on you?”

  I worried about that question and worse all through dinner at Miranda’s Restaurant. I should have been paying attention to their Indonesian tofu and vegetables. But even the spicy peanut sauce couldn’t capture my full interest. It barely got a nod from my taste buds. Especially since Carrie had called from my house and made a date to interview Russell after we ate dinner.

  “Hello again,” Russell greeted us at his apartment door.

  I stared at his tinted glasses, which had turned completely opaque in the light of the doorway, and searched for the hidden meaning of his words. Did he said “again” because he had been following me all this time? Or was he making fun of my coming to see him? What if he thought I was interested in him? What if—

  “Thank you for agreeing to speak to us this evening,” Carrie said as Russell motioned us through the doorway.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I mumbled, following her in.

  The same tiger-striped cat that we had met before was on Russell’s blue-and-white-checked sofa. I sat down on one side of her and Carrie sat down on the other. The cat sniffed me for a moment, then jumped into my lap and began purring. Great. Maybe she had a crush on me too.

  Russell sat down across from us on a wooden chair, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

  “What can I do for you, ladies?” he asked formally.

  “We would like to discuss the murders with you,” Carrie replied after a moment had passed. “But Kate had some specific issues she wanted to address first.”

  She turned to me, and I saw that she was wiggling her fingers, one by one. Maybe she was as nervous as I was. Though I doubted it.

  “Listen, Russell,” I said, my voice far too loud. I modulated it as I stumbled on. “I…I want to thank you for not following me anymore. It was making me really…” My mind searched for the right word. Upset? Frightened? Frantic? Nuts? “…uncomfortable,” I finally finished.

  He tilted his head gently downward. Was that a nod?

  “Anyway,” I pressed on, looking down at my own lap. I’d never be able to finish if I were looking him in the eye. Or in tinted glasses, for that matter. “I’m living with a really wonderful man right now. His name’s Wayne. He’s been on vacation, but he’s coming back soon.”

  I stopped to take a breath and looked back up. Russell didn’t look like he’d moved an inch, but his skin was pinker than it had been before. A lot pinker.

  “So I won’t need your protection anymore,” I finished up as fast as I could. I was pretty sure I’d made my point. With a sledgehammer.

  “I suppose I should explain,” Russell put in quickly. “I knew you’d confronted a murderer before and I thought that by following you, I might l
earn something.” He paused. “To use for my true-crime writing, that’s all.”

  “Right, right,” I agreed, bouncing my head up and down like a ping pong ball on an elastic string. “Of course.”

  Strangely enough, it was the plausibility of his alternative explanation that finally convinced me that he really had been infatuated with me. I was pretty sure he wasn’t infatuated anymore, though. I was trying to think of what I could say to relieve his embarrassment, and my embarrassment, when Carrie spoke up.

  “We spoke to Mave Quentin earlier today,” she told Russell, her voice matter of fact. “Mave indicated that you and she had discussed the murders. We wondered if you had come to any conclusions.”

  I turned to Carrie gratefully and listened as Russell discussed all the conclusions he hadn’t reached. He dismissed the idea of Donna’s father being involved in the murders for a number of reasons that I had a hard time hearing over the sound of my pulse celebrating a successful mission. However awkwardly, I had finally managed to tell Russell about Wayne.

  Russell went on to discuss and dismiss each of the group members as suspects. No one had the expected psychological profile of a serial murderer.

  “But of course, anyone can kill given the right circumstances,” he told us finally. He turned his head my way slowly. “Each and every one of us has that potential.”

  Uh-oh. The hair prickled on my arms. I had a feeling I had gone from object of desire to object of suspicion sometime in the last half hour. Probably around the time I’d used the sledgehammer on Russell.

  “Perhaps something will be revealed to us at tomorrow’s meeting,” Carrie concluded briskly. She stood up. “Thank you for your help, Russell.”

  I jumped up after her, remembering the cat in my lap too late. The cat landed on her feet, though. I told myself Russell would do the same as we said our goodbyes.

  Carrie didn’t comment on the way I’d handled Russell as we drove to Joyce’s place. She didn’t even tease me. She was a better person than I would have been in her position. Much better.