Adjusted to Death Read online

For the next hour I frantically did paperwork, trying to make up for lost time. I started with employee paychecks. Why hadn’t I received a raise when everyone else had? Sighing, I reminded myself that the owner’s salary is dependent upon profit.

  I was looking out my window when the bottle-green Jaguar glided up my driveway. It was exactly six o’clock. I had just enough time to put away the company checkbook and drop the paychecks in my purse before I heard footsteps clatter up the stairs.

  Wayne Caruso stood at the door. He looked handsome, at least up to his thick neck. He was comfortably dressed in loose corduroy pants and a tweed shawl-neck sweater. This cozy outfit failed to disguise the muscular contours it covered. His misshapen head looked for a moment like a lion’s, bizarrely mated with human form. A strangely erotic vision.

  Guiltily, I shook the vision out of my head. Craig was only gone two weeks and I was sexually attracted to every man I saw. Not every man, I corrected myself. I hadn’t been attracted to Sergeant Udel or Felix, or Inspector Parker, for that matter.

  “Flowers,” Wayne said and extended a muscular arm in my direction. A dozen gently blushing white rosebuds were clutched in his massive hand.

  I felt a hot flush rising in my face as I stood staring, momentarily stunned by his gesture. When I saw that flush reflected in Wayne’s scarred cheeks, I came to, and used my gaping mouth to thank him.

  Flustered, I donned my gracious hostess persona. I showed Wayne into the living room, where he lowered himself into one of the beige canvas chairs that hung on long heavy ropes from the rafters. An adventurous type. Most people studiously avoided sitting in those chairs. And then they asked if I had children.

  I opened up the curtains and let the sunshine filter into the little-used room. It sparkled on the pinball machines, and on the pinball backglasses that decorated the walls. Once I had put the flowers in water, I brought out brown-rice crackers in a basket, and asked if he’d like tea. He shook his head. I stood uncertainly. The transition from gracious hostess to interrogator is a difficult one. “A seat?” suggested Wayne with a tentative smile, motioning to the chair hanging across from his. I put the basket of crackers on the table, then plumped down gratefully and pushed off with my feet so that my chair moved gently forward and backward. Wayne matched my movements. We swung in time with one another.

  “Ask your questions,” he said. “I’ll answer them.”

  “Were you Scott’s bodyguard?” I began.

  “I was hired as a bodyguard twelve years ago. Over the years, though…” He stopped to think and swung slowly. “I provided cooking, driving, housework, friendship. The job description changed. There was no more need for a bodyguard. Or so I thought.” His hands clutched the ropes, disturbing the path of his chair. “I was wrong. Dead wrong.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I said. He looked across at me. I caught the glint of his eyes beneath the heavy brows.

  “Thanks. Should have been more careful, though. I thought it had become an affectation.”

  “What? His needing a bodyguard?” I asked. He nodded, his chair moving rhythmically once more.

  “But why did he need a bodyguard in the first place?” I asked.

  “Did business with nasty people. There were threats made. He had two bodyguards originally, brothers. One quit to get married. Scott hired me.”

  I took a big breath and asked, “Did Scott sell drugs?”

  Wayne’s face colored, the network of scars on his cheeks standing out in angry purple relief against his skin.

  “Not for a long time. Made his money and got out. He was not a monster, no matter what they say.” His eyes glinted at me again. “A photographer. Promoted artists and musicians. Got into the restaurant business to give artists a place to hang their work and musicians a place to play.”

  “He owned restaurants?” I asked.

  “All over California,” he answered, nodding. “And art galleries, music clubs.”

  “Do you inherit them?”

  “Yes, I’m the only one left. His father died two years ago. I’m the primary beneficiary, executor of his will. Got to establish a trust fund to encourage starving artists, though. And a few bequests. To the local art committee, his college, art schools.”

  “Do you need the money?”

  “No. Scott’s been generous over the years. I could live off the dividends of my own investments. Or practice law,” he said in the tone of voice that said he’d rather not.

  “Law?” I said, stopping my chair in surprise.

  “Got a law degree going to school part time. Interesting, at least in an academic setting.” He smiled wryly. “Never took the bar. Too many lawyers in the Bay Area. Half of them don’t practice anyway. Too much competition.”

  From behind me came a demanding meow. The missing C.C. had arrived. Ignoring me, she crossed the room and leapt gracefully into Wayne’s lap mid-swing.

  “Like to be useful, though,” he said as C.C. settled in on his well-muscled thigh and began to claw.

  He took her paw in his hand and held it. “No,” he said firmly, looking her straight in the eye. I chuckled at his innocence, expecting to win over C.C. with a simple “no.” C.C. moved to the center of his lap, lay on her back and purred. I stopped chuckling.

  C.C. continued to purr, her claws at rest, while I questioned Wayne about Scott’s relationship with Renee. He explained in his sad low voice that Scott had been a solitary man who longed for a family and had been afraid he couldn’t father one. Scott had hoped for a built-in family with Renee. But Renee’s children hadn’t taken to him. Nor had Renee, for that matter.

  C.C. was asleep in Wayne’s lap by the time I had asked him all the questions I could think of. He didn’t understand any better than I the hostility that Scott had sparked in Valerie and Devi, much less why Scott was killed. But he wanted to understand.

  “Not for justice, or vengeance,” he said, “but because it was my job to protect him. I’ve got to know how I failed.” His hands gripped the chair’s ropes tightly again. His eyes gazed downward, invisible under the thick curly brows, then suddenly lifted to me, glistening.

  “We’ll find out,” my voice said softly. My stomach was tight with tension.

  Suddenly I wanted it to be true. I wanted to find the killer for him. I wanted… vivid sexual images flooded my brain. What would happen if I walked over there and touched him, sat with him, held him? A lion surprised. Pathos and eros danced together for a moment in the space separating us.

  “Would you like a cracker?” I asked, motioning toward the long-forgotten basket. Pathos and eros dropped onto the beige rug and shattered.

  Wayne laughed as if he had heard the sound. C.C. woke up, glowered in my direction and jumped off his lap.

  “No, thank you,” he said, lowering his eyes once more. “But one of Scott’s restaurants, in San Francisco. We could eat dinner there.”

  “I need to drop off some checks at my warehouse tonight,” I mumbled. Fantasy was better left alone, untested. I was afraid to spend any more intimate time with this man.

  “Where is your warehouse?” he asked.

  “Oakland.”

  “Could drive you,” he offered. “Then go to dinner.”

  I hesitated. His chair stopped moving.

  “Didn’t mean to pressure you. I’ll leave you to your work,” he said, standing up.

  “No,” I said. “I mean, yes. I’d like to go. But I have a couple more things to do first.”

  I left him in the living room and went to my office. In that millisecond after agreeing to dinner, I had remembered that Wayne was a prime murder suspect.

  I found a yellow pad and wrote, “Dear Felix: Just in case something should happen, this is to let you know that I am going out with Wayne Caruso tonight (warehouse and dinner).” I dated the note and stuffed it in an envelope addressed to my friendly reporter, Felix.

  As we walked down the front stairs I noticed a new black Cadillac parked across the street, in front of my neighbor’s
house. An unusual sight. Her visitors habitually arrived in beat-up, significantly less impressive means of transportation. A new, wealthy man in her life perhaps.

  Wayne opened the passenger’s side of the Jaguar for me. I sank into a leather seat with a sigh of sensual delight. A step up from naugahyde. The leather even smelled of luxury. But a step down for some poor cow. I shook off that thought, only to wonder if I was sitting in Scott Younger’s seat.

  Wayne guided the car smoothly through the tide of homecoming traffic, stopping at a mailbox upon my request. As I got out to mail my letter to Felix, I noticed a black Cadillac parked down the block. Briefly I wondered if it was the same one I had seen across from my house. There couldn’t be that many in Marin. It was not a yuppie car.

  Then we were moving again, our words flowing less smoothly than the Jaguar. Talk of my practice of tai chi, a soft martial arts form; his long years of practice of the harder karate form; the health crisis which had precipitated my vegetarianism, and his decision to cut down on red meat took us over the Richmond Bridge in fits and starts. A burst of incomplete sentences expressing his sense of lost purpose upon Scott’s death took us down Highway 17. And my self-conscious warnings about the tackiness of my business pulled us into the parking lot by my warehouse.

  I could have skipped the warnings. Wayne appreciated Jest Gifts with the enthusiasm of the closet punster. He chuckled at Chiro-crackers, hollow-tooth cups and “uh-huh” ties for therapists. Then we glided across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco for dinner.

  “La Fête à L’oie” announced a discreet sign somewhere in the chilly grey financial district. Wayne pushed open the door to the warm lobby and I froze mid-step. I was still wearing the same corduroys and sweater that I had put on that morning. Silk dresses, wool suits, high heels, Rolexes and jewels turned to stare, if staring is the right word for intense, quick glances and subsequently averted eyes. I might as well have worn my dropseat pajamas.

  “Monsieur Caruso,” came a voice through the crowd. “And a young lady. We are so pleased.” Following the voice came a tall tuxedoed form with a handsome Mediterranean countenance. Now, heads turned back with interest. Rich eccentrics? Casually dressed celebrities? I could almost hear the silent speculation.

  “Have you been to La Fête before?” asked the tuxedo. I shook my head. “Of course not, I should have remembered such a striking young lady.”

  I looked down at my worn Reeboks and tried to smother my giggles. Striking, indeed! And still a young lady at thirty-eight. I did not want to betray my class (middle) with unseemly behavior. But when I raised my eyes and saw the grin stretched across Wayne’s ugly puss, I could hold it in no longer. Raucous laughter exploded out of my mouth like popcorn.

  “Perhaps a viewing of the gallery first before dinner?” asked the tuxedo, as if I had merely tittered.

  “Thanks, Henri,” answered Wayne, escorting me through the door into the thoroughbred gathering. “We’ll look. Need a non-dairy vegetarian dinner for two, no sugar, no white flour.” He turned to look at me. “Right?” he asked.

  I nodded, impressed that he had actually caught the details of my diet. Most people pretended to and then suggested cake and ice cream for dessert.

  The foyer was filled with works of art, and with low murmurs of appreciation from those viewing them. One wall displayed eight large squares of solidly colored canvas, each with a single shimmering line through its center. “Ah,” sighed the crowd. I preferred my shark ties. Another held frames bursting with layered scraps of paper, wood and cloth. “Ooh.” I could relate to these. They reminded me of my desk.

  I liked the photographs best. One especially. A view beginning in a grey drab interior and ending in a doorway bursting with flowers, leaves and light.

  “Scott’s,” said Wayne in a voice so tight that the woman standing next to us flinched.

  “Your table is ready,” announced Henri seconds later. We were led to a simple linen-draped table, gleaming with silver, china and glassware, its only decoration a single magnolia blossom floating fragrantly in a glass bowl.

  A matched pair of tuxedoed waiters served us with rapt attention. Had they already heard that Wayne had inherited the restaurant? I followed Wayne’s lead and ate with silent and serious concentration.

  I sampled eggplant caviar and vegetable pâtés, then savored a spicy watercress soup. A small green salad was next, followed by a teaspoon of sorbet to refresh the palate. I forgave the sorbet its sugar content and loosened my waistband unobtrusively. Wayne smiled across the table at me gluttonously.

  Then a second series of gold-rimmed dishes appeared. Rectangular thin slices of potato fanned out like cards in a deck. Marinated asparagus spears. Lemon-flavored rice, mushroom and artichoke-heart dolmas. Rosettes of beet, squash and avocado purées that looked as if they belonged on top of a wedding cake. A feast for the eyes and for the mouth, but a heavy burden for the stomach.

  A pristine bowl of fresh strawberries ended the meal.

  “Had enough?” Wayne asked. Was he serious?

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied, my voice sounding strange after the uninterrupted quiet of my feeding frenzy.

  As I waddled out the door, I wondered aloud why there were no women serving the tables. Henri’s face shifted uncomfortably.

  “Will be soon,” Wayne predicted, with what looked like a wink under his low brow.

  It was ten o’clock by the time Wayne left me at my door with a quick goodbye. No kiss, no hug, no handshake. I wondered if I had read him wrong. Was he gay? Had he been Scott’s lover after all? I turned to enter my house, then remembered, and turned back. He had already reached his car.

  “What about your stories?” I shouted to him.

  “That’s okay,” he responded.

  “I want to read them,” I insisted.

  He rummaged in the trunk of the Jaguar and pulled out a pile of large manila envelopes. He brought them up the stairs and handed them to me under the porch light.

  “Thank you,” I said and squeezed his hand. He turned around and headed down the stairs. The back of his neck was flushed pink.

  I watched him as he drove off. I heard another car start and then saw its black shape moving away from the curb; it was a black Cadillac.

  - Seven -

  I PLOPPED down in my comfy chair to consider whether or not I had been on a date. The evening had borne all of the classic earmarks. Invitation, dinner, awkward conversation. But I still wasn’t sure.

  And what if I had been on a date? I had become accustomed to Wayne’s disfigured face. In fact, his features seemed perversely attractive to me when combined with his well-proportioned body. He was intelligent, centered and attentive. He laughed at my jokes. And his combination of strength and gentleness was seductive. But I recognized the undertow of despair in him all too well. It was the same despair that I kept at bay in myself, by sheer willpower. And it frightened me to see it reflected in Wayne.

  C.C. thumped through her cat-door and into my reverie. When she reached my chair I bent down to pick her up. Simultaneously I was pierced by two separate barbs of pain. One at each end of my spine, lower back and upper neck. Damn! I had never received my preventative chiropractic treatment.

  Wincing, I collected my roses and limped to the bedroom. After changing into my dropseat pajamas, I took the last two NatuRest and lay my tortured body down on the bed. C.C. jumped lightly onto my chest, extended two paws around my neck and gave me a whiskery Eskimo kiss good night.

  By eight-thirty the next morning, I was at Maggie’s door for repair. The police had unsealed her office and she was back in business. I had figured I could sneak in without an appointment at that hour, but I was wrong. There were three unfamiliar patients ahead of me in the white waiting room. A square young man in a flannel shirt and a round middle-aged woman in a cashmere sweater held magazines in front of their respective faces. The white-haired old woman in magenta velour wasn’t as introverted. She waved her cane at me in greeting as I entered
.

  The celestial tones of Constance Demby floated on the sterile air, inviting relaxation. But Renee’s harsh tones bulldozed the harmony.

  “You here to ask me questions?” she asked. The sour expression on her tan face indicated her probable attitude regarding such an imposition.

  I moved closer to her desk in an effort at privacy. The old woman’s bright eyes followed me all the way.

  “I’d like to talk to both you and Eileen,” I said. “But I’d also like a treatment, if Maggie can fit me in.”

  “Are you kidding? You aren’t even in the appointment book.” Her sharp nails tapped the open page of that book as irrefutable evidence.

  “But my back—”

  “Kate, how are you?” Maggie danced into the room, her red hair virtually vibrating with exuberance. “Have you talked to the police again?” I opened my mouth to answer, but not fast enough. “They questioned me for two more hours. But guess what! I’ve got a bunch of new patients. It’s really neat!”

  “Maggie, maybe we could talk in your office,” I suggested. I could feel eyes burning into my neck alongside my pinched nerve.

  “Okay,” she said, and led me into the next room.

  As I lowered myself carefully onto the visitor’s chair, I could see that her office was back to normal. Stuffed animals, paperwork and junk were all jumbled together in her unkempt ecosystem. It was hard to imagine that Sergeant Udel had been behind that desk two days ago.

  “Can you work on me this morning?” I asked. First things first. “My back and neck are killing me.”

  “Of course I can. You look terrible. See what happens when you don’t get your regular adjustment?”

  “A little murder got in the way, remember?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Didn’t seem to hurt your business any, though,” I added.

  “No, that’s the strange thing. All these new people called up for treatment. Jeez, I guess there really is no such thing as bad publicity.” She shook her head.

  “Maggie, do you still want to know who killed Scott Younger?”