A Stiff Critique Page 6

  At least I had a short commute. I put in most of my sixty hours a week for Jest Gifts from my home office, dropping in at the Oakland warehouse periodically to issue paychecks and take care of crises. I contracted out the actual manufacturing of the gift items.

  Unfortunately, designing the gag gifts was the least of my work. Checking over the hundreds of mail orders a week, producing and correcting advertising copy, and keeping an eye on work orders took far more time. And payroll, miscellaneous paperwork and general bookkeeping took an equally big chunk. Taking care of disasters took the biggest chunk of all. My disaster correspondence alone could have kept a hired secretary busy. But I had a hard enough time paying Jean and Judy their salaries, not to mention mine.

  I ran my eyes over a stack of paper containing questionable orders, a leaning white tower of unpaid bills and a shorter pile of ledger sheets which I needed to transcribe for my accountant. Then I grabbed the sketch I had made earlier of a computer necktie and computer-bug tie tack. I had drawn the computer as an elongated screen atop a box atop a keyboard. What if it could be represented as a keyboard hanging sideways instead?

  *

  By Tuesday afternoon, I was working on the stack of unpaid bills. Over the previous three days I had wondered who killed Slade Skinner, reviewed the members of the critique group in my mind continuously, and come up empty every time. But I hadn’t called Carrie. I hadn’t wanted to encourage her. I had even begun to hope she had given up the idea of investigating.

  The Hutton police hadn’t talked to me since Saturday either. Maybe they had arrested their hypothetical, interrupted burglar.

  The phone rang just as that happy thought occurred to me. It was Carrie.

  “No, Kate. No one has been arrested,” Carrie assured me when I proposed the idea. “It is still up to us to pursue this matter. I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. It took some time to convince everyone to come to an emergency meeting. The others have agreed to Thursday evening.” She paused as my stomach turned over. “You will be able to attend, won’t you?”

  I thought about lying, but despite my stomach’s vote, I couldn’t get my mouth to say no. Carrie told me she’d pick me up Thursday evening, and hung up.

  *

  By Thursday evening, I had lowered the unpaid bills stack by two-thirds and was reviewing a new stack of questionable orders. The doorbell chimed.

  I grabbed my purse off the pinball machine on the way to the door, expecting Carrie. She had never told me exactly what time the emergency meeting was supposed to be. I opened the door, ready to ask her.

  “Hey there, Kate,” the man in the doorway greeted me. He was a long, lean, handsome man with large puppy-dog brown eyes. My ex-husband, Craig. “Thought I might drag you off to dinner.”

  He walked quickly through the doorway into the entry hall and peeked into my office. “Or maybe we could go to a Workaholics Anonymous meeting,” he finished with a laugh.

  He stopped laughing abruptly when he noticed that I hadn’t joined in. Then he opened his puppy-dog eyes even wider. He turned to survey the living room.

  “Still looks the same,” he whispered sadly.

  Guilt twinged in my chest before I could harden myself.

  Then I remembered that Craig had once described this living room as a “goddamn jungle complete with library.” And he was wrong anyway. It didn’t still look the same. The rug was still beige and the walls were still white, but the potted plants had grown even taller and wider, more books spilled from the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the hanging chairs hung lower with age. And there were only two pinball machines in the living room now to commemorate our long-gone business. Craig had taken the other four when he moved out, and kept them as part of our divorce settlement.

  I crossed my arms and tightened my lips into a frown.

  Craig looked down at the floor for a moment, then reached into his pocket.

  “I brought you a model,” he said softly and pulled out a computer chip. “For your bug design.”

  He smiled hopefully at me. I took a breath and reminded myself that encouraging him was cruel in the long run. Then I thanked him for the chip and said goodbye.

  “But—” he began.

  “Goodbye,” I repeated firmly.

  “Have you heard the new joke about the computer programmer and the nun—” he tried again.

  The third goodbye did the trick.

  I leaned against the front door and listened to Craig’s footsteps going down the front stairs, suddenly remembering another time when he had left. When he had left for good. My gut tightened. Then the doorbell rang again.

  I jerked the door open, ready to shout.

  But this time it really was Carrie. She gave me a quick hug, then hustled me out the door and into her Honda Accord without further ceremony. She told me the emergency group meeting was going to be held at Mave’s house in the town of Hutton. The same town where Slade had lived. And we were running late.

  “The theme of Hutton is money,” she lectured as she zipped up the highway. “Class comes into it too. And of course, beauty and the very best of taste…”

  She was still lecturing ten minutes later as she guided her Accord down the wide, nearly empty, tree-shaded streets of Hutton. “According to Police Chief Gilbert, there is no crime problem here. Hutton’s citizens are certainly the wealthiest in Marin County, which is saying a lot. I understand you can’t buy a house in Hutton for less than a million these days.” She slowed the car as we passed Slade’s house, then pointed. But she was pointing at the other side of the street.

  My eyes followed her finger to a rambling, two-story redwood home set back tastefully behind a lush green sea of lawn and flower beds where immense dahlias bloomed in strict rows. A much smaller building sat off to the side, surrounded by more dahlias.

  “Nan rents the former maid’s quarters,” Carrie went on, and I realized she had been pointing to the smaller building. “She pays more than two thousand dollars a month for the privilege.” I looked more closely at Nan’s home as we passed.

  “Two thousand for that tiny place?” I breathed. “It can’t be anywhere near half the size of my house. And my house isn’t all that big.”

  “The prestigious address is worth it to Nan,” Carrie informed me. “Not to mention the proximity to Slade’s house. I’ll bet she kept an eagle eye on him from her ever-so-tiny but well-furnished living room.”

  I turned to Carrie again. “If Nan was this close, do you suppose…”

  Carrie shrugged as I let the question peter out.

  “I spoke to Donna,” she said. “Donna tells me she is glad she gave everyone a hard copy of her manuscript. Apparently, the family’s hoods broke into her place Sunday and took all of her papers. She’s certain they are the same men who visited my house on Saturday evening. However, she still has the text of her manuscript stored on her computer. She will be handing out floppy disks this evening.”

  That was the end of Carrie’s lecture. She didn’t say anything more as she took the last few turns of the road and then pulled her car over to the curb to park neatly behind a Honda Civic.

  But she gave my shoulder a quick squeeze before she opened the slatted gate in front of Mave’s house. I wasn’t sure if the squeeze was for my benefit or hers, but I appreciated it. We walked side by side up the flagstone path to Mave’s front door. The house itself was a modest Victorian box set in the center of its modest quarter-acre lot. I was admiring a bed of begonias near the front door when I suddenly wondered how Mave could afford even this relatively small hunk of Hutton.

  “Inherited,” Carrie whispered, as if I’d voiced the question aloud.

  Then the front door flew open and Mave peered out at us. For all her wrinkles and gray hair, there was something childlike about her gaze. Maybe it was the roundness of her eyes under her violet-rimmed glasses.

  “Hi, Mave,” I greeted her self-consciously. My mouth felt dry suddenly. Did she know I was here as a spy?


  “Howdy there, Kate,” she returned my greeting, her voice rasping pleasantly. She reached out and clasped my hand in a firm grip for a moment.

  Then she told Carrie “Howdy” too and led the way through the doorway and down the hall to a living room decorated in shades of lavender, mauve and pale yellow. Black and white photographs covered the far wall. I would have liked to examine them but my eyes were drawn to the members of the critique group who stood in two small clusters in front of us. Nan Millard was the closest.

  “The condo in San Ricardo is just adorable. And it has oodles and oodles of space for a writer,” she was telling Russell Wu. She waved a tan hand in his expressionless face, clanking chunky gold bracelets as she did. “Why you stay in that dumpy little apartment when you could…”

  “Nan’s trying to sell that poor critter real estate again,” Mave whispered in my ear.

  I chuckled, then swallowed uneasily. Was Nan a murderer? Was Russell?

  I turned my eyes to the other little group. Vicky Andros and Joyce Larson stood quietly listening to Travis as he ranted and pounded a fist into his palm.

  “…these fascists from the California Beef Council are telling ignorant little kids that meat’s good for you!” he told them.

  Joyce nodded thoughtfully. I watched her and wondered if she actually paid someone to perm her hair and dye it that ghastly shade of black. It certainly didn’t look natural, especially with her pale blue eyes. But then her blue eyes were covered by the oversized glasses she wore. I chided myself. This was a good woman. She didn’t have to be good-looking too.

  “It’s time to do something!” Travis ranted on. “We can’t let those poor little kids listen to lies.” He turned his head to include Vicky in his broadcast.

  Vicky didn’t nod thoughtfully. She just wrapped her arms around herself and hugged. She was so thin, she could have wrapped them around twice.

  “I say we picket supermarkets,” Travis went on. “Hit them in the pocketbook—”

  But the sound of running footsteps behind us interrupted his harangue. I turned in time to see Donna Palmer come galloping through the doorway. She wore a white peasant blouse and swirling skirt topped by a multicolored hand-woven sleeveless vest that hung all the way to the floor. She was smiling and brushing her dark, tangled hair with her fingers as she rushed toward us.

  She was only a yard away when her body jerked suddenly.

  And then she fell to the lavender carpet with a muted thud.

  - Six -

  My heart jumped in my chest. And in the same microsecond, my mind screamed at me, telling me that the woman who had just fallen face down on the carpet was Donna Palmer, beleaguered daughter of organized crime. Had they shot her? I hadn’t heard a shot. But maybe they’d used a silencer.

  In the next microsecond, I was on my knees next to her body. I reached to take a pulse, hoping I would find one. Hoping she was still alive. But just as my hand made contact with warm flesh, the body rolled over and sat up in a tangle of swirled skirt and sleeveless vest. With a smile on her face, the woman I had been afraid was dead extricated an arm and stuck out her hand.

  The smile couldn’t overshadow the red patch on her forehead however. I’d have bet it would be a bruise soon enough. I ignored her outstretched hand.

  “Are you all—” I began.

  “Jesus, not again,” I heard someone say from behind me. I turned in time to see Nan Millard shake her head, gold earrings flashing.

  When I turned back, Donna was running her hand along the top of her peasant blouse. Her hand snagged in the chain that one of her many crystals was hanging from.

  “Do I still have my ribbons?” she whispered.

  I nodded. There were two ribbons pinned to her blouse, one red and one blue. I knew the red one was for AIDS awareness. I wasn’t sure what the blue one was for.

  Then I swiveled my head to look around the room. What was wrong with everyone? Nobody but me seemed to be so much as looking at Donna.

  “I can be so incredibly klutzy sometimes,” Donna confided. She jerked her hand through her tangled hair and winced. “But the benevolence of the universe always protects me from harm.” She stuck out her hand again. “I’m Donna,” she told me.

  “I’m Kate Jasper,” I answered and this time I reached out and shook her hand. “I met you last Saturday.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she giggled. “The gag-gift maker.” Her hand felt small and soft in mine.

  “What the hell just happened?” I asked.

  “She tripped over her skirt,” Nan explained in a drawl from behind me. “It’s so damned long, it’s a wonder she didn’t strangle herself in the process. But we can only hope for so much.”

  Donna stared up at Nan without any visible sign of rancor in her soulful honey-colored eyes. Or any comment.

  I could have made a comment, though. Donna’s skirt may have been too long, but Nan’s beige linen one was close to nonexistent, barely skimming the top of her tan thighs. I shook my head to clear it. I wasn’t here to observe relative skirt lengths.

  “Do you need help getting up?” I asked Donna.

  “Oh, no. But thank you, anyway,” she said with a sweet smile. In fact, her whole face had a sweet innocence to it. She must have been at least thirty, but when she smiled she looked all of ten years old.

  We both stood up together. Donna’s rise was a little shakier than mine though, since she was still standing on the hem of her skirt. I turned away when she tried to pick up her purse by its long strap, which was tangled up with her vest now. It was too damned painful to watch her struggle. Now I realized why no one else would look at her.

  “Well, no harm done,” said Mave briskly once we were standing. “How’s about using the dining room table for the meeting? I think I’ve got enough chairs.”

  She began counting us, using her fingers to keep track. When she got to nine, she squinted her eyes for a moment, then smiled. “Oh, that’s right,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve still got the same number. Lost one. Gained one.”

  Mave certainly didn’t seem unduly upset by Slade Skinner’s murder. As we walked into the dining room, I wondered if anyone in this group had really liked the man.

  Mave’s rosewood table was long enough for a board of directors. It filled the space in the pale yellow dining room with exactly enough room to push back its matching upholstered chairs and walk two steps to the sideboard, almost as if each item of furniture had been built to fit. They probably had been, I realized. We were talking Hutton here, after all.

  “Carrie,” Mave instructed, “you take your place at the head of the table, since you called this here meeting. And you, Kate, why don’t you take Slade’s place next to Carrie?”

  I nodded politely, wondering if I really wanted Slade’s place, metaphorically or otherwise, and took the seat. Travis quickly claimed the chair on Carrie’s other side. Everyone else shuffled and rustled until they were seated, Donna, Joyce and Mave along with Travis across from me and Nan, Vicky and Russell filling in my side of the table.

  “Slade Skinner’s death raises some very important issues,” Carrie began once we were all quiet in our chairs. She paused and ran her dark eyes slowly over each of us in turn. It was a good technique. I was ready to confess. “Issues that need discussion and consideration.”

  “Like what exactly?” asked Nan, her voice loud and bored as if to say that she for one was not intimidated.

  Carrie turned to her and stared until Nan shifted in her seat, then answered. “The first issue, as I see it, is whether the group members will choose to continue as a group without Slade’s presence.”

  “We’re cool by ourselves,” Travis answered, his voice low and angry. “We don’t need Slade Skinner to push us around.” Then he crossed his arms across his chest and glowered across the table. Heathcliff, I realized. He looked exactly like I had imagined Heathcliff while reading Wuthering Heights as a teenager.

  Mave raised her hand. Carrie nodded at her.

&
nbsp; “Joyce Grenfell said it best,” Mave told us with a smile that half-closed her round eyes. “‘If I should go before the rest of you, break not a flower nor inscribe a stone,’“ she recited. “‘Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice, but be the usual selves that I have known—’“

  “I vote to keep going,” Vicky interjected in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. I took a better look at her bony face. It wasn’t a bad face, just thin. Her mouth looked oddly heavy and sensual against the backdrop of scarcity.

  “‘Weep if you must, parting is hell.’“ Mave continued her eulogy, putting a hand on her chest for emphasis. “‘But life goes on, so sing as well.’“ Then she smiled broadly, wrinkling her face even more deeply, and bowed her head.

  I gave Mave a little round of applause. Donna was the only one who joined me, though.

  “Shall the record show a ‘yes’ vote?” Carrie asked, her tone transforming the formality of her words to a teasing affection.

  “You betcha,” Mave confirmed with a wink.

  “Me too,” Donna chimed in. “Slade wasn’t always, well, exactly in harmony with everyone, but he had, well, integrity. He’d want us to validate our own experience, I’m sure—”

  “I vote yes, too,” Nan put in brusquely.

  “Joyce?” asked Carrie with a look at the brunette.

  “I suppose we should go on,” Joyce answered softly, her pale skin pinkening as she spoke. Debilitating shyness, I guessed. No wonder the poor woman had less of a life than Carrie.

  Carrie turned her eyes to Russell.

  “I’ll go with the consensus,” he said, nodding ever so slightly. I had forgotten how pleasant his voice was to the ear, deep and melodious. I would have expected a harsher tone from a true-crime writer.

  “Then we are all agreed to continue as a group,” Carrie concluded. “Which brings us to the second issue for discussion.”

  “Now what?” Nan demanded with a toss of her blond hair.

  “I’ll make it very simple,” Carrie answered, her round, freckled face deadly serious. Once again, she ran her eyes over each of us in turn. “Does anyone here have any information that might be relevant to the identity of Slade Skinner’s murderer?”