A Stiff Critique Page 7

  Her question was greeted with absolute silence. Even Nan kept her mouth shut. Travis jutted his head forward as if he were going to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and leaned back again with his arms crossed.

  “Slade told me he had a date with someone last Saturday after our regular meeting.” Carrie’s voice was stern as she went on. “He said that ‘someone’ was a member of our group. I have asked you each individually, and I will repeat the question once more to all of you. Did one of you have a five o’clock date with Slade Skinner last Saturday?”

  Still no one answered. I looked around the table, Nan was staring up at the ceiling with an expression of strained exasperation. I couldn’t tell if it was real or feigned. Vicky was concentrating on a cuticle she was chewing. At least she was eating. Russell sat perfectly still, his eyes resting lightly on Carrie. Mave’s head was tilted, her eyes wide with what looked like rapt interest in the proceedings. Joyce’s eyes were closed, her hands clasped in front of her. Maybe she was meditating. Donna was smiling sweetly as she twirled a piece of hair around her finger. And Travis was still glowering across the table.

  I had no idea if any of them was harboring guilty thoughts about meeting Slade and/or killing him. Neither did Carrie apparently.

  She sighed deeply, then asked if anyone had any ideas at all about Slade’s murder. At least this time there was a response.

  “Well, uh,” Donna began. “There is my family.”

  “And…” Carrie gently encouraged her.

  “They don’t think it’s appropriate for me to write my autobiography and include them in it,” Donna went on. “They’re in, like, complete denial about their roots, how they made their money and stuff. Especially my dad. He’s been very abusive about the whole thing. Yelling his head off. Not really trying to communicate at all—”

  “What does this have to do with Slade’s murder?” Nan cut in. “If anything.”

  “Uh, I’m not sure,” Donna admitted. “But my dad did send his men out to get the manuscript back from everyone I gave a copy to.” She smiled suddenly. “See, he thought they had all my copies, but they didn’t. Oh, they took my computer and all my papers and everything from my house. But they don’t know that I’ve rented a work space. Everything they took from my house is duplicated there.” She giggled, her face looking more like a ten-year-old’s than ever. I wondered for a moment if she was mildly retarded, then decided against it. “So it didn’t do them one bit of good,” she finished up triumphantly. Maybe she was just emotionally backward.

  “I believe I was visited by your father’s men Saturday evening,” Carrie said, her tone as serious as Donna’s might have been. Carrie wiggled one finger, then another. “They took my copy of your manuscript.”

  “Mine’s gone too,” Russell added quietly. “Although I didn’t see who actually took it.”

  “Good golly!” yelped Mave. “I couldn’t find my copy, but I just thought I’d put it somewhere goofy.” She swiveled her head around abruptly to look behind her, as if to catch the thieves here and now. “Those donkey bottoms better not come back again,” she declared fiercely.

  “Listen, Mave,” Travis put in, jutting his head forward. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll come and stay with you. I’ve still got my copy. I checked.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, you sweet boy,” Mave answered, straightening in her seat. “This old woman’s got ways of dealing with these kind of critters.”

  Oh great, I thought. She’s probably got a shotgun somewhere. And I’d have bet she knew how to use it too.

  “Wait a minute,” Nan said, glaring across the table at Donna. “Are you telling us you gave our addresses to these goons?”

  “Well, not exactly,” Donna replied, her smile disappearing. Her face colored under Nan’s glare as she spoke. “But I did tell Dad that the group members had copies, and I guess his men found my address list when they took all my other stuff.”

  “You guess?” demanded Nan. She shook a well-manicured finger at Donna. “Jesus, you’re an idiot! Don’t you have any sense at all? Are you trying to get us all killed?”

  “Now hold your horses there, Nan,” Mave objected. She held up a hand, palm facing outward. “Donna didn’t know that those burro’s behinds were gonna steal everything.”

  Nan reared up in her chair and opened her mouth again.

  But Carrie’s tongue was faster. “Is anyone else missing their copy of Donna’s manuscript?” she asked.

  “How do I know?” Nan replied, brushing her blond bangs out of her face with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know anyone was after the damn thing until today. The whole situation is totally absurd.”

  “I’m not sure either,” Vicky threw in.

  “I don’t know if my copy is gone,” Joyce murmured. “I’ll check as soon as I go home.” She took a deep breath before going on. “But I think our real concern here should be whether these men are actually violent.”

  “They haven’t proved themselves violent yet,” Carrie put in. She paused before adding, “As far as we know, that is.”

  The table went silent as the group considered her addendum. Finally, Donna spoke up.

  “I don’t think my dad lets his men do any of the violent stuff anymore,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Donna, this is important,” Carrie said. “Do you think any one of your father’s men is capable of murder?”

  Donna frowned and chewed on her upper lip for a few moments.

  “Are you thinking or in some kind of coma?” Nan demanded.

  “Thinking,” Donna answered slowly. Then she sat up straight and smiled again. “No,” she concluded. “I don’t think any of his men are capable of murder. I mean, they are kind of ethically challenged. But they’re not that ethically challenged!”

  I groaned aloud. But no one seemed to notice. Maybe everyone but Donna was trying to figure out what “ethically challenged” meant.

  “I agree with Donna,” Russell said after a moment. A hint of a smile touched his even, Asian features. “Though I might not have used quite the same description.” He paused, then went on, his deep voice as reassuring as his words.

  “I’ve got a few buddies on the police force,” he told us. “Even one with the FBI. After my copy of Donna’s manuscript disappeared, I talked to each of them informally. I asked if someone working for Donna’s father might have panicked and killed Slade while trying to retrieve Donna’s manuscript. But none of the guys I talked to thought it was very likely. Donna’s father and his business associates are respectable now. And more important, they’re trying to keep a low profile. They don’t want the cops climbing all over them in a murder investigation. They wouldn’t want to risk even a hint of suspicion. At least that’s the theory.”

  “Are your friends on the police force investigating the possibility?” Carrie asked.

  “They’re looking into it informally,” Russell assured her. “And they’ve talked to the Hutton police about it. But who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Oh, I forgot!” Donna piped up. “I’ve got floppies to give to everyone.”

  Nobody looked thrilled by the prospect. But she pulled them out of her purse and handed them out to everyone anyway. Including me. I just hoped she wasn’t going to give her father’s friends an updated list of group members.

  “This has my latest draft,” she told us cheerfully. “It’s even got a new title.”

  I looked down at the label on the computer disk. It read “MY FAMILY, THE FAMILY—by Donna Palmer.”

  “Catchy,” Mave said approvingly. Then she set her floppy down on the polished surface of the rosewood table. Keeping her eyes lowered, she spoke softly. “Been thinking of what Carrie said about Slade having a date with one of us after the last meeting. Wouldn’t want to think there was a murderer among us, but I can’t help but wonder if, well, if the son-of-a-gun wasn’t killed ‘cause someone was real hot under the collar over one of his critiques. He gave one he
ck of a nasty critique, that’s for sure—”

  “That is an absolutely ridiculous idea,” Nan interrupted. “Slade was a professional. And so were his critiques.”

  Did the lady protest too much? Nan certainly hadn’t appeared to have enjoyed Slade’s critique of her own work on Saturday. Though I seemed to remember her trying to act as if she didn’t mind his comments. And Slade was sleeping with Nan. He might have been even harsher with the others.

  “I had another idea too,” Mave went on, apparently unfazed by Nan’s interruption. “What if someone got a burr under their saddle reading Cool Fallout? If you ask me, Slade drew some of his characters straight from real life—”

  “That’s right!” shouted Travis. He leaned forward and hit the table with his fist. “The scheming, social-climbing real-estate agent is obviously Nan.”

  “I resent that remark,” Nan announced coolly. Her voice wasn’t loud, but the way she narrowed her eyes as she spoke gave me goose bumps. She sat up straight in her chair and glared across the table at Travis. “I may be a real estate agent, but that’s where the resemblance ends. I have had lunch with Martin Cruz Smith. And Joe Gores. I am an author. I am not anything like the character in Cool Fallout.”

  Travis opened his mouth again, but Russell headed him off with his own admission.

  “Well, I certainly recognized myself as the stereotypical Chinese-American nerd,” he said without a sour note in his melodious voice. “Though at least Slade had the decency to make me an artist and curator instead of a writer—”

  “I never noticed!” Joyce exclaimed. Her blue eyes were wide under her oversized glasses. She raised a hand to her temple, then drew it back over her black, permed hair. “Of course, the nerd. And the real estate agent. How could I have missed them?” She seemed to be talking to herself.

  “Russell Wu is no nerd!” Travis protested hotly. “If anyone was a nerd, it was Slade. Sitting in his fancy house and thinking up nasty things to say about the rest of us. That’s not how a real man acts…”

  I glanced at Russell as Travis continued his tirade. Russell’s face was stiff. With embarrassment?

  “Did Slade ever do anything really important with his writing?” Travis demanded. He threw his arms into the air. “Did he ever care about the effect it had on others? No, he just blabbed on and on without a conscience. And to make fun of Russell—”

  “Travis,” Carrie interrupted gently. “Maybe we could move on now.”

  “Oh,” Travis said blankly. He sat with his mouth open for a moment, then waved a hand at Carrie. “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Does anyone else have any other ideas about Slade Skinner’s murder?” Carrie asked.

  No one spoke up.

  “Then I’d like to ask the group’s permission to add a new member to our permanent roster,” Carrie proposed, a grin splitting her round face. Damn. I wished she’d asked me first. “I introduced you all to Kate Jasper at last Saturday’s meeting. Kate is my long-time friend.” She paused, then added, “And she writes short stories.”

  “And poetry to boot,” Mave reminded everyone.

  - Seven -

  I smiled weakly as eight pairs of eyes stared my way. Then I asked myself why I had ever agreed to come to this group. And why I had ever mentioned poetry to Carrie.

  “Oh, I’m a poet too!” Donna exclaimed happily.

  A soulmate. I should have guessed. She closed her eyes and then clasped her hands together, knocking one elbow on the rosewood table as she did.

  “God save us,” drawled Nan. “She’s going to recite her work again.”

  “Red on white,” Donna whispered. Then her voice grew stronger. “My mother!” she boomed. “My grandmother. Blood ties. Blood spilled.”

  She paused for a breath and finished in a shout. “Blood shared!”

  Donna opened her eyes again and looked across at me. I arranged my features into an expression I hoped looked encouraging, wondering just whose blood had been spilled. Was this an example of organized crime poetry?

  “That was real nice, Donna,” Mave praised. I turned to her, grateful for the intervention. “What kind of poetry do you write, Kate?” she asked.

  “Uh,” I replied, startled. “Nothing really. Nothing I’d want to share.”

  “Aw, bull-chips,” Mave chided, but her face was friendly enough. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get you over that in no time, Kate. Poetry is for reciting. That’s what I always say…”

  Maybe I could claim laryngitis. I could almost feel my throat closing up already.

  “I grew up when poetry was important,” Mave went on. “We read it, memorized it, recited it. I know free verse is all the rage now, but I love a poem with traditional meter all the same.” She looked my way as if for agreement.

  I nodded and smiled. My jaw muscles were beginning to twitch with the effort. Why is it that a false smile takes so much more effort than a real one?

  “Some good new poets out there, though,” she admitted. “You read Margaret Atwood?”

  I shook my head. “So, do you write poetry too?” I asked, hoping to derail her.

  “No, no,” she answered. “Only wish I could. Never had it in me, I guess. But I do dearly love reading it. And hearing it. I’d love to hear you recite something—”

  “Oh please,” Nan groaned. “No more poetry!” I could have kissed her. “Carrie, come on,” she whined. “Let’s get on with it. What’s next on the agenda?”

  “I thought we could each give Kate a brief synopsis of our work, since she will be a permanent member of our group,” Carrie replied. “That way she could get to know us all a little better.”

  “Hey, I’m hungry,” Travis announced from across the table. He was wearing a smile now. It looked good on his handsome face. But then everything did. “Can we eat while we talk?”

  “Good golly, yes,” seconded Mave. “I’m more than a mite hungry myself.”

  My own stomach was pretty empty too, I realized. But this meeting wasn’t a potluck, was it?

  “I made sweet-potato bread,” said Carrie, rising from her chair. “But I left it in the car. I’ll go get it.”

  “I did a fruit salad,” Nan said lazily. “Vicky, can you get it out of the refrigerator for me when you get your own salad?”

  Vicky nodded stiffly as she stood up. Her thin face looked drawn and unhappy. I wasn’t feeling so great myself. I hadn’t thought to bring any food.

  I looked at Mave. “I didn’t realize this one was a potluck. I—”

  “Aw, don’t you worry,” Mave interrupted. She pushed back her chair. “We usually have enough grub to slop an army of hogs anyway. Plenty to spare.”

  Then everyone besides Nan seemed to stand up and leave the room just as Vicky got back with two bowls in her hands. She put both of them down on the rosewood table and removed the Saran Wrap from one, keeping her eyes averted from its contents.

  Within ten more minutes there was a feast spread out on the table in bowls and covered casserole dishes. Mave handed out her offering: lavender paper napkins and paper plates, and silverware that looked like real silver. Then finally, people began passing the bowls and dishes around. Vicky’s bowl turned out to contain a green salad, lightly dressed in lemon juice. Nan’s fruit salad looked good, full of melon and strawberries. And Carrie’s sweet-potato bread smelled wonderful.

  The next dish that came around the table looked like a vegetable ratatouille, but it was hard to tell. I hesitated before dishing some out. Could there be meat lurking among the vegetables?

  “Kate’s a vegetarian,” Carrie announced from beside me.

  She was getting as psychic as my friend Barbara. “Is all the food vegetarian tonight?”

  “Mine sure is,” Travis declared loudly through a mouthful of bread. Then he swallowed. “Tofu-stuffed potatoes with pepper and tahini.”

  “The ratatouille is completely vegan,” Joyce assured me.

  Russell said he’d brought a berry pie for dessert and he’d brought the la
bel from the package too. Then Donna started in on the recipe for her multigrain pilaf. All the food had been passed around the table by the time she finished. And I had a little of everything on my paper plate. I took a bite of Carrie’s bread. It tasted as good as it smelled, sweet and full of raisins and nuts.

  “Joyce and I are vegetarians too,” Travis announced a few minutes later. He had finished his first plateful of food and was reaching for more. “I don’t see how anyone with a conscience can be anything else.” He scooped about a pint of ratatouille onto his plate and grabbed five or six more slices of bread. “People have to realize that animals are on this earth too, just like you and me. You don’t kill your neighbors for food just because they’re a different species!” He stuffed a whole slice of bread into his mouth and spoke through it with muffled passion. “And fish. People say fish don’t count. Well I say, how’d you like to be pulled outa the water and suffocated?”

  “The violence done to animals in the name of nutrition is terrible,” Joyce whispered, her hand arrested over her plate. “Really terrible. I just wish we could serve all vegetarian food at Operation Soup Pot, but we rely on handouts.” She sighed. “We have to use what is given.”

  “Carrie tells me you’re the moving force behind Operation Soup Pot,” I said, hoping to encourage her. And to discourage Travis at the same time. Vegetarian though I was, I was certain I could live the rest of my life quite happily without another animal rights lecture.

  “Oh, I’m just the kitchen manager,” Joyce objected, her pale skin suffused with a pink tide that went all the way up to the roots of her black hair.

  “Come on, Joyce,” Travis said affectionately. “If it weren’t for you, there’d be no Operation Soup Pot.”

  Joyce’s blush deepened even further with the compliment. “Oh, no,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Other people have done similar things. It doesn’t take much thought to realize you can use leftovers to feed the needy.”

  “But you—” Travis began.