A Sensitive Kind of Murder (A Kate Jasper Mystery) (5 page)

- Six -

I didn’t think to shut the door. Instead, I opened and shut my mouth a few times for exercise as our whole yard sprouted with media beings: animal, vegetable, and mineral. They popped up everywhere. TV vans, cars with press signs on their dashboards, and worse, their occupants, unloading all their instruments for the inquisition: sound and video equipment, cameras, microphones, notepads, and mouths. Especially mouths.

“Ms. Jasper?” the sincere looking, well-dressed young woman in front of me began. Her formal tone told me that
her
station’s cameras were rolling, even if some of the other stations’ were a little slower. “We’re here at your home today to speak to you about witnessing the death of Steve Summers, husband of Marin Assemblywoman Laura Summers. This isn’t the first death you’ve witnessed in Marin County, is it? In fact, some call you The Typhoid—”

“Don’t say it,” I warned through gritted teeth.

She paused for less than an instant before her mouth opened again. “Steve Summers was the victim this time—a respected journalist, your friend, and, of course, the husband of Assemblywoman Laura Summers.”

Then Wayne was behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I didn’t have to turn my head to see the gargoyle stare he was aiming at the young woman—I could feel it.

“Is it true that Steve Summers was killed in a botched assassination attempt on Laura Summers?”

“But Laura Summers wasn’t killed,
Steve
Summers was,” I replied, then gave myself a mental kick for having spoken at all. Still, what was this woman talking about?

“Rumors are that Laura Summers was the intended victim!” a new voice shouted. I saw an older man in a perfect suit behind the young woman. “What did you see—”

“No comment,” Wayne broke in.

“Are you Mr. Caruso?” the young woman asked, finding some perverse encouragement from his non-comment.

“Mr. Caruso, isn’t it true that you were in some kind of radical political group with Mr. Summers?” another voice shouted. And then everyone was shouting.

“Did Mr. Summers agree with his wife’s political stands?”

“Did Steve Summers believe in the violent overthrow of the United States government?”

“Is it true that Steve Summers had a C.I.A. background?”

“Didn’t Steve Summers cause a suicide with one of his articles?”

“How did Assemblywoman Summers feel about her husband’s political activities?”

“Was the assemblywoman present when her husband was killed?” my original inquisitor demanded, still looking sincere.

“That’s it,” Wayne announced. “No comment. Goodbye.”

He shut the door, but it caught on the foot of the young woman who’d started it all off, leaving at least a six inch gap between us and privacy.

I looked at her blue, high-heeled shoe. Did I dare step on it? Or maybe kick it? I wouldn’t want to maim her, at least not terribly. Wayne seemed to be going through the same ethical struggle, unmoving but for his gaze, which was directed down toward the blue shoe.

And then my eye caught a glimpse of something through the gap at the top of the doorway—a flash of fur. Yes! Black and white fur.

C. C. dove and stuck her claws into the young woman’s shoulder. The woman screamed, and her foot disappeared from our doorway. I pushed the door shut quickly. C. C. could make her way back in through the cat door. I just hoped none of the reporters were small enough to use it.

Even with the door closed, we could hear the frenzy C. C.’s attack had caused.

“Was that a bobcat?” someone clamored.

“I thought it was a wolf,” came another voice.

Our inquisitor was now the inquisitee. Her wounds would heal, I told myself as I heard the flap of the cat door. Our hero had returned.

To reward C. C. or not to reward C. C? That was the question. What she had done was bad—very bad. But she had certainly picked a good victim.

I stooped down to pet my perfect little cat without even thinking. C. C. had remained to see the audience reaction this time. She knew she was a hero. She purred as I pet her, then slowly blinked her eyes before running off down the hallway to celebrate, her talents recognized at long last.

Once C. C. was gone, I turned to Wayne.

“Why did those guys think—” I began.

He put his finger across his lips. Was it possible that the reporters were still listening? We retreated to the bedroom just in case. Even in there, we sat on the floor and whispered.

“How did Steve Summers’ death become Laura Summers’ assassination attempt?” I hissed.

“She’s more interesting,” Wayne hissed back. “Makes a better story.”

“If the reporters are on
us
like this, what are they doing to Laura?” I asked a minute later.

Wayne was silent, his brows lowering. “Probably has employees to field reporter questions,” he finally answered. “But still…”

I reached out and grabbed his hand. How could Laura bear to lose her husband? If he was anything like Wayne…I couldn’t even complete the thought.

Instead, I bent toward Wayne and pressed my lips against his. Wasn’t that where we’d been before? And sure enough, the phone rang.

I took the call on the extension in our bedroom.

“Um, this is Mike Russo, you know?” the voice on the extension informed me.

“Yeah?” I said tentatively.

“Um, my dad is like, really upset,” he whispered. “And, um, I wanted you to know that I saw you guys at the store,” Mike speeded up. “Dad said I should tell you. I was just shopping. I shop for my dad lots of times when he’s busy.”

“All right,” I assured him, preparing to hang up. But it wasn’t that easy.

“And…I thought maybe you could cheer my dad up,” Mike suggested diffidently. “You know, you or Wayne, maybe?”

I took that to mean that Mike really wanted Wayne to talk to his father. I put my hand over the receiver. “You wanna talk to Carl Russo?” I asked my sweetie.

Wayne sighed but nodded.

“Mike, get your father,” I ordered as Wayne reached for the phone.

When Wayne took the phone, I could hear the buzz of Carl Russo’s voice on the other end.

“Don’t worry,” Wayne said when he got a word in ten minutes later. By then he was lying on top of the mattress on the floor that served as our bed, and he was lying backward to accommodate the short phone cord. I lay down beside him.

Another ten minutes later, he said, “Yeah, someone is talking about the group, but—”

“Mike’ll be fine,” he pressed on after a minute. His interrupt speed was getting better, at least.

Then he said, “uh-huh,” a few more times and, “don’t worry, he’ll be fine,” and then he hung up.

Less than a breath later, the doorbell and the phone both rang simultaneously. Wayne and I looked at each other with instant agreement in our eyes. We wouldn’t answer either my fancy new phone or the doorbell for the rest of the day. Wayne said he’d leave La Fête à L’Oie to his manager for the evening; we would work in our home offices.

After a quick hug, Wayne headed back to his little room at the end of the hall, and I heard the clacking of calculator keys. Then I returned to my own office next to the entry way and closed the front curtains. It’s lucky no real focus is necessary for paperwork; my brain was throbbing, but my hands shuffled papers, entered numbers in columns, and wrote checks. And all bells rung unanswered.

Wayne and I had a late dinner, followed by an early bedtime. And for once, when our lips touched, no bells rang but the ones in our heads.

*

When I woke up on Thursday morning, I put out my hand to feel for Wayne, but he wasn’t next to me. I rolled off of our mattress bed, put on my robe, and exited the bedroom, looking above me to make sure that C. C. wasn’t in position to leap on my shoulders. She wasn’t. She was behind me, singing opera.

I led the way down the hallway and found Wayne in my office on the phone.

He turned. I didn’t think it was to see me in my ratty old robe; C. C.’s opera probably had more to do with it. He smiled, briefly.

Then he put his hand over the telephone receiver.

“They want another group get-together,” he whispered.

“All of us?” I whispered back.

“Everyone who was at the potluck.”

I nodded, wondering who he was talking to, but he’d turned away again.

“We’ll be there,” I heard him say into the receiver.

I trundled on into the kitchen to the tones of a feline aria, which stopped abruptly when I opened a can of Fancy Feast.

I was eating oatmeal and blueberries with maple syrup when Wayne joined me at the kitchen table.

“Who was on the phone?” I demanded before his bottom even touched his chair.

“Garrett,” he told me brusquely. “He’s arranging it. At Ted’s house.”

“A meeting?”

Wayne nodded.

“When?”

“Today.”

We could have been on Dragnet, except for our p.j.s and robes.

“How are you doing, sweetie?” I asked gently, trying to change the tone of the interaction.

“Fine,” Wayne muttered, lowering his eyes.

“Right,” I said, keeping the sigh out of my voice. Fine, perfectly fine. “Have you eaten?”

“Not hungry.”

“Oh, Wayne,” I murmured. Then an evil thought gripped me. “I’ll make you breakfast,” I offered.

Wayne’s eyes came back up, and they were panicked. Wayne did not eat my cooking, but he was too polite to ever mention it. He just kept beating me to the culinary punch.

“I, I…” he sputtered.

“How about oatmeal?” I suggested.

His face blanched, looking a bit like the oatmeal I’d suggested.

“Okay,” he gave in. “Banana pancakes?”

“Yum,” I said. Wayne had a dynamite recipe for dairyless banana pancakes. I suspected that carob and a few other spices were involved. But I
knew
that the end result was worth a second breakfast.

So, Wayne got out his mixing bowl and cooked. Minutes later, he ate a big stack of pancakes and I scarfed down a smaller one. And, as usual, cooking did the trick. Wayne was ready for a shower when we finished eating, and he was talking again.

“So Garrett thinks that whoever did it will confess,” Wayne told me as he scrubbed my back in the apricot soap-scented steam of the shower.

“Oh, please,” I objected. “And this man is a psychiatrist?”

“He thinks loyalty to the group will force a confession.”

“So he thinks it was a group member, and not a significant other?” I turned and soaped Wayne’s chest.

“Yeah, mmmm,” Wayne murmured.

“Why?” I asked.

Wayne stopped mmmming.

“Familiarity breeds contempt, maybe?” he guessed.

“Did you guys feel contempt for Steve Summers?” I asked, not soaping him anymore.

Now Wayne was squirming instead of mmmming.

“Not contempt, never,” he muttered.

“But?” I could hear an exception in his voice.

“But, he could be, well…a perfectionist sometimes.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, if you only apply your standards to yourself.”

“But Steve applied his standards to everyone, and expected them to measure up?” I tried. But I didn’t quite have it.

“No, not really.” Wayne struggled in thought, looking like a wet Wookiee in search of the meaning of life. “Steve had his own sense of integrity. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to interfere with that integrity.”

“And if someone did?”

“Steve wouldn’t let it happen.”

We rinsed off the apricot soap, each lost in our own thoughts, all sensuality gone.

“It sounds as if Steve Summers could have been ruthless if pushed,” I finally concluded as we clamored out of the shower.

“Kate,” Wayne said, grasping my arms, “Steve was the victim of this crime, not the perpetrator.”

“But
why
was he the victim?” I asked. Wayne dropped my arms.

Neither of us had an answer. Wayne had cared for Steve as we all do for our friends, forgiving them their flaws. But I didn’t really know Steve, and what I was hearing now made me feel that I had known him even less well than I had thought. Wayne and I dressed in silence, more quickly than usual, and less playfully. That was actually lucky because the doorbell rang just as I was slipping a vest over my turtleneck.

Wayne and I crept to the living room window like hunted beasts. Should we answer this bell?

But then we saw who was on our doorstep—Laura Summers and one of her assistants—and I remembered that Laura’s other assistant, Julie, had asked on the telephone if Laura could visit today.

Wayne and I raced to the door and practically tumbled over each other as we each grabbed for the doorknob. I won. I did the honors: unlocking, turning, and pulling back the door. But Wayne was on hand with the first word.